Christ Church Regatta

St. John's Novice A's (I am third from the left)

This past weekend Oxford hosted Christ Church Regatta, the annual inter-college novice rowing competition that tests the metal of over 100 boats from approximately twenty different boat clubs. Like all good teams, St. John’s held a pre-race dinner. In keeping with the latest research in sports nutrition we opted for protein-loading as opposed to carbo-loading, or maybe it was mere coincidence that it was salmon night at formal. hall. Then of course we had to watch an inspirational film- I would have voted for Miracle, Remember the Titans or the classically hilarious Cool Runnings, but this is England, so we watched Oxford Blues. The acting and screenplay were truly awful and the film villainizes American rowers at Oxford in the boat club revolt of 1987 and makes the English chaps look like a bunch of pansies. Despite the prevalence of incredibly corny dialogue there were a couple of infinitely quotable lines, most notably: “Make them feel like they came in third” (Obviously there are only two boats in the Oxford-Cambridge boat race so the worst you can finish is second).

Roused by this display of rowing process we cruised through two races on Thursday to advance out of the second round. Seeding is totally skewed so a lot of teams had byes through the second round and then A-boats were paired with pitifully mismatched B-boats in the third round. St. John’s had to fight our way through the regatta. Our first match up was a close race against Balliol, a strong boat club who kept with us until the last couple hundred yards when their energy petered out and we pulled safely away. The second race was against the Trinity B-boat. They caught a crab early in the race and veered so far off course I wondered whether they were heading straight to the dock rather than finishing the race. Friday we raced immediately after the St. John’s B-boat but fortunately we had done the Carol penance the week before and it was their turn to race in a bathtub. Despite Joan’s reliable performance, our race against Linacre was sloppy from the outset- the boat was unsat, the timing was off, people’s blades weren’t catching. Then the four seat caught a crab just as we rounded Boathouse Island. She couldn’t recover her oar so we came to a complete stop and went through the start sequence from the beginning. In the meantime, Linacre had gone ahead by two boat lengths. After the restart we settled into a beautiful rhythm and really put power down. We caught up to within a few meters but ultimately came up short. As we paddled back to the boathouse, it was one of the most oppressive silences I had ever experienced. There is nothing worse than being the source of your own defeat. We were a really powerful team and we cost ourselves the victory. Interestingly, a number of people in other crews, including Wadham, the boat that went on to win, expressed relief that we had been knocked out. Apparently the scouting reports indicated that we were a force to be reckoned with.

It is a tradition after the boat races for the college clubs to go out for a formal dinner, usually curry. In our case we went to a swanky establishment named Jamal’s where the table still bore the sullied table-cloth of the previous guests, diners bring their own beverages and it costs 13GBP for a paltry lump of rice and a few cubes of curried chicken. But at least the guests were classier than the water polo curry. The rules of pennying were clearly explained and strictly enforced (although apparently it is legal to throw a penny at someone’s glass if you are more than a meter away so in addition to being dunked incessantly, Queen Elizabeth was repeatedly hurled across the room and guests were frequently dodging projectiles). Most notably, the sconcing stuck to the theme of rowing- those who had caught a crab, overslept for a morning outing, switched seats, etc. In the course of the evening, a number of my teammates became quite inebriated and great hilarity ensued. Melissa took to song writing and penned the charming little ditty “Who should have one Christ Church? St. John’s! St. John’s!” which she got the whole boat to chant as we walked back to college. Hey, if Justin Bieber can make a career out of crooning “Baby, Baby, Baby” repeatedly, I think two lines may be enough for us to release a hit single. Then our cox got into the spirit and decided that our stroll was insufficiently organized. Soon he had us skipping down St. Giles street in stroke and bow-side pairs arranged in order, while he shouted out commands- “Bow four you are speeding up…Let’s get the timing back!... Power ten, ready, Go! Focus on the finish! Drive with the legs!” It may have been an demoralizing end to our novice rowing season but I don’t think even the winningest teams had a more jovial celebration.

An Apt Description of the English Grading System

Thanksgiving in Oxford

A few years ago a group of American Rhodies decided to host their own Thanksgiving feast here in Oxford. What started as twenty students has now grown to over a hundred, and not just Americans but scholars from all over the world who gather to share in our celebration. Many of us were at the rowing regatta all afternoon but a group got together and made turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, etc. It perfectly captured the taste of Thanksgiving, although I must admit that I missed the long hours in the kitchen chopping lettuce and onions, peeling the potatoes and mixing the gravy. And while, I love that Thanksgiving is a day that focuses on family, it was wonderful to spend the evening with the Rhodes family. It reminds me how much I have to be thankful for and how easy it is to take my blessings for granted. Of course there are the usual family, health, subsistence needs, etc to be thankful for. But despite the fact that I often struggle to come up with interesting blog posts, every day here in Oxford is a unique privilege. I spent all morning writing a paper on research methods that will be reviewed by some of the leading thinkers in the field of International Relations, I spent all afternoon in a huge boathouse built just for the couple dozen St. John’s students who chose to row each year and I spent the evening in the great hall at Rhodes house listening to a talk from the highest ranking female officer in the US Air Force and chatting with friends, whom I met through one of the world’s most sought after scholarships. So while I may lament the daily vexations of the British banking system, an excessive reading load and the exorbitant prices in Oxford, I could hardly be more blessed.

And while we are on the subject of Rhodes House, I should note that the new class of American Rhodes scholars was announced this week. It’s a good chance to emphasize the exceptional company I keep, the humbling experience of being surrounded by people who are more intelligent and more accomplished, and a source of hope for the future. I’m inspired by reading about a group of young leaders who are tackling the world’s toughest problems and making a discernable difference in issues as diverse as water security, cancer and human trafficking. It’s a call for all of us to think about the unique talents that we can leverage and the areas where we can make a difference in our corner of the world.

Winner Bios: http://www.rhodesscholar.org/winners/

Oxford Water Polo Hits the Road

Modesty is an incredibly important attribute, but seeing as my last post was pretty explicit about my shortcomings as a rower, today I am going to take the liberty of tooting my own horn. For purposes of full disclosure, I should note that I have since been demoted from stroke to seat 6. Allegedly it’s the “engine room” of the boat, but I think the coaches finally figured out that I have zero sense of rhythm.

Sunday night the water polo team had our first away game. It was in the Midlands, which, shockingly enough is in the middle of England and just getting there was a comedy of errors with rain, winding roads, multiple laps around every roundabout we encountered and a driver who wasn’t getting along well with the gear shifter and couldn’t find the lights for the first 20 minutes. Loughborough is known throughout the UK as a “sporty” school, an uncommon distinction. They also have one of the nicest aquatic facilities in the UK and a rare 50M (Olympic distance) pool. And despite a hydraulic pool floor and moveable bulkhead, they had no shot clocks, no scoreboard, and no game clock.

The game had an inauspicious beginning. We lost the sprint start, then a girl immediately got beat on a drive to the goal. As a perfectly placed overpass landed on the water right in front of her, I thought “to steal or not to steal” but the thought alone implied it was too late- she drove to the 2 meter park and then hammered the ball under my right arm. Ten seconds off the clock and we were already down. Oxford lost to Longborough 10-1 last year and I thought, “this is going to be a very long game- thank God I can’t see a scoreboard.” Fortunately, the duration of the first quarter was actually rather uneventful. Even though we couldn’t seem to pass the ball, Loughborough didn’t manage to convert on their shots. At the break, I swapped with the other goalie, but there was some confusion about whether I would play field. I didn’t jump in until after the ref blew the whistle to start the quarter and he decided that was an illegal entry and gave the other team a 5M penalty- I need to double check the rule book but I’m pretty sure that is nonsensical. Irregardless we were down 2-0. Incredibly embarrassed, I drove constantly on the next few possessions- at one point I beat my defender on the transition, got a wet pass from the deep wing, swam up to the goal, spun to get my defender out of the way and beat the goalie strong side low. Every other pass to a drive for the rest of the quarter resulted in a turnover, but at least we were on the board.

I went back into goal for the third quarter for a little active rest. Almost immediately the defense was out of position. I gave up another goal off an overhead pass to a driver. But really, there is no excuse for getting beat strong side low. Annoyed with the overpasses I resolved to come out on every possible steal. The next possession was a pass into the set player but sure enough, I went for it. There was a tussle for the ball and TWEET, the ref called another 5M penalty. She was outside 2M so it should have been a foul, maybe an ejection, but it’s not everyday you see a goalie rough up the 2M player and this ref’s policy seemed to be- when in doubt, call a penalty. Over eighty percent of penalty shots go strong side low because it is the spot the shooter is least likely to miss. As a result, goalies are taught to lunge out and sweep low to high. But this girl lobbed it right over my head as I jumped forward. Unorthodox approach, but mortifying none the less. The Loughborough student body went nuts. Raucous cheering reverberated off the walls of the indoor auditorium, taunting me. Now I was seriously piqued  The next possession we got beat on yet another drive but when the shot went cross-cage, I swatted it away. The ball landed on the far post and another girl fired off a shot. Blocked again. Loughborough recovered the ball yet again and passed it across the cage for a hasty shot and a smooth pull-down block from me. This time I managed to hold onto the ball rather than hoping the defenders would recover it. Our bench finally had an excuse to go nuts. The momentum back in our favor, we converted on a lob shot to end the quarter down 4-2. Our confidence increased going into the 4^th quarter and I went back in the field. We earned a penalty shot of our own off a drive (maybe the ref was feeling guilty for some dubious calls). The coach let me take it. True to the averages, I fired it cross-cage low. Worked like a charm. We capitalized on a drive for another goal to even it up. In the final minutes of the game I posted up at 2M and the wing passed it in even with three defenders swarming. I managed to get a hand on the ball and fire off a backhand before the defenders got a hold of my arm. Just before the defenders dragged me under water, I watched it sail over the goalies shoulder. We all lost track of the score in the midst of all the excitement of the second half and when we went to the scorer’s table at the end of the game we were shocked to learn that we won 5-4. Loughborough is one of the best teams in the league so this bodes well for our record and was an important confidence boost for a very young team. 

Most abusive sport of the week- Rowing: 1, Water Polo: 1

Triumph and Disaster on the Isis

Unidentified Men's Novice boat on the Isis

Today was one of Triumph and Disaster, and trying to live up to Rudyard Kipling’s adage to “treat those two imposters just the same.” It was the novice rowers' prelude regatta, Nephthys (named because the Oxford section of the River Thames is called the Isis and Nephthys is Isis’s sister in Egyptian mythology), which is something of a warm-up for next week’s annual Christ Church regatta, where all the colleges’ novice boats will complete to be king of the river. Most of the St. John's Women's A's had never seen a rowing race, much less competed in one so there was quite a bit of tension as we walked down to the boathouse. Two of our regular rowers were out of town so we would be borrowing girls from other boats throughout the day as availability permitted. We arrived just in time to see the Men’s Novice B’s and the Women’s Novice B’s win their races. By the time we stepped out onto the dock, all three of St. John’s boats had won so the pressure was on. Our start was a bit, shall we say, erratic. This was largely my fault, as I sit in the stroke position and it is my job to set the tempo for the rest of the boat. For the first twenty strokes we only made it to half slide, which is probably because I sped everything up in response to the uneven momentum radiating up the boat. But eventually we settled down and over the course of a 400M course, we beat New College C’s by several boat lengths without ever really using our full power. The second race against Wolfson B’s was considerably smoother and won in equally decisive fashion. One of the girls caught a crab (the oar gets caught in the water and goes flying out of your hands) in the home stretch but she managed to regain control of it and we didn’t sacrifice too much of our lead. Somehow I managed to get two enormous blisters under my calluses- how that happens in the span of three minutes is beyond me but in the afterglow of victory it seemed like a trivial concern.

We advanced to the quarterfinals to go head to head with the Merton A boat. Not only were the stakes higher, but a fellow American Rhodie sits stoke for Merton so there was some added pride on the line there. Unfortunately, the St. John’s Novice B’s had the race immediately before us and since we normally share a boat, the A’s had to improvise. At first this didn’t seem like such a big problem, but then we met Carol. All of the boats are named for the donors (or wives of donors) and Joyce, our trusty vessel of choice, is a sleek carbon composite shell- she’s not the racing boat used by our senior team but she is a reliable ride and we have gotten to know her quite well. Carol is more like a bathtub, a bathtub that hadn’t seen action in many months, and for good reason. She weights about twice as much as Joyce and I’m fairly certain the frame is lead posing as wood. As we heaved her into the water I think we all sensed that rowing her was going to be like pulling a barge up the river, but as soon as we settled in we realized that wasn’t the half of it. The runners jabbed into my legs and the seat was fitted for someone much shorter. I reached down to adjust the footplates but the screws wouldn’t budge. I was a few inches short of full leg extension but there wasn’t much I could do so I slid my bum a few inches further back on the seat and hoped for the best. Then I realized that the Velcro on the shoes didn’t stick well and the gate that holds the oar in place didn’t lock properly. And as soon as the cox stepped on board it became clear that we were several inches deeper in the water than usual- that means less clearance when you pull the oars out of the water, and since even Joyce is usually tilted so far to my side that I have trouble clearing the water, I knew that was going to be a problem. All of the rowers have to take a swim test in order to participate but obviously the vessels we use don’t get an annual check to make sure they are seaworthy (or Isis-worthy, as the case would be.) But with no other alternative we shoved off from the dock and slowly made our way to the start line, making jokes at Carol’s expense to lighten the mood.

As we neared the start line, the speakers that transmit the cox’s voice down a boat over fifty feet long kept cutting out. Soon they essentially stopped working all together. No one would be able to hear Ian count off the starting strokes, call for more power or ask for a higher rate. Not that we could measure the rate either, because, of course, the sensor that registers the stroke cadence was broken too. Everything that could go wrong with a boat was and I was increasingly worried about how low we were in the water so I turned around and told Melissa and Gaelle, the two rowers behind me, that, if my oar got stuck in the water, they should keep on rowing as best they could. Just as we lined up for the start someone realized that Harriet, one of our borrowed rowers, didn’t know the stroke sequence for the start so the coach hastily shouted instructions from the bank. God help us. And the gun went off.

“Draw 1. Draw 2. Draw 3. Wind 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.” We hit maximum rate within the first eight strokes and began to lengthen the pulls for race cadence. Carol bounced around quite a bit and the my oar was rattling loose in the gate but we were neck and neck with Merton as we rounded Boathouse Island. Just as we pulled within view of the spectators I felt my blade slip in the gate and the momentum of the boat wrenched the oar violently through the water. I managed to keep hold of the handle as it whizzed past my head and lay on my back working furiously to clear it from the water and bring it back into position. Meanwhile the girls behind me struggled to maintain speed and Merton quickly overtook us. Finally the oar was back in position and I tried to get back into sync with the other rowers. After a series of choppy strokes we settled into a rhythm and the cox began calling for power. Merton practically had a full boat length lead and we had already eaten up half the course. One of the guy rowers told me afterward, “Your face was priceless! You looked straight at the Merton boat, glared at them as if to say ‘F#ck this!’ and then opened up the throttle.” We drove with the legs and lengthened out our stroke, maximizing our power for the first time all day. “Catch! Finish! Catch! Finish!” We soared through the water and quickly began eating into Merton’s lead. By the home stretch we had not only pulled even, we were leading by a few meters. Then déjà vu. My oar slipped in the gate a second time and I was once again on my back struggling to bring my oar down past my head and into position again. We righted the boat more quickly this time but Merton had pulled ahead again and there were only meters to go. We hit full power and sailed across the finish line neck and neck. Viewers on the bank had mixed reports but most agreed it was too close to call. The race marshal sided with Merton.

I was furious! To catch a crab and then take the lead in such spectacular fashion only to be stymied by Carol’s low sit once again. And yet it was still my fault. I slammed my oar handle against the hull and positively shook with rage. In the moments while we waited to spin and paddle back to the boathouse, the adrenaline began to subside and my hands began to sting. I looked down to see that what had been blisters a few minutes before were now flaps of skin hanging loosely over raw flesh. I bit back a moan. The 200M paddle back seemed like the longest of my life. It felt like a fitting penance at the time. When we got back to the dock most of my teammates were in good spirits. No one faulted me, except me. My two crabs aside, it had been an excellent show of strength and everyone decided to blame Carol for the mishaps. “What could we do,” said Gaelle, as we hoisted her back onto a rack in the boathouse. “She’s fat. She’s a fat b!tch!” Laughing felt good and I suggested that we scuttle her- just drill a hole in the hull to save any other crew from similar mishap and misery. But that was a project for another day. For now we are going to focus on dominating at the Christ Church Regatta next week. We have a chip on our shoulder and with Joyce as our trusty steed Merton better watch out. 

Novice Water Polo

Sunday night was the first match for Oxford’s club water polo team. About half of the 13 girls who suited up for the game are novices and although I am an eight-year veteran of the sport, it was a series of firsts for me as well. Normally the pre-game talk is for reviewing the scouting report and reminders about special plays. I have never reviewed the rules in the moments before a game. But there we were, discussing what a shot clock is, where to go on a penalty and how offsides works. The game was four 7-minute quarters of running time with 30-second shot clocks (that is a new one on me). The coach called for an offense with six drivers and no center/2M player, which is a set-up that I have never heard of. But no one seemed to be going to any particular position anyway, so I suppose it didn’t really matter. Some of the novices kept trying to catch the ball with two hands and earned everyone a trip back to the defense for their troubles. We were transitioning down the pool without looking for the ball, getting caught behind on defense, turning the ball over every other possession and committing all sorts of classic mistakes that would have driven Coach Burgess or Coach Klatt to cardiac arrest.

And yet, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the pluck and tenacity of the new girls. This may have been the most jumbled game I have ever seen, but it was also the first time I have ever witnessed a team with as many novices as veterans prepare to compete in under six weeks. Most of these girls have no aquatic experience and learned to eggbeater, swim head’s up free style, throw a ball, guard a drive and set up a man-up offense in less time than it takes for a course to proctor midterms. We still have a long way to go before we can even come close to the level of junior varsity high school teams in California but I am eager to see the team improve.

And in the meantime, it is a relief to see that we are at least on par with one other team in England, in fact we are better, as the match was a 7-1 rout. Our performance may have been a comedy of errors, but our opponents were more baffled than we were. They couldn’t seem to execute on their drives, got turned around constantly on defense and by the fourth quarter they were completely gassed. I played the first half in goal and each of the four shots on goal was a relatively easy pull-down block. The coach put me in field during the second half, with the warning “Try not to kill anyone” (I can’t imagine why she thought she needed to say that). Ok, well I did turn the ball over once when the ref called me for pushing off but seeing as I stole the ball in the first place and stole it back again a few minutes later, I think it all worked out in the wash. Quite frankly, if the level of play persists, it may be a lot more entertaining to play field but I guess it all depends on where the team needs me. We have another five matches in the two and a half weeks before term ends so it will be interesting to see how it works out.  

Remembrance Sunday

Church bells have been ringing with even greater regularity than usual this today and I can hear the echo of an amplified sound system from my desk. It is Remembrance Sunday in the UK. Although the country observes two minutes of silence at 11AM on November 11^th, the actual Remembrance Day, most of the major ceremonies are observed on the second Sunday of November.  Local branches of the Royal British Legions arrange local ceremonies at war memorials across the country, there is a brief parade of veterans and people place wreaths of poppies at the base of the monument. Unfortunately, I had rowing at 11AM this morning so I wasn’t able to attend the main ceremony but I biked past the memorial on my way to practice. I was quite clearly going against the tide, as throngs of people walked towards the memorial. Most of them were smartly dressed, with poppies in their lapels, and looked to be coming straight from church.

What little I did observe impressed me as a solemn commemoration of sacrifice and a thoughtful reflection on the costs of war. The British have clearly managed to avoid the outpouring of nationalist pride that pervades so many American holidays. Perhaps our country’s short history, the myth of American Exceptionalism and the absence of a truly existential struggle for survival causes the United States to act with the hubris of youthful exuberance- we wave flags, dress in gaudy colors and toast to the glory of America’s might. But Britain seems more subdued. Theirs is a contemplative reflection on the costs of empire, the lost generations and the burden of leadership. America participated in both World Wars but I think we tend to forget how deeply personal these wars were for Europe. Many families lost brothers, fathers, uncles and sons on a scale that we cannot appreciate. Whole city blocks in London were razed to the ground and parts of the British countryside still bear the scars of Axis bombing campaigns, while the US has never endured a sustained attack on its homeland. For us the wars were a right of passage and we emerged politically and economically stronger, while Britain relinquished its role as the world’s leading power. Once upon a time the sun never set on the British Empire and now she lives in the shadow of America. The common arc of history is the rise and fall of empires and America would be wise to remember that our power is not inherent, our morals are not necessarily superior and our future is not guaranteed. The sober and staid reflection of our principal ally should serve as an example of humility and a lesson in the cycle of empires.