And so it begins. For this week of Boat Camp we are based at St Paul's school near Hammersmith Bridge. The Boat House is cold, but the river is colder.
And I don't think my imaginings about how tough it was going to be really came anywhere near the mark.
In the morning we went out in two fours, ultimately to have a short race. I felt so much more secure than yesterday, being with rowers that I knew and who more importantly knew what standard I was at and who wanted to help me get better. I felt like I was suddenly rowing OK. Our four won the race easily, partly because we had an experienced cox whilst the other four were being steered by Aitken who had not really been told that the controls in a four worked in the opposite direction to the ones in an eight. Consequently his boat veered off sharply to the right at the start of the race, whilst ours went reasonably straight.
I quite enjoyed the morning and wasn't too exhausted, so as I have a half Marathon on Sunday and haven't had much time for running I decided to have a little jog at lunch-time. Emma wanted to come along too, as did the controversial journalist and necromancer, Toby Young. He is fiercely competitive and tried to turn the return leg into a race, but I didn't rise to his challenge and jogged back with Emma. I sort of suspected that we might need some energy for whatever we had in store for us this afternoon. Toby had apparently swanned in, all pleased with himself for beating the Marathon runners, but not only had we not been trying to race, we also knew that the Marathon is a very different prospect to a three mile jog. We slightly took the piss out of Young on camera, but I am pleased that he is so competitive. As long as we can harness this energy it is going to be a great asset to us on race day. He does things occasionally that will make everyone look at each other and smirk, but there is an affection behind this. Already on day one proper a good team spirit seems to be developing, though some of us have spent more time together than others and today was only the second time that I'd met Jo, one of our real rowers.
In the afternoon we got into an eight together for the first time. I was in the 3 seat with only Emma and Helen behind me. Generally the most rubbish people are in the bow four, and I think this is a fair choice as I seem to be technically the worst rower (though possibly, aside from Roger and Ian, the two real men rowers, the strongest on the erg tests). After what had felt like a good morning, the comments from the coaches and my own difficulty in keeping time with the others, made me realise that I had a long way to go and that there was much about this complicated sport that I didn't understand. At one point I caught a monumnetal crab. Up to this point I hadn't really understood what this involved. But my blade (oar) got twisted and spun round, almost knocking off my head (somehow I had instinctively dodged it) and then was stuck in the water, like a sword in a stone. I am clearly no Arthur as I couldn't begin to get it out. Even with Jo's help it proved difficult. Not only did this bring home how potentially dangerous this sport is, it also made me terrified that this might happen in the race and I might lose the contest for everyone.
We had a couple of exhausting sessions and I began to seriously regret the run. I don't think that will become a regular lunchtime fixture.
We are all staying in a hotel in Richmond and all gratefully left the river behind to head back there for a bath. As we passed the approach to Barnes Bridge there was a large gathering of police cars and men looking down into the river. We had run by here at lunchtime and it was practically opposite where I had caught my crab a few hours before. We guessed that a body had been found (as it turned out we were right, it was a gruesome discovery of a woman hidden in a suitcase) and I wondered if my spectacular lunge into the depths had possibly dislodged it.
Back at the hotel all nine of us headed for our rooms for a bath. This sudden demand for water must have somewhat overloaded the boiler as the hot water ran out almost immediately. Even a tepid bath was welcome after a punishing day.
Dinner has never tasted so good. I have some wine and then we retire to the lounge for a last drink. Suddenly someone from the TV crew appears to tell me that I have to record a message that will be played to the Cambridge crew. I protest that this is unfair as I am slightly squiffy, but they insist. I end up telling the Tabs that we are all winners for taking part and that I hope they have got as much out of the experience as me, but that we are going to win because they are all shit. Then I point at the camera and repeat Edward Sturton's name in the hope that this will freak him out. I also say that I am not drunk, before stumbling out of frame.
I think they will believe me.
