The slogan on the t-shirts said "Its Just A Long Head!!". This is untrue: it's a long, long, long, long, long head (though the multiple exclamation marks, always the sign of a diseased mind, accurately convey the dementia that kicks in around the halfway mark). Most 'heads', or long distance time-trials, are 2 to 3 miles in length. The Head of the River Race, the best known such event, is held over the greater distance of 4.25 miles on the Thames between Mortlake and Putney. The fastest time, set by the GB national squad in 1989, is 16 minutes 37 seconds. By comparison, the Boston Rowing Marathon is a whopping 31.2 miles long and the record mark, posted in 1991 by an elite 8+ from the University of London, is 2 hours 59 minutes and 45 seconds.
The course follows the River Witham between Lincoln and Boston (the Lincolnshire market town that is, not the Massachusetts city). It was first rowed in 1946 by a coxed four from Boston Rowing Club, who started in their home town and finished in Lincoln "tired but triumphant" some 5 hours and 20 minutes later. Their attempt was encouraged by spectators on every bridge along the way and a crowd of 200 cheered them over the line. The bowman, Harry Chamberlain, was quoted as saying that he would "only do it again with an out-board motor on the stern", a sentiment shared by many subsequent finishers. The inspiration for the row, it was admitted (oarsmen clearly being the same then as now), was a heavy session in the bar of The White Hart Hotel.
For the next 2 years, the challenge remained as a private match for members of Boston Rowing Club but in 1949 Crowland Rowing Club asked if they could compete. It was also decided that the course should be rowed from Lincoln in order that the finish be BRC's boathouse. The fact that there was a pub right next door was merely a happy coincidence. In 1950, the event was thrown open to entries from any club and the challenge has been since been accepted by thousands of rowers and scullers from across the UK and beyond.
I can't quite remember whose idea it first was that UYBC should join this lunatic fringe, but I think its fair to say that alcohol and junior school-style taunting played their part. After a process of inversely Darwinian selection (those able to think up convincing excuses or manufacture a grandmother's funeral were excused) the line-up emerged as, from bow: Fiona Hughesdon, Ema Lesiecka, Gary Nelmes and I, the crew thus comprising York University's most attractive and fittest rowers, plus me and Gary (we may be daft but we're not stupid). This dream team was completed with the addition of the small-but-perfectly-formed Adele Watt as cox. Due to other commitments our pre-race preparations amounted to a couple of long-ish steady state paddles up and down the Ouse. 30 plus miles of continuous rowing would surely transform our scratch crew into a well-oiled rowing machine.
The big day saw York's finest head South in a manner that befitted their status and élan - crammed into a Montego Countryman with boat and blades tied to a makeshift roof rack cunningly fashioned from planks found at the back of the boathouse. Anyway, we managed to get to Lincoln without anything falling off and, after putting our boat, the 'Tony Sherlock', together and making a few nervous trips to the loo, we were ready. Eschewing a pre-race warm-up, on the grounds that the last thing we needed was to expend energy uselessly, we jumped into the boat and paddled lightly up to the start. With the memorable command from Adele of "next stroke… firm pressure for 31 miles… go!", we were off.
Conditions were ideal, pleasantly warm with only a light breeze, and the first few miles were really enjoyable. We settled into a nice rhythm, tapping along at a rating of 24, with the boat surprisingly well balanced. Though we quickly left the city behind, Lincoln's fabulous medieval cathedral continued to watch over us, apparently never receding. We reached the first significant marker, Bardney Loch eight miles into the race, in just over an hour. It was a welcome sight, even though we would have to lug the boat, because it represented the one and only chance to get out of the boat and stretch. The portage techniques on display varied from the extremely efficient to the deliberately lethargic. We saw one eight lift boat and blades together, then literally run with their load to the other side, chased by their kit-laden cox, chuck the boat in and push off in unison. The whole operation took no more than 2 minutes and was obviously something that they'd practised. Other crews took a more measured approach and used the landfall as an opportunity to eat, drink, stretch and pee. We strove for speed but were somewhat less slick than the eight, carrying the boat then returning for blades and kit. Hand on heart, if we'd had a good excuse to delay getting back into the boat for a few minutes (a loose nut, a kitten stuck up a tree, anything dammit), we would have seized it. As it was, we were back on the water within 5 minutes and, after a quick intake of liquid, we were on the move again.
We reached the halfway point of Kirkstead Bridge in around 2 hours and 10 minutes, and were still paddling well. From then on, however, things became progressively tougher. In its later stages the River Witham is extremely straight and almost dispiritingly dull. Bridges are few and far between, and there is little to indicate one's progress. The fact that the banks were higher than our heads meant that we saw virtually nothing of the surrounding country. Physically, we were starting to hurt. We had carbo-loaded for Britain in the preceding days but it is simply not possible to build up a store of glycogen sufficient for an endurance event of this intensity and duration. The energy drinks we had with us helped but we were now seriously fatigued and this was apparent in our shorter strokes and softer finishes.
Its at this stage, some 25 or so miles into the race, that I'd like to introduce, for your delectation and edification, the topic of blisters. Now blisters, together with scarred calves, buttock ache and back pain, are occupational hazards for all oarsmen - overuse injuries brought on by repetitive performance of a limited pattern movement compromising the tissues. The Boston Marathon, however, treats you to all these delights together. For hours. When your hands stick like glue to the blade handles, which are stained red, you know you have some serious blister action going on. Similarly, you come to realise that rowing seats have not, as you previously thought, been ergonomically designed by skilled modern craftsmen but fiendishly wrought by sadistic Dark Ages torturers. Only those who've done the race or have had to sit on a hard wooden pew during an overlong sermon can begin to appreciate the pain levels involved.
We had taken a small portable radio/cassette in the boat since we had thought that some upbeat tunes might take our minds off things. This didn't really work, although 'SOS' by ABBA, 'Help!' by the Beatles and 'I Get Weak' by Belinda Carlisle would all have been appropriate anthems. Nor could Adele, who is an excellent cox, really do much to help - the usual motivational calls of "its only 20 strokes to the line!" or "I can see the finish!" would have fooled no-one. And given that she had to endure for hours the sight of my (grimacing) face, not the pleasantest prospect at the best of times, you could argue that she had her own problems. I found that counting off the strokes in my head, in lots of 100, broke down the passing time into more bearable chunks. I was glad that I was at stroke because concentrating on trying to maintain a good rhythm helped to take my mind off the pain. I also knew that I couldn't stop or slacken off without everyone else seeing. There was nothing to do but grind out each stroke.
The frequent marker signs that we passed in the final stages helped a bit, providing irrefutable evidence that we were getting closer, but they also made clear exactly how far we still had to go. It was only when we passed the '3 miles to go' board that I really began to believe that we were getting near and would make it. The last mile seemed to take forever and a day, but we upped the rating and eventually came over the line looking quite spritely; an illusion that lasted only until we easied and slumped over the blades. After an age, we were able to manoeuvre the boat ashore and collapse properly. Around us, crews who had already finished were sprawled on the grass. Some looked unaccountably fresh (the bastards) but most were in a similar state to us: sweat-stained with 20,000 yard stares and blistered hands.
For the record, we finished in 4 hours and 30 minutes - winning the, erm, prestigious and fiercely competitive Senior Mixed 4+ division - but the time seemed rather less important than the fact that we had stayed the course. Of the 3 other crews in our class, 1 scratched beforehand and we never saw the other 2. They could have taken a wrong turn up one of the drainage dykes and may still be paddling on, hopelessly lost and gibberingly insane, somewhere in the Fens.
Driving back, my blisters allowed only a tentative grip of the steering wheel and I was glad that the car seats were well upholstered. Arriving home in York just before closing time, we treated ourselves to possibly the most deserved pints ever and then succumbed to the Sleep of the Just. We had planned to do York Sprint Regatta the following weekend but 5 days after the Marathon our hands still resembled those of zombies (bits of flesh hanging off à la 'Night of the Living Dead') and sitting down remained a problem. It was clear that we were in no state to compete in a regatta, and anyway, sprints weren't our thing.
Three of us did the Marathon again the following year. The words 'gluttons' and 'punishment' spring to mind.
N.B: Things to Consider if You're Thinking About Doing the Boston Marathon
1) It's a long way.
2) The scenery is lovely (at least that's what we were told - the river banks being 6ft higher than the boat we couldn't tell).
3) Oddly named villages you pass but do not view (see point 2) include Cherry Willingham, Holton Cum Beckering, Sots Hole, New York and Hedgehog Bridge.
4) Lincoln Cathedral will mysteriously follow you but don't panic - that's perfectly normal behaviour for this particular ecclesiastical edifice.
5) It's a long way.
6) Seat padding is a good thing.
7) Finger tape is a good thing.
8) Going to the loo beforehand is a good thing.
9) Check the weather forecast: a headwind all the way down the course is not a good thing.
10) It's a long way (but you get some kudos and a t-shirt, and steady state outings on your home river will never seem half as bad again).
http://www.bostonrowingmarathon.org.uk/
