“The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”
I always liked that quote, Bertrand Russel is not a man I would normally quote, but that one somehow fits. As you have no doubt noticed this is the first post to my blog in 9 months, where has the time gone? As ever time is like money, we spend a lot and can never remember what it was spent on.
Where to start back, cataloging my river cruise through life (the roller coaster of life is fine for those that enjoy it, I like to take things a little slower and take a little time to sample each moment), I suppose a good place to start would be the beginning, where I left off.
In my last post I regaled you with the tale of my exploits in the 2006 Ocean to City rowing race, I beat the odds of my own self doubt and found I could do the impossible if I truly wanted too. I suppose that means it wasn't all that impossible to begin with, but I like to think it was, and that it was the indomitable spirit of man that led me through it. Perhaps it was merely lots of training and practice, whichever I was left feeling exultant and empowered by conquering that race. However it was not long before another challenge loomed on the horizon like a large iceberg to an exciting soundtrack and expensive special effects. My brother and my cousin Tariq told me they wanted to try another race, what race? What race could provide the challenge and struggle that the O2C had given.. What else but the Great River Race in London, 22 miles down the river Thames, now that was something I had to think about. I'm disappointed still that the same old self doubt came back, that once again I questioned if this was a feat beyond me. But regardless, in my quest for health and fitness I decided at the very least I would try.
We took a break for a few weeks to try and recover from the O2C race and then with a new crew member, Simon, who replaced Rhona, we began training a new. I could tell you of a thousand days training, of countless moments of accomplishment, of trials and tribulations, but as this post is to catch up on a period of several months I'm going to be less loquacious than my usual self. And skip ahead to September, the month of the race. the preparations were almost as long as the race, my brother Daragh had a large long wheel base jeep and so was to tow one of the currach trailers to London, no simple task, with the length of his vehicle and the three 4 man Currachs stacked on the boat trailer behind we were longer than a tour bus. We also had to cram 5 people into that jeep and drive from Cork in the south of Ireland to the Ferry in Wexford, then when we landed in Pembroke drive all the way to London, not a comfortable trip to be honest, but we managed it due to the champion efforts of our two drivers, Daragh and Simon who took turns sleeping and driving. London it self was a maze, however, Simon's map reading skills are second to none, and he led us (after a few minor detours) to the camp site, and the starting point of the Race where we were to leave the trailer over night. The tents couldn't be set up fast enough in the darkness, but we managed it and slept deeply dreaming of the day ahead.
The day of the race started as these things often do, a lot of people running around shouting not getting much done. We stayed at our tents cooking a fry over our little gas stove, then strolled down to unload the currachs, and got them into the water one at a time, once we were on the water it was more relaxed, we rowed out into the chaotic congregation of boats of every type and shape you can imagine that milled around the starting area. I was nervous, and why wouldn't I be? Gathered from all over the world some of the finest rowers and cox' sat calmly in their boats awaiting their number to be called. Who was I among them? An insignificant unknown and untried, yet a part of me smirked at that thought, untried? I shown my mettle in the O2C race, I knew I might not have the strength or fitness of others here, but I was Irish, and proud of it, we flew a large Cork flag from the tail of the currach, as my father once paraphrased to me.. "I'm Irish by Birth, Corkonian by the grace of God". I've recently become a great believer in human spirit and determination and all that can be achieved with it. I was nervous about where we position in the race but I had no doubts we would finish, if my hands were worn to the bloodied bone I would not stop until I had crossed the line, I had a long line of my Irish ancestors behind, maybe St Brendan himself who sailed all the way to America in a cowhide Currach, sure how I could not finish a little row like this?
At last our number was called and we set out for the starting post, Tariq's powerful strokes took deep in the murk of the Thames, we took our lead from him and set off across the line, our journey had started. The "White Whale" was once again our Currach, she had suffered since, been patch and repainted, Meitheal Mara know how to build a great Currach, not a good one, a great one. That summer between the Ocean 2 City and now The Great River Race we had asked many a question of her, and by all the Gods of seas she answered every time, never let us down.
We set off at a good pace, getting into a steady rhythm was impossible at this stage, the river is narrow there at the start, so it was a constant juggle to manoeuvre between and around the multitude of every floating manner of transportation you can imagine, as each tried to get a good position, with enough room for it's oars. It wasn't long before the Thames widened out before us and we saw the first bridge, now for those who unfamiliar with Maritime rules, the rule for passing under a bridge between it's 'legs' or stanchions, whatever you might call them, is that whichever boat has a lead (even a slightest) has the right of way and the boat behind must pull back to allow the boats to all pass under in single file. Well, as you can imagine boats powered forward, jostling for the lead in passing the bridges, many came dangerously close to hitting pillars though I'm glad to say none that I saw made contact. Not everyone had the manners, decency or even the common sense to obey race rules and maritime rules in regards to the bridges, many times as we approached a bridge we were forced to 'brake' (we plowed our oars into the water in reverse) as other teams over come by their passion for competition risked ramming our canvas chariot into bridge supports, I am proud to say that despite the many rude and indeed at times obnoxious rowers who treated other vessels as items of contempt insulted us or indeed risked the lives of everyone involved in their quest to pass each other, my brother, our Captain, Daragh, maintained his calm at all times and acted professionally, to those who mistreated us he was courteous, to those who joked and were good humored with us (and their were many ) he was friendly and garrulous with. I must say the sheer amount of friendly, good humored, laughing and smiling competitors was over whelming, it was a glorious sunny day and the mood on the water was infectious. Many times we were asked what happened to the ends of our oars, had we left them on the ferry, Currachs are rowed with a long powerful oar that has no paddle on the end.
Many an adventure and many a happy meeting with comrades, competitors and friends we had on our trip down that river, it was a delight. But it was hard, it was a Samsonite task, the currents are strong in the Thames, and I wondered many times at the strength and skill of those who were condemned to steer their vessels, for it was no easy task. Most notably my older brother Daragh, he held us true and strong through the roughest of waters, as boats all around us were spun and bucked, our line held true, in a currach that is no mean feat as they have no keel, so nothing holds you straight but the arms of your Captain. He gave it his all, as indeed did we all, though I think he took the worst of the Thames upon himself. Between himself and our stroke setter Tariq, I felt I was seated in the cradle of giants. I felt no fear with these two powering through the waves, the currents and eddies. Simon in front of me I think must have felt the same, he and I had the easier two positions in the Currach, though no position on that 22 mile trek could be called easy.
The sights we passed amazed me, it was my first time in London, and I can advise any who visit there, take a trip down the Thames, I can think of no better way to enjoy the beauty of it's sights. A blow by blow account of every bridge and turn I think would you as much as it would rob me of my nostalgia for that day so I will leave them to be forgotten in the recesses of memory and move on to the last bridge. What a glorious sight, a great moment of relief, overwhelming relief, as Daragh shouted that's it, I can see the last bridge, the finish line only another 3 miles. How we were glad to hear those words, but we were unprepared for what lay ahead, as we skimmed over the waves beneath the cut stone of that bridge, the river widened greatly, as it did the current that had driven us from behind, threatening to smash us to smithereens on every obstacle was gone. Oh we felt it, our arms were leaden with the effort of 19 miles, and now to face that long long 3 miles over dead currents, it was a grim task. Daragh had to take frequent breaks from now on his prodigious strength nearly failing him , little known to us, Daragh had taken nothing in the Currach with him bar water, no food, most importantly no sugar. A man with a fast metabolism needs his sugar. Tariq on stroke had hands of blisters and blood, he had powered us through 19 miles of energy rushed, passion infused hell, now he was feeling it badly.
Several times on that last leg we were passed by other vessels, more experienced rowers, or those in faster boats who had finally caught up with us, it was heartbreaking to see them fly by. Many times on that last straight I would take over the steering from position 2 and Daragh would rest his aching arms and swollen hands, he had made me proud to be his brother, nothing would change that, I felt privileged to row with him, he had achieved more I think than even he thought possible. As we came in sight of the finish line a fantastic sight lay before us, a Navy sailing ship, a marvel of the days when Brittania truly ruled the waves, a sight straight from Pirates of The Carribean sat before us, it's cannons primed to fire as each vessel crossed the line before it. A great cheer came from the shore line, the hundreds of rowers who had already finished stood on the edges shouting encouragement to those still coming in. Many from our own club and the Co Clare club, Kilkee and Kilrush were there to be heard roaring above the crowds. We made no great push for the shore, when we heard the cannon fire we all but collapsed, but we managed a few slow pulls to drag us to the shoreline where our friends and compatriots were waiting in knee deep mud to pull us from the currach and lift her onto waiting oars upon the shore.
The celebrations went long into the evening, most of it's a blur to me to be honest, I sat, some may say like a fool or amadán from the old stories of the Sidhe, smiling moronically it was all I had the energy to do, a pint bottle of ice cold bulmers in my hand. It was over. I will be honest and say the achievement and the joy of having accomplished it did not even cross my mind that evening, I was merely glad it was over. I suffered on that row, I asked myself why, why had I done it? What was gained by this pain, by pushing ourselves to the physical limits? But as the pain fled my limbs (helped by the consumption of alcohol at the session that night), and as I sang many old Irish songs at the camp site that night, my guitar singing in my hands and my bodhrán beating steady in Tariq's hands, I knew why I did it, and I knew why we all did it.
Pride. And no man can take that away from me. If I were to die the next day it would still have been there, you can lose everything and still hold it. It is something that can build, break or make a man, Pride can feed you like no bread or meat can, and it can sustain you further than an ocean of water. Pride can hold you tall and strong when your body has failed you. Oh you see it too, if ever you doubt it is there, you can see it. In the shower area the next morning in the camp site, I stood at the sink and looked into the mirror, into those murky green eyes and I could see it, the greatest prize of all. Pride. As a wise author of fantasy novels, now deceased, once wrote, "Never commit any deed that when you look into the mirror after, you will not see that pride"
David Gemmel wrote "Pride is like that. Too little and a man has no sense of self-worth. The world would wear him down to dust. Too much and he becomes arrogant, vain and boastful. But just enough and he is a man to walk the mountains with"
A sentiment I heartily agree with another is: " Heroes come in many forms. Not all of them fighters. "
Conor
Where to start back, cataloging my river cruise through life (the roller coaster of life is fine for those that enjoy it, I like to take things a little slower and take a little time to sample each moment), I suppose a good place to start would be the beginning, where I left off.
In my last post I regaled you with the tale of my exploits in the 2006 Ocean to City rowing race, I beat the odds of my own self doubt and found I could do the impossible if I truly wanted too. I suppose that means it wasn't all that impossible to begin with, but I like to think it was, and that it was the indomitable spirit of man that led me through it. Perhaps it was merely lots of training and practice, whichever I was left feeling exultant and empowered by conquering that race. However it was not long before another challenge loomed on the horizon like a large iceberg to an exciting soundtrack and expensive special effects. My brother and my cousin Tariq told me they wanted to try another race, what race? What race could provide the challenge and struggle that the O2C had given.. What else but the Great River Race in London, 22 miles down the river Thames, now that was something I had to think about. I'm disappointed still that the same old self doubt came back, that once again I questioned if this was a feat beyond me. But regardless, in my quest for health and fitness I decided at the very least I would try.
We took a break for a few weeks to try and recover from the O2C race and then with a new crew member, Simon, who replaced Rhona, we began training a new. I could tell you of a thousand days training, of countless moments of accomplishment, of trials and tribulations, but as this post is to catch up on a period of several months I'm going to be less loquacious than my usual self. And skip ahead to September, the month of the race. the preparations were almost as long as the race, my brother Daragh had a large long wheel base jeep and so was to tow one of the currach trailers to London, no simple task, with the length of his vehicle and the three 4 man Currachs stacked on the boat trailer behind we were longer than a tour bus. We also had to cram 5 people into that jeep and drive from Cork in the south of Ireland to the Ferry in Wexford, then when we landed in Pembroke drive all the way to London, not a comfortable trip to be honest, but we managed it due to the champion efforts of our two drivers, Daragh and Simon who took turns sleeping and driving. London it self was a maze, however, Simon's map reading skills are second to none, and he led us (after a few minor detours) to the camp site, and the starting point of the Race where we were to leave the trailer over night. The tents couldn't be set up fast enough in the darkness, but we managed it and slept deeply dreaming of the day ahead.
The day of the race started as these things often do, a lot of people running around shouting not getting much done. We stayed at our tents cooking a fry over our little gas stove, then strolled down to unload the currachs, and got them into the water one at a time, once we were on the water it was more relaxed, we rowed out into the chaotic congregation of boats of every type and shape you can imagine that milled around the starting area. I was nervous, and why wouldn't I be? Gathered from all over the world some of the finest rowers and cox' sat calmly in their boats awaiting their number to be called. Who was I among them? An insignificant unknown and untried, yet a part of me smirked at that thought, untried? I shown my mettle in the O2C race, I knew I might not have the strength or fitness of others here, but I was Irish, and proud of it, we flew a large Cork flag from the tail of the currach, as my father once paraphrased to me.. "I'm Irish by Birth, Corkonian by the grace of God". I've recently become a great believer in human spirit and determination and all that can be achieved with it. I was nervous about where we position in the race but I had no doubts we would finish, if my hands were worn to the bloodied bone I would not stop until I had crossed the line, I had a long line of my Irish ancestors behind, maybe St Brendan himself who sailed all the way to America in a cowhide Currach, sure how I could not finish a little row like this?
At last our number was called and we set out for the starting post, Tariq's powerful strokes took deep in the murk of the Thames, we took our lead from him and set off across the line, our journey had started. The "White Whale" was once again our Currach, she had suffered since, been patch and repainted, Meitheal Mara know how to build a great Currach, not a good one, a great one. That summer between the Ocean 2 City and now The Great River Race we had asked many a question of her, and by all the Gods of seas she answered every time, never let us down.
We set off at a good pace, getting into a steady rhythm was impossible at this stage, the river is narrow there at the start, so it was a constant juggle to manoeuvre between and around the multitude of every floating manner of transportation you can imagine, as each tried to get a good position, with enough room for it's oars. It wasn't long before the Thames widened out before us and we saw the first bridge, now for those who unfamiliar with Maritime rules, the rule for passing under a bridge between it's 'legs' or stanchions, whatever you might call them, is that whichever boat has a lead (even a slightest) has the right of way and the boat behind must pull back to allow the boats to all pass under in single file. Well, as you can imagine boats powered forward, jostling for the lead in passing the bridges, many came dangerously close to hitting pillars though I'm glad to say none that I saw made contact. Not everyone had the manners, decency or even the common sense to obey race rules and maritime rules in regards to the bridges, many times as we approached a bridge we were forced to 'brake' (we plowed our oars into the water in reverse) as other teams over come by their passion for competition risked ramming our canvas chariot into bridge supports, I am proud to say that despite the many rude and indeed at times obnoxious rowers who treated other vessels as items of contempt insulted us or indeed risked the lives of everyone involved in their quest to pass each other, my brother, our Captain, Daragh, maintained his calm at all times and acted professionally, to those who mistreated us he was courteous, to those who joked and were good humored with us (and their were many ) he was friendly and garrulous with. I must say the sheer amount of friendly, good humored, laughing and smiling competitors was over whelming, it was a glorious sunny day and the mood on the water was infectious. Many times we were asked what happened to the ends of our oars, had we left them on the ferry, Currachs are rowed with a long powerful oar that has no paddle on the end.
Many an adventure and many a happy meeting with comrades, competitors and friends we had on our trip down that river, it was a delight. But it was hard, it was a Samsonite task, the currents are strong in the Thames, and I wondered many times at the strength and skill of those who were condemned to steer their vessels, for it was no easy task. Most notably my older brother Daragh, he held us true and strong through the roughest of waters, as boats all around us were spun and bucked, our line held true, in a currach that is no mean feat as they have no keel, so nothing holds you straight but the arms of your Captain. He gave it his all, as indeed did we all, though I think he took the worst of the Thames upon himself. Between himself and our stroke setter Tariq, I felt I was seated in the cradle of giants. I felt no fear with these two powering through the waves, the currents and eddies. Simon in front of me I think must have felt the same, he and I had the easier two positions in the Currach, though no position on that 22 mile trek could be called easy.
The sights we passed amazed me, it was my first time in London, and I can advise any who visit there, take a trip down the Thames, I can think of no better way to enjoy the beauty of it's sights. A blow by blow account of every bridge and turn I think would you as much as it would rob me of my nostalgia for that day so I will leave them to be forgotten in the recesses of memory and move on to the last bridge. What a glorious sight, a great moment of relief, overwhelming relief, as Daragh shouted that's it, I can see the last bridge, the finish line only another 3 miles. How we were glad to hear those words, but we were unprepared for what lay ahead, as we skimmed over the waves beneath the cut stone of that bridge, the river widened greatly, as it did the current that had driven us from behind, threatening to smash us to smithereens on every obstacle was gone. Oh we felt it, our arms were leaden with the effort of 19 miles, and now to face that long long 3 miles over dead currents, it was a grim task. Daragh had to take frequent breaks from now on his prodigious strength nearly failing him , little known to us, Daragh had taken nothing in the Currach with him bar water, no food, most importantly no sugar. A man with a fast metabolism needs his sugar. Tariq on stroke had hands of blisters and blood, he had powered us through 19 miles of energy rushed, passion infused hell, now he was feeling it badly.
Several times on that last leg we were passed by other vessels, more experienced rowers, or those in faster boats who had finally caught up with us, it was heartbreaking to see them fly by. Many times on that last straight I would take over the steering from position 2 and Daragh would rest his aching arms and swollen hands, he had made me proud to be his brother, nothing would change that, I felt privileged to row with him, he had achieved more I think than even he thought possible. As we came in sight of the finish line a fantastic sight lay before us, a Navy sailing ship, a marvel of the days when Brittania truly ruled the waves, a sight straight from Pirates of The Carribean sat before us, it's cannons primed to fire as each vessel crossed the line before it. A great cheer came from the shore line, the hundreds of rowers who had already finished stood on the edges shouting encouragement to those still coming in. Many from our own club and the Co Clare club, Kilkee and Kilrush were there to be heard roaring above the crowds. We made no great push for the shore, when we heard the cannon fire we all but collapsed, but we managed a few slow pulls to drag us to the shoreline where our friends and compatriots were waiting in knee deep mud to pull us from the currach and lift her onto waiting oars upon the shore.
The celebrations went long into the evening, most of it's a blur to me to be honest, I sat, some may say like a fool or amadán from the old stories of the Sidhe, smiling moronically it was all I had the energy to do, a pint bottle of ice cold bulmers in my hand. It was over. I will be honest and say the achievement and the joy of having accomplished it did not even cross my mind that evening, I was merely glad it was over. I suffered on that row, I asked myself why, why had I done it? What was gained by this pain, by pushing ourselves to the physical limits? But as the pain fled my limbs (helped by the consumption of alcohol at the session that night), and as I sang many old Irish songs at the camp site that night, my guitar singing in my hands and my bodhrán beating steady in Tariq's hands, I knew why I did it, and I knew why we all did it.
Pride. And no man can take that away from me. If I were to die the next day it would still have been there, you can lose everything and still hold it. It is something that can build, break or make a man, Pride can feed you like no bread or meat can, and it can sustain you further than an ocean of water. Pride can hold you tall and strong when your body has failed you. Oh you see it too, if ever you doubt it is there, you can see it. In the shower area the next morning in the camp site, I stood at the sink and looked into the mirror, into those murky green eyes and I could see it, the greatest prize of all. Pride. As a wise author of fantasy novels, now deceased, once wrote, "Never commit any deed that when you look into the mirror after, you will not see that pride"
David Gemmel wrote "Pride is like that. Too little and a man has no sense of self-worth. The world would wear him down to dust. Too much and he becomes arrogant, vain and boastful. But just enough and he is a man to walk the mountains with"
A sentiment I heartily agree with another is: " Heroes come in many forms. Not all of them fighters. "
Conor
posted by Unknown | 7:26 AM
1 Comments:
And to think you hassle me when I don't update my blog in a week! Tsk ;-)
Very nice to read about the London race, I wish I could have been there.
Hugs!!
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