Bewl Water is at it's lowest in living memory, so somewhat
reluctantly, some of the Veterans at Bewl Bridge Rowing Club have had to had to
suck it up and come cap in hand to the MIRC for their rowing pleasures (well, until
the Bewl fills up again).
We have welcomed them with open arms, as they present an
injection of value-for-money veteran rowers, most of whom can row on both sides
AND scull. Rare skills indeed!
Paul Kane, who's training regime is that of a man half his
age, is helping to resolve the Vet D 8+s shortage of natural stroke side rowers.
Mike Maunsell (who's children are in the juniors) prefers to
single scull, but is a more than useful utility man for the Eight.
Ray Philips and Keith Jones bring with them a rare age/performance
capability. Along with Dave and Vin (last
names tbd), this has stimulated the re-ignition of a Vet E/F Squad.
John Clayton has starting using the Boyz from the Bewl to
form the cadre of a Vet F 8+. That's a
minimum average age of 60, folks! In
doing so, he coerced Mark "loved up" Deissner out of retirement. and
supplemented the crew with Bert and Greg (on loan from the D Squad), and Tony "You'll
never see me rowing sweep again" Marshall
along with Alan "Bowman" Leeson.
Completing the squad are Tom Fuller, Alan Rickwood, Dave
Usher (perhaps) and even Pete Kingsley vowed to this reporter his intention to "get
fit again... well, get fitter".
There was no longer a shine to the Empacher as there was before. Cobwebs, dust, weeds - all signs of non use, dereliction and waste. Huggy thought of the great things that could have been, wiped away a tear and speed-dialled Henry. He should have expected a foreign dialling tone.
"Privyet, Roman Abrahamovich", answered Henry with a phoney East European accent.
"What's with the accent, and who is Roman Abrahamovich?" asked an already frustrated Huggy.
"Just my alter ego, old chap," said Henry reverting to the Queens English.
"Why are you calling yourself 'Abrahamovich'?"
"Just doing a bit of business in the New World, get a lot more respect if I sound like Russian mafia. Anyway, I'm a bit busy you know, places to go, people to see and all that."
"Well, it's about the Empacher..." said Huggy, trying to find the right words to let his partner down gently.
"Sell it. Gotta go. Do svidaniya, comrade!"
*****
With nothing doing in the Empacher for the regatta season, Huggy concentrated his efforts in the Eight in which we raced 4 times. First up was Twickenham; handsomely beating the local crew, but then going down by a length to a very good Thames RC crew.
At the National Masters Championships, we really gave it our all, getting through to the final beating Runcorn and Bedford Star, but then coming 5th in the final to basically the who's who of Masters Vet D rowing.
Then painfully, Veterans Henley, where after beating Nottingham (a definite scalp) we were rowed through by Marlow right at the end of the semis and lost by 4 ft.
There was a small saving grace at Sudbury when half the crew merged with some younger blood from the inbetweeny seniors and won the Open Masters Eights sprint over 3 heats.
We came to the end of the season with mixed feelings. Some great racing, some heavy partying (St Neots being the standout), but insufficient reward for our endeavours.
In September, Huggy took stock with the Vet Ds, who unanimously voted to carry on into the next season. As ever, there are some changes: Thor 'opted' to return to the Development Squad, and has been replaced by Richard Ridgway (on loan from the senior), who will only get to race with us in 2012, when the boat becomes 8 years older.
Coaching duties have transfered to Dave Marsden, who is providing sound an considered advice (when he remembers to turn up).
Coxing duties have moved to Dani James as a reward for her excellent performances this year (including that win at the Nat Champs). She is a natural steer, flirtatiously bossy (which we all like), keeps asking us to "take a piece" when lifting the boat, which induces boyish grins, and above all, unlike Tim, turns up at the right time, every time. What a god send!
We've experimented in September and October. Gerraint is now the stroke man, we need options and cannot always rely on Mr Chairman. We are slowly trying to reconstruct Greg's stroke and Huggy toyed with 7 and 5, but seemed to somehow found himself back in the bow seat (so he could 'keep an eye on everyone' - yeah right).
We're concentrating on rowing as one; same hand heights, same finish position, same loading of power at the various points of the stroke. Unsurprisingly, its really, really difficult to get veterans to row the same way, really difficult; and it has been a frustrating couple of months of 3 steps forward and 2 steps back. But it's definitely getting better. We'll see at the Docklands Head on Nov 13th.
*****
As the Empacher was driven off by its lucky new owner, Huggy managed to catch sight of Henry inspecting a sign at the rapidly growing new Maidstone Football Club Ground. He was accompanied by Countessa Vanya Olimpia Konstantin-Assen of Vidin (for those readers with short memories see HERE), and two nasty looking pieces of work, looking suspiously like bodyguards, .
As Huggy approached his erstwhile partner hand stetched out, the immaculately dressed Countessa Vanya immediately interjected with a: "KILL HIM", whereupon the gorillas whisked out some lethal looking handguns, flicked the safetys and Huggy realised he was as good as dead.
"Niet," ordered Henry.
Huggy's rectum relaxed significantly while he was efficiently and brutally frisked. He was too astonished to say anything other than a weak: "I say, steady on."
"Hugs, old chap, sorry about that. Dmitry and Gregor can be a bit confrontational, but they are necessary: the Russkis can play rough sometimes."
"You've changed, Henry," Huggy suggested bitterly, "and not for the better I must say."
"Can't be helped old boy, can't get in the way of progress... like this for example," crowed Henry flourishing has hands over the building site.
Confused, Huggy looked at the beginnings of the new ground and then at the sign at the entrance:
"WELCOME TO THE NEW DEVELOPMENT OF MAIDSTONE UNITED FOOTBALL CLUB. THE PREMIERSHIP BECKONS!!
PS - KEEP OUT IF YOU KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR YOU, ESPECIALLY YOU LOT AT THE ROWING CLUB. NO MORE FREE PARKING!
SIGNED: ROMAN ABRAHAMOVICH - PROPRIETOR"
Huggy couldn't restrain a giggle, "Maidstone FC - Premiership, you are having a laugh."
"That's where you are wrong me old mucker. It's like the rowing club: from little acorns, great oaks grow. It takes dedication, skill, training, coaching, sound management, an investment in time, a youth academy, and," said Henry triumphantly, "like my namesake at Chelsea can vouchsafe, lots and lots of wonga!"
To which, Henry fished out a huge wad of what looked like Roubles, handed it to Huggy and said there you go mate, buy yourself a new boat."
Henry's trip to the former Eastern Bloc last year left him with a taste for more.
With his usual charm and an appropriate bribe, he convinced his party friends Emanuelle and Guillotine Withers to accompany him on his next "surprise" trip. When Emanuelle asked him if the location was hot, and he truthfully replied "23 degrees," she gleefully announced she would just pack skimpy little numbers, and bring lots of lotion.
Henry's intended destination was Cracow. Cracow in February is 23 degrees... in Fahrenheit... that's -5... in Centigrade.
*****
Huggy, Robin and Tony were watching the seniors training from the club landing stage with a critical eye. Robin saw someone unusual in the bow of an eight which went crisply by, someone who hadn't been rowing for some time, someone who shouldn't have been there: Pluto Nicholls.
"I thought you said that Pluto was sleeping with the fishes?" he asked the all knowing Tony.
"Well the sardines in the Polo message could have one of two meanings," back pedalled Tony, "I suppose it could have been a couple of his mates returning his car with his shopping."
*****
Contessa Vanya Olimpia Konstantin-Assen of Vidin was in a pickle. Her father, the Prince of Vidin, had betrothed her to Prince Boris of Preslav, who was 78, 5' 2", bald, toothless and withered in every way. Prince Boris, knowing his days were numbered, was keen to get to his conjugal rights and test the goods well ahead of the wedding, so one night he sneaked into the Contessa's bedroom.
Unluckily for Prince Boris, the Contessa was both strong willed and had a useful apprenticeship within the Bulgarian Secret Service, which meant she habitually kept a silenced Makarov PB under her pillow. So predictably as the panting geriatric Prince scrambled onto her bed early one morning after the engagement party, a neat and bloody hole appeared in his forehead.
As the Contessa calmly unscrewed the silencer: the early rays of dawn glinting off her steely blue eyes, she decided she was in a pickle and had to get out.
Exhibit no 1.
*****
Emanuelle Withers was not happy. She was freezing in her hot pants in the snow, she was fed up of visiting war memorial sites, and they had lost Guillotine during the visit to the salt mines.
Henry was unperturbed, "oh, she will turn up soon enough," he said, as they got back to their hotel and bee-lined straight for the bar. A few vodkas later, Emanuelle had warmed up, forgotten her sister, and was actually enjoying Henry's undivided attention, when she noticed a tourist leaflet.
"Oh look, Mr Abraham, they've got 'Speed Dating' in old Cracow Town tonight. That might be fun, I might find myself a Polish lover," she teased.
*****
Henry's frequent disappearances to the continent were beginning to frustrate Huggy: the rarely used Empacher was growing cobwebs on it's rack. Slowly, but surely over the winter season, a plan came together. Taking advantage of his self appointed role as Veteran's coordinator, he hand-picked himself a crew that would take him to Henley. Entry requirements were strict. He used himself as the baseline, so only those taller, stronger, fitter and older than he could get in the boat. When more made the grade than were needed, he fell back on the little known club 'Minorities Rule' to justify his inclusion in the boat.
After some experimentation, a squad of some of the best that Maidstone had to offer averaging one day over 50 finally formed the originally named: 'Vet D Eight'.
This group of grumbly old prima donnas went through coxes and coaches like a hot knife through butter. Liz Macham started off doing both jobs, but in desperation at their in-boat tantrums and out-boat innuendos, she got herself pregnant and married Richard Ridgeway as a last resort.
Seeing things were not going as planned, Huggy instantly improved crew morale by strong arming Poplar's Captain into giving them a pot at the Dockland's Head. A visit by the Maidstone Mafia and a horse's head was all that it took.
Grumbling all the way through 3 miles of high seas, the Eight did the Medway Invitational Head and came third overall behind the two MIRC senior Eights... it was an unsightly, but effective row.
Roger and Sue Mobbs then took over coaching and coxing duties and improvements continued to show. Unable to figure out hand heights on their own, straws began to appear 3" above the gunnels of boats as aide memoirs. Going back to basics seemed to pay off, they came 3rd out of 8 in their category at Molesey, beating some useful competition; despite Huggy hiding in the bow of the boat, playing the Race card, enjoying the ride and thinking what heights they could reach once they got Henry back in the boat.
The crotchedty, grumbling Eight were giving a special coaching session from Ian and Chris Mollinson. Father and son were appalled at the overall technique, which resulted in another back to basics session, which the surly eight took with their usual poor grace.
However, this paid dividends with another good result, this time at the Vets Eights Head with a very respectable 12th out of 42 in category. It cost them another cox, as Sue deciding that she got enough grumbling at home from her old man, resigned forthwith.
Despite these setbacks, Huggy daily plotted their improvements on a spreadsheet, and calculated that with the Henry factor, Henley and glory was just within reach...
*****
Contessa Vanya Olimpia Konstantin-Assen of Vidin, having smuggled herself out of Bulgaria found herself in Poland and desperate. Funds were running low, her supply of false identifications and passports had been used up, and her friends in the Secret Police had deserted her. The 5' 8" blonde, valkyrie beauty needed help and quickly. She needed a cover. She needed a husband, a tall one, a foreign one. Thinking outside the box, speed dating was the only answer...
*****
"Hi, my name is Henry and I am English," said Henry to the ravishing blonde bombshell with the high cheekbones, as he moved to her table.
"You vill do," replied the Contessa playfully pointing her antique 9mm at him.
So it was that Henry, accompanied by an unusually tall and blonde Guillotine Withers and a very confused Emanuelle Withers came home after their winter frolic in the cold of Cracow.
Pluto was dreaming his favourite dream. He was stroking the coxless four in the final of the Wyfolds. Hampshire, Mollison and Nicholls are pulling him along and they are a length behind with 200 to go. "Push," shouts Pluto and they storm through and win. As they cruise to the landing stage, very rich ladies in posh frocks and big hats race each other to the boat, ignore the other three and smother him with kisses...
Whispering slowly invades his subconscious.
Pluto starts to awaken,
A scuffling noise. A louder bang. Rough, urgent hands haul him from his bed.
"What the hell...." shouts Pluto, but a hand covers his mouth with an evil smelling rag. His head goes dizzy, and thankfully the nightmare closes in on him and he passes back into his subconscious heaven.
*****
He awakens in a cold, damp, dank, disused room. He is tied to a chair: hands to its arms, legs to its feet. He can't move. He has a godawful headache. He is in his favourite Noddy jim-jams and is feeling very cold.
A tall man and a little one enter the room. The tall one puts a case on a table, goes to a washbasin and washes his hands. The short one stands, ominously behind him.
"Is it safe?" says the tall one gently.
"You talking to me?" says Pluto.
The tall one wipes his hands on a cloth.
"Is it safe?"
"Is what safe?" says Pluto, more than a little disturbed.
"Is it safe?" says the tall one, in a more exasperated tone. On hearing no answer, he reaches into the case, and pulls out a dentists drill, plugs it into the mains, fires it up and says:
"Is it safe?"
Getting the picture, Pluto sputters out, "yes, it's very safe, it's as safe as houses, it's safer than safer than safe..."
The tall one walks up to Pluto and positions the drill inches from his face. This time he asks him, as if for confirmation:
"Is it safe?"
"No, it's not safe, it's really unsafe, it very, very dangerously unsafe, I think some people should do something about it," says Pluto in utter desperation.
Too late. The drill enters his mouth and his screams echo through the deserted warehouse.
*****
"Finally got the cut down fin," said a strangely cheery Henry in the tea hut as they were about to join Robin and Tony in the Springfield Sculls.
"What?" said Huggy, amazed, "Pluto has finally cut it down? He's had that fin for 3 months. Oh well, never mind, maybe the boat will turn now. Can't wait to try it out."
"How about now? It will only take a minute to change them," said Henry.
An hour later, Tony finally managed to replace the old Titanic fin for the new slimline shark fin on the Empacher.
"I hope its safe and we don't tip in," Huggy said as they placed the boat into the water.
"Oh, I'm fairly sure it is," said Henry, darkly.
*****
And at long last, the boat turned. Not quite as eagerly as the 'Roger Mobbs', but sufficient to get round the Medway's bends around Maidstone. In a piece from the Malta to Chavsda, we easily cruised round the Marina bend, and only required 5 really hard pulls round the Sewage Works bend instead of the 20 we used to endure before. Henry almost oversteered us into the inside bank at the Blue Bridge bend.
The boat was perhaps marginally less stable than before (not that we really noticed) so all in all, an excellent trade off.
As we washed down the boat, two cars entered the rowing club compound. A black Oldsmobile and a clapped out Polo. The short man got out of the Polo, walked to the Oldsmobile, waved to Henry (who was studiously avoiding them), and drove off with the tall man without saying a word.
Robin went up to the Polo, reached in and pulled out a tin of sardines.
"What the hell does this mean?" wondered a very puzzled Robin.
"Its an old Maidstone gangland message," said the all knowing Tony, "it says Pluto Nichols sleeps with the fishes."
Huggy was just snuggling down into his cozy armchair with a nice cup of cocoa and his favourite slippers, ready for
'Question Time' when the phone rang.
"Y'ello".
The earpiece rattled with extremely loud jazz music accompanying the tinkling of glasses and girlie giggling.
"Hugs!", shouted Henry. "Get out of those slippers and get up here pronto. We've got a party going on".
"I'm not wearing slippers", Huggy blushed. "Anyway... it's 10 o'clock - way past my bedtime".
"It's Christmas and sleeping is for wimps, Hugs. I'm on a promise with one of two spectacular birds, and need a rear gunner to keep the other one occupied...", shouted Henry, a tad too aggressively, then rapidly changed tack with a pathetic: "... and a friend in need, is a friend indeed".
"Give me strength.... Well, everyone is in bed here, I suppose I could sneak out for a couple of hours".
*********
Edward Arthur Withers was an extremely good looking, but extremely ill-educated man. Born just outside Maidstone Prison, ironically he had had a spell or two within as an inmate. While not being the sharpest tool in the box, he did have a winning way with women, which he liked to combine with trips into London for a bit of "culture". In 1986, "culture" to Edward extended to all things French. And so he took his equally foolish wife, Esmerelda, to see Les Miserables, where he was bemused as to who the oft mentioned 'Madame Guillotine' was. Equally bizarrely, he took it as French 'culture' when he went with his drinking mates to a back street Maidstone cinema to see 'Black Emanuelle 2 goes to America'. And so it was no surprise that the following year, Edward and Esmerelda Withers named their twin daughters... Emanuelle and Guillotine.
*********
Huggy and Henry finally met up outside Mahiki's in Mayfair. Huggy recognised Emanuelle Withers from his visit to Henry's law firm. The tall, leggy platinum, was no less spectacular than before, if a little worse for drink. Guillotine, despite being Emanuelle's twin, was 5' 2", sober, exuded intelligence (an extaordinary feat considering her parentage), and bored. Huggy initially assumed that the target of Henry's affections was Emanuelle, but quickly revised his opinion, after seeing the dewy eyed look on his face when he introduced Guillotine. To make things crystal clear, Henry announced on seeing Huggy, "there you go, Miss Withers, your knight in shining armour". To which, Emanuelle squealed in delight,"oh look, Guillotine, it's Sir Steve Redgrave"!
*********
At 2 in the morning, bored of Mahiki's Polynesian theme, the group tottered up the street to the Dover Street Wine Bar, where Henry launched himself on the dancefloor with a terrified Guillotine. With extraorindary skill, he swung her around with gay abandon, crashing her into the other dancers, swinging her under his legs and smothering her with his 6' 5" frame. Mistaking her screams of fear, for squeals of pleasure, he started throwing her, doll like, into the air, and catching her on bended knee with an "olez!" On the third throw, something seemed to have changed, Henry didn't get up, and the smile on his face was frozen.
Having escorted Henry back to a chair, Guillotine asked what was the matter, to which H muttered: "knee - old war wound - Korea. Gone again, I'm afraid".
Seeing that Emanuelle had passed out, Huggy decided his escort duties were over and took the opportunity to leave. During the long, and hugely expensive trip back to Kent, he pondered the longer term impact of Henry's gammy knee.
*********
A couple of days later, and still a little hung-over, the two enjoyed their most competent paddle in a very long time, just about keeping pace over a 3.5k piece with one of the heaviest, strongest Vets fours to grace the Medway (Big Bob, Big Bill, Big Greg and Thor - the God of War). Things are at last beginning to click in the Empacher.
Afterwards, Huggy confronted Henry about the knee.
"Well actually, both knees have gone old chap" said Henry almost sheepishly. "I'm in discussions with the quacks as to when to operate, they tell me those new metal knees work wonders. Besides, you should see this as your opportunity to step up to the plate and start pulling your weight!"
"Give me a timescale, Henry", said Huggy, as he transfered Mark Tompkins' mobile number to Speed Dial.
"ooh... 6 months, 1 year, 2 years... who knows" came the cagey reply.
After a solid performance at the Small Boats Head, we just can’t explain the Pairs Head.
Henry took one look at the water and the wind at Putney, and instantly reneged on his promise to let Huggy stroke the boat.
“Hugs old chap”, he opined, “These conditions call for experience and a calm head... so that counts you out”.
We felt we had a reasonable race: a strong start, and while the last half was really bumpy and a bit slack due to the awful conditions, everyone else said they had it bad too.
So how did we come last in category? Beaten by 3 of the boats we beat at Nottingham. Badly.
Inexplicable. No Excuses. Move on.
Hardcore Training
Our two heroes set about “moving on” with true professionalism. Henry went on holiday and caroused through 4 capitals of Eastern Europe, chomping his way through as much goulash, borsch and caviar and drinking as much vodka and jet fuel as he could feasibly cope with.
Meantime, Huggy took full advantage of Henry’s absence and delighted in the balance and power of ‘No Excuses’ being stroked by one Mr Mark Tompkins, who (despite the occasional snigger at the gasping mess behind him after a “gentle” 2k piece) was equally impressed with what could be done with the boat... in the right hands... Huggy is slowly getting used to the now obligatory grin and a wink from said Tompkins, as well as a conspiratorial “hello partner”.
"Hello partner"
Then Huggy went on his own European carouse – Venice: ate and drank even more than Henry did, but in less time; so when the fatter and fully debauched champions reconvened, they decided to forego any other attempt to train and just go to...
The Docklands Head
Henry’s face dropped at the sight of the milk-pond before him. He only agreed to go because he knew that the Docks in November are, 9 times out of 10, blowing a gale with waves the size of mountains. Any excuse not to sit in the bow seat had dissipated in one go. So it was a triumphant Huggy who eased himself into the unfamiliar surroundings of the stern, happy that the steering would be in safe hands... after all, what could go wrong, the course is pretty much straight.
They tanked off at 32, zipping past the MIRC Veteran Novice Lightweight Four before they could say boo. Settling into strong and steady 30 strokes per minute, Huggy entered the zone and happily closed his eyes to concentrate on the rhythm and his legs.
Clearly, so did Henry.
They both opened their eyes to the sound of marshalls screaming at them left, right and centre:
Huggy: “everything all right back there, old boy”
Henry: “all tickety boo, old chap... just a little tickle with on the left will see us clear...”
Huggy: “...clear of what, perchance”
Henry: “oh nothing important (grunt), a little more left (grunt) perhaps”.
They missed the swing-bridge by a hairs breadth.
Despite this, as they entered the second half of the race, the power was still coming on. Rating – a solid 30.
Henry: “Now where did you say the finish was?”
Huggy: “Didn’t you check?”
Henry: “Not again... you are supposed to check”
Huggy: “Au contraire old chap, it is de rigeur for the steersman to check”
Henry: “Exactly, you’re the steersman”.
Huggy: “Not today, I’m not”.
The rest is a story of various detours, the questioning of various marshalls and competitors they passed as to where the finish was (they were still moving the boat despite the ongoing argument). False pushes for imaginary finishes were to take place before the exhausted pair collapsed in a heap when they finally found the end, easily adding a hundred metres or so to the 2.75k course.
Fortunately their only opposition from Erith were a bit ill, and the Maidstone duo finished well ahead with an OK time of 11.49 mins.
The boys were oddly pleased with the result. Standards have clearly slipped.
Their second row in the Vet D Eight, was entirely pleasurable. So, tired but happy, our friends went to their homes to watch the Formula 1 ... and to do more plotting.
For two months now, Huggy and Henry have tried to tame the beast that is the Empacher. They have different approaches. Huggy thinks they have been found out. The Roger Mobbs was a docile boat that hid their flaws, and it's age has loosened it up a bit that gives the oarsman quite a bit of slack. "No Excuses" conversely takes no prisoners, it's totally rigid, allowing you to get more return on your stroke, but at a price - it's hard work! It's also harder to balance, bladework has to be precise, timing - perfect. Huggy is forever complaining it is down on strokeside due to Henry's lazy hands.
And it refuses to turn - Empachers are built to go straight. The two H's have not had the time to replace the fin with a smaller one, so getting round the sewage works bend now requires a high rating 20 stroke firm pressure push on one side, and even then it doesn't hug the corner. Worse, despite all this extra effort, the boat slows down! The boat is fitted with one of these propellors on the hull which measures boat speed. In a straight line they get around 7.5 metres per second, round bends it drops to 6.5.
Henry just thinks he needs a bigger, stronger partner, who is a better steersman...
The glory of the Masters Championships seems a long, long time ago.
And then there is the recent dominance of the Vet Fs (Robin Chapman and Tony Marshall). You see it goes like this: in the days before both crews upgraded their boats, the Vet D's would come in even when giving the Vet F's a 40 second headstart over the SBH course - that is pretty much equivalent to the age handicap. Then Tony fixed his iron lung, pacemaker, or whatever it is, they bought themselves a Stampfli and BANG, the difference suddenly became 25 seconds. Enter the Empacher and the difference became 20 seconds as the 2 H's struggled to cope with it.
2 months later, neutral third parties confirmed that the boat does indeed drop to strokeside. Very reluctantly, Henry worked a deal: he would try to keep his hands together coming forward, but only if Huggy threw away the "rabid nonsense" that is British Rowing Technique and they re-adopt the good old 'long and strong' philosophy of rowing as in their Curlew days.
Things have started to improve. It doesn't look pretty, but the Empacher is slowly being tamed and the gap with the Vet F's has started to improve, 25 seconds, 30 seconds... and so to the Autumn SBH race. The windy conditions certainly favoured the heavier crew, and Huggy steered his first decent course in weeks. Both crews won their respective events: the Vet F2x ran in with a creditable 11.16 min, and the Vet Ds... 10.32 - that's... 44 seconds faster. Oh yes my son, the boys are back in town.
Or are they?
One final tweak. Henry has at long last got a bigger, stronger steersman... himself. Unfortunately it means that the smaller, weaker partner is stroking it. Heh, heh. Early days, but some positive signs: Henry's levers are turning the boat better from the bow seat, and Huggy is finally getting maximum power on, as the strokeside dip is less prevalent.
So to the Pairs Head this coming Saturday. 479 boats. 4 k. Will Huggy maintain a decent rating? Will Henry steer a decent course? We shall see. They and our other crews will be pitting themselves against some of the best in the country.
Also going are Robin and Tony as Vet Fs, James and Mark T as a Vet B 2x, and Hugh and Charlie in an IM2 2-.
We're tackling training early and in unusually robust fashion this year.
The squad isn't going to Cambridge (except Tony and Robin on a final pot-hunt), and the various sub-squads are getting down to business with varying levels of determination.
The new Vets Novice Squad (10 men plus our honorary woman - Cate) have a new diet of ergos and trial runs of the Small Boats Head. They are going through a very real sense of shock as they move from the cotton wool of the Development Squad ("we paddled all the way to the railway bridge and back again, and are really pooped - can we stop now"), to getting into a racing frame of mind, and the fact that you have to do 2,500 metres WITHOUT stopping five times. For the moment, they are avoiding the ergos (except for Thor - 18.33 for a 5k... not bad, not bad) but are happily doing the pieces. For most, the SBH will be their first race, and we wish them well.
The Competition Squad (Old Duffers) are starting to do long pieces too. Lock to locks. Mostly to provide the BBQ crew moral support in their training for the Boston Marathon. I can't emphasise enough just how hard rowing 31 miles is on your backside, but the BBQs are tackling this with a nonchalance bordering on the niaive:
Huggy: "Suggest you take a seat grip".
Pete: "I will, but will save it for the end of the race, and when I sit on it, it will feel like sitting on a feather cushion".
Trust me, Peter, no it won't. Your arse will provide you with a new definition of pain by 20 miles whatever you sit on.
Liz Machem's new Vets Top Squad are already under the whip. She's given them a training schedule which makes me wince for them. The summer holidays have taken their toll, but already Sean is looking like a new man. They've not given in yet, and actually seem happy. Keep it up chaps.
The Experienced Vets continue with the Springfield sculls on Monday and Friday mornings. Except, somehow it has evolved into lock to locks, racing the 4.5 miles from East Farleigh to the Malta. The rivalry is intense. The action, fast and furious. Quarter is rarely given. Some of the steering makes Schumacher seem like a pussycat. Words are exchanged. But always, tea and cakes await.
The 2 H's have yet to tame the beast that is the Empacher. It's got a fin the size of an Eight's, and turns like the Titanic... very slowly. Henry has renewed his search for a better steersman, while Huggy, more pragmatically, is searching for a smaller fin.
Finally the Recreationals continue to mess about in boats. Very prettily too. And as Jan and Tui paddle along, a small voice behind them keeps nagging them: "Small Boats Head - 3rd October, Small Boats Head - 3rd October".
Huggy was at the computer just putting in the final touches to his Boxster order. The final decision was whether to have 'Speed Yellow' or 'Basalt Black Metallic'. Would he be regarded as a Hairdresser in Speed Yellow? Very tricky. When the phone interrupted his thoughts, and Henry blurted down the line:
"Hugs, I've found one for you... it's going cheap... absolute bargain... almost mint... no time to lose... let's go."
"Go where, what for"?
"What have we been talking about these past few month's", came the exasperated reply, "Here's a clue, it's German, it's sleek, it's fast and it's yellow".
'Speed Yellow' it is, thought Huggy, now very excited.
"Meet you at the club, and... small catch... they want cash... cheers".
"Where am I going to get that sort of money in cash...?", Huggy blurted out, but it was too late - the line went dead, and the number remained unobtainable on redial.
*******
A tall man, and a very short one, got out of their imported black Oldsmobile Sedan, and, with shifty glances all about them went round back. They had a faintly ridiculous air about them with their black suits, white shirts, black ties and black sunglasses; a Quentin Tarentino parody. They opened the boot, took out a pair of hand guns, and extravagantly checked they were loaded. Rolling the chambers, peering down the barrel's, that sort of thing.
Tall one: We should have shotguns for this kind of deal, my little one.
Short one: How many will there be?
Tall one: Three or four.
Short one: We should have brought f****** shotguns.
*******
Emil was 80, 2 metres tall, thick set bald on top, but very hairy elsewhere. He wore a Rab C Nesbitt vest, combat trousers and army boots. His sons, Wolfgang and Karl-Heinz, were just younger versions of their father, if a bit fatter. Alarmly for this day and age, they all wore packed shoulder holsters, and an assortment of weapons about their bodies which could keep Al Queda in business for the next 6 months.
"Jetz, mein liebschen. Gut. Ja. Ausgezeichnet", Emil fussed over his boys, as they prepared their next delivery. Used to all sorts of difficult dealings with Eastern Europeans, he had no concerns with this next shipment to the 'verdammt tommies', and so he happily hummed a tuneless lyric as they got into their Army Surplus Hummer...
..." uber alles in der Welt"...
*******
Huggy gunned his wheezing Mondeo into the club, and somehow thought nothing of Henry tying a roof rack on top of the car as he dreamt of the pleasure of illegally powersliding his nearly new, yellow Boxster round the lanes of Kent. Henry eventually got in beside him, and as Huggy started the ignition, he heard the rear doors open and shut. Surprised, he looked round and saw two comically suited gentlemen sitting uncomfortably in the back.
"What are you two doing here"?
"Don't worry old chap", interrupted Henry, "the seller of our new little beauty can be eccentric, I just thought we could do with a bit of back up".
"'Our'?, gasped Huggy, totally befuddled, "What do you mean by 'our'"?
"That's what a partnership is all about, me old mucker", smarmed Henry, "What's yours is mine, and what's mine is mine. Come on, we're late, the drop is at Clacket Lane Service Station".
*******
The tall one dragged Wolfgang's bloodied unconscious hulk, with surprising strength and dexterity into the huge, empty warehouse. The tall one tutted. Blood was every where, over his suit and his shirt. Well, it couldn't be helped. He filled a bucket with water, and poured it over the prone, fat skinhead, who woke at first with a shock, and then grimaced with the pain in his stomach.
The tall one, ignored him, took a flick knife from his cowboy boots, switched on a CD player and started dancing towards a very scared Wolfgang to the strains of Johnny Cash...
*******
Shell shocked, Huggy got out of the Mondeo and inspected the damage. As he stuck a finger into a bullet hole, he just shook his head and wondered how and why? Death and mayhem. All that for a bloody boat.
"What a lark", cried out a jubilant Henry. "From now on, Hugs old boy, we've got no excuses".
Huggy entered the dusty offices of Bodgit, Bendit and Butler. Noticing the receptionist wasn't there, he walked smartly up to the door labelled 'Henry Abraham, Solicitor - Property'. It was slightly ajar, and before he could knock, he overheard feminine giggling, and couldn't resist the temptation to listen in:
"ooh, Mr Abraham sir, isn't it a big one".
"Oh yes, Miss Withers, it's very big"", growled Henry
"It's so big, and plump and glistening and..."
Huggy started to step away from the door, thinking this was an inopportune moment.
"...golden, Mr Abraham".
"Just call me 'champ', Miss Withers".
Sudden realisation came to Huggy that Henry was using his Nat Champs (Masters) Gold medal to full advantage.
"And you look great in this picture with your partner... whatisname... Steve?..." said Miss Withers
"Sir Steve to you, Miss Withers..."
At which point Huggy had had enough, knocked, waited a second for the unseemly jostling of clothing to subside, and entered.
"Hello Champion!" cried out H, as he finished buttoning up his shirt over a glint of gold.
"Go get 'em, Champ", fired back Huggy, rapidly shooting his fingers at H in response.
"...and I want those deeds typed up by lunchtime, Miss Withers", to the retreating back of the not surprisingly dizzy looking blonde as she tottered out of the room.
With his equamity quickly returned, Henry plumped himself into a very comfortable armchair, nonchanantly brushed off a platinum hair from his Saville Row pin-striped trousers, clicked something very reminiscent of a taxi meter and said, "Well Hugs, old chap - what an unexpected surprise, what can I do for you?"
"What's that you clicked, Henry?". Huggy responded as he sat in a slightly less comfortable chair, alarm bells ringing.
"Time is money, old boy"
Before Huggy could retort, Bill Butler entered the room without knocking, greeted Huggy with surprise, remonstrated with Henry over something very technical and legal, and before leaving, as if in afterthought came to the real point of his visit:
"Where do think I be rowing this Sunday, Henry".
"Oh definitely in the Stroke seat of the first Veteran Eight, Mr Butler, sir, your name is engraved on that seat sir". cringed Henry, with unusual obsequiousness.
Thus reassured of his place in the eight, Bill left the office, and Huggy finally could get to the point of his visit.
He took out of his briefcase a very large document, and plonked it on Henry's coffee table.
"And what's that, pray"
"That, is a Competitor Analysis for the Vet D Double Sculls at Henley Veterans."
Impressed, Henry picked up the tome and leafed through it. Within were multiple statistics: possible competing crews, past performances from the previous 10 years, expected winning times, taking to account upstream river flow on either station, weather variables, crew biographies of the main players; and a startling SWOT analysis, where their Strengths were listed as 'joie de vivre', 'a devil may care attitude to training' and 'the Roger Mobbs - an Empacher in disguise'. These compared to Weaknesses too many to mention here, one Opportunity 'everlasting glory' and for Threats: the who's who of all the potential winners including: Poplar and Blackwall, Peterborough RC, Nottingham BC, Tideway Scullers, Ardingly, Thames Tradesmen and the Bradford Boyz; plus numerous other internationally renowned outfits such as Breda from Holland...you get the picture.
Henry's upper lip curled during his quick perusal of the contents. Chucking the report back on the table, "Let's cut to the chase - give me the Management Summary, and no BS", he snarled, pointing his finger at Huggy in his best Alan Sugar impression. The response was immediate:
"We need to row as hard and as well as we did at Nottingham, only 10 seconds faster just to be in the same ballpark as these other guys. In short: we are toast".
As the news sunk in, Henry's upper lip curled even further.
"Now those are the kind of odds I like, Hugs - sign us up".
Also at Henley Vets, a Vet B 8+ comprising the older seniors from our Henley crew, Ollie and Gerraint, and 2 others to be advised.
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
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.
It is dark. Two furtive, shadowy creatures, one unnaturally tall, the other very short, move from boat to boat in a trailer park somewhere in Wales.
Sound of hacksaw on metal can be clearly heard over the rumbling sky on this windy, rainy night in May.
Screek, screek, screek. Screek, screek, screek.
Whispers. "Ow 'bout that one over there, then", says the short one.
"Boyo" says the tall, "say boyo so if anyone over'ears, they will think it's an inside job!".
"Ow 'bout that one over there, then... boyo".
"Do 'em all, my precious, do 'em all".
Saturday 29th May
Spring Bank Holiday in Wales is going to be wet, and we were not disappointed. Yet despite the squalls, the beauty of the Wye came as a sharp and pleasant contrast to the beast that is the Lea. We came as a Vets and Senior male team in roughly equal numbers, along with a few carefully chosen, tolerant camp follwers. We bonded well. The old 'uns brought civilsation to the campsite: deckchairs, canopies with cute little lilac and black flags, tables, cutlery, beer, little children and boring tales of yester year. And the youngsters repaid in kind, by getting drunk, eating as much as they could, running amok, hiding cars in the woods, doing silly things to tents and in tents, and being noisy at 3am.
The seniors played experimentally for most of the weekend. Not wanting to pick up unnecessary wins that would jeopardise Henley, they relearned the ancient art of sculling, in all it's forms, and returned home at the end of the day potless, except for a Maidstone v Maidstone IM3 4x straight final. I don't want to decry their efforts. The novice single scullers, Ridgeway, Charlie and Tom (now known as Poppet), all won one or two rounds and did very credibly.
The boys did show the Welsh that we can row, and row well, with the one crew who aren't at Henley triumphing at IM3 4+.
IM3 4+ win (3.07 mins into clip)
The experienced Vets were shown the door, by some very capable opposition. Huggy and Henry (no slouches on home turf), were seen off by 2 lengths by the Bradford-on-Avon half of a composite that won Vet D at the Fours Head. The fledgling Vet C 4+ were beaten by the same distance by a Llandaff crew that had won Vet C at the Fours Head the year before. We were really picking our opposition.
Olly and Gerraint continued to discover how hard it is sculling at Vet Novice, but did win a round. Your time will come gentlemen.
The Vet Novices, however, came into their own this weekend. The outrageous mismatch of their 8+ against Cardiff University did not result in their expected capitulation. They lost, but only by a length or so, and they looked neat and tidy.
The 8 then split into 2 coxed 4s, both in straight finals against Upton RC and Ross County respectively and... they both won!! The perfect result. Pots all round, and as they were non qualifying events, they stayed novices. Among them big Richard (yes another one). He, who looks like Thor and is so new to the rowing and the club, I don't know his last name. An extraordinary achievement.
Vet Novice 4+ - featuring Thor at bow.
So day one closed with a respectable return of 4 Maidstone wins. That night, the seniors got up to their normal tricks, and the Vets hit a curry house and were by and large good that night. The key exception being Coach Abraham, who drank to excess, with the normal consequences the following morning.
That night, a tall, lean chap and a very short one, slipped away when no one was looking to attend to some business...
Interlude
Screek, screek, screek. Screek, screek, screek.
"I fort we 'ad dun 'em all last night... boyo".
"Nah, forgot the ones in the boat house, didn't we, my precious".
"Fing is, I've lorst count of what we 'av dun. In fact, I've a nasty feeling we dun our own boats too... boyo".
"Oh no, you plonker. Get on wif it, I'll go get some araldite"...
Sunday 30th May
We were all surprised with it being a gloriously sunny day on the Wye. But less surprised as the Senior experiment at sculling continued to fail. Their best result (and, in fact, the gutsiest row of the weekend for me, was Tom losing the Novice Scull final by a length). His Reading Uni opposition out rated him by 4 pips all the way down, but still Tom hung on in there and was slowly catching at the end.
Also, a similar story for our experienced Vets. The Monmouth Vet C4+ - possibly the best crew at the regatta, coasted home easily against our Vet C4+ (though Lois had at least taught them how to do a decent start).
As for messers Huggins and Coach Abraham who were due yet again to meet the Bradford boys. Hmmm. Huggins took Abraham to a Little Chef and tried to sober him up with coffee. When he could speak, the tall green giant leant over the table and amidst the stale curry and beer fumes, earnestly said: "listen old chap, I better tell you now that I fully expect you to do all the rowing - I'll just be a passenger, if that's alright". And he slumped back, comatose.
"No, no" I cried, "listen, I've spoken to them and they admit that 1k is their distance. 1500 meters is unknown territory for them. 1500 is our distance, we'll take them at the end... are you listening, Henry... why are you sleeping?"
So, Huggins pulled the snoring lard arse down the course for 1k, looked round and saw the Bradford boys 4 lengths up. Dutifully, he shouted "LEGS", at which point, Coach Abraham woke up, the boat surged forward, and the Bradford boys had to work to keep their winning distance to 1.5 lengths. If there had been a handicap, things may have gone differently.
So to the Vet Novices. Same trick, an 8+ and 2 4+s. The fours lost this time, but the 8+, in their first heat are ahead as they came into the final straight. But look, something is very odd. Bert isn't rowing, in fact his backstay has fallen off. So why are they winning? Well look, the Llandaff opposition stroke and seven aren't rowing either. Bits have mysteriously fallen off their boat too. It's a very strange sight. How odd.
In the final, our boys are up against another University - Swansea. As they came into the final straight, Swansea are just up. But look, they are slowing down as they come to the line. Oh and look, the Swansea stroke man's whole rigger, gate and pin have disintegrated. And look, our boys surge past them and win their Novice pot!!!!
Oh and look, the Swansea stroke man's whole rigger, gate and pin have disintegrated - 5mins into the clip
Hurrah!
Seriously, the boys rowed brilliantly, unfairly placed among kids half their age, they took their chances, and as Big Bill said... "if you can't stand the heat..."
