Rough Ways Made Smooth: A series of familiar essays on scientific subjects

by Richard A. Proctor

I believe that the principal disadvantage which the narrowness of the Cam entailed upon boating-men at Cambridge, lay in the circumstance that Cambridge men never had an opportunity of rowing a level race. They had 'bumping races' for the college eights—as the Oxonians had—and time-races to decide between the merits of two or three boats, whereas at Oxford two boats could contend side by side. Thus it was to many Cambridge men a novel and somewhat disturbing experience to find themselves rowing close alongside of their opponents. It may seem fanciful to notice any disadvantage in such a matter as this; yet I believe that the matter was not a trifle. The excitement which men feel just before a race begins, and during the first half-mile or so of its progress, is so intense that a small difference of this sort is apt to produce much more effect than might be expected. I think the somewhat flurried style in which the Cantabs were often observed to row the first half-mile of the great race might be partly ascribed to this cause. Of course, I am far from saying that if a Cambridge crew had been decidedly better than their opponents, the race could have been lost or even endangered from such a cause as this.

And now it remains that I should point out that peculiarity in what may be called the Cambridge style of rowing—though it is not now systematically adopted by Cambridge crews—to which the defeats of the light-blue flag in the years 1861-69 were I believe to be chiefly attributed.

It should be remembered that before we can recognise a peculiarity of style as the cause of a long series of defeats, it must be shown that the peculiarity is neither trifling nor accidental. There are peculiarities in rowing which have a very slight effect upon the speed with which the boat is propelled by the crew. Amongst these may be fairly included such points as the following:—the habit of throwing out the elbows just before feathering, feathering high or low, rowing short or long (a technical expression now commonly, though incorrectly, applied to the length of the stroke, but properly relating to the distance at which the stretcher or foot-board is placed from the seat), sitting high or low, and so on. All these peculiarities—of course within reasonable limits—are unimportant, save in so far as they indicate that the style of the stroke itself is faulty. Then again there are accidental peculiarities, which may be exceedingly important in themselves, but which yet produce only a transient influence, because they are personal peculiarities of such and such a stroke, and when he has left his university they remain no longer in vogue. As an illustration of this sort of peculiarity, I may notice the remarkably effective stroke rowed by Hall of Magdalen in the year 1858-60. There the radical defect of the Cambridge style was almost obliterated, and all the good points of that style were fully brought out. The result was that, out of three races rowed with Oxford, Cambridge won two, and though they lost the third, yet they lost it in such a manner as to obtain more credit than any winning race could have brought them. I refer to the memorable race of 1859, in which the Cambridge boat was, at starting, half full of water, and gradually filling as the race proceeded, sank about half-a-mile from the winning-post, being at the moment of sinking only four lengths behind Oxford, notwithstanding the tremendous difficulties under which the crew had all along been rowing.[13] Mr. Hall also rowed stroke in the great race with the famous London crew—Casamajor, Playford, the two Paynes, &c.—when Cambridge won by half a boat's length. We have, however, to inquire whether there is any point held to be essential by Cambridge oarsmen, which is sufficiently important and sufficiently faulty to account for the marked want of success which attended the light-blue flag in the years 1861-69. The following peculiarity appears to me to be precisely of such a character.

It was formerly held by nearly all the Cambridge oarsmen that 'the instant the oar touches the water' (I am quoting from a pamphlet called 'Principles of Rowing,' much read by rowing-men at Cambridge) 'the arms and body should begin to fall backwards, the former continuing at their full stretch till the back is perpendicular; they are then bent, the elbows being brought close past the sides,' etc. If a Cambridge oarsman broke this rule, so that his arms began to bend before his back was upright, he would be told that he was jerking. 'This is caused,' says our authority, 'by pulling the first part of the stroke with violence and not falling gradually backwards to finish it. The most muscular men are more than others guilty of it, because they trust too much to their arms, instead of making each part of the body do its proportionate quantity of work. It is most annoying to the rest of the crew, injures the uniform swing throughout the boat, and soon tires out the man himself, however strong he may be, because he is virtually rowing unsupported, and he has nearly the whole weight of the boat on his arms alone.'

I was myself trained to row the Cambridge style, and when I became captain of a boat-club, I was careful to inculcate this style on my crew, and on other crews which came more or less directly under my supervision. But I am convinced that the peculiarity so carefully enjoined in past time by the Cambridge club-captains, and still retained, is altogether erroneous for boats of the modern build. I first became aware that the Cambridge style is not the water-man's—and, therefore, presumably not the most effective—through practising in a racing-four with three of our most noted Thames watermen—the two Mackinnys, and Chitty of Richmond. They were then preparing for the Thames National Regatta, though not as a set crew. Accordingly the coxswain would frequently call upon us for a good lifting spurt of a quarter of a mile or so. During these spurts the coxswain was continually telling me that I was not keeping stroke, and I was sensible myself that something was going wrong. One who has taken part in boat-races very soon detects any irregularity in the rowing—by which I do not of course refer to so gross a defect as not keeping time. All the men of a crew may be keeping most perfect time, and may even present the appearance of keeping stroke together, and yet may not be feeling their work simultaneously. I was aware that something was going wrong, but I found it impossible, without abandoning the style of rowing in which I had been so carefully trained, to keep stroke with the rest of the crew. It seemed to me that they were doubling over their work, because while I was still swaying backwards they had reached the limit of their swing. Then they did not seem to me to feather with that lightning flash which the Cambridge style enjoins. Altogether, I left them after three or four long pulls with the impression that, though they might be very effective watermen, they had but a poor style.

Soon after, however, I had occasion to watch Oxford oarsmen at their work, and I found that they row in a style which, without being actually identical with that of the London waterman, resembles it in all essential respects. The moment the oar catches the water, the body is thrown back as in the Cambridge style, but the arms, instead of being kept straight, immediately begin to do their share of the work. The result is that when the body is upright the arms are already bent, and the stroke is finished when the body is very little beyond the perpendicular position.

Now let us compare the two strokes theoretically. In each stroke the body does a share of the work, and in the Cambridge stroke the body even seems to do more work than in the Oxford stroke, since it is swayed farther back. In each stroke, again, the arms do a share of the work, but in the Oxford stroke the work of the arms is distributed equally as a help to that of the body, whereas in the Cambridge stroke the work of the arms is all thrown upon the finish of the stroke. At first sight it seems to matter very little in what order the work is done, so long as the same amount of work is done in the same space of time. But here an important consideration has to be attended to.

There are two things which the oarsman does in whatever style he rows. He propels the boat along, by pressing the blade of his oar against the water as a fulcrum; but he also propels his oar more or less through the water. If instead of the actual state of things, the boat were to slide along an oiled groove in some solid substance, whose surface was so ridged that the oar could bear upon the ridges without any flexure, then indeed it would matter very little in what way the oar was pulled, so long as it was pulled through a good range in a short space of time. But the actual state of things being different, we have to inquire whether it is not possible that one style of rowing may serve more than another to make the slip of the oar through the water (a dead loss, be it remarked, so far as the propulsion of the boat is concerned) bear too large a proportion to the actual work done by the rower.

Let us make a simple illustration. Suppose a person standing on the edge of a sheet of water seeks to propel across the sheet a heavy log lying near the bank. If he gives the log a violent kick, it will scarcely move at all through the water, but after a few vibrations will be seen to lie a few inches from its former position. The force expended has not been thrown away, however, but has resulted in a violent shock to the kicker. But if instead of kicking the log the person apply the same amount of force gently at first and then with gradually increasing intensity, the log will receive a much more effective impetus, and its motion will continue long after the force has ceased to be exerted. The same amount of force which before produced a motion of a few inches will now project the log several yards.