Rowing

by R. C. Lehmann

The Day of the Race.

On this tremendous day, towards which all their efforts for weeks past have been directed, the coach will find that all his crew are suffering from that peculiar nervousness to which rowing men have given the name of "the needle." It is a complaint against which no length of experience can harden a man, and the veteran of a hundred races will feel it as acutely as the boy who is engaged in his first struggle. A sort of forced cheerfulness pervades the air. Men make irrelevant remarks about their oars, their stretchers, or the notorious incapacity of their rivals, while they are reading the newspapers or discussing the politics of the day. Even a coach is seized with the universal affection,

however gallantly he may strive against it, and endeavour to entertain the crew with all his best stories of triumphant victories, of defeats averted by brilliant spurts, or of the last sayings of some well-known aquatic humourist. Old oars drop in, and for a few moments divert the conversation, only to flow back with it into the one absorbing topic that occupies all men's minds. The feeling goes on increasing until at last, oh joy! the time comes for getting into the boat. With his faithful oar in his hand, and his feet fixed to the stretcher, a man regains his confidence, and when the word is given he will find that the only effect that the needle has had upon him has been to brace his energies to their highest pitch. The duty of a coach on such an occasion is clear. He must try to keep his men cheerful, and prevent them from brooding over the race that is to come. Visits from old oars should be encouraged, for it is often a relief and an amusement to a youngster to find that some solid oar of the past is even more agitated than he is himself. One thing must not be omitted, and that is the preliminary spin, which should take place about two hours before the race, and should consist of

two sharp starts of ten strokes each and one hard row of a minute. This has an invaluable effect in clearing the wind. I have always felt, when I have rowed more than one race in a day, and I think my experience will be confirmed by most other oarsmen, that I have been able to row better, harder, and with less distress, in the second race than in the first. An hour and a half before the race a man will be all the better for a biscuit and a hot cup of strong meat soup, with perhaps a dash of brandy to flavour it, but this must depend upon the hour at which the race is rowed, for if you have lunched at one and have to race at half-past three you will want nothing between times to stay your stomach. The early morning sprint should be taken as usual.

The Race.

"I shall say, 'Are you ready?' once; if I receive no answer, I shall say, 'Go!'" It is the voice of the umpire addressing us from the steam-launch in which he will follow the race. He must be a man dead to all feeling, incapable of sympathy, for he actually turns to one of his fellow-passengers and makes a jesting remark,

while our hearts are palpitating and our minds are strung up to face the stern actualities of the race. The other crew look very big and strong, and fit and determined. We shall have to row our hardest, and we all know it. "Get the top of your shorts properly tucked in," says our captain, "so as not to catch your thumbs; and mind, all of you, eyes in the boat, and when cox shouts for ten strokes let her have it. Come forward all."

"Touch her gently, bow" (it is the cox who speaks, and his voice sounds thin and far away and dream-like). "One more. That'll do. Easy, bow. Now we're straight."