Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!

Wow, so the last two weeks in Oxford have been bitterly cold. The average low temperature in in the last few weeks has been hovering around -4. By last Friday there was so much ice on the river that all rowing was cancelled. It’s probably not that dangerous but thick ice has been known to sheer the side of a boat and no one wants to capsize in water this cold. Saturday afternoon I had an erg workout and then headed to the local park to watch the South Africans and Australians play pick-up rugby as a few fledgling flecks of snow began to fall from the sky. It was too cold to pass up an opportunity for hot chocolate and by the time we came out of the café, a thin blanket of snow covered the ground. It was positively idyllic. You could literally taste the crispness in the air and the sound of it crunching under our sneakers was nearly musical. By Sunday morning the crisp blanket of white had turned to mushy brown slush that caused bike crashes and splattered all over everyone’s clothes. At least it was finally an excuse to break out the rubber boots. By Monday the river was open again and we were back to freezing cold outings. But Thursday night brought  a fresh blanket of slow to replace that which had long since melted. As I left dinner at Rhodes House it was falling fast in large fluffy flakes. That piles up quickly. I eagerly checked the rowing website to see if the Isis would be closed the next morning, but alas it was open, so I had to pass up 11PM invitations for snowball fights and snowman building to be a responsible athlete and get some sleep. I made up for it a bit this morning by ambushing the rest of the rowing team with a handful of snowballs. When we got to the river we stashed a few in the footwells of the boat and assaulted our coach the first time we pulled up to the bank.

Now let me share with you what it is like to row when the river banks are covered in snow and the temperature is well below zero. Imagine getting to the boathouse at 6:45AM when it is still dark. You drop the boat into the water, strip out of your heavy winter jackets, slip into the boat and push noiselessly away from the dock. The eight-woman crew cycles through four person warm-ups, alternating between bursts of activity and shivering cold. Half-way into the outing the dim edges of the night begin to receded slowly and sunlight spills over the horizon. The beauty is lost on you because you are concentrating intensely on the person in front of you, timing the end of your strokes, matching hand heights and synching your recovery. As the light becomes stronger you see your breath coming in short, rhythmic bursts of white. A glance at your oar reveals that the water trickling down the length of the loom has frozen in long, lazy drips and three-inch icicles hang off the rigger. As the workout progresses you move into race rates and sweat begins to trickle down your back. An hour before you were layered up like an onion and now you are down to a base shirt. The view of the seat in front of you becomes a bit hazier as clouds of steam begin billowing off your body. And then, just when your fingers finally begin to share in the warmth, the outing is over. And it’s cold again. And now you’re wet. You clamber out of the boat and slide it out of the water. Before you have a chance to wipe down the hull, the water turns to ice and shards fall to the floor or down your back as you lift it overhead and slide it into the rack. Shivering, you throw your jacket back on and begin the 15 minute trek back to college, fantasizing about a hot breakfast and wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. The morning is both frigid and steamy, wet and icy, enjoyable and excruciating. Both rowing and winter here seem to be a love-hate relationship.