The regatta
The annual Fall Extravaganza of rowing known as the Head of the Charles (aka, the HOCR or the Charles) has been written about extensively – and for good reason. For our sport, it’s the Super Bowl, Christmas, and The Greatest Show On Earth, all wrapped up in one. Over 11,000 competitors from all over the world. Three days of solid racing. Boats crossing the start line at B.U. Boathouse every ten seconds. Crashing down the course – in some cases, literally. Events covering every type of rower, including high school, college (and college alumni), every club imaginable, para athletes, geezers in single sculls, and current and past Olympic champions. Rich Ivy Leaguers and East Coast Preppies. Struggling clubs from obscure states. Rowers from Mexico, Canada, Ukraine, the Near East, the Middle East, the Far East, and all over Europe. A quarter million people lining the shores watching intently and/or cluelessly, and every vendor under the sun trying sell them stuff. To quote Jerry Seinfeld, “It’s a scene, man.”
Rowers from afar dream of being in this regatta, which is arguably the most prestigious and spectacular of its kind in the world. Locals are even more intent, with many training all year for this one weekend. And I should know. I’m a local. I have spent my entire rowing life – 40 years next year – rowing and training on the Charles River. In that time, I’ve been fortunate to have raced in the Charles 25 times in a single and a handful of other times in team boats. My first HOCR was in the Lightweight Four event in 1987. We were a ragtag bunch of friends from Community Rowing, all named John (well, two were named Jon). So we were the “John Four.” We came in about halfway through the pack and were proud of the result. The legendary cox Tom Tiffany steered us down the course, his voice booming the whole way. That race remains strong in my memory, with the thrill and adrenaline coursing through my veins over the three miles of twists, turns, bridges and the cheering crowd still fresh in my mind. In Boston, we start thinking about next year’s regatta both during and after this year’s. It’s an all-consuming, year-round objective. Of course there are many other regattas, including sprints during the summer and other head races in the fall. But the Charles is always the ultimate objective. It never gets old, and you never take it for granted. Each time you are fortunate enough to have your entry accepted is a privilege. And if you earn a guaranteed entry from the previous year, it’s a huge honor.
Imagine the disappointment
I don’t know what it is, precisely, that compels humans to want to compete. Something deeply embedded in our survival genes developed over millions of years of fighting off saber-toothed tigers, other hostile tribes, Visigoths, or whatever. We have to win, or we will die. Obviously in this day and age, you’re not literally going to die if you don’t win, but tell that to some second-place finishers.
After so many years of racing the Charles, you might think I’ve gotten complacent about it, or less enthused. You would be wrong. So when I came down with Covid three days before my race this year, I was more than a little disappointed. I was crushed. I was able to procure (at no small cost) the Paxlovid drug on the same day I tested positive. It was Tuesday, and my race was Friday. Even though my nose was running like a faucet, my head was totally congested and I was coughing 24 hours a day, I was hopeful that maybe – just maybe – I might be healed enough to race. I had trained very intently all spring, summer and fall, and I’d had some pretty good results during the fall head racing season. But every day that passed led to more coughing. The Paxlovid was not the miracle cure I had hoped for. It ended up working surprisingly well after a few weeks, but man…that is some nasty stuff. You have to take three horse tablets twice a day. Leaves you with this ongoing metallic taste. Anyway, it worked, but not soon enough. Three days simply wasn’t enough time. So on Thursday, I had to email the regatta to cancel my race. Something I had never done before. It was like being ten years old and telling Mom & Dad, “Sorry, I can’t make it for Christmas this year. Gonna have to sit this one out.” But I’m an adult, and I quickly put things into proper perspective. There are millions of people in this country alone – not to mention around the world – who have real problems. So yeah, I got over it. The weekend was spectacular. The weather was perfect, and the regatta once again lived up to the hype, and then some. I was thrilled for all the competitors, so many of whom are friends. And fortunately, the HOCR can be merciful – if you have a legit medical excuse (and it better be a good one that you can prove), there’s a good chance your entry will be accepted the following year. They’ll probably put me at the back of the pack, but I’m planning on entering and will hopefully race in 2025. Which, coincidentally, will mark the 40th anniversary of my learning to row at Community Rowing in Boston in 1985. Remember friends, there’s always next year. Just please…no Covid.
masterTHIS 