The Club's Results

As the marshall shouted “Attention, Go!” the sky declared personal war on the Cam, turning the Cambridge Riviera into a freezing, blind obstacle course. Against all odds, we miraculously rounded every corner and only caught a few minor crabs—a feat that felt more like witchcraft than steering. We clocked a lightning-fast 11:50 time even though our hands, slick with rain and rife with blisters, could barely hang onto the oars. The moment we crossed that line, our brains quit on our bodies and every muscle cramped down to Katie’s pinky toe. The mental victory was instant, but the physical reality was a crew of shivering, defeated lumps—fast, but useless nonetheless. If it wasn’t for Neil’s steady commands, we would still be drifting in Valkyrie out to the North Sea.

The physical surrender was immediate, but the rescue mission was already underway. Our only motivation to power through the row-back was the promise that Zara and Dido were waiting with a life-saving stash of sweets. With that glorious reward in sight, our angelic cox, Joel, tossed the power calls aside and belted out a full repertoire of Christmas carols and God Save the King. This beautiful absurdity and audible laughs from other boat clubs gave us the drive to finish the job. Final result: Second. We didn't lose the race, we just got severely out-flanked by a meteorological assault. Savage.