Rowing

by R. C. Lehmann

Before entering upon the serious business of life as a freshman at Cambridge, the youth who is subsequently to become an oar will in all probability have fired his imagination by reading of the historical prowess of past generations of University oars in races at Henley or at Putney. Goldie who turned the tide of defeat, the Closes, Rhodes, Gurdon, Hockin, Pitman the pluckiest of strokes, and Muttlebury the mighty heavy-weight, are the heroes whom he worships, and to whose imitation he proposes to devote himself. A vision of a light blue coat and cap flits before his mind; he sees himself in fancy

wresting a fiercely contested victory from the clutches of Oxford, and cheered and fêted by a countless throng of his admirers. With these ideas he becomes as a freshman a member of his college boat club, and adds his name to the "tubbing list." He purchases his rowing uniform, clothes himself in it in his rooms, and one fine afternoon in October finds himself one of a crowd of nervous novices in the yard of his college boathouse. One of the captains pounces on him, selects a co-victim for him, and orders him into a gig-pair, or, to speak more correctly, "a tub." With the first stroke the beautiful azure vision vanishes, leaving only a sense of misery behind. He imagined he could row as he walked, by the light of nature. He finds that all kinds of mysterious technicalities are required of him. He has to "get hold of the beginning" to "finish it out," to take his oar "out of the water clean" (an impossibility one would think on the dirty drain-fed Cam), to "plant his feet against the stretcher," to row his shoulders back, to keep his elbows close to his sides, to shoot away his hands, to swing from his hips, under no circumstances to bend his back or to leave go with his outside hand, and,

above all, to keep his swing forward as steady as a rock—an instruction to which he conforms by not swinging at all. These are but a few points out of the many which are dinned into his ears by his energetic coach. A quarter of an hour concludes his lesson, and he leaves the river a much sadder, but not necessarily a wiser man. However, since he is young he is not daunted by all these unforeseen difficulties. He perseveres, and towards the end of his first term reaps a doubtful reward by being put into an Eight with seven other novices, to splash and roll and knock his knuckles about for an hour or so to his heart's content. Next term (the Lent Term) may find him a member of one of his college Lent boats. Then he begins to feel that pluck and ambition are not in vain, and soon afterwards for the first time he tastes the joys of training, which he will be surprised to find does not consist entirely of raw steaks and underdone chops. Common sense, in fact, has during the past fifteen years or so broken in upon the foolish regulations of the ancient system. Men who train are still compelled to keep early hours, to eat simple food at fixed times, to abjure tobacco, and to limit the

quantity of liquid they absorb. But there is an immense variety in the dishes put before them; they are warned against gorging (at breakfast, indeed, men frequently touch no meat), and though they assemble together in the Backs before breakfast, and are ordered to clear their pipes by a short sharp burst of one hundred and fifty yards, they are not allowed to overtire themselves by the long runs which were at one time in fashion. Far away back in the dawn of University rowing training seems to have been far laxer, though discipline may have been more strict, than it is now. Mr. J. M. Logan (the well-known Cambridge boat-builder) wrote to me on this subject: "I have heard my father say that the crews used to train on egg-flip which an old lady who then kept the Plough Inn by Ditton was very famous for making, and that crew which managed to drink most egg-flip was held to be most likely to make many bumps. I believe the ingredients were gin, beer, and beaten eggs, with nutmegs and spices added. I have heard my father say that the discipline of the crews was of an extraordinary character. For instance, the captain of the Lady Margaret Boat Club used to have a bugle, and

after he had sounded it the crew would have to appear on the yard in high hats and dress suits with a black tie. The penalty for appearing in a tie of any other colour was one shilling. The trousers worn on these occasions were of white jean, and had to be washed every day under a penalty of one shilling. The wearing of perfectly clean things every day was an essential part of the preparation."

All this, however, is a digression from the freshman whom we have seen safely through his tubbing troubles, and have selected for a Lent Boat. I return to him to follow him in a career of glory which will lead him from Lent Boat to May Boat, from that to his college Four, and so perhaps through the University Trial Eights to the final goal of all rowing ambition—the Cambridge Eight. He will have suffered many things for the sake of his beloved pursuit; he will have rowed many weary miles, have learnt the misery of aching limbs and blistered hands, perhaps he may have endured the last indignity of being bumped; he will have laboured under broiling suns, or with snowstorms and bitter winds beating against him; he will have voluntarily cut himself off from many pleasant indulgences. But, on the other hand,

his triumphs will have been sweet; he will have trained himself to submit to discipline, to accept discomfort cheerfully, to keep a brave face in adverse circumstance; he will have developed to the full his strength and his powers of endurance, and will have learnt the necessity of unselfishness and patriotism. These are, after all, no mean results in a generation which is often accused of effeminate and debasing luxury.

A few words as to our scheme of boat-races at Cambridge. Of the Lent races I have spoken. They are rowed at the end of February in heavy ships, i.e. fixed-seat ships built with five streaks from a keel. Thirty-one boats take part in them. Every college must be represented by at least one boat, though beyond that there is no restriction as to the number of boats from any particular college club. No man who has taken part in the previous May races is permitted to row. In fact, they are a preparatory school for the development of eight-oared rowing. Next term is given up to the May races, which are rowed in light ships, i.e. keel-less ships with sliding seats. No club can have more than three or less than one crew in these races. In this term the pair-oared races

are also rowed, generally before the Eights. The Fours, both in light ships and, for the less ambitious colleges whose Eights may be in the second division, in clinker-built boats, take place at the end of October, and are followed by the Colquhoun, or University Sculls, and next by the University Trial Eights, two picked crews selected by the President of the University Boat Club from the likely men of every college club. The trial race always takes place near Ely, over the three miles of what is called the Adelaide course. Besides all these races, each college has its own races, confined to members of the college. But of course the glory of college racing culminates in the May term. Who shall calculate all the forethought, energy, self-denial, and patriotic labour, all the carefully organized skill and patient training which are devoted to the May races; for so they are still called, though they never take place now before June? Every man who rows in his college crew feels that to him personally the traditions and the honour of his college are committed. The meadow at Ditton is alive with a brilliant throng of visitors, the banks swarm with panting enthusiasts armed with every kind of noisy instrument, and all intent

to spur the energies of their several Eights. One by one the crews, clothed in their blazers, with their straw hats on their heads, paddle down to the start, pausing at Ditton to exchange greetings with the visitors. In the Post Reach they turn, disembark for a few moments, and wander nervously up and down the bank. At last the first gun is fired, the oarsmen strip for the race. Their clothes are collected and borne along in front by perspiring boatmen, so as to be ready for them at the end of the race. The men step gingerly into their frail craft and await the next gun. Bang! Another minute. The boat is pushed out, the coxwain holding his chain; the crew come forward, every nerve strained for the start; the cry of the careful timekeepers is heard along the reach, the gun fires, and a universal roar proclaims the start of the sixteen crews. For four "nights" the conflict rages, bringing triumph and victory to some, and pain and defeat to others; and at the end comes the glorious bump-supper, with its toasts, its songs, and its harmless, noisy rejoicings, on which the dons look with an indulgent eye, and in which they even sometimes take part for the honour of the college.