Looking for the Big Five

We got up with the sun to go Kodak hunting. It reminded me of a story about how it doesn't matter if you are a lion or an antelope; when the sun comes up you better be running. Well we were. Armed with a wide range of cameras and driving everything from Lyle's white BMW to Dean's rugged 4x4 we set off to see the big game. The morning started with a little intrigue- we came up on a pile of cars and learned that they had just seen two leopards run across the road and then heard them calling out. Dean says that leopards only make noise when they mate so we figured they must have gotten a room, so to speak. We moved on to give them the appropriate privacy.

It seemed like ages before we saw anything else but just as I was thinking about taking a nap we came around a bend and found a pack of wild dogs loitering in the road. There were at least fifteen of them and none showed the slightest inclination to move as four cars inched towards them. Apparently wild dogs are really rare- there are only 300 or so in the 6 million acres of Kruger. So we sat there for about twenty minutes observing. They must have had a kill recently because one of them had the head of a young impala in its mouth. The imagine of one head sticking out of another head is probably my favorite picture from Kruger. Talk about the Circle of Life.  Meanwhile, the other dogs alternated between napping and hipping at his heels and tail to try to take the skull. The contrast between extreme agression and perfectly docile behavior was pretty extreme but their antics were quite entertaining.

As the morning progressed we saw zebras trotting down the road, elephants mowing down bushes, water buffalo wallowing the in the mud, rhinos hiding in the trees and a hippo ambling along the riverbed. It certainly wasn't the type of safari I had imagined- cruising around in a Chevy Spark (hybrid) with the flip-flop sporting Galen at the wheel rather than a seasoned black guide with a rifle in a rack behind his head in a Land Rover 4X4, but the animal sightings exceeded expectations.

We came back to the house for brunch and made scrambled eggs, bacon (proper bacon rather than fried English ham) and breakfast potatoes. We ate on the back porch as we watched crocodiles sun themselves on the sandbar in the distance and dodged leaves and twigs dislodged by monkeys scampering around in the trees above our heads. It was pretty unreal. The rest of the afternoon was spent lounging on the porch. As the heat from the sun began to wane I crossed the street to go into the Skukuza camp for a couple laps running around the perimeter. As soon as I slipped in the gate I was intercepted by a huge warthog. He looked a lot like Puma but didn’t seem nearly as affable so I backed away slowly and went about my business. Fortunately that was the only animal sighting on my run. The evening game was pretty quiet. We saw a herd of elephants bathing in the river and some mongooses popping in and out of the grass like a game of whack-a-mole. Dinner was conducted outside again under a blanket of the brightest stars I have ever seen. We made a thick stew in a very magical looking cauldron and Alice, our resident Australian, gave us a little tutorial on the constellations in the Southern Hemisphere. 

Legacy

Every two years a group of Rhodes scholars get together and organize a trip to South Africa over the spring holiday. It's a chance to recharge in the sunlight after a long, dreary winter in Oxford, but more importantly, it is an opportunity to learn more about the region where Cecil Rhodes made his wealth and think about the problems imperialism left in its wake. This year we had about a dozen scholars signed up to go and an action-packed two week itinerary.

We flew into Johannesburg airport and immediately piled into a minibus for the six hour drive to Kruger National Park, a six million acre game reserve where we would be spending our first four days. I'm a big fan of car trips. It's probably a survival adaptation I developed as a child when my parents piled us into a hideous purple Econoline van every summer for multiple-day treks from St. Paul to San Diego or St. Paul to Hilton Head. One year when they were feeling particularly bold, we drove coast to coast from South Carolina to California. I've never been able to play I-spy since. Team van rides up and down the California coast are also some of my favorite memories from water polo, particularly an all night drive from San Jose during the 2003 wild fires, but that is a separate story. Anyway, our ride across the grasslands of South Africa didn't disappoint. It was a great way to get to know everyone a bit better and our conversations ranged from the pedagogical weaknesses of Oxford to gardening and foreign service careers. 

We arrived at Kruger just before they locked the gates for the evening. Large sections of the park are fenced off to keep the rhinos from wandering into local towns and to keep tourists to trying to sneak in to steal a peek at the lions during the night. During the days cars can drive all over the paved roads but you aren't allowed out of your car unless you are in one of the gated campsites.  Apparently one too many Kodac-happy visitor got munched by a lion. 

Our timing couldn't have been better. The day was finally cooling down and the sun was beginning to set. Almost immediately we spied zebras hiding in the bushes. Then another mile on there was an elephant casually ambling along the side of the road like a hitchhiker looking for a ride. Unfortunately, we didn't have room. We saw a rhinoceros and baby rhino grazing in a creek bred and then practically hit three bison as the sauntered across the road. I guess they don't take J-walking very seriously in Kruger. 

It is incredible to be surrounded by so much open space. I forget how cloying Oxford is. Here there is bush as far as the eye can see and the sun set in an explosion of burnt orange splashes against a backdrop of lonely trees flecking the horizon.

We stayed at the house of one of the South African's friends, who is the doctor at Skukuza, the largest camp in Kruger. It had a sprawling backyard with a massive deck and fire pit that opened up onto a river. It was too late to see anything when we arrived but Lyle assured us that it is usually teeming with hippos and crocs. After everyone settled in we had a braai (South African style BBQ- I can't really say how it is unique except that they use link sausages curled up in tight spirals). Grilled meat was an amazing change after all the roasts in England. We all went to bed with high hopes for the adventures that lay in store for us. 

The Boat Race

Admittedly the Oxford Cambridge Boat Race is not the world’s most exciting sporting event. There are no high impact collisions, acrobatic catches or bloody brawls. No. For 17 minutes, sixteen men rhythmically pull their oars through the water with a grace and fluidity that looks effortless to the untrained observer. But what the fans don’t see is their pulses are hammering at an insane rate and every stroke harnesses every fiber or their strength. This single race is the culmination of seven months of the most grueling and arduous training imaginable. Long hours on the rowing machine that sets muscles on fire, sprint ergs that left them puking in their lap, and frigid pre-dawn outings on an icy river. It’s the kind of sport that tests spirit as much as strength. And the Oxford and Cambridge are obsessed with it. For 158 years these universities have pitted their eight best rowers against each other and in recent years over a quarter of a million people swarm the banks of the Thames while millions more sit glued to their TV sets. And this year’s race was one for the ages.

After a crushing win last year and impressive performances at earlier regattas, Oxford was the heavy favorite, although the Cambridge boat outweighed them by almost twenty pounds to the man. The race started off according to expectations, with Oxford maintaining a narrow lead in the early minutes of the race. Myself and about ten friends watched on a jumbo screen in a riverside park and crowded along the riverbank as the boats surged past. Moments after everyone settled into our seats to watch the last seven minutes of the race, something unprecedented happened. A swimmer emerged directly in line with the Oxford blades, which were churning through the water at close to 40 strokes a minute. The coxes frantically called for both crews to stop and the swimmer dived under water to avoid being decapitated by the blades. It quickly became evident that the swimmer was a protester who had disrupted the race deliberately. Meanwhile, the race referee determined that the raced would need to be re-started from the half waypoint of the river. Both crews turned around and paddled back the way they had come, followed by an armada of power boats carrying police, referees, medics, coaches and the like. By the time the race was ready to resume 30-minutes had elapsed. I can only imagine what the rowers must have felt, soaking wet on a freezing cold day, lactic acid surging through their blood stream and thoughts whirring as they tried to refocus and prepare for a 7 minute race, a sprint piece dissimilar to what they had been training for.

The race restarted with Oxford pulling ahead in seconds and they took an aggressive line to force the Cambridge crew into the rough water. Suddenly the ref was welling at Oxford to move away and before the coxes could correct the inside oars from both boats clanked together. The blade of an Oxford oar snapped and went flying. The race was over before it had even really re-started. Down a rower, Oxford would have no chance of challenging Cambridge for victory. The race commentators suggested that Oxford should stop rowing and register a “did not finish” rather than a loss but the Oxford rowers would have none of it and continued on valiantly. Cambridge pulled steadily away and cruised across the finish line as Oxford limped along behind. Moments after crossing the line they sat gasping for air and reeling at the sudden turn of events. Suddenly the Oxford bowman collapsed and when his teammates were unable to revive him he was moved to a medical boat and treated for exhaustion. To push himself so hard in a loosing battle was a tremendous display of determination that can only be done justice by Teddy Roosevelt’s famous Man in the Arena quote:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. 

Once the oarsman was revived, all attention turned to the protester. Allegedly he was protesting elitism, which he, an LSE graduate who lives in a 350,000GBP flat, claims is epitomized by Oxford and Cambridge. Words cannot do credit to the injustice he wrought on the Boat Race, but Will Zeng, and American Rhodes scholar on the Oxford squad said it best:

When I missed your head with my blade I knew only that you were a swimmer, and if you say you are a protester then, no matter what you say your cause may be, your action speaks too loudly for me to hear you. I know, with immediate emotion, exactly what you were protesting. You were protesting the right of seventeen young men and one woman to compete fairly and honorably, to demonstrate their hard work and desire in a proud tradition. You were protesting their right to devote years of their lives, their friendships, and their souls to the fair pursuit of the joys and the hardships of sport. You, who would make a mockery of their dedication and their courage, are a mockery of a man.

In the aftermath both boat clubs exhibited a level of sportsmanship that is rarely exuded in modern athletics. The Cambridge boat refrained from any raucous displays of celebration and the presentation of awards was cancelled out of respect for the hospitalized oarsman. Please take a minute to read some of the statements. It is a terrible shame that in a world where physical talent is so exalted, such integrity is undervalued.

The Oxford cox, Zoe de Toledo:

Firstly, I’d like to say how proud I am of the eight true gentlemen who I had the pleasure to cox in The Boat Race yesterday. Seeing how the guys attacked the Race in the last 5 minutes was simultaneously one of the worst, but also one of the proudest moments of my life.

Ultimately it is just a tragedy that neither crew had the opportunity to display its best ability over the full course from Putney to Mortlake. We are devastated that we did not get the chance to find out what we were capable of achieving in the second half of the Race, and many of us will never have that opportunity again. It is our sincerest hope that every future Boat Race crew, from both Oxford and Cambridge, is afforded the chance to fairly test themselves over the full 4 and a quarter miles that make The Boat Race such a unique event.

We are all extremely proud of The Boat Race as an event and a tradition, and accept that bizarre events like those that occurred yesterday do happen. That’s sport. Whilst I believe I will remember yesterday’s remarkable events for all the wrong reasons, I would not trade the friendships I have built with my crewmates for anything. Yesterday I truly learnt what it was to be part of a team. A team that rallies around you and shelters you from the storm when you are at your lowest. Lastly I want to finish by saying how proud I am of my teammates in the Isis crew, who not only set the record for the Reserve Boat Race, but also recorded the third fastest time in the history of the Race.

Dr. Alex Woods, the rower who was hospitalized for exhaustion:

Thank you all for your kind wishes, it really means a lot. I'm sorry for worrying anyone with a slow reply. I've only recently been discharged under supervision and have access to my phone. I am ok, the doctors at Charing Cross believe that I just ended up with too much lactate in my blood, and my body just shut down in response. I should be back to normal in a few days. 

I'm very proud of Zoe De Toledo Roel Haen Dan HarveyHanno Wienhausen Karl Hudspith Alex Davidson Kevin Baum Will Zeng, it has been an honour to call you my crew mates.

I don't remember anything of the end of the race, and am obviously devastated at the way things turned out, but congratulations to CUBC for their win. I'm sorry my collapse prevented your celebrations, and thank you for thinking of me at the time. Such sportsman-like behaviour is a credit to yourselves and Cambridge.

Torpids

I’ve fallen behind on my posts again so this one is longer than usual. An update on the varsity water polo match against Cambridge will follow soon but right now it’s all about the epic Torpids Regatta!! This is the annual winter bumps race between all the Oxford college boat clubs and it's a saga full of ejector crabs, thundering cannons, combative hobos and violent collisions. 

So bear with me a bit as we take a historic detour to provide a bit of context. The section of the Themes River where Oxford is situated is called the Isis. It follows a narrow, twisting course through the outlying fields and isn’t wide enough for head-to-head boat races, as the Oxford rowers discovered in 1815 when they, for reasons that evade my understanding, decided to put eight men in a cramped boat and see who could go fastest. As if polo and cricket weren’t sufficiently absurd. So they invented something called bumps racing and Cambridge followed suit ten years later. Two hundred years later Oxbridge are still doing it although almost no one else in the world has seen fit to follow suit.

View of bumps racing from St. John's boat house

The rules of bumps racing are convoluted and arcane, as only a true Englishman could devise, but hold onto your seats because I’m going to try to make it intelligible:

• The regattas are split into divisions of twelve boats. Boat positions on the first day of racing are based on the finishing order on the last day of the previous year’s regatta.
• Each day the divisions race in reverse order. A crew finishing at the top of a division race goes on to compete in the next-higher division later that day (starting last). This is called the sandwich boat and allows crews to move between divisions.
• For each race the boats line up end to end with about one and a half boat lengths in between. (See the map below- at the start the boats are lined up from "Bumps Start" to the Isis Tavern.) When the canon goes off everyone starts and the objective is to bump the boat ahead of you without getting bumped yourself.
• Once you bump, that is considered a victory and you pull over. The other boat has to keep racing. If they bump the boat ahead of them, they retain their ranking and the boat that bumped them leapfrogs forward two positions in the rankings. (As you can infer, it is difficult to move up more than four to five spots over the course of a single regatta so it takes crews years to work their way up through the divisions. However, boats can fall much more quickly. If they crash into the bank, break an oar, or catch a crab, they may be passed by every other boat in the division and hence can fall as many as twelve places in a single race.)
• The main objective is to finish the regatta at the top of the first division (this is called Head of the River) but this is only realistically possible for boats in the first five spots of Division I.
• For all the other boats, the objective is to bump the boat ahead of them on each of the four days. This is called winning “blades” because crews traditionally order a full sized wooden oar with the college crest and names of all the crew painted on the blade.
• Winning blades also requires a certain amount of luck because it is not uncommon for a race to be klaxoned (aborted) if there is a swan in the river, a major crash or a rower falls into the water.

Yes, those rules were admittedly boring. For comic relief, watch below to find out how a rower can end up in the water (pay attention to the rowers wearing black and blue at about the 10 second mark):

Okay, so on to the action. St. John’s Women’s First Boat had a very good showing last year and won blades in both Torpids and Summer Eights. We started Torpids this year as the fourth boat in Division II. The race course is about 1.5K and usually takes approximately 5 minutes from end to end depending on where you are in the start order:

Map of the Isis- Note the locations of the Bumps Start, Donnington (Donny) Bridge, the Gut and Boathouse Island

Wednesday began with the customary English rain and an inordinate amount of wind. But we put on our game faces, donned our ridiculous lycra racing onesies and paddled up to the start line. Nerves set in as the bank attendant used a pole to maneuver us into position. But then “BOOM!” the cannon was off and there was no time to think of anything besides the boat. Three short winds, seven strokes to lengthen. “Half a boat length!! You're gaining on them!” yelled the cox! “Backs in!” By then the strokes had reached their full length, and the blades were churning through the water at about 38 strokes a minute as we flew back and forth along the slide. We continued to surge forward for another handful of strokes and then a jolt rippled up the boat as we collided with Osler House. It took maybe 30 seconds. We didn't even make it to Donny Bridge. The race was over before it had even really begun, which was a bit of an anticlimactic beginning to my bumps racing career. But I LIKED the thrill of the chase and LOVED the sensation of a bump.

On Thursday we were chasing Queens. We catapulted off the line much as before but Queens was a lively crew. Three winds. Seven lengthens. Backs in! We were waiting for the call to settle so we could slow the rate from rate 38 to a steadier more sustainable 32-34. But it didn’t come. “You’re three-quarters of a length” yelled the cox. “Power ten!!” Everyone increased the intensity a notch and exploded off the foot plates using their legs to drive the boat forward. With every stroke we gained a foot. “…Power Nine, …Power Ten.” As we cruised into the Gut (winding section of the river) the count wound down and the cox called the settle.  But at that very moment the coach started shouting for us to push. “You’ve got canvas!!” (meaning the boats are overlapping.) The boat jolted from side to side as our cadence went off. Thud! We hit Queens just as our rhythm totally fell apart. Less than two minutes had elapsed and we had barely rowed a third of the course. 

See a video of the race below. We are the third boat around the bend (at 0:45), bump at 1:40. I sit fourth from the bow.

Friday we began in second place and were challenging Balliol for head of the division and the right to try to break into Division I. Our strategy was simple. Keep hurtling off the line and bumping early. But we had an extra incentive knowing that if we won we would need to turn around and race again almost immediately. Balliol was a strong crew who had just been nudged out of Division I and was looking for revenge. The race went much like Wednesday. We came off the line, closed the gap early and were nipping at Balliol’s heels heading into the Gut. As we pulled alongside Balliol was reluctant to concede. We rammed into them and pulled over, relieved that we had barely winded ourselves and would still be fresh for our attempt at Division I. Meanwhile Balliol, lost their heads for a moment. Suddenly their stroke seat caught a grab and her blade flew out of her hands and snapped against the side of the boat where it stuck stubbornly as the rower desperately tried to regain the handle. Their boat veered off course and lost power as crew after crew surged past them. It was a sobering reminder of how quickly a small mishap could send a boat plummeting down in the rankings.

The Balliol cox looks quite nervous

Another video of the race. This time we are the second boat around the bend (at 0:40), bump at approximately 1:40

After a quick paddle down the rest of the course, we spun, docked briefly and then headed back to the start line to try to earn a permanent spot in Division I. We were a bit over-eager and ended up at the start line with fifteen minutes to spare, only to have the race delayed when a drunk hobo on the river bank began swinging a stick at pedestrians and the police had to be summoned. I guess rowing attracts all manner of fans. Finally the five-minute gun sounded and the jocularity from our early bump subsided as we focused on the task ahead. Once again we rocketed off the line. It wasn’t pretty rowing, but it was powerful. The cox immediately called for a power ten and we quickly closed the gap, plowing into Exeter with enough force that our blue and white bow now has a splash of red paint to mark the occasion.

Three days, four bumps. Suddenly blades were in sight and the pressure was enormous. University, the boat ahead of us had a mixed week. They had bumped, been bumped and rowed over (raced the course without bumping or being bumped). Our coach gave a sober pep talk. We had done well thus far but this would be a tougher race. We should expect to row almost the entire 1.5K course and plan to slowly chip away over the course of several minutes. But it was not to be. In what was becoming our hallmark style, we came off the line hard and bumped within the first two minutes. University conceded quickly and set off to catch the boat ahead of them. The boat went nuts. Even I rose to the occasion and displayed the appropriate level of enthusiasm.  Once all the racers had passed, we collected ourselves and paddled down the river, pumping our fists as we cruised past the dozens of St. John’s students gathered on the roof of the boat house. (In five races we hadn’t ever rowed more than a third of the course, much less made it within sights of the hundreds of fans clustered on Boathouse Island.) As we pulled up to the dock we were showered in champagne and shared a toast before getting out of the boat. Then there was the ceremonial picture in front of the boat house with the blades in the background. We grabbed hold of the cox and threw him in the river. Then for good measure I tackled a few of the girls and dragged them in as well.  Did I mention that the river had ice on it a few weeks ago? Brr. But it was worth it, and now we will all have a beautiful 12-foot long blades hanging on our walls for the rest of our lives to commemorate the moment.

Example of St. John's 2011 Blade

ADDENDUM (Only for the truly nerdy)

See the yellow line on the right-hand column for a view of the Women's boat's climb up the rankings during Torpids 2012

The Women's boat's progress over Torpids during the last ten years. Yes, someone at Oxford bothers to keep track of these things.

The Fast and the Furious

It started out as a quiet morning on the river. We arrived at the boat house in the usual pre-dawn light and did our first track up and down the Isis. The boat wasn’t particularly sat and the focus could have been better, but it seemed like just another outing. And then suddenly the cox began shouting at other crew and we turned around to see a men’s eight boat bearing down on us. Within moments they were upon us and the rhythmic sounds of the river were pierced by the carbon-fiber hulls grinding against each other and the clank of eight oars suddenly interlocking in a tangle jumble of water and wood. Such was our introduction to the Magdalen College men’s second boat.

The Isis isn’t a particularly wide river, but there’s usually room for at least two crews to row abreast of each other. Most mornings a dozen or so boats circle it’s length in tidy little lanes. (They row on the right side of the river here, but drive on the left. No telling why.) We were headed down the left side of the river towards Boathouse Island and Magdalen was coming up the other. They must have been trying to pass another boat going in the same direction and as far as we can tell their cox simply neglected to check the oncoming traffic before swerving out into the other lane to pass. Our cox saw them surging towards us and hollered at them to stop but they all took another couple of strokes before they realized what was happening. Then it was too late. Neither boat was as race rates but they were moving at a pretty good clip through the water- even a gentle paddle is about 15km an hour and a fully loaded boat weighs close to a ton.  Their bow rammed into our stroke side mid-boat and scrapped alongside our hull for several meters. The oars went flying everywhere, protruding into the boats and the crews were trying to duck or catch the blades before they plowed into chests. The rower sitting in the bow position of the Magdalen boat was practically unseated by the impact and scurried forward to get out of the way. But he lost balance and ended up slipping and nearly fell back-side first into the river. He managed to catch onto an oar and use it to hold himself up, but I think he still ended up sitting a few inches into the water. Mind you, the temperature has been below freezing, and while the river hasn’t frozen over, everything that gets wet does. So he would have had a rude introduction to hypothermia. Not to mention the safety risks in a collision. Rowers have been paralyzed when the bow of a boat has plowed into their back so it was no laughing matter, despite what the Magdalen crew seemed to think.

Our immediate assessment showed that neither of the boats was damaged to the verge of capsizing but we wouldn’t know the extent of the damage until we pulled them out of the water. It took several minutes for all the limbs and oars to get untangled. After finally extricating ourselves we went on to finish the outing, but it quickly became clear that one of the riggers had been knocked out of alignment. When we finally met our coach at the boathouse to assess the damage he was furious. The hull was largely unharmed. We lost a bit of paint but I guess scars probably give a boat character. But the rigger was another story- it was now bent at entirely the wrong angle and would need to be heated and bent back into place or entirely replaced. The riggers are custom made for the boat and probably cost a couple hundred pounds. The boat is probably insured against for a crash that totals it but not for minor repairs.  We ended up fixing it but had to miss the outing next day. And now I think we all regard the other boats with a bit more apprehension. Apparently rowing is a contact sport after all. 

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.

…and we’re back!!

Sorry for being incommunicado for so long. It was a whirlwind winter break and I’ve been maintaining an absolutely frantic pace since getting back to Oxford on January 1^st. But my new year’s goal is to have at least two blog posts per week, possibly more as time and blog-worthy circumstances occur.

While we are on the subject, I should note that I use the world goal deliberately. A friend of mine had the idea to hold a new year’s goal setting party in the last week of December and I was really impressed with how much can be gained from serious critical reflection on our lives and deliberative though about the future. Resolutions are nice, but they are usually these fleeting desires to lose weight, stop smoking, swear less, laugh more, etc. Their whimsical and idealized nature makes them inherently transient. But goals are more concrete. Or at least they should be. SMART goals (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant and Timely) are tangible and action oriented. By the end of the night we all had a poster board reflecting our plans for personal, interpersonal, professional, athletic development, etc. I won’t bore you with all of mine. Admittedly, initially they were long on athletic and adventure aspirations.

Some of the key ones include:

Run the Athens Marathon in November

Climb Mt. Kilimanjaro

Travel to South Africa over Spring Break

Establish five sustainable professional contacts at Oxford

Skype with at least one US friend and family member a week

As for the blog, I have a backlog of interesting stories to relay so some things to look forward to include:

A recap of triathlon training camp in Portugal

A reflection on a highly engaging dinner with some fellow Rhodes scholars where we discussed the question, “Does science make belief in God obsolete?”

A postmortem analysis of a disappointing showing for Oxford water polo at the British University conference tournament

In the meantime, I need to get back to reading about security as “an essentially contested concept.”