Learning something about yourself

“It’s how you respond to those situations, how you come back from them… that’s why we do this. To learn something about ourselves.”

My coach was speaking in the context of the May bumps. For those not in the know, bumps is a four day competition held at the end of Lent and Easter term in Cambridge. It can get pretty complicated, but the basic aim is to “bump” the boat in front of you (literally) as many times in the four days as possible. Once bumped, the boats swap positions and then race in their new positions the next day. Crews that bump every day win blades; crews that are bumped every day are awarded spoons. This May term will be my sixth set of bumps races.

I’ve never had much luck in the bumps: most of the bumps I’ve rowed or coxed in have been with W2, which has struggled to attract rowers, coaches and coxes over the years. Being bumped or rowing over again and again is demoralising, and it’s sometimes hard to keep motivating yourself. This is part of the reason, I think, for why the women’s side has struggled to field a strong W2 each year: no one gets to taste success, so they leave.

And yet, through all of this, I have stayed positive and kept rowing. I think this has taught me the most: that I care about my sport, and I’m willing to give it everything. As I go forward into the next stage of my life, that’s something that I hope will stay with me. The ability to face disappointment and continue on is something that I’m proud of.

Of all these experiences, the one that hit me hardest was actually that last day of Lent bumps this year. My crew had bumped up every day before, and everyone in the crew was tentatively hoping that we would make it four times and win our blades. Sitting on the start line, my heart was pounding. I knew that my steering on the previous days hadn’t been perfect; not bad by any means, but the margin for error is so small, every single detail matters. We went off hard, knowing that they would be a tough crew to beat. They actually pulled away relatively early on, but I didn’t realise: I’m not a great judge of distance, and I thought that we were holding them. As we came round Grassy, I could see them closing in on the crew in front, and a wave of terror went through me. Luckily, Downing pulled away, and we moved up on them again, but we couldn’t get closer than half a length. It was hard row. We did our “bumps move.” Twice. We took the rate up. There was a point, around the P+E, when I knew that it would take a miracle for us to bump. And yet I was still willing it to happen, still calling the crew on, right until Pembroke’s stern crossed the finish line and they were safe.

Realising that we weren’t going to make it was one of the most heart wrenching moments of my life. The coxes seat is a unique position for this very reason: you know what’s going on in front, while the rest of the crew doesn’t. I couldn’t let them know that we weren’t going to make it. After we crossed the finish line, I was close to tears. Not just because we’d missed out on blades, but because I knew how much it meant to the eight other people in the boat. We had trained so hard, and it hadn’t been enough on the day. Over the next few weeks, I thought a lot about that race. I wondered if my corners could have tighter, what could I have called differently, what would have made the difference? In the end, bumps is a competition of luck, and I’ve had to accept that. But that moment outside of the P+E is burned into my brain. I wish it has gone differently, but you can’t change the past. All you can do is learn from what came before, and hope that you do things differently next time. Fingers crossed that continues into this week of bumps.

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