For me boating conjures up the image of middle class, middle age toffs, in espadrilles, white trousers (the ones that go see-through and show the world your massive 1970’s pube afro), and stripy blue and white t-shirts, drinking Pimms and Champagne whilst stuffing salmon sandwiches into their mouths before the seagulls, or poor people get a chance to steal them. A hobby for dickheads, I presumed until very recently. Hugh Grant probably boats. I can’t find any evidence of this on the internet, but when he’s not playing feeble, rich, emotionally challenged dullards in middle of the road rom-coms, I would wager he can found sailing the HMS Sad Twat on the Pan Peninsula whilst sniffing high quality cocaine of off gorgeous prostitutes’ vaginas, under clear blue, cloudless skies. If you have too much money, and too little imagination you had might as well purchase a boat, and dick about on the river once a month, with or without Divine Brown.
I have for a number of years shied away from any sort of sporting endeavour. I was a relatively good rugby player for a long time during my youth, and as I got older I was on the fringes of selection for my county team, was captain of my club side, whilst I also enjoyed several semi successful seasons playing for my schools 1st XV, despite the fact I wasn’t part of the schools sixth form,(and had no intention of being for that matter). Even to this day, beating the Italian U18 National Champions on a tour of Italy, is one of my proudest achievements – which probably indicates how little I’ve achieved in the 8 years since, but it still makes me smile when I think about what was quite a feat at the time. Sadly, (I’m not sure who for) I reached the age of 16 or 17, and found women, drugs, women, and some drum and bass. I also found partying, and I found that I was old enough to make my own choices. Strenuous, potentially dangerous exercise had to go. Instead I replaced it with strenuous, potentially dangerous partying. Simultaneously I developed a passion for doing nothing, lots and lots of doing nothing at all.
I have lifted weights sporadically for 4 – 5 month periods in my life; At several junctures during my teen years I decided that because I had a vest and a bald head, and access to a gym, I could actually be the next Vin Diesel. 8 years later, I have no girls throwing themselves at my oversized biceps (because they don’t exist), no movie deals, and in fact all I do have to show for it is an incredibly sore shoulder joint; a self inflicted injury, sustained as over zealous 17 year old, assuming big muscles and tight vests would equal “bare pussy bruv”. Massive weights as a weedy teenager = massive pain as a weedy grown up.
When my company entered a team in the Great London Boat race (a gruelling half day challenge course up the River Thames) I thought I would enter for a laugh. Having an alter ego like Mr Lean is hard work that takes maintenance (by maintenance I mean I have to get fucked up a lot, and spend a majority of the time acting like a twat) and so for obvious reasons for the most part I’ve tried to hide Mr Lean from my work colleagues. Unbelievably, (seriously, most people call me a liar when I tell them what I do) I have a job that is quite involved, and I have employee’s who I would rather respected me than knew the truth. Alas every so often I’ve failed in containing my inner party animal/wannabe comedian/general dickhead so I was sure in myself that I wouldn’t be selected. We were even asked to write a paragraph about why we should be selected. In my paragraph I lied outrageously, for comic effect if nothing else. According to my statement, I was more Linford Christie, that Michael Carroll. I’d “given up smoking, especially, in preparation for this prestigious event”, I was “desperate to represent the company”, and “I was experienced in such long distance boat races.” When I read it back to myself it was clear that these were lies. I even imagined a situation where I received a shitty email telling me to stop wasting everyone’s time being a dickhead. When I did receive an email it was to tell me that on the 17th September I would be rowing 21 miles, with a team of 8 fellow employees. I cried at my desk.
Today is the 20th September. My dodgy shoulder hangs limply by my side; like a lame dog’s busted, newly blistered leg drags painfully along the tarmac during a particularly long walk. I am still soaked to my bones. My fingers look like prunes that have been in the bath for too long and when I breathe it hurts. I was nearly drowned. I hit myself in the face with an oar. I have a bruise across my buttocks that is perfectly rectangular, and strangely black. Yet, if I could to the race again this afternoon, I would bite your hand off for the opportunity to do so. In my current condition I would probably need a new pair of arms, buttocks, face, bones, and fingers, but I would love to go again – I had so much fun, I’d probably try and do 30 miles.
That’s not to say that the race was easy at all. For once in my life I took something quite seriously and prepared well. I had 54 days to prepare for the race, and I spent 44 of those in the gym. Only when I had not slept, or partied particularly hard the night before could I not be found in Richmond Canons, rowing & running, and attempting to make myself look like Vin Diesel again. I’ve made my shoulder a lot worse in the mean time, but I would, much like the race itself do it all over again.
I was in a boat with a collection of individuals, who as people I really wasn’t particularly keen on (with the exception of one or two, who are actually friends at work. Honestly, I thought a good number of them were complete twats. However, as cheesy as it sounds I now feel a closeness to a group of people that I haven’t felt since the victory over the previously referenced rugby champions with long hair, and beautiful girlfriends. If it wasn’t for my experience on the Thames, I would still be avoiding most of these people, whispering “cock” under my breath every time I walked past them in the corridor, received an email for them or accepted their offer of a free beer after work. (I know that makes me a mean, cynical, hypocritical prick, but I like beer, and I like swearing at people, so it’s fine; I am comfortable with what I have become).
To say that these people now feel like surrogate brothers and sisters would be a step too far, but I have a massive respect for them all. There are 8 people in the building with droopy broken dog leg arms like mine, shrivelled prune fingers, and bruised buttocks in our office today. 8 others, who could have drowned, but worked as hard as physically possible to ensure that none of us did. We did not capsize, and die, because we were, for 3 hours and 1 minute, working for each other, and not just for ourselves. Very dramatic yes; I appreciate I am hardly William Wallace, leading a small band of Scottish Warriors into war against a gargantuan English army, but we were a team, and it was a strange long forgotten feeling, to see a group of people around me, and to put their needs on a parallel with my own.
Finishing the race was an amazing feeling. People who talk about “high on life” are generally self righteous, annoying Christian types. Unashamedly for about 3 hours after the race I was one of them. A massive sense of achievement, pride, and happiness stayed with me until I slept that night, and even into the next day. I spoke to a close friend on the phone and I talked and talked and talked, probably just telling her how brilliant it was, over and over. Even now, when someone asks me how it was, I can’t help but tell them it was brilliant. Even if I wanted to lie, and say it was shit, to keep up my ultra-cynical Mr Lean persona, I couldn’t. I simply had too much fun to say other wise.
It turned out, after I had prejudged, and actually misjudged a lot of my team, and that some of them were just like me (albeit not so cool/stupid). I was fuming, but secretly jealous, and slightly amused to find out two of my team hadn’t slept the night before the race, because they were eating hero sized portions of MDMA, and gurning on people all over West London, ironically whilst I was showing more restraint than I ever had, in not doing exactly the same; gurning on people in Tonbridge. At breakfast, other team members drank pints, and smoked excessively, and once in the boat I was ecstatic to learn we had a quantity of whiskey, and cans of Stella. Just for once though, it wasn’t alcohol, or drugs, or hi-jinks and acting like a twat that made the day what it was. It was for the first time in a number of years, a sense of belonging.
I appreciate that all this happiness in one post is now bordering on plain gay, but I really wanted to write something for my blog that was positive and uplifting (after my friends girlfriend said that my blog was “brilliant but depressing”) and I hope I have achieved that. I do hope however that this doesn’t read like a love letter to the river gods and my team members.
Soon, the pain will pass, my skin will revert to normal, and the bruise on my cheeks will fade. So will the feeling of kinship with my new team members, and I can go back to calling them pricks and spreading rumours that they have AIDs. Until then though, I will tell anyone I come across what an awesome day I had. I recommend it to anyone, regardless of fitness level, and I am seeking some volunteers to go again with me next year. Be warned though, if you stay up all night doing Class A drugs, whilst I fight the urge, I will fuck you up.
Big thanks to the organisers, my team members, and our experienced helm Danny, who was on hire from the Docklands River Centre. More information can on the event, including the standings and finishing times for the race can be found here: http://www.greatriverrace.co.uk/
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