To the lay man there is not a lot of difference between standing on a bridge getting cold and watching the boat race. There are so many similarities to these two pursuits that it is easy to confuse the two. You may even spend so long doing the one and getting so wet doing it that you forget the actual point of your afternoon on the Thames.
‘Have you had a good day?’ your wife might ask when you return home looking bedraggled.
‘It was OK,’ you might reply. ‘I stood on a bridge getting wet.’
‘I thought you’d gone to see the boat race?’
That might jog your memory.
‘Oh yes, I did see a flurry of boats go past. Too far away to make much out. But that only lasted twenty seconds. I’d waited in the misty rain for an hour and a half before then.’
A glimpse of the boat race from Hammersmith Bridge
Of course it’s a given that the trouble with outdoor events in the UK is the weather. For that you can can go prepared – even on the sunniest of days a true Englishman never leaves his house without a waterproof coat and a change of clothes. But with most sports what’s happening happens in front of you. Football teams have the decency to play on the pitch where you can see them. They don’t have a kick-around for a few minutes and then run off down the tunnel, heading towards a goal 4.2 miles away.
If tennis fans only got to see a minute or two of the game and had to wander away at the end with no idea who had actually won there’d be uproar. Yet that is the way it goes with the Boat Race.
It is the last great amateur sporting event, which anyone can see by pitching up at the Thames somewhere between Putney and Mortlake. You don’t need a ticket, you don’t a club blazer, but you do need good eyesight.
When I arrived at Putney I heard an old woman explaining the day to a friend. She concluded with the defeatist words ‘Wherever you stand you can see much more at home on the telly,’ as though she wished she hadn’t been persuaded to leave her warm sitting room. I thought that was missing the point. If I wasn’t English I might have butted in and told her It wasn’t the right attitude. You’d miss the atmosphere, the hordes of people, the fun.
By the end I could see her point. I had a great vantage point from Hammersmith Bridge. But a great vantage point needs something to vantage, otherwise it is just a point. I could watch the police clearing people off a beachy area where they were going to get a good view, but that wasn’t really why I’d gone. When the eights eventually arrived it was unfortunately a bit of a non-race as Oxford were already several lengths ahead. The rivalry hasn’t yet reached the level where supporters have to be segregated so there was some drunken shouting for both crews as the boats approached. The chants haven’t reached the hilarious heights of the best of the terrace songs. Cambridge! and Go on Oxford! were understandable and pleasantly supportive. Row, you bastards row! seemed a bit unfair. Then the two boats disappeared under the bridge and that was it. For the spectators at least. The crews had a bit more rowing to do.
‘Right, to the pub,’ shouted one young gent and set off towards Hammersmith. I followed, not in a stalking-have-a-drink-with-a-stranger type way but because it was the way home. To be honest the reserve race was more exciting than the main event. Even seeing Claire Balding dash under the bridge in a high speed boat was more exciting. Still as time goes by and my glasses get more rose-tinted it should appear more and more fun, until next time I’ll probably be there again. After all, the weather makes a big difference and in the age-old cry of anyone who has ever been to an English outdoor event: Maybe it will be sunny next year.
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