The Bumps

July came and went and only now have I had enough of a pause to record the wonderful week of The Cambridge Rowing Association annual Bumping Races. Most people call them the Bumps. It is a mad annual summer event that must have evolved to cope with the fact that the River Cam is too narrow at Cambridge (Cambridgeshire) to allow side-by-side racing in something as long, wide and unmanoeuvrable as a rowing eight. They measure about seven metres wide blade-tip to blade-tip.

At the start, up to 17 eighteen-metre long boats are lined up along the bank with a boat-length-and-a-half between them. There’s a countdown of a four-minute canon and a one minute 'gun' when a coach on the bank will start to push the boat out into the river with a long pole. The cox holds onto a chain to prevent the boat getting an unfair advantage.

 

 

Then when the starting canon fires, the cox drops the chain and the crews row as hard and as fast as they can. The start is frenetic, splashy and can be full of panic. The idea is to try to ‘bump’ the boat ahead before the boat behind bumps them. You’re rowing as hard as you can, not knowing how well you are gaining on the boat ahead. (Sometimes coxes lie). Meanwhile, you can see the boat behind and think, are they gaining on us?

 

The challenge our crew had is that we are what my youngest son, Ʃ, would call a ‘seasoned’ crew and worked out we were about 250 years older than the boat that chased us on the first night. They were lithe sixth-formers (dressed in white) from the local girls’ public school. Predictably they got us, but the event goes on for four evenings. Any boat that ‘bumps’ is promoted further up the start order, while ‘bumped’ boats move down. The aim is to end up ‘Head of the River’. We were full of hope on the second night but again, a younger crew got us. Their start was faster, though we had plenty of comments on how neatly we rowed.

 

Third and fourth nights were going to be ours, we felt. Setting off rowing as hard as you can is all right, but the difficulty with this race is that you start as if you are running 100m, but have to keep going for over 1000. We kept away from our rivals the third night but by the time we reached the Plough at Fen Ditton, we wanted it to stop. ‘Stoke’ was beginning to whimper. I felt I couldn’t go on. But then I registered that the chasing boat had fallen apart. They had died completely. Suddenly the energy returned and we powered over the finishing line, and an honourable ‘row-over’. Fourth night too we rowed long and strong and again managed to maintain our place. It felt as if we’d done all right, AND we avoided serious collisions with other boats and even the bank.

 

And it is a great feeling working in metronomic harmony with women you know you can rely on, pushing through beyond fatigue, until finally there is the satisfaction of the end of the race – even if the whole event is mad and pretty pointless.

(With thanks to A and Ʃ for photography)

(I'm rowing at the 7 position)

Cambridge to Ely Row

Isn’t contentment about contrasts? Surely if you awake content every morning, then life would seem oh so dull.

I’ve been expressing a bit of discontentment lately – with rowing up and down the same bit of the River Cam for some years, so when my friend Jane organised a charity event to row from Cambridge to Ely, I was keen to sign up. Our regular training outings take us a couple of miles from the boathouses overlooking Midsummer Common down to Baits Bite Lock, whence it is only a couple more miles to Waterbeach, which is about half way to Ely. It would be a doddle, I thought. But then – when I read the info a couple of days before the event – someone described the row as gruelling. I shouldn’t have just thought of gruel, and the porridge I’d make the morning of the row. I should have been forewarned.

It was snowing when I woke that morning. It was going to be cold. Really cold. And the challenge of rowing when it is really cold it what to wear. You start with too much on, but once warmed up the whole boat has to stop to strip off. But lots of layers it had to be. Under Armour and trackie bottoms, thin socks, thick red climbing socks, t-shirt, long-sleeved rowing top, fleece, splashproof top, silly hat and scarves – one silk, one wool.

Getting fettled at Clare Boathouse

The warm up row down to Baits Bite Lock was sedate, and looked quite pretty with snow flurries playing around Stroke’s black fleece outfit. There was no pressure on this trip. I could look around and enjoy the scenery, and nod cheerily to the other nutcases who were out walking or fishing on a morning like this. There’s camaraderie amongst nutcases. Mallards laughed at us. Gulls swooped down around us.

Baits Bite Lock

Baits Bite Lock, preparing to carry the eight

 At the lock, 2.6 miles from the start of the row, there were trusty, chilly volunteers to help us carry our rowing clutter, the oars and the boat around the lock. I took off my fleece and Stroke exchanged a fleece hat for a peaked cap. Back in the boat, oars back in their gates, we pushed off and set off along the most delightful stretch of river. Pollarded willows over hung this deep but narrow section, where moorhens hooted at us. Grey fans of fleeing wood pigeons. I spotted a few shy dabchicks – cute little birds with an astonishing capacity for underwater swimming. I was sitting behind a new stroke, and she set a metronomic rhythm. I could feel how well we were all in time. Our excellent cox kept up a constant flow of commands to keep us in time. Catch – together. Pull together. Slide – together. It felt good. The rhythm, when it is this good, is mesmerising.

We paddled through Horningsea and then the countryside started to open out. It began to feel like we were in The Fens. The soggy riverbank was pockmarked with evidence of water voles. More dabchicks. Even cormorants. In several places drains joined the river, and I thought about the engineering that had been done to keep this part of East Anglia above water. Then slightly to my surprise, cox said, ‘I can see the lock!’

Entering Bottisham Lock

 

Inside Bottisham Lock

We were the tail-enders of several eights doing this row, and cox said she could see boats waiting to go through Bottisham Lock. This was 5.6 miles from the start. I wondered how scary this would be. Generally rowing eights are very stable – because there are eight outriggers to stop them capsizing. But the can and do capsize. The lock is tiny – too narrow to allow the oars to rest on the water. There would be turbulence as the water was let out. And swimming in the Cam in February, certainly didn’t appeal. We watched other boats negotiate the lock. They needed more chilly volunteers to help them through because it was too narrow to be able to paddle anywhere.

Finally it was our turn and the volunteers decided that two eights would fit inside the lock. Efficiently we glided in, waited for the water to fall and we were poled out. From the lock onwards we entered the true flatlands where nothing broke the winds that swept across the country and ruffled up the water. Cox looked cold, but she kept up her rhythmic banter. We were about one third of the distance to Ely. Again we settled into Stroke’s metronomic pace. More gulls. Lots and lots of vole holes. The lovely seed heads of Phragmites reeds that always make me think of the Nile. But it didn’t feel like the Nile, even if the sun did break through the clouds for a few luxurious minutes. The problem with this part of the row was that there were so few landmarks. We paddled past places that described themselves as marinas – which seemed lavish descriptions of rather tatty boatyards. We saw a couple of oystercatchers, quite a lot of Canada geese, and some greylags.

Which way now?

Cox had us row Firm Pressure for 20 strokes, then Half Pressure. She’s skilled in keeping up the interest – if you can call it that. This row would have been an unimaginable challenge without her banter. I felt I was just about the right temperature. She must be freezing. The snow started again. Shafts of sunlight spotlit patches of Fen for a while; then a surprisng glimpse of a little egret (a new treat for this country - especially in winter). We encountered a choice of ways. It was signposted. I had no idea how much further, but my back was aching and my hips were complaining, and I felt as if I was messing up more strokes. I’d emerge from automatic pilot to realise I was out of time, and cursed. Not knowing stroke too well, I restrained myself for uttering the S word.

On we paddled. A brief moment of interest when I saw something that might have been a grebe, but decided it was another cormorant. A bridge. Some lonely landing places for narrow boats. Then a really good view of a Great Crested Grebe – one of my favourite birds. That pleased me. And on. Hips really sore. Back really painful. The cox said, ‘I see Ely cathedral!’

Can you see Ely Cathedral in the distance?

 

We pulled in for a drink of water and Stroke’s Harriboes . There was a large freshwater mussel in the shallow mud. I couldn’t help recalling someone saying, you see the cathedral and think you are nearly there, but it’s still a long, long way. We started again. ‘Catch - together. Feather – together.’  Then a sign ELY 4 MILES. Damn. And we have to row a mile beyond Ely. Think about something else. The population of water voles. I’d love to see another – but they’re all sensibly in their burrows. ‘Catch – together.’ And back into automatic pilot.

A long time later cox said something about a bridge. I registered traffic. We were in Ely. Not much further. Another mile. This far and no new blisters. Quads tired. Jane tired. Glance at the cathedral, dominating the landscape. Magnificent structure but I didn’t really care.

Cox said something about some barns up ahead. ‘I think that’s where we stop. Not much further now.’ And she was right. We arrived, spun and landed. Cox was hypothermic and needed shoe-horning out of her seat. I felt I audible creaked as I scrambled out and straightening up. But there was the smell of bacon in the air. The Isle of Ely Rowing Club were serving hot drinks and BACON BUTTIES. There’s nothing like a bacon buttie when you’re really hungry. We’d been going for about 4 hours – 3.5 of that was rowing; 17 miles. It had been gruelling. We’d deserved the hot chocolate; we were satisfied, content. I reckon and that thought (and more importantly the buttie) sustained us while we dismantled the boats and got them on the trailer. Contentment is definitely all about contrasts.

 

If you enjoyed reading about this little adventure please donate to our nominated charity via http://www.cambridge-pcc.org/boat_race.html

 

Encounter on the Cam

Our cox shouts ‘Easy oars,’ and we glide in to the bank to hear better what our coach has to say.

I’m distracted, again. Mr Asbo looks angry this morning. Patrolling his patch of the river, his gleaming pure-white feathers reflect in the still water beneath the weeping willow. With wings slightly raised in authority, he cruises downstream towards another swan, a swan with a slender neck. With her is a signet from last year; two-thirds white now, he’s almost lost his grey fluff.

The alpha male approaches the other adult swan. I expect a fight, a showdown at least. They bow to each other. From where I sit, their curved necks describe a heart-shape. They touch bills and chatter them together, uttering tender, intimate sounds. When they part, Mr Asbo is calm, his wings furled. He moves at the tip of an arrowhead of ripples. He is serene. He won’t go for us as we row on down to Bait’s Bite Lock this morning. Not this time.

Jane Wilson-Howarth (www.wilson-howarth.com) rowed for Corpus (Oxford) in the Dark Ages probably in the first year there was a Corpus womens boat. She has rowed with Champs town club in Cambridge for the last seven years. This snippet was read as part of a celebration of literary Cambridge at the WordFest yesterday

Lent bumps

Final division of the university Lent bumps last evening 

The March sunshine enticed us out onto our bicycles and we reached the A14 bridge as the one-minute canon went off for the Lent bumps.

I'd not been that close to the starting cannons before, and it nearly scared the juice out of me.

I hope that the oarsman who was injured during one of the bumps - in a pile up in The Gut presumably - is fully recovered by now.

The River Cam

I awoke before 7am cosy as a clothes moth in a Cashmere jumper wondering why I’d agreed to this extra – early – outing. By the time I’d sunk some coffee and pedalled my bike to the river though, the crisp new day and cloudless sky had renewed my enthusiasm. At the boathouses, Midsummer Common and the River Cam looked especially lovely. Weeping willows were sprouting new leaves and even last year’s signets were thinking of sex.

Low winter sunshine made the swans look particularly pristine as they glided on a mill-pond-still river. I watched one couple approach each other, wings partly unfurled. They dipped their heads in greeting, then chattered beaks together affectionately, uttering low snoring sounds. They rubbed necks and, separating slightly to touch beaks again, their silhouette described a perfect heart shape.

Earlier in February - before that spring-like feel

This really is perfect time to swing an ‘eight’ onto the water and push out into a tranquil river. It takes a while to slot into the harmony of seven others’ strokes, but once that wordless communication has been achieved, it is like a mediation. We can’t think of anything else. It clears the mind of clutter as we power down to Baits Bite Lock.

The Cam at Baits Bite Lock