In order to get race fit we had fitness sessions as well as water work. The balance of these changed on the time of year. Generally the water sessions were on Saturdays and Sundays all year round, with Tuesdays and Thursday evenings varying. During the winter the evening sessions started with a warm up run called ‘the bridges’ which was a 2 mile loop from the club house over the bridge to the right, through town and back over the other bridge further down the river before heading back. After that was a combination of ergo (rowing machine) sets, weights and circuits. I loved the fitness work.
The worst by far were the indoor rowing tests, the 5km and 2km distances. These were held every couple of months and were dreaded by everyone. The 2k was the standard test that all rowers use to determine how they compare against one another and it was brutal. It only lasts 6-7 minutes but your legs would burn and if you paced it incorrectly it would be agony. It wasn’t uncommon for people to be sick afterwards as everyone just buried themselves. I regularly had ‘white outs’ after doing these. You feel dizzy and get a taste of blood in the mouth. Not pleasant.
Another thing I learnt was that rowers were divided in to heavyweights and lightweights. If you were under 70kg, you were classed as a lightweight. This was the category I fell in to. This makes sense as rowing is all about technique, power and geometry. The longer your arms, the more leverage you have so all things being equal a taller and stronger rower will beat a smaller and lighter rower. At national level there are different minimum ergo times for lightweights and heavyweights required to qualify for trials. Most of the top heavyweights would be doing sub 6 minute 2k ergo tests. Ridiculous.
During the winter the races were called ‘head races’ where you raced on rivers of varying distance depending on the club hosting the event. There were lots of these around the region and we eneded up racing fairly regularly at places like Nottingham, Leicester and Derby as well as at our own stretch of water in Burton. These were winner takes all, and followed a time trial format. Winners of rowing races tend to win ‘pots’. These are pint jugs basically. No idea why you get these, but I’m sure there’s some historical reason.
During the summer the racing turns in to regattas which would be multi lane if they were on a specifically designed rowing lake like Holme Pierrepoint in Nottingham, or side by side racing if there were on a river. The format was knock out, with winners progressing to the next round until the final. As well as winning pots, there were also rowing points on offer. The more points you picked up from winning, the higher the racing category you moved in to. If you were in a crew boat, the combined number of points determined the race category you would be competing in.
The regattas themselves were good fun. During the summer on sunny days, it was great to be part of the club. These were often held over two days with most competitors camping overnight. There were always barbecues, discos and lots drinking involved, so it was a truly social affair.
I got in to a regular rhythm of training and competing and for the first couple of years I was in a quad with Rob Jephcote, Matt Isard and Simon Ludlow. We did pretty well in the local regattas, picking up wins quite regularly. The big event for us at the time was the national championships which always took place at one of the big rowing venues in either England or Scotland. In these, the top three boats won pots and there was also the added incentive of possibly picking up a seat in the national squad. Although in reality, the GB squad was pretty much pre-determined from the trials. However, for us club rowers it was a big deal. We came fourth twice in a row at these, not quite making it on to the podium. The races themselves were tough. The legs burnt the same way they did on the indoor rower, and your lungs were bursting during the last 500 metres. But it was great to be part of a team and push yourself to the limit. It was the closest I got to the team atmosphere I’d had playing rugby.
We entered all kinds of different events during my time there, but without doubt the toughest I took part in was the Boston Marathon. This is a long distance rowing race that takes place annually. It starts at Lincoln and ends up at Boston along a 30.6 mile stretch of river on the River Witham. Apparently it started off as a pub bet in 1946 and has continued ever since.
It has become pretty legendary for the challenging distance and so attracts a lot of entries. I’d heard about it during my time at the club as a couple of the lads I rowed with had done it a few times in small boats but hadn’t experienced it personally. The idea started to develop that we should enter a men’s eight. Not knowing any better I went along with the idea. Yes, it was a long event but by that time I’d done a fair amount of rowing and felt confident that in an eight it was doable so I agreed to take part.
By default, I always ended up as the driver of the minibus as I was only one of a handful of people that was legally allowed to drive a larger vehicle and tow the boat trailer. This was due to my age which meant I automatically held a driving licence which permitted it. Everyone else would have had to have taken a separate test to get permission rather than for any other reason. As usual then I was the driver when we went to the Boston start area.
Knowing that the head race itself was going to take a minimum of three hours I took more drinks and food than I would normally. Avoiding cramp and fatigue was pretty key, particularly in a crew boat. What myself and others had failed to consider was the ‘Rob’ factor. Our captain and stroke man for the day was a very good rower, but also very competitive and head strong. He had got it in to his head that we were going to try and break the course record. A fine idea in principle but it soon became apparent that the reality was going to be much harder.
We started off at a high stroke rate and we were soon overtaking crews. We were going strong for the first half but things started to unravel after our stroke man fell out with the cox for not being aggressive enough with other crews. The intense rate started to impact members of the crew, and the morale in the boat started to go downhill. Not used to rowing for that long, my technique began to fall apart which in turn led to my hands blistering. I wasn’t the only one suffering. There was a lot of groaning going on and at one point the guy in front of me started whimpering. It was turning in to a nightmare. I think the worst part came when we turned a corner in to a headwind with about five miles to go. It felt like we were rowing against a brick wall. When a single sculler overtook us near the finish it was pretty obvious we were pretty much done.
Unsurprisingly we didn’t break the course record which Rob wasn’t very happy about. I was just pleased to get out of the boat with my body not permanently crippled. Driving home with my hands in tatters at the end of a day like that wasn’t the best experience in the world.