The old boys' marathon

The sad thing about the Old Boys' marathon is that the Old Boys are now coming up for retirement age, and some are retired already. So there are no young Old Boys, and this is something we should redress, perhaps by trying to teach the older school boys how to scull in a skiff.

Why is it that when we were young a skiff represented its own challenges - it's heavy so you need to use a different technique to move it - and now the young don't like challenges at all. They say things like "it's like rowing a bath-tub". Aha - well, see how well you can row a bath-tub!

Skiffing used to give an oarsman who had rowed at school or at his (men's) college, a chance to row with girls. Some events are mixed. Nowadays there are events for mixed eights but it used to be the only chance for a young man to get into a boat with a young woman.

But I think anyone who skiffs finds themselves loving the boats. The design, the materials, and the practise of rowing a skiff, are the source of happiness. I used to scull along thinking of all the men and women - like my grandparents and their parents - who had skiffed along my reaches before me, and I would hope that, from the other side they could see me and they thought I was pretty damn capable at skiffing. I always imagine that years ago, say before the 1950's, women just dabbled at strenuous sports and didn't like to get hot and sweaty, but how do we know really? Maybe there were rebellious women in the Edwardian era who'd get down the backwaters where no-one could see, and really use their muscles.

But anyway, young people don't see that the skiffs are beautiful and they don't want to race in them. But we folk from the very tail of the Baby Boom, we still love them, and the Old Boys managed to summon up six men who could skiff and put three crews together.

After this event I had a nice beer and I finally told the man who had been my "crush" that I had first seen him when I was thirteen. I was a cox, a somewhat reluctant, an extremely shy and nervous cox, and he was a twenty year old student who was winning every event for a rival club. My club captain described him to me as a "long-haired hooligan" who won everything, and he added the crushing detail "he throws the blades" (the sculls). We wouldn't do that; we would treat the equipment with care. He sounded awful. Like a wild man.

I knew him as soon as I saw him at the regatta; he had so much energy, he drew the eye, he enjoyed being the best at skiffing and he enjoyed being alive. He rushed everywhere. He was in the beer tent on that sunny day, and every so often he would come out and get the blades and go and race, or there would be a bit of a hullaballoo and he would come out carrying a girl - a pretty girl with long hair - and threaten to throw her in the river. "Skweeeee, skweee" the girls screamed ( I think there were two of them). While I watched he repeated this routine about three times and I was hoping he would, eventually, throw one in the river.

I was by myself under the tree, my parents were not there and the other members of the club were much older than me and I felt bad about sitting with them in case they couldn't say what they wanted to say in front of me. While I sat there this person became my crush, because he was good at "playing". It seemed strange to me that he was a grown-up, and was good at playing, and I was a child and I was absolutely useless at it. I wondered if I would get better at it? Would he ever "play" with me? I then realised that I was too young to have fun with. He would only have fun with grown-up girls. By then, I was already menstruating, but I didn't have any of the self-assurance that a woman has. I dressed in my brother's clothes because I was so uncertain of my feminine value.

So I realised that I wasn't about to have fun like this young man and the long-haired girls, and when I got home I told my parents - my mother, actually - that I wouldn't go coxing again, as I was at an embarrassing age, and that other people had fun, but I had no fun at all. And I didn't! I got a Saturday job at a sweet shop next, and then I got a Saturday job at British Home Stores. I was good at getting jobs. I was pretty clever. But I never forgot that young man.

I started back at the skiff club when I came back from University. (This time I wasn't just coxing; this time I learned to scull.) I wondered if he would still be skiffing and I was glad that he still was. He didn't win any more. There was a guy called Andy who was winning every week. I kept thinking I would talk to this person (chat him up) after a regatta but by that time he was quite seasoned, as it were, with women, and I knew I was still too young for him. But there were times, in the evenings, when the men had lots of beer inside them and they sang. "Can you hear Molesey sing? Doodah, doodah? Can you hear Molesey sing? I can't hear a FUCKING THING." And then the two groups of rowing club men sang dirty songs together, and it really was quite a good time. They were full of testosterone. I think I was watching, just watching to see if any of them would notice me.

Then once my brother and I after a beery evening, decided to go for a pizza, and we found this person in the restaurant with a lady we knew called Mary. Mary was a grown-up enough woman, possibly too grown up, and she was talking strongly to him, while he was drunker than I have ever seen anyone. He was green and swaying and his eyes were closing. I wondered if he was putting it on because he didn't want to go to bed with Mary. Mary looked pretty determined.

I was worried that he got so drunk. Every time I saw him he got so drunk. Was he bored, or disillusioned, or damaged? (broken-hearted). A lot of men had a bit of history with women and felt damaged. But anyway, I was damaged myself, and was in no fit state to cope with him. And I never talked to him at all until I was 55 years old.

We talked about the deer in Bushy Park, and how they eat conkers.