We had all our excuses lined up. We’d never been out together as a crew. We were in an unfamiliar boat. We were rowing up a category (novices in an IM3 race). Our opponents were younger than us. Two of us had coughs and colds. I was still achey from a heavy bootcamp session…
Except that we didn’t need them in the end. Not because we rowed our way to victory – although a storming performance that had us, with just 400m to go, gaining well on our opponents (a friendly geek on the bank with a stopwatch later assured us we had it in the bag) – meant that the prospect of a medal was a real one.
But it wasn’t to be. As you may have come to expect from Girl on the River’s chequered racing history, the outcome was weirder than that. On the third stroke of our final push, as we summoned the last reserves of energy and courage and began to push through the pain barrier, a loud rattle came from the two seat. A blade appeared at a strange angle beside me. And then an anguished wail.
“My gate! My f***ing gate! F***!! F***!! My f***ing gate’s come off!!”
And that was it. Game over. The gate – the plastic contraption that attaches the oar to the rigger – had come clean off so the blade was waving freely, and in danger of disappearing upstream.
There was nothing for it. Once it became apparent that we were a woman down, all we could do was have stern pair paddle in. We limped back to the clubhouse – the hardest, heaviest bit of rowing I’ve ever done.
Our fellow clubmates swarmed around the boat, eager to know what had happened. Had the gate snapped? Had the whole thing come undone? Had we forgotten to check the topnuts?
Not the actual rigger. I was in no state to to take pictures.
And this is where it gets weird. A thorough check of the gate and the rigger revealed… nothing. The gate was intact. Not a break, not a warp, not even a hairline crack. It was just no longer attached to the rigger.
As for the rigger, it was still done up. The topnut was still screwed on. So unless one of us had leant out mid-race with a spanner, undone the top nut, removed the gate and screwed the topnut back on again, all whilst rowing at firm pressure, it remains a mystery. Forget Watergate or Camilla-gate. This was Gate-gate.
So, here’s the thing. It was nobody’s fault (short of hysterical, Salem-style witchcraft accusations – and for the sake of club harmony, it would be wise to steer clear of those). It was disappointing but not devastating. And a beer-in-the-clubhouse later, it was even quite funny.
And, needless to say, the quest for my first win continues. As I may have said before, it ain’t over yet.
