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”.
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.
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