Last weekend, I sculled in front of the Vet E 4 (Pete, Mark, Tom and Alan Leeson) to East Farleigh and back to see how they were coming along. Chris Long was coxing them and insisted they rated 15 to 18 all the way. As they went by, there was balance and the ratio was pretty good.
After 3 years hard work, the lads had cracked it, they were rowers and I told them so. Of course, Chris wouldn't agree, you can hear him now (cue gnarled cockney accent): "Nah... you're only a rowah if you can win the Britannia Cup at 'enley at the very least. In my day...."
Meanwhile, Huggy and Henry took stock after they had had their backsides handed to them by the Bradford boys at Monmouth. The long standing friends of 27 years set about a review in a calm, professional manner. Henry immediately started looking for likely replacements. He gave Reverend Dave a trial, who ditched him immediately so he worked his way down the Vets list to Brian Eddy. Good value for an 80 year old. But Brian is recovering from that dance with Lizzie Bennett at the Xmas do (we are happy to report he is now off oxygen).
Thus rebutted, Henry tried a different tack: "Listen, old chap", he said one day, as they strapped on even more masking tape over the 'Roger Mobbs', "I think the only way we can improve, is if you buy us an Empacher instead of that Boxster you've got an eye on".
Huggy bought himself some time and pretended to think about it. He had been approaching the problem more analytically. After checking out Forbes' "Crap Regatta Guide for Failed Veteran Pothunters", he found one contender in the bondooks of Nottinghamshire, where sliding seats are considered modern technology, where Empachers are totally unheard of, and with a nice wide, sheltered straight 300m course.
"Hmm", he thought, "a little bit far, but it will be a nice day out for the boys, and we're sure to come back with lots of pots". A few telephone calls later, and a few more crossed wires later, sure as you know it, the whole male Vets racing squad were off to...
The British National Masters Championships
Holme Pierrepoint is a daunting, 6 lane international rowing venue. You struggle to see the end of the 2k straight. Fortunately, because we are old farts, the powers that be shortened the course to 1k. How nice.
It's a big event with 539 crews rowing there that day, and most of them were younger than us. And it's arguably top of the British Veteran race calendar (some may argue Henley Vets is more presdigious).
At least the wind was kind, and we all sighed with relief as we saw the water was a millpond (the faintest ripple usually ruins your average Maidstone Vets day).
The recently promoted ex-Novice Vets also went "for the experience". Yet once again, the initial results weren't really that shabby. Bert's four came last out of five, but not terribly last, particularly when you take into account that Bert's blade popped out of the gate for 5 strokes.
Rob's four say they had a "horrible" row according to Steve Bickers, but managed 2nd out of 3 in their straight final, and as there was only 3, missed out on a medal.
After Henry totally stripped down the 'Mobbs', found nothing was wrong, and got Huggy to put it back for him, the two, slightly less good friends, lazing in the dull sunshine, had given up actually arguing their cases, and
were resorting to:
"Empacher". "Boxster". "Empacher". "Boxster". "Empacher". "Boxster".
It had been like this all morning, when the call came for them to hurry to the start. They were late, and got an offical warning. What it did allow them to do, was show off by screaming up to the stakeboat, doing a handbrake turn with perfect alignment for the start, and with an opposition whose arms had gone stiff with waiting at frontstops for the past 10 minutes, they cruised to win their heat of four comfortably.
They then returned the boat, slumped back into the reclined position and resumed their schoolground "Empacher/Boxster" discussion, while various mustachioed straw-hatted umpires looked at them darkly and muttered about "the ugly face of professionalism" under their breaths.
The renowned Vet F 2x of Mr Chairman and Tony Marshall had a 'mare. At 500m they were handily placed in the middle of their pack of 6, and then Tony just "ran out of oxygen" This sort of happens to us old farts occasionally. I automatically asked if he had checked his pacemaker (no joke) and he said it was set for "Turbo", so that was all right. I tell you, if they took out all the bits of metal and plastic in the Vets' bodies, you would just be left with pools of jelly wobbling on the ground.
After lunch, Huggy and Henry got to the start of the final on time. 6 boats - lane 4. The start they had been practicing worked, and they found themselves up by a length after 100 metres.
Hold on.
Shock realisation. We are leading in the Nat Champs Final! Where is that finishing line when you need it. Oh no, it's 900 metres further on. A very handy crew from Dart Totnes are pushing us.
At the 500, Dart Totnes are still there, the rest are starting to trail, but it's all very close. I'm not thinking 'Boxster', I'm not thinking of a medal of any colour, instead I've entered the zone... (cue cloudy, dreamlike quality to the story), it's all become very easy, and we do our best sculling ever.
750m. Like coming out of the dream, I've come out of the zone, it's all become very noisy, very visceral and very, very painful. Dart bloody Totnes are still there at one length - why won't they go away like everybody else has?
A new realisation, the bastards are going to push. I can sense it. "LEGS!", I shout. Like Pavlov's dog, Henry stops thinking about Empachers and we go up a gear. 2 strokes later, Dart Totnes do their push, it is a mighty one, and they start hunting us down. It was 2 strokes too late though, and we win by 1/2 length. 3.41 minutes.
Hurrah!
We do a quick rendition of Queens' "we are the champions", consider retiring while they are up and all is good in the world.
It gets better. Our Vet E's come of age. It may only have been a 2 horse race, and it wasn't as pretty as it had been rating 18 on the Medway, but it was a 2 length win and another Gold medal for Maidstone!
Hurrah and Huzzah!
At which point the heavens opened up and we rowed the final race in torrential rain. Open Vet D 8's, starring Quintin, Nottingham BC etc. and a couple of scratch Maidstone practically novice 8's having a bizarre private match at the back of the field.
Gotta laugh.
So the question is?...
Empacher or Boxster?
photos, law suits etc to follow...
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