7 to 8.30a.m.Same as in previous table.8.30a.m.Breakfast.—Same as in previous table, save for the frequent absence of meat. Marmalade allowed. Strawberries or peaches without sugar; no cream.10.30 or 11, or 12p.m.Out on the water.1.30"Lunch.—Same as in previous table.4.45"Cup of tea with a slice of bread and butter, or a biscuit.5.30 or 6"Out on the water.7.30 or 8"Dinner.—Same as in previous table.9.50"Same as in previous table.10.15"Bed.
(Note.—With most Leander crews, which are composed of experienced oarsmen, it has been found possible to abolish restrictions on the amount of liquor, and to allow the men to take what they want to satisfy their thirst, which at Henleytime is naturally more severe than it is in the early spring at Putney. With a college crew of younger and less experienced oars such liberty of action is not to be recommended; but a trainer ought, during hot weather, to tell his men that if they really want an extra half-glass or so, they are not to hesitate to ask for it. Men in training will, however, generally find that if they exercise a little self-control during the first few days of training, when the restriction on their drink seems specially painful, their desire for drink will gradually diminish, until at last they are quite content with their limited allowance. If, on the contrary, they perpetually indulge themselves, they will always be wanting more. On this point I may cite the authority of the following remarks extracted from a recent article in theBritish Medical Journal:—"Among the various discomforts entailed upon us by the hot weather is thirst, which leads to many accidents. First and most especially is the danger arising from the ingestion of ices and cold drinks, which so many people fly to directly they feel hot. Difficult as it may be to explain in precise physiological terms the evil consequences which so often follow the sudden application of cold to the mucous membrane of the stomach when the body is over-heated, there is no doubt about the fact, and people would do well to remember the risk they run when they follow their instinct, and endeavour to assuage their thirst by huge draughts of cold fluids. There can be but little doubt that the profuse perspiration which is the cause of so many dangers is greatly aggravated by drinking, and especially by drinking alcoholic fluids. No one can watch a tennis match without noticing how the men perspire, while the girls hardly turn a hair. Some, perhaps, will say that the girls play the feebler game; but, game or no game, they exert themselves. The same also may be seen at any dance. The secret is that the men follow their instinct and slake their thirst, while the girlssimply bear it. It should be remembered that thirst is the result of want of fluid in the blood, not want of fluid in the stomach, and that a pint or more may be drunk before a single ounce is absorbed. Any attempt, then, to assuage thirst by rapid drinking must of necessity lead to far more being taken than is wanted, the moral of which is that if we must drink, at least let us drink slowly."Besides asking his men to drink slowly, a coach will do well to see that they take no drink at all before they have eaten a certain amount of food. Between meals, except as set out in the tables given above, no drink of any kind should be allowed.Over-eating, too, is a very common danger, especially in the case of youngsters, and a coach must warn his crew severely against it.)
(Note.—With most Leander crews, which are composed of experienced oarsmen, it has been found possible to abolish restrictions on the amount of liquor, and to allow the men to take what they want to satisfy their thirst, which at Henleytime is naturally more severe than it is in the early spring at Putney. With a college crew of younger and less experienced oars such liberty of action is not to be recommended; but a trainer ought, during hot weather, to tell his men that if they really want an extra half-glass or so, they are not to hesitate to ask for it. Men in training will, however, generally find that if they exercise a little self-control during the first few days of training, when the restriction on their drink seems specially painful, their desire for drink will gradually diminish, until at last they are quite content with their limited allowance. If, on the contrary, they perpetually indulge themselves, they will always be wanting more. On this point I may cite the authority of the following remarks extracted from a recent article in theBritish Medical Journal:—
"Among the various discomforts entailed upon us by the hot weather is thirst, which leads to many accidents. First and most especially is the danger arising from the ingestion of ices and cold drinks, which so many people fly to directly they feel hot. Difficult as it may be to explain in precise physiological terms the evil consequences which so often follow the sudden application of cold to the mucous membrane of the stomach when the body is over-heated, there is no doubt about the fact, and people would do well to remember the risk they run when they follow their instinct, and endeavour to assuage their thirst by huge draughts of cold fluids. There can be but little doubt that the profuse perspiration which is the cause of so many dangers is greatly aggravated by drinking, and especially by drinking alcoholic fluids. No one can watch a tennis match without noticing how the men perspire, while the girls hardly turn a hair. Some, perhaps, will say that the girls play the feebler game; but, game or no game, they exert themselves. The same also may be seen at any dance. The secret is that the men follow their instinct and slake their thirst, while the girlssimply bear it. It should be remembered that thirst is the result of want of fluid in the blood, not want of fluid in the stomach, and that a pint or more may be drunk before a single ounce is absorbed. Any attempt, then, to assuage thirst by rapid drinking must of necessity lead to far more being taken than is wanted, the moral of which is that if we must drink, at least let us drink slowly."
Besides asking his men to drink slowly, a coach will do well to see that they take no drink at all before they have eaten a certain amount of food. Between meals, except as set out in the tables given above, no drink of any kind should be allowed.
Over-eating, too, is a very common danger, especially in the case of youngsters, and a coach must warn his crew severely against it.)
A captain ought to be specially strict in insisting on getting his men out of their beds at a fixed time, and in seeing that they do not stay up too late at night. Absolute punctuality all round ought to be rigidly enforced. If, however, anybody should resent the severities entailed by this dietary, and pine for freedom, he may be recommended to try what I may call the Ouida system. It is fully set out in "Under Two Flags," from which, in a spirit of humble admiration, I venture to give an extract:—
"'Beauty don't believe in training. No more do I. Never would train for anything,' said the Seraph, now pulling the long blonde moustachesthat were not altogether in character with his seraphic cognomen. 'If a man can ride, let him. If he's born to the pig-skin he'll be in at the distance safe enough, whether he smoke or don't smoke, drink or don't drink. As for training on raw chops, giving up wine, living like the very deuce, and all as if you were in a monastery, and changing yourself into a mere bag of bones—it's utter bosh. You might as well be in purgatory; besides, it's no more credit to win then than if you were a professional.'
"'But you must have trained at Christ Church, Rock, for the Eight?' asked another Guardsman, Sir Vere Bellingham—'Severe,' as he was christened, chiefly because he was the easiest-going giant in existence.
"'Did I! Men came to me; wanted me to join the Eight. Coxswain came, awful strict little fellow, docked his men of all their fun—took plenty himself, though! Coxswain said I must begin to train, do as all his crew did. I threw up my sleeve and showed him my arm;' and the Seraph stretched out an arm magnificent enough for a statue of Milo. 'I said, There, sir, I'll help you thrash Cambridge, if you like, but train Iwon'tfor you or for all the University. I've been captain of the Eton Eight; but I didn't keep my crew on tea and toast. I fattened 'em regularly three times a week on venison and champagne at Christopher's. Very happy to feed yours, too, if you like—game comes down to me every Friday from the Duke's moors; they look uncommonly as if they wanted it! You should have seen his face! Fatten the Eight! He didn't let me do that, of course; but he was very glad of my oar in his rowlocks, and I helped him beat Cambridge without training an hour myself, except so far as rowing hard went.'
"And the Marquis of Rockingham, made thirsty by the recollection, dipped his fair moustaches into a foaming seltzer.
"'Quite right, Seraph!' said Cecil. 'When a man comes up to the weights, looking like a homonunculus after he's been getting every atom of flesh off him like a jockey, he ought to be struck out for the stakes, to my mind.'"
The obvious inference from this is that if we want to avoid looking like "homonunculi" we must acquire dukes as fathers, and get fattened on venison and champagne.
There are no smokes in training.
In the practice of almost every crew there comes a period, generally about half way through training, when they begin to show the effects of hard work by a certain lassitude and loss of vigour. This, in fact, is not genuine staleness, but is the half-way house to perfect condition. An experienced coach can always detect the signs of it amongst his men. Their tempers will be short, they will begin to mope about the room, and their general manner will betray languor and listlessness, instead of that brisk cheerfulness that one has a right to expect. Their appetite will decrease, and at meals they will dally with their food instead of consuming it with a hearty zest. If a coach is blind to these signs, and pursues, in spite of them, the scheme of work and diet which he may have laid down at the first, he will probably bring to the post a crew as stale and lifeless as London shrimps. If, however, he grants certain indulgences to those who are most affected; if he lets them lie in bed of a morning, adds a basinof soup to their lunch or dinner, gives them extra liquor, or champagne in place of their ordinary liquor, and eases the work of the crew all round, he will probably find that within three days they will be perfectly brisk and fit again. I remember the case of an Oxford crew which showed the worst symptoms of staleness on a Friday. Saturday to Monday they spent in Brighton, and returned so reinvigorated, that on the following Wednesday they were able in the race to row Cambridge down at Chiswick and win by a length. For extreme cases of what I call genuine staleness, I do not think there is any remedy except complete rest for a period more or less prolonged. I have seen instances of this at Henley amongst University oarsmen, who had had practically no rest since the previous October.
Not the least important point in the management of a crew lies in the preservation of strict discipline. While they are in the boat and engaged in rowing, no man, except the captain or the cox, should speak a word, unless he is appealed to by the coach. A wise captain, too, when hehas a coach in whom he trusts, will content himself with saying very little indeed. To be constantly cursing his crew, or to be shouting directions to them from the boat, not only irritates the other men, but increases all the difficulties of a coach. To "answer back" a coach is a capital offence, which ought to lead to immediate removal from the crew. I can only remember one instance of it in all my experience, and that was promptly followed by a humble apology. Silence, prompt obedience, absolute subordination of the individual self to the collective good of the crew, a quick and hearty willingness in endeavouring to carry out orders or instructions, a cheerful temper when things are going awry, and a constant keenness whether in rowing or paddling—these are model qualities which will go far to make a man a valuable oar. Nothing has so bad an effect upon a crew as the display of moroseness or sullenness on the part of one of its members. If that member should chance to be the captain, the baneful effects are increased tenfold. There are times of inattention and slackness when a coach does well to be angry, and to bring his men sharply back to a knowledge of their duty.
I cannot deal with this subject at any length, for good coaching is a matter of temperament, sympathy, tact, and intelligence—qualities that cannot be taught. The man who has these necessary qualities, and adds to them a wide experience of rowing, can never go very far wrong in coaching a crew. If a man can once establish between himself and his crew that subtle bond which comes of their conviction that their welfare and success are his chiefest desire, and that everything he says is absolutely right, the rest will be comparatively easy. A few simple hints may, however, be given.
(1) Never nag at your crew, or at an individual. Point out his fault; explain to him as clearly as you can how he ought to correct it, and then leave him alone for a bit. Never weary your men with an incessant stream of talk. Periods of complete silence on your part are very valuable, to you and to the crew.
(2) If you see signs of improvement in a man whom you have been correcting, never fail to tell him so. A little encouragement of this kind has more effect than heavy loads of objurgation.
(3) Rebuke any carelessness very sharply, but always keep strong measures, such as taking a crew back to the start, for really serious emergencies.
(4) Show no partiality, and make as little difference as you can between man and man. It is useful to begin by coaching old hands with some severity. New hands are encouraged by feeling that even a Blue or a Grand Challenge winner is liable to error, and that a coach is not afraid to tackle these eminent men.
(5) Make a gallant effort never to lose your temper with an individual, though loss of temper with a crew as a whole need not always be avoided. When things go wrong in a crew, impress upon each and every man that he is individually responsible for the defects. Every man is probably doing something wrong, and in any case a determined and united attempt to row better can do no harm.
(6) Never tell your men that they are rowing "well," or " better," when these statements are contrary to the truth. The men in the boat can generally feel what is happening as well as you can see it from the bank or the launch, and they are apt to lose confidence in a man who talks smooth things when everything is rough.
(7) Never confuse a man by telling him more than one thing at a time while he is rowing. When the crew has easied you can lecture him and them more at length.
(8) Remember Dr. Warre's rule, that general exhortations, such as "Time," "Beginning," "Smite," "Keep it long," and the like, are to be given at the right moment, not used as mere parrot cries.
(9) Vary the tone of your voice as much as possible.
(10) Vary, if possible, the expressions you use in pointing out and correcting faults.
(11) Always insist on your crew putting on their wraps when they easy after rowing hard.
(12) Never allow men during summer training to stand, sit, or lie about in the full blaze of the sun.
(13) Teach by example as well as by precept. The coach should be able to take his seat in a gig pair, and to show his men practically the style he wishes them to row in, and how their faults may be corrected.
(14) Always remember, while paying attention to the form of individuals, that your main object is to secure uniformity in the crew. Never fail, therefore, to correct faults of time instantly.
On this tremendous day, towards which all their efforts for weeks past have been directed, the coach will find that all his crew are suffering from that peculiar nervousness to which rowing men have given the name of "the needle." It is a complaint against which no length of experience can harden a man, and the veteran of a hundred races will feel it as acutely as the boy who is engaged in his first struggle. A sort of forced cheerfulness pervades the air. Men make irrelevant remarks about their oars, their stretchers, or the notorious incapacity of their rivals, while they are reading the newspapers or discussing the politics of the day. Even a coach is seized with the universal affection,however gallantly he may strive against it, and endeavour to entertain the crew with all his best stories of triumphant victories, of defeats averted by brilliant spurts, or of the last sayings of some well-known aquatic humourist. Old oars drop in, and for a few moments divert the conversation, only to flow back with it into the one absorbing topic that occupies all men's minds. The feeling goes on increasing until at last, oh joy! the time comes for getting into the boat. With his faithful oar in his hand, and his feet fixed to the stretcher, a man regains his confidence, and when the word is given he will find that the only effect that the needle has had upon him has been to brace his energies to their highest pitch. The duty of a coach on such an occasion is clear. He must try to keep his men cheerful, and prevent them from brooding over the race that is to come. Visits from old oars should be encouraged, for it is often a relief and an amusement to a youngster to find that some solid oar of the past is even more agitated than he is himself. One thing must not be omitted, and that is the preliminary spin, which should take place about two hours before the race, and should consist oftwo sharp starts of ten strokes each and one hard row of a minute. This has an invaluable effect in clearing the wind. I have always felt, when I have rowed more than one race in a day, and I think my experience will be confirmed by most other oarsmen, that I have been able to row better, harder, and with less distress, in the second race than in the first. An hour and a half before the race a man will be all the better for a biscuit and a hot cup of strong meat soup, with perhaps a dash of brandy to flavour it, but this must depend upon the hour at which the race is rowed, for if you have lunched at one and have to race at half-past three you will want nothing between times to stay your stomach. The early morning sprint should be taken as usual.
HENLEY REGATTA, 1897.(New Collegev.Leander.Won by New College by 2ft.)
"I shall say, 'Are you ready?' once; if I receive no answer, I shall say, 'Go!'" It is the voice of the umpire addressing us from the steam-launch in which he will follow the race. He must be a man dead to all feeling, incapable of sympathy, for he actually turns to one of his fellow-passengers and makes a jesting remark,while our hearts are palpitating and our minds are strung up to face the stern actualities of the race. The other crew look very big and strong, and fit and determined. We shall have to row our hardest, and we all know it. "Get the top of your shorts properly tucked in," says our captain, "so as not to catch your thumbs; and mind, all of you, eyes in the boat, and when cox shouts for ten strokes let her have it. Come forward all."
"Touch her gently, bow" (it is the cox who speaks, and his voice sounds thin and far away and dream-like). "One more. That'll do. Easy, bow. Now we're straight."
"Are you ready?" from the umpire. Great heaven! will he never say——"Go!" he shouts. There is a swish, a leap, a strain, a rattle of oars, a sense of something moving very swiftly alongside, a turmoil of water, a confused roar from the bank: we are off!
We started splendidly. For half a minute I am a mere machine; thoughts, feelings, energies—all are concentrated into one desire to work my hardest and to keep in time. Then my mind clears, and I become conscious once more of myself and my surroundings. Have we gained?Imuststeal a look. By Jupiter, they're leaving us! "Eyes in the boat, four," screams the cox; "you're late!" Be hanged to cox! he's got eyes like a lynx. Yes; there's no doubt of it—I can see, without looking out of the boat, out of the corner of my eye. They're gaining still. Now their stroke is level with me; now he has disappeared, and for a few strokes I am conscious of a little demon cox bobbing and screeching alongside of me. Then he, too, draws away, and their rudder is all I can see. At last that also vanishes, and a sense of desolation descends on us. Nearly two minutes must have gone; I know that by the landmarks we have passed. Surely we ought to spurt. What can stroke be up to? Is he going to let us be beaten without an effort. Ugh! what a shower-bath that was. It's six splashing, as usual. Well, if we're beaten, we must just grin and bear it. We shall have to congratulate the other ruffians. Hateful! Somebody must get beaten. But we're not beaten yet, hang it all! Three minutes. What's this? Cox is shouting. "Now, ten hard strokes together; swing out, and use your legs!" He counts them out for us at the top of his voice.Grand! We're simply flying. That's something like it. And I'm not a bit done yet. We're none of us done. The boat's going like smoke. "Nine!" yells the cox. "Ten! Now, don't slack off, but keep her going. You're gaining, you're gaining! On to it, all of you." He is purple in the face, and foaming at the mouth. Glorious! Their rudder comes back to me; I see their cox. Wearecatching them. Now for it! A few strokes more and the boats are running dead level, and so they continue for half a minute. Stroke has now, however, taken the measure of his foes. We are steadying down and swinging longer, and I am conscious that the other crew are rowing a faster stroke. It is now our turn to leave them. Foot by foot we creep past them; their bows come level with me, and then slowly recede. I can see the back of their bowman. His zephyr has come out from his shorts; the back of his neck is very pale. There can't be more than two minutes left now, and I'm still fit, and my wind is all right. We are winning; I'm sure of it. No; they're spurting again, and, by Jove! they're gaining! Spurt, stroke, spurt! We mustn't get beaten on the post. But stroke, thatwary old warrior, knows what he is about. Unmistakable signs prove to him that this effort is the last desperate rally of his enemies. He sees their boat lurch; their time is becoming erratic; two of them are rolling about in evident distress. His own crew he has well in hand; we are rowing as one man, and he feels that he has only to give a sign, and our restrained eagerness will blaze forth and carry us gloriously past the post. Let us wait, he seems to say, a very few seconds more, until the opposing spurt fades out to its inevitable end; so he rows on imperturbably. But isn't he running it too fine? Not he. He gives a quick word to cox, rattles his hands away, and swings as if he meant to strike his face against the kelson of the boat. "Pick her up all!" screams the cox. "Now then!" comes in a muffled gasp from the captain. We feel that our moment has come, and, with a unanimous impulse, we take up the spurt and spin the ship along. In a flash we leap ahead; we leave the other crew as if it was standing still. We are a length ahead; now we are clear; half a length of open water divides us from them. To all intents and purposes the race is over. The crowd grows thicker; the shoutsfrom the bank become a deafening din. Enthusiasts scream futile encouragements to pursuer and pursued, and in another moment the flag is down, the cox cries, "Easy all!" and with triumph in our hearts we realize that we have won. The captain turns round to us—he is rowing No. 7—his face glowing with pleasure. "Well rowed indeed, you men!" he pants. "You all did thundering well! And as for you, stroke——" but words fail him, and all he can do is to clap his delighted stroke on the back. Then, having duly exchanged the customary "Well rowed!" and its accompanying rattle of oars in rowlocks with our gallant enemy, we paddle home to the raft, where our exultant coach and our perspiring partisans receive us with hand-shakings and embraces and fervently epitomized stories of the struggle. "I knew you had got 'em all the way!" says the coach. "Did you hear me shout when you got to the half-way point?" "Hear you shout?" we reply in a chorus of joyful assent. "Of course we did. That's why we spurted." Of course, we had heard nothing; but at this moment we almost think we did hear him plainly, and in any case we are not going to be so churlishas to detract from anybody's joy over our victory.
And so the struggle is ended, and we have won. Pleasant though it is to know that training is over, there is not one of us who does not feel a sense of sorrow as he realizes that these days of toil and hardship and self-restraint, of glorious health and vigorous effort are past. All the little worries under which we chafed, the discipline that at times was irksome, the thirst, the fatigue, the exhaustion, the recurrent disappointments—all these become part of a delightful memory. Never again, it may be, shall these eight men strike the sounding furrows together. The victory that has crowned us with honour has at the same time broken up our companionship of labour and endurance; but its splendid memory, and the friendships it knit together—these remain with us, and are a part of our lives henceforth wherever we may be.
Let me turn now to lighter matters, for there are lighter matters connected with rowing. And first let me insist on the necessity of having a butt in a crew. It appears strange at first sight that thesystem of training—that is to say, of diet, of early hours, of healthy exercise, and of perfect regularity in all things, which has so admirable an effect upon the condition of the body, should sometimes impair the powers of the mind, and absolutely shatter the temper. I have seen eight healthy, happy, even-tempered young men go into training together for three weeks. They were all the best of friends. Tom had known Dick at school, and both had been inseparable from Harry ever since they had gone up to the University. With these three the other five were closely linked by a common pursuit and by common interests. Each one of them was a man of whom his friends could say, he was the easiest man to get on with you could possibly meet. Yet mark what happened. At the end of three weeks every man in that crew was the proud possessor of seven detested foes. They ate their food in morose silence; they took no delight in the labour of the oar, and each one confided to his outside friends his lamentable opinions about the seven other members of the crew. Even now, though years have passed away, no one who rowed in that crew can look back without horror on those three terrible weeks. Why was this so? Thesimple answer is this, that the crew in question did not number among its members a butt. I doubt if the importance of a butt in modern boat-racing has been properly recognized. Speaking from an experience of many years, I should affirm unhesitatingly, if I did not remember what I have written in previous chapters, that in an ordinary crew, composed, as ordinary crews are, of men and not of angels, the position of butt is a far more important and responsible one than that of stroke or No. 7. If you can find a good, stout, willing butt—a butt who lends himself to nicknames, and has a temper as even as a billiard-table and as long as a tailor's bill—secure him at once and make him the nucleus of your crew. There may be difficulties, of course, if he should happen to be a heavy weight without a notion of oarsmanship, but these defects can easily be mitigated by good coaching, and in any case they cannot be allowed to count against the supreme merit of keeping the rest of the crew in good temper. Salient characteristics are apt to be a rock of offence to a training crew. To be a silent thinker does not give rise to happiness in the seven who watch you think. It is an even deadlier thing to be an eloquent gabbleror a dreary drawler. There is nothing an ordinary rowing man detests so much as windy eloquence, unless it be perhaps the miserable indolence which is known as slackness. The butt must therefore be neither silent, nor slack, nor a drawler. Nature will probably have saved him from being a thinker or an orator. He must be simply good-natured without affectation, and ready to allow tempers made stormy by rowing and training to break upon his broad back without flinching. Your true butt is always spoken of as "old" So-and-so, and, as a rule, he is a man of much sharper wits, with a far keener insight into character, than most of those who buffet or tease him. Among eminent butts may be named Mr.——, but on second thoughts I refrain.
It seems a mere platitude to say that a man who can occupy his spare moments in writing or reading is likely to be happier and more even-tempered than one who is never seen with a book or a pen in his hand. Yet it is a platitude of which not many oarsmen realize the force; and, indeed, it is not an uncommon sight to see most of the members of acrew sitting about listlessly in armchairs or talking the stale futilities of rowing shop when they might with more solid advantage be engaged, let us say, in following Mr. Stanley Weyman's or Dr. Conan Doyle's latest hero through the mazes of his exciting adventures. At Oxford or Cambridge, of course, a man has his lectures to attend, his fixed tale of work to get through. But at Putney or at Henley this is not so. There a man is thrown back on his own resources, a companionship which he does not always seem to find particularly cheerful or attractive. A billiard table, of course, is a valuable adjunct to training quarters, but this is scarcely ever found at Henley, and not always at Putney. Besides, most of us, after a short time, cease to take any pleasure whatever in a game in which we are not qualified to shine. The joy of reading the sporting reporter's account of your doings, and of proving conclusively that he knows nothing about rowing, lasts but a short time every morning. I may, therefore, offer the oarsman a piece of advice which is, sound, in spite of its copybook flavour, and that is, that he shall cultivate a habit of reading, and, if possible, of reading good literature. Many moralists might recommend this habit on thecommon ground that good literature tends to improve the tone of a man's mind; and even a coach who is not a moralist will find it useful in distracting the thoughts of his men. Besides, it is quite pleasant in after life to recognize a well-worn quotation in a newspaper article, and to remember, probably with complete inaccuracy, where it originated. A little attention to writing and spelling might also prove valuable. Oarsmen who had devoted themselves, say for ten minutes a day, to these simple tasks, would have been saved from perpetrating the following correspondence, which I quoteverbatim et literatimfrom letters in my possession:—
"Dear——"It has been reported to me that you broke training last night you were seen smoking not only a few wiffs but a whole pipe I have therefore decided to turn you out of the boat."Yours, etc."
"Dear——
"It has been reported to me that you broke training last night you were seen smoking not only a few wiffs but a whole pipe I have therefore decided to turn you out of the boat.
"Yours, etc."
Answer to the above—
"Dear——"I am in reciet of your letter it is true that I smoked two whifs (not "wiffs" as you say)out of another man's pipe but that's all however I don't want to row in your beastly boat."Yours, etc."
"Dear——
"I am in reciet of your letter it is true that I smoked two whifs (not "wiffs" as you say)out of another man's pipe but that's all however I don't want to row in your beastly boat.
"Yours, etc."
I may add here some axioms which have been printed before,[11]but which I may venture to repeat in a treatise on rowing. The years that have passed since they were first set down have not weakened my conviction that they are accurate. I still believe myself justified in stating—
(1) That if two crews row a course within ten minutes of one another, the wind is always more violent and the stream more powerful against the crew in which you yourself happen to be rowing.
(2) That it is always right to take off at least five seconds from the time shown on your stop-watch in timing your own crew, and to add them, by way of compensation, to the time shown on the same watch when timing a rival crew.
(3) That your own crew is absolutely the only one which ever rows the full course right out or starts at the proper place.
(4) That if your crew is impeded while rowinga course you must allow ten seconds; but if any other crew is impeded you must allow only two seconds.
(5) That if you row a slow course, No. 5's stretcher gave way, or his slide came off.
(6) That you could always knock a quarter of a minute off when you row a faster stroke, but that—
(7) You never do, as a matter of fact, row a faster stroke.
(8) That your crew always rowed a slower stroke than the rest.
(9) That you are sure to do a faster time to-morrow.
(10) That your private opinion is, that if everybody in the crew did as much work as you do yourself your crew would be many lengths faster, and—
(11) (and last) That you always lose by the steering of your coxswain three lengths, which all other crews gain by the steering of theirs.
[11]In "In Cambridge Courts."
[11]In "In Cambridge Courts."
A good coxswainless four-oared crew represents skill and watermanship, as distinguished from mere brute strength, in their highest development. I may lay it down as an axiom that any man who can row well in a coxswainless Four will row equally well in an eight-oared crew. The converse of this is, however, by no means true. A man may do good work in an Eight, and yet be incapable of doing himself justice in a Four, or, indeed, of helping the pace of the boat in any way. Rowing of a more refined order is requisite for a Four. Greater power of balance is needed, and a more perfect sense of that rhythm which goes far to secure uniformity in rowing. You may have in your Eight a clumsy heavy-weight, who at No. 5 can use his strength to wonderful advantage, in spite of various aberrations fromcorrect form. But if you put this man at No. 3 in a Four, the results are sure to be disastrous. An easier style of movement is required for a Four. A strenuous application of all the body-weight at the beginning of the stroke is still, no doubt, necessary. The beginning must, of course, be gripped, and that firmly; but the best four-oared rowing I have seen always gave me the impression that a sort of "oiling" method of progression, in which steady leg-pressure plays a prominent part, was best suited to a Four which is not encumbered with the weight of a coxswain. Over and over again have Eights been defeated at Henley for the Grand Challenge Cup, and yet Fours, selected from their members, have been able to beat all comers in the Stewards'. From 1868 to 1878 the London Rowing Club won the Grand five times. In the same period of eleven years their Four was only once defeated for the Stewards', proving, if any proof were needed, that an inferior Eight (I use the term merely relatively) may contain a first-class victorious Four. On the other hand, from 1891 to 1897, a period during which Leander won the Grand five times, they were able to win the Stewards' only once,and that was this year, when their Eight was defeated. Instances of this kind might be multiplied.
But besides skill in oarsmanship, another element, which adds greatly both to the difficulties and pleasures of a Four, has to be considered. This is the necessity that one of the oarsmen should not only row, but also guide the course of the boat by steering with his foot. It is evident that watermanship of a very high order is needed for this feat. The steerer must know the course and all its points perfectly. The ordinary oar often finds it difficult to keep time when his eyes are glued on the back of the men in front of him, but the steerer in a Four has to keep time and regularity, even though he may be forced to look round in order to ascertain the true direction of his boat. An oarsman in an Eight has both his feet firmly fixed; a steerer of a Four must keep one foot constantly ready for movement. And all this he has to do without making the boat roll, or upsetting the harmony of his crew. These difficulties, no doubt, are great; but when once they have been overcome, and the crew has shaken absolutely together, there can be few pleasures inthe world of exercise comparable to that of rowing in a Four.
During a long period the London Rowing Club had almost a monopoly of good Fours. Their crews showed a degree of watermanship which in those days University oarsmen despaired of attaining to. Gulston, Stout, A. de L. Long, Trower, and S. Le B. Smith were not only names to conjure with, but showed in their rowing that perfection of apparently simple ease which lies at the root of success in four-oared rowing. Who that ever witnessed it can forget the sight, once well-known at Henley, of Mr. F. S. Gulston as he rowed and steered his Four to victory? As a recent Cambridge versifier said of him—
"They can't recall, but ah, I can,How hard and strong you looked, sir;Twelve stone, and every ounce a man,Unbeatable, uncooked, sir.Our French friends, had they seen your rudeVast strength had cried, 'Ah quel beauRameur, celui qui arque le coude'—That is, protrudes his elbow."Your ship could run like Charley's Aunt,And you, demure as Penley,Knew all the wiles that might enchantThe river nymphs at Henley.No piles had yet marked out the wayForbidding men to try onThe tricks that found round every bayThe short cuts to the 'Lion.'"Each inch of bay you knew by heart,You knew the slackest water;All foes who faced you at the start,You beat, and beat with slaughter.To 'form' a stranger, yet your styleThe kind that much endures was.I never saw—forgive the smile—A rounder back than yours was."But round or straight, when all dismayedYour rivals lagged in trouble,Still with a firm, unfaltering bladeYou drove the swirling bubble.With you to speed the hours alongNo day was ere spent dully,Our stalwart, cheerful, matchless, strong,Our undefeated Gully."
"They can't recall, but ah, I can,How hard and strong you looked, sir;Twelve stone, and every ounce a man,Unbeatable, uncooked, sir.Our French friends, had they seen your rudeVast strength had cried, 'Ah quel beauRameur, celui qui arque le coude'—That is, protrudes his elbow.
"Your ship could run like Charley's Aunt,And you, demure as Penley,Knew all the wiles that might enchantThe river nymphs at Henley.No piles had yet marked out the wayForbidding men to try onThe tricks that found round every bayThe short cuts to the 'Lion.'
"Each inch of bay you knew by heart,You knew the slackest water;All foes who faced you at the start,You beat, and beat with slaughter.To 'form' a stranger, yet your styleThe kind that much endures was.I never saw—forgive the smile—A rounder back than yours was.
"But round or straight, when all dismayedYour rivals lagged in trouble,Still with a firm, unfaltering bladeYou drove the swirling bubble.With you to speed the hours alongNo day was ere spent dully,Our stalwart, cheerful, matchless, strong,Our undefeated Gully."
As a matter of record it may be stated that Mr. Gulston won five Grand Challenge Cup medals and ten Stewards' Cup medals, Mr. A. de L. Long five Grand Challenge Cup medals and eight Stewards' Cup medals, and Mr. S. Le B. Smith four Grand Challenge Cup medals, and seven Stewards' Cup medals. No oarsman of the present day can boast of anything like such a record in these two events.
The art of four-oared rowing, then, was brought to perfection by the crews of the London Rowing Club many years ago; but there is no danger that it will be forgotten by oarsmen of the present day. Indeed, the rowing of the Leander Four that won the Stewards' Cup this year was about as good as four-oared rowing can be. They were absolutely together, they rowed with most perfect ease, and in the race they beat record time by seven seconds, and might have beaten it by still more, had they not easied a length or two from the finish. Their weights were as follows:—
Bow.C. W. N. Graham10st.2lbs.2.J. A. Ford12st.1lb.3.H. Willis11st.12lbs.Guy Nickalls (stroke, and steers)12st.7lbs.
From the above remarks it will be gathered that the great points to be insisted upon in four-oared rowing are uniformity, and again uniformity, and always uniformity. A coach should insist, if possible even more strenuously than he insists in an Eight, on bodies and slides moving with a faultless precision and perfectly together. Let him devote his energies to getting the finish and recovery locked up all through the crew, and lethim see to it that the movements of their bodies shall be slow and balanced on the forward swing, and strong and not jerky on the back swing. More it would be difficult to add.
When a Four is practising for a four-oared race alone—that is to say, when its members are not rowing in an eight-oared crew as well, their course of work should be similar to that laid down for an Eight. But when, as often happens at Henley, a Four is made up out of the members of an eight-oared crew, it will always be found better to allow its members to do the bulk of their work in the Eight, and to confine themselves in the Four principally to long and easy paddling, varied by short, sharp bursts of rowing. It may be necessary for such a Four to go over the full course once at top speed, but that ought to be enough. Their work in the Eight should get them into condition; all that they really need in the Four is to be able to row perfectly together. The Brasenose Four that won the Stewards' in 1890 had never rowed over the full course before the day of the race. Their longest piece of rowing, as distinguished from paddling, had been a burst of three minutes. Their men acquired fitness by working in the Eight, andproved their condition by the two desperate races they rowed.
As to steering, it used to be said that anybody might steer in a Four except stroke, but Mr. Guy Nickalls has proved that a stroke can steer as well as row. He has won four Stewards' Cup medals, has stroked and steered in every race, and his boat has always been kept on a faultless course.
In the case of the ordinary oar, however, the old saying, I think, holds good. Bow naturally is the best place to steer from, not only because in turning his head he can obtain a clear view of the course, but also because he has a considerable advantage in leverage, and ought to be able to control the direction of his boat merely by relaxing or increasing the power applied to his oar. The best part of the stroke for looking round is, I consider, towards the finish. A turn of the head, accompanied by an outward movement of the outside elbow to suit the slightly altered position of the body, while keeping pressure on the oar, is all that is necessary. Yet I have seen Mr. Guy Nickalls look round in the middle of his forward swing without apparently disturbing the equilibrium of the boat. In any case, the best thing a steerer cando is to learn his course by heart, so that he may be able to steer for the most part without looking round at all, judging the direction she is taking by her stern and by well-known objects on the bank as he passes them. Personally I prefer, and I think most men prefer, to steer with the outside foot. The captain of a Four should always look carefully to his steering-gear to see that the wires and strings are taut, and that they move properly and without jamming over the wheels. I have seen more than one race lost by accidents to the steering-gear that might have been avoided by a little preliminary attention.
This, too, is a very pleasant form of rowing, both with a view to racing and merely for casual amusement. The main elements for success are similar to those laid down in the case of Fours. In pair-oared rowing, however, there is one important point which distinguishes it from all other forms of rowing. It is absolutely essential that the two men composing a Pair should not row "jealous,"i.e.neither of them must attempt to row the other round in order to prove his own superior strengthand ability. Such a course of action not only makes progress circuitous and slow, but also ends by entirely destroying the tempers of both oarsmen. In a Pair, even more than in a Four, the bow oar has a considerable advantage in leverage, whence it comes that a lighter and less powerful man can often row bow in a Pair with a strong and heavy stroke. The most surprising instance of this occurred in the Oxford University Pairs of 1891, which were won by the late Mr. H. B. Cotton, rowing bow at 9 st. 12 lbs., to the stroke of Mr. Vivian Nickalls, who weighed close on 13 st. An instance to the contrary was afforded by the winners of the Goblets at Henley in 1878. These were Mr. T. C. Edwards-Moss, bow, 12 st. 3 lbs., and Mr. W. A. Ellison, stroke, 10 st. 13 lbs. The Goblets at Henley have been won six times by Mr. Guy Nickalls, and five times by his brother Vivian.
There has been, during the past year, a movement in favour of using swivel rowlocks, not only in sculling-boats, but also in Pairs, Fours, and Eights, though the majority of English oarsmen, even when inclined to use them in Pairs and Fours, settheir faces against them for Eights. The advocates of swivels contend that by their use the hands are eased on the recovery, and the jar that takes place when the oar turns on a fixed rowlock is absolutely abolished. These advantages seem to me to be exaggerated, for, though I have carefully watched for it, I have never seen an Eight or a Four retarded in her place for even a fraction of a second by the supposed jar due to the turning of the oar on the feather in fixed rowlocks. On the other hand, I am convinced that for an ordinary eight-oared crew the fixed rowlock is best, and for the following reasons:—
The combined rattle of the oars as they turn constitutes a most valuable rallying-point. The ears are brought into action as well as the eyes. This advantage is lost with swivels. In modern sculling-boats a man must use swivels, for the reach of the sculler extends to a point which he could not reach with fixed rowlocks, as his sculls would lock before he got there. As he moves forward he is constantly opening up, his arms extending on either side of his body; but in rowing, one arm swings across the body, and unless you are going to screw the body round towards therigger, and thus sacrifice all strength of beginning, you cannot fairly reach beyond a certain point, which is just as easily and comfortably attained with fixed rowlocks as with swivels. Moreover—and here is the great advantage—you have in the thole-pin of a fixed rowlock an absolutely immovable surface, and the point of application of your power is always the same throughout the stroke. With a swivel this is not so, for the back of the swivel, against which your oar rests, is constantly moving. To put it in other words, it is far easier with a fixed rowlock to get a square, firm, clean grip of the beginning, and for the same reason it is easier to bring your oar square and clean out at the end of the stroke. A really good waterman can, of course, adapt himself to swivels, as he can to almost anything else in a boat, but his task will not be rendered any easier by them. For average oars, and even for most good oars, the difficulties of rowing properly will be largely increased, without any compensating advantage, so far as I am able to judge. In the case of novices, I am convinced that it would be quite disastrous to attempt to make them row with swivel rowlocks.
(In this boat Leander won the Stewards' Cup, 1897.)