Yesterday was St Ives. I last raced there in 2014 when I was still a novice. Hit the bank and then the buoys. Lost, obviously. There’s a video record which, if it had gotten any views, would probably have been demonetized for all the swearing. Yesterday was going to be different, but rowing in divisions is always nerve-racking. You warm up on land, then boat and row to the start and then sit there for what seems like eternity until the marshalls finish their nice warm cups of tea and start calling you to the start. Meanwhile the rain is pouring down and you’re getting colder and colder, and trying sneakily to size up your opponent. Literally (how big are his thighs?) and figuratively (how confident does he look?). A young lad tells me it’s his third ever race, and did I have any tips? I don’t like to say that I’m nearly as inexperienced as he is. All I can think of is “don’t hit the bank”. Actually, that’s all I’m thinking, period. Like Patsy in the episode of AbFab where she freezes on Morning TV and all she can say is “Hats”, my only thought is “the bank”. But eventually your race is called and you wish good luck to your oppo (don’t let your voice squeak) then Attention … Go!
I’d done a few practice starts earlier in the week, by way of reminder, and it made a difference. I could lift off the seat and not feel I was about to slip a disc or capsize, and not freak out when my heart rate hit 110% of maximum. The first ten strokes felt good, and I even remembered to steer. And in those intervening eight years, the wheel of fortune had turned, and it was my oppo who hit the bank. Imagine my delight, dear reader, when I realised that all I had to do was finish. The oxygen debt of the start turned into the euphoria of surplus as I could relax into the cruise and follow my own advice with a clear head. The hooter at the finish rang out like the Hallelujah Chorus.
So that was the semi. The final’s in a couple of hours. Plenty of time to fret. My opponent’s a G, an age group above me, which means he’ll get a head start. Also, I’m on the other side of the river. The outside of the bend. I’m bound to hit the bank this time. Ah well. It was nice while it lasted. And then I’m chatting to Vicky who asks when my final is, and we realise it’s not in two hours, it’s now. The division was called five minutes ago. Aw crap.
So I get myself boated again – no time for a warm-up, nor to digest the protein bar I’d scarfed down thinking I had two hours, nor to remember my seat pad – and row down. Man, that seat is sharp, but it gives me something to obsess about rather than the bank, which I then row into. And then again, this time nearly impaling myself on a dead branch, which breaks off and falls into the boat. And again, nearly whacking into the stake boat. At least I got that all out my system, I try to convince myself.
I’m sitting at the start, where there’s a pleasure boat full of drunk youngsters who are trying to make sense of the sight of thirty or so rowers in matchstick shaped boats, and being persuaded, cajoled, begged and eventually thanked by the marshalls for not just driving through the middle of us. But where’s my oppo? Am I in the right division? The races start being called and the marshalls seem to think I’m in the right place at the right time, but there’s bound to be something, right? It can’t be this simple. But in the end, all the other races are called, and it’s just me. The starter makes a joke about waiting for the six second head start my opponent would have had, had he been there, but I think he’s serious. Is this some weird BR ritual that I’m unaware of, that they have to do the countdown, even if there’s no-one there? Am I going to get DQed if I false start? The starter calls attention, but I have to know. “You’re starting me, right?” “Yes, yes” and then it’s Go, and I breathe out and I’m back to obsessing about the bank … which I manage to avoid entirely.
“What happened to your opponent?” my clubmates ask. “Oh man,” I say, “I just rowed through him like he wasn’t there.”
Ely
10:52 pm,
Oct 20, 2026
12°C
overcast clouds
Jason Harre
