It was that time of the year, soon after General Admission, during which you start to think of what you will actually do in what used to be called the ‘Long Vac', but now rejoices in the designation the ‘Research Period', when my phone rang in College. Dick, the Executive Secretary of CUBC, to whom I last spoken at length in the euphoria of victory in the boathouse in Putney at Easter, said "Do you fancy coming with CUBC to Russia in early September? We've been invited to race Oxford on the Moscow River as part of the city's 860th anniversary celebrations." I fought a battle with my conscience that lasted several microseconds before accepting eagerly. "It'll either be great fun or a complete disaster" was Dick's ominous prediction. I'd heard of CUBC's practice of taking a member of R
Can Moscow be taken in a summer campaign? CUBC tries to go where Napoleon failed
egent House on such trips: now I would find out what was really involved.
There were times during the run-up to our departure when the complete disaster option seemed likely. My Russianist colleague on the fellowship advised that she'd never experienced any difficulties in getting the required paperwork. Well we did. When we finally had our pristine VIP Russian visas in our passports, it was only after every possible bureaucratic hurdle had had to be surmounted, and some of them more than once. The Russian attitude to honoured guests takes some getting used to: we set off with no clear idea of where we staying or indeed precisely where, or indeed against whom, the rowing would take place. But VIPs we certainly were, as became clear the moment all twelve of us, and eight light-blue oars, arrived ready for the fray at Domodedovo International Airport, some 22km to the South of Moscow.
The drive into the city was not without incident: Mikhail, our driver, couldn't even follow our rudimentary Russian, assuring
us with great pride that this was because he wasn't Russian at all, but Ukrainian. More importantly, however, he soon made it clear that under no circumstances would the Oxford bus arrive anywhere before ours if he had any say in the matter. We threaded our way through the rush hour traffic of central Moscow towards our destination, the ‘Hotel President'. Suddenly Mikhail threw yet another hard right and we hurtled into a barbed-wire encircled compound complete with security guard. Our hotel was a relic of communist days, ‘built by special order to provide the necessary conditions for the leadership of the state government in its foreign policy activities.' Still a part of Putin's Department of State, the hotel was top-notch in every respect. My room looked directly out onto the 94 meter high bronze monument to Peter the Great on the western tip of the elongated island formed between the Moskva river and the Vodootvodnyi canal. This memorial to three hundred years of Russian sea power is in fact only ten years old and, apparently, a highly contentious addition to the Moscow skyline. The crew was keen to get onto the water, particularly
when it appeared that the third invited crew, the University of Washington, had arrived from Seattle much earlier on in the week, leaving plenty of time to select the best of the borrowed boats, set it up and practise on the Olympic rowing complex at Krylatskoe. But our guardian angels, the multi-talented Kate and Lisa, told us that the lake was a good 45 minutes drive away and that it simply wasn't feasible, it being already 6pm Russian time. Therefore there was nothing for it but to make our first assault on the Yakimanika Restaurant's formidable buffet and retire for vodka or so, just to get into practice.
Caviar, smoked salmon and eggs for breakfast certainly hit the spot. I was beginning to feel like the VIP my ‘Race of Champions' pass proclaimed me to be. The guys retired to Krylatskoe to get themselves sorted out, while I found myself embroiled in the pre-race technical meeting with the judges. As we pored over plans of the Moscow River, it was agreed to follow standard FISA rules without stake boats for the start. This I managed to follow, but the
extended discussion of the interpretation of the coxes' raised hands lost me I'm afraid. I followed the bit about staying in lanes - no taking your opponents' water as in the Boat Race. This made our drawing of the inside lane by lot an important "victory" of sorts. Unlike the Tideway, the Moscow river course is relatively straight, apart from a sharp left hand bend right at the death which would be worth at least half a length to the inside boat in the event of a tie after 3 of the 3.5 kilometres. So the stage was set for the combatants: CUBC in lane one, UW in two, OUBC in three and, finally, in four, the hosts, Moscow State University of Physical Education.
The crew returned from Krylatskoe in good spirits, ready for another attack on the buffet. Not everyone cared for its heavy reliance on charcuterie and pickles, or indeed for the borscht, but the former have long been passions of mine. Meanwhile the boats were being ferried across Moscow ready for the crews to practise on the course proper in the afternoon. This would be coach Duncan Holland's one chance to work on
the crew in race context, as another of the things we had negotiated at the technical meeting had been the availability of launches for this session alone. The action focussed on the ruined boathouses of the first Imperial Rowing Club, hard by the Peter the Great statue, whose anniversary we were also celebrating. ‘Launch' in our case turned out to be an extremely powerful police motor boat driven expertly with one hand, if somewhat scarily, by a huge river policeman apparently more intent on his cell phone conversation than on the safety of the CUBC. While Duncan was ensconced in the bow, yours truly, rather uneasily, took up a position in the stern along with the much more relaxed, ex-Navy Dick. Rebecca dutifully put the boat on station in front of a recognisable Moscow landmark to give me a photo opportunity - the huge Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, originally built in thanksgiving for Napoleon's ultimate defeat in 1812, but destroyed by Stalin and only rebuilt in 2000. Others sights followed, as the crew practised tracing the race course in the wrong direction, first Gorky Park and then, bizarrely, the huge Buran - the word
means snow-storm - the Russian space shuttle whose single unmanned flight took place in 1993. When the river police called a halt to our endeavours so they could go home for their tea, I for one felt I'd had an afternoon and a half.
The next morning was scheduled for more practice, but I found myself down for the role of putative TV star. Fortified by more caviar and a bowl of kasha (porridge), one of those limos with the deep black windows reminiscent of Miami Vice arrived, complete with minder, to take four of us to the English-language TV station Russia Today. Apparently the whole of Russia wanted to know all about the traditions of the Boat Race. The studio turned out to be what I was now coming to see as archetypal Moscow -from the outside a rabbit warren of a building untouched since the 1980s, that could only be entered through a turnstile operated by a surly security guard, but on the inside filled with state-of-the-art equipment manned by young men and women dressed up in the very latest fashions. But only from the waist up of
course, the delectable anchor-woman apparently sporting a smart business suit transpired actually also to be wearing jeans and trainers. OK so this wasn't exactly Television Centre and the BBC lunchtime news, but Russia Today does claim 90 million regular viewers across the world. ‘Go into makeup and then wait in the Green room till we're ready for you', they said. This turned out not quite to be up to South Bank Show standard either - a beat up old sofa and four mugs of hot water (the jar of instant coffee was eventually found for us, after all we were important guests). Anyway Dick and his Oxford counterpart were interviewed live at 11am, while Mike Callahan from UW and I were on at noon. That duty performed, we were whisked back to the Hotel in the limo.
Curiously - and I never did find out why - the big race was scheduled to start at 8pm. Surely this meant the finish would be in twilight at best? Anyway we VIPs were due on parade at 6 to take part in the opening formalities. This was when it became abundantly clear, if it hadn't been before, that
when Muscovites decide to celebrate something they do it in style. On the victory pontoon a full concert orchestra, dressed in eighteenth century wigs etc. mimed to Mozart's Jupiter Symphony and, incongruously, moved on to do the same to Strauss' Blue Danube. Elegant women dressed to look like Time Lords from Gallifrey were waiting in the wings, I learned next day in Victory Square that this is traditional dress for Russian dancers, but I never did find out what their role was in this ceremony because I was whisked off again by the nice people from Russia Today, this time to do an outside broadcast from the finish line. Trouble was their set-up was on the other bank of the river, so I had to be driven frenetically through the Moscow streets yet again, this time in a press car. Having expounded my views on whether local knowledge would, or would not, prove decisive, I was back in my seat, next to Dick and the nervous Duncan, to watch the race on the big screen.
CUBC led off the stake boat, the first time from a flyer from which they were regretfully
recalled, but it was not to be. The scratch crew and lack of practice was always going to tell against the Americans. But would we defeat the old enemy? The Russian commentary was rising to a frenzy, but was completely incomprehensible. All we could do was peer into the gloom and look for the familiar light blue blades. The UW Cox was wearing yellow and easily recognisable in the leading eight: but yes, the Blues were there securely in second, ahead of their dark blue counterparts who seemed to be having some difficulty staying in front of our hosts. And so it was.
Our people were quite content with their achievement. Once the boat was out of the water, we then found ourselves subjected to ruthless Russian efficiency. The presentations followed on the by now floodlit pontoon, the elegant Julia, the chief organizer, whose name had appeared on the original invitation, showing her allegiance by appearing all in Cambridge blue. Then the redoubtable Kate showed her true colours. We could have thirty minutes, no longer, back at the Hotel to
shower, change back into blazers, collars and ties and eat dinner before being returning to the finish to join the great and the good for ‘the Banquet.' I remember musing at the time that it was a strange sort of banquet that required you to eat beforehand, but she was, as ever, thinking of our best interests, as events were to show. We entered the banqueting tent to prolonged applause. There were limited supplies of beer, wine and soft drinks and some finger food: the ladies all seemed to be sipping juice sophisticatedly, but the men were hard into the vodka which seemed to available in unlimited quantities. ‘Toast?' intoned Mr Starter, slamming two tumblers full of clear liquid onto my table. Evidently this was not water I was being offered. Fortunately I had read up on this custom and knew that honour required me to respond and that any toasts we did drink must be downed in one. The only thing to do was accept the implied challenge and take him on. Mercifully this seemed to impress him and, relenting, he began instead to fill our empty vodka glasses from the tumblers. I still had six shots of vodka to face in quick
succession. In the midst of all this a five time Russian Olympic and World rowing champion from the sixties came round on progress to receive the adulation which was his due. Old men, or perhaps Olympic champions, seemed to be exempt from the toasting ritual. Suddenly the vodka supplies dried up: Mr Starter vented his feelings by grabbing the last bottle and emptying it down his throat and the party broke up. The worthy Kate and Lisa were soon chivvying us onto to what they had promised us would be the high spot of our visit, a night in Rai, one of Moscow newest elite clubs. This was an awesome experience I have to admit, even if I did rapidly start to feel very old. The seniors staggered back to the more peaceful bar in the President at 2.30am. When (or if) everyone else returned we felt it better not to ask. We took consolation from the knowledge that the victorious UW contingent was due to leave at 0600 and that the breakfast buffet continued till 1100. And so to bed.
The lovely Lisa had given us our orders the previous evening. Sight-seeing would begin
at noon with a vengeance. She took us to see the main building of Moscow State University, one of the seven neo-classical skyscrapers built on Stalin's orders and known as ‘the Seven Sisters', the Olympic Stadium of 1980 and then Victory Square, where traditional dancers were celebrating the city's anniversary. We then prevailed upon her to take us to Red Square on the Moscow metro. This was everything I'd been lead to believe it would be. The station architecture was breath-taking, the efficiency and cleanliness of the trains astounding. The flat fare of 17 roubles - about 30 pence - seemed to be an interesting relic of former times: when did it last cost so little to ride the tube in London? We arrived, somewhat breathlessly, in Red Square with twenty minutes of our allotted sight-seeing time left. The more athletic of our party managed a quick look inside St Basil's cathedral, but I contented myself with basking in the unexpected Moscow sun. Then back to the Hotel to prepare for the journey home and make our farewells. All too soon we were landing at a sodden Heathrow and eventually, at 0500 Moscow time, arriving
back at Goldie Boathouse, journey's end. ‘A good time was had by all': CUBC is indebted to our Russian hosts who did us proud in the end and, personally, I am particularly grateful to the Club's officers for letting me join them on their trip into the unknown.
Result over 3500 metres
1st University of Washington 09:56.63
2nd CUBC 10:09.42
3rd OUBC 10:15.18
4th Moscow State University of Physical Education 10:17.27
CUBC (* indicates Blue, † Goldie)
Cox: Rebecca Dowbiggin* Stroke: Tom Edwards* 7: Dave Billings† 6: Kieran West MBE* 5: Sam Pearson † 4: Dan O'Shaughnessy * (President) 3: Richard Stutt 2: Oli de Groot † Bow: Dave Hopper
Mike Franklin
Posted on Saturday 29 September 2007