English Bumping Races Require Fine Judgment on Part of Cox--Davison Scholar Writes of Oxford Crew Regattas

The following article on rowing at Oxford in general, and the strategy of bumping races in particular was written 'or the Crimson by F.W.P. Chadwick, Davison Scholar at the University this year and a former Oxford coxswain.

He who runs may read, but he who rows is likely to be hard pressed for time to do so. His whole existence becomes merged in rowing his mood, conversation, and every thought are dominated by it. Hence, no doubt, the socalled "vacant" expression said to characterise the rowing man when in the lecture room. He bears a great burden, for as he will tell you, on his back, or rather on his blades, he carries the college prestige.

Each college has its "barge", a houseboat where the men can change, and from which the crews normally start. The barges, numbering about 20, are moored together broadside along the river bank. His college barge will play a large part in the life of the successful carsman.

There are two series of races during the year, one in February, the other in May. Both last six weeks with a Sunday interpolated in the middle.

The first of these races, the Torpids, are rowed in heavy eights in the fixed seats and alternated seating, the second on slides in center-seated light "shells." These latter races are by far the more important and the week during which they are rowed is known as "Eights week". It constitutes a social event of no mean importance in the life of the undergraduate. It is then that his family and lady friends, the two sometimes clash, expect, to be invited to Oxford, taken out in punts and given tea on the barge.

But this is the climax to appreciate which our steps must be retraced.

On returning from the Christmas Vacation the crews settle down in earnest to prepare for the Torpids. At this time the river is a pleasant sight, though as it can only be observed from the towingpath, and this is infested by innumerable coaches on bicycles, the uninitiate throng might think them homicidal lunatics, it is doubtful if anyone hitherto has lived to describe its beauties. There are some 40 crews to go out and each makes two journeys to Iffley, Lock in an afternoon. A the distance is not more than a mile and a quarter the river is not without some resemblance to Harvard Square.

The races themselves take place in three divisions, each of 12 or 13 boats and starting at intervals of an hour. The order of starting is handed down form year to year.

The top boat of each division starts about a mile from the end of the course. A length and a half behind this the next boat starts and so on to the last boat in the division.

It is the object of the head boat to row over without being bumped, and of those behind it to bump the boat in front of them. When a boat has passed the finishing-post it cannot be bumped. Bumping consists in touching the boat ahead with some portion of your boat usually, of course, the bows of one boat bump the stern of the other. As soon as a bump has been made both boats draw into the side, and later paddle up to the barges when the crews behind them have passed by. On the next day each starts where the other had done on the previous day. In this way a boat can ordinarily, if good enough, go up six places in a year in each series of races. Except the top boat of the first division, the Head of the River, top boats of divisions row again the same day as bottom boats of the divisions above them. In this way the gap between divisions is bridged.

The same procedure is adopted in Eights except that as the boats are faster the distance between them is lessened.

Excitement Reaches High Pitch

In an article such as this I can give no idea of the tremendous excitement which such races arouse. Their result is always in doubt. A "crab", or still worse, bad coxing may spell disaster; a dogged stroke in the boat ahead may stave off defeat with the enemy prow hanging above his rudder.

As the bouncing of the boat betrays the nearness of the eight ahead, the cox hitherto vociferous in his assertions that the crew is "right up on them" becomes suddenly silent. The time has come when he must earn his passage. Slowly, infinitely slowly, the bows curve in. Too much rudder or a shot the wrong way, for it is impossible to see, means ruin. But he knows his boat and can tell from the feel what is happening. At last there is a slight jolt and the cox ahead rises his hand. But it is a tremendous relief to all when "easy all' follows the bump and one place higher on the river has been reached in safety.

So it goes on from year to year, boats going up and boats coming down. Nothing is certain, prognostications are always falsified in the event. In sheer surprise one college called its second boat "God" because it moved in a mysterious way.

Perhaps the most pleasant memory of all is of that last stretch home from Iffley to the barge in January. Returning late from a long journey we find all deserted and quiet. From the river rises the evening fog clothing in mystery the willows on the banks. Only the rhythmical click of the oars in the row-locks breaks the silence. Eight-blades swing regularly together and softly dip. Everyone is conscious of the music fundamental to rowing