....or 'Permission to Shoot Denied Part II'

From the moment me and Chunks had agreed in principle to undertake this year’s Devizes to Westminster, it was a race against time to get ready. Even for a seasoned team, the preparation is a great commitment but, for us, there were two added complications: we’d never paddled together before, and Chunks had never been in a boat. Our first trip out was a two-and-a-half hour, four mile series of frustrated pirouettes on the Soar in nice, stable, general-purpose kayaks. The second sortie, on the Oxford canal, was an improvement on direction, but Chunks had his inaugural swan blast from a rather uppity Mute.

After a month of 5 a.m. starts, we’d progressed to a solid-ish technique, and Chunks had his first sit in a racing kayak. I say “sit”; in reality, his trip was a quick one and over in a muddy, swampy flash. It must have been entertaining for the lady walking her dog past on the towpath: one second Chunks was upright, and the next he was doing an impression of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, ignominiously clambering up the brickwork covered in weed. He says he shifted weight slightly and that was it. If, beforehand, he didn’t know how unforgiving racing boats are, he did now. At least the water was warm, if not a little fragrant.

September saw the move to the K2 and the Intermediate K1. Chunks was tentative at first, but our first trip down the Soar from Cossington was progressing so well that I decided to introduce him to capsize drill. Right in the deepest, steepest banked section towards Sileby mill, with help from Gromit in the GP boat, this was successfully achieved and  we were back in and laughing, but only for about twenty seconds: weed tangled round my blades and we rolled over again. But it was a good start with a lot of promise. We had a few more swims before the end of the year, Chunks more so whilst paddling the K1. Despite this, and also despite some altercations with the Gorilla at Gorilla lock, dogs – and dog/goose/duck poo – on the towpaths, we were progressing and confidence built as time moved into 2010.

Things took a turn for the worse on Sunday, January 3rd, the first paddle of the New Year. It was -3 degrees when we arrived, and brinkmanship meant that neither of us was prepared to be the one to pull out. It took de-icer to get the boat off the roof rack, and more to unstick the rudder from its mount. I was howling from the pain of the cold within five minutes, and by the time we reached the North end of Frog Island, we’d had enough, which was just as well as the canal was frozen from there on. After jumping up and down and rubbing my hands together for two minutes, we got back in to find that the water had frozen to the paddles. We called it a day on the water and headed for the gym. I detest gyms. For me they turn you into the human equivalent of a hamster. Treadmills epitomise all that is wrong with them, and let’s face it, me and weights have never gone together. However, Chunks drew up a routine for me which, while appearing to be tailored for someone doing a Mr Muscle advert, I’ll grudgingly admit improved my overall strength.

January 2010 witnessed the most unseasonably seasonable weather for years, which led to the most common phrase in the boat being: “I’ll never complain about marathon training again.” Everything was magnified in harshness by a power of at least ten: rain, snow, and especially the cold. The few times we finally got on the water, training was brutal, and it wasn’t until Gromit discovered Pogies that we found anything that could diminish the effect of the cold on the hands. Chunks never got a set of Pogies, but boy did they make a difference. Sorry Chunks.

It wasn’t much better towards the end of the month and, with the Big Melt, came a river in spate. We got our first taste of river boils (the opposite of whirlpools) and of steering in what bordered on white-water conditions, which was to stand us in really good stead in the race. At the time, it was a bit more hairy: as the canal was still frozen, we decided (in a moment of madness) to meander up the Soar-side of Frog Island. For anyone who is unfamiliar with that stretch of water, the only way to make it up onto Mile Straight is to go up the weirs, and when the river is in flood, this is not an option. There is also virtually nowhere to turn, especially in a five-and-a-half metre long, unstable, marathon-racing kayak. We ended up turning using a drain tunnel, with much nervous barking from Adolf in the back of the boat. But. We. Did. Not. Fall. In.

The problem with the weather, and with other commitments, was that we were not getting the time we needed in the boat, and the rate of progress we’d made up to December stalled.  We were no longer gelling, and that meant we were not getting an economic stroke and were wasting energy. I was getting déjà vu from thirteen years ago. I was still getting a lot of time in the K2, but with Gromit, not Chunks. In the middle of February, things reached a critical point. I think Chunks and I both realised that we had about a fortnight to get on track – or it was curtains. Fortunately, and just in time, we had the epiphany paddle, where everything clicked. The rate dropped, I found a rhythm and we gained a mile an hour. Despite the weather, we picked up the training and, once the Ashby canal had thawed, we started getting some serious sessions in.

However, as the Buzzard clearly felt that the winter cold wasn’t harsh enough for him, he took the family off skiing in France, while Chunks & Gromit took turns in the K1 intermediate to see who could freeze first on the Ashby, in blizzard-like conditions which burned the skin then froze it too, a lovely combination as you shivered and shook while getting changed afterwards with the car heater at max heat & speed.

Training split for four weekends, as I tackled the Waterside series with Gromit, which meant we got familiarity with the first forty-five miles of the course. This was invaluable for both of us, and for the Prefectionist, Bex, and Gaz in support roles. This support crew job is crucial to success in the event, and in many respects is as hard as being in the boat, if not harder. Gromit had kindly volunteered herself and the Prefectionist at the outset, but to make it seamless and reliable we really needed a second team. It was a moment of inspiration in February, which led to me asking Bex and Gaz, who said “Yes” without hesitation. Gromit saw the support from the boat side, and the Prefectionist ran several practices between Christmas and Easter. Bex and Gaz had their first crack in the last race in the Waterside series and (bar one missed lock which, despite causing a bit of a domestic, proved inconsequential in the race – but invaluable as a learning experience) nailed the task.

For Chunks, the Waterside weekends meant time on the Ashby in the K1, in which he trained over the Waterside distances. Wednesday afternoons meant a trip to the Coventry junction, and then out to the Shenton aqueduct or Market Bosworth, and inevitably a confrontation with the otherwise-inclined swan at Trinity Motors. He’s characterised by coming at you from behind and pulling out at the last moment, and between him and the wimpy swan at Stoke Golding we got very blasé about swans in general.

We took our only swim of the year in the Soar at the beginning of March, stupidly pulling up at Gorilla  lock and failing to hold onto the side. This not only amused the fisherman sat on the far bank, but also damaged the rudder, which I’d already had repaired in November. Given the temperatures that day we were frozen to the bone after seven hours, and it took a Burger King on the way back to bring a modicum of humanity back.

March saw the training go through the roof. Every week was sixty plus miles, mostly on the Ashby. However, Leicester to Nottingham has been a rite of passage for me as it combines all the aquatic elements of the Devizes to Westminster except the tideway into one, six-hour paddle. This was a particularly windy affair, albeit not as cold as the Christmas epic with Gromit. It saw the first real test for Chunks’s Jumanji cushion, named after graffiti on the bottom of an upturned dory by the Lime Kilns, and which provided him with much comfort. (Some paddlers have harder ar$es than others. Enough said.) It also gave us a blast from the past as we met Mick, my previous partner, and his wife Pat at the finish. Mick was great, as he not only regaled Chunks with a blow by blow account of the race, but he also kept us warm in his car while we waited for our lift back with the Prefectionist. It’s fair to say that Chunks got the abridged version, as had Mick given him the full one it would have taken the thirty-five-and-a-half hours that it took the two of us to complete the event in the first place. Chunks nearly had a swim at an ill-judged portage point at Beeston Lock (from the Buzzard, lest there be doubt), his seeming inexorable slow motion descent into the cold murky Trent only coming to a  halt when his head was a millimetre or two from the surface, his feet safe further into the reeds.

All the time, we were planning our operation. A lot of this was nutritional, with help from Hairy and Gromit. In the first of the Watersides, we’d accidentally discovered that hot cross buns really hit the spot, and subsequently in experimentation had added Jamaican ginger cake, Yorkie, and malt loaf to the list. We toyed with the idea of getting a Burger King in at Reading, but opted instead for Heinz baked beans and sausages for dinner and breakfast. Hairy is a big proponent of Slimfast because of its nutritional qualities, but I couldn’t bring myself to use this. Squash, Lucozade Sport, and for the night time Coke and Red Bull was on the drinks list. And to cap it off Gaz had supplemented all of this with enough Kendal Mint Cake to hike to the North Pole.

Our planning also covered the psychological aspects to ensure that we did not succumb to the traps I’d fallen into last time, and a lot of it tactical. For this we had loads of help from Gromit and the Prefectionist, and also with their practice run from Bex and Gaz. By the time we sat down for the pre-race planning session on March 31st we were nearly there, but that two-and-a-half hour session was invaluable, both for us and our support crews. Maps were marked, checklists ticked, food stockpiled, and kit washed. That said, it still took a day-and-a-half to rack, stack, and pack everything. Getting the kit into two cars, let alone one, was a Krypton Factor challenge all of its own.

We convoyed to Devizes, stopping at Oxford Costa for Latte, Cappuccino, and Hot Chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. The backup crews were in the Travelodge, and Bex and Gaz had come prepared with their own pillows in anticipation of comfort levels. We were in the Scout Hut, and were not so well organised. Gaz drove us down (and scared three girls by driving past them three times really slowly, and on the fourth time pulling over to ask for directions), and once we’d found a key after dinner (by chance with a bunch of Irishmen) settled down on the hardest floor in Britain. Even a hardar$e wasn’t going to be enough on that surface: the Irish had brought mattresses and we hadn’t. I managed OK, but I added to everyone else’s pain by snoring until about 4a.m., apparently. That said, we ate really well in the Black Swan (top food, especially the chips which turned Bex a delicate shade of envious green).

Race Day arrived at about 6a.m., when Chunks took over snoring duties. We vacated the scout hut at half-seven and went to meet the support crews at the start, to find the welcome sight of Mick and Pat, who had kipped in their car in the car park overnight. We registered, and had a trip to possibly the most luxurious Portaloos in the South of England. This was offset by one of the worst breakfast bacon butties, possibly due to nerves, but grim nonetheless. the Prefectionist, Gromit, Bex and Gaz arrived and we put the boat kit through the required checks, and attended the race briefing. Until the Watersides, I’d never come across such total lack of racing etiquette in any sporting fraternity, so was not surprised when the organisers asked for exemplary behaviour from crews and supporters after what had gone the day before in the start of the four day event.

The organisers also warned of the high water levels further down the course, and the possibility of an extra, mandatory portage at Windsor. I have to take part responsibility of these as I’d been rain dancing for most of March, and it had worked a little too well. For the last week, we’d been hoping it would stop, and the fact that it was the Environment Agency putting the extra measures in showed how serious the conditions had the potential to be.

We started at 9:08a.m. in bright conditions. Getting in, Chunks took the opportunity to remind me how comfortable his seat was, and I reciprocated on the subject of the warmth of my Henri Lloyd top. This was to be repeated at many, many intervals down the course, just as it had been throughout training. We nailed the perfect start; not leathering it away down the canal, but settling straight into the long, languid strokes we’d striven so hard for.

Unlike in the Waterside races, the Kennet was empty of other canoes and kayaks, and we had a very quiet run for the first hour. About the first crew we saw were two ladies with Deeley Boppers (going for a pit stop!) and we overtook some slower boats towards Pewsey. However, the absence of other crews was made up for by the support we were getting from the banks. Gromit, the Prefectionist, Bex, Gary, and Mick seemed to be at every mile point, on a bridge or the towpath. We took the opportunity with Mick in particular to report how blissful this was.

The Prefectionist lined up on one of the bridges for the classic overhead photo opportunities. The rudder had other ideas and, at the critical moment, unmounted and sent us right into the brickwork on the towpath. As portents of what was to come this was ominous, but not a showstopper.

I’d warned Chunks early on about the swan at Pewsey, but we’d got overly casual about them. The otherwise-inclined swan at Trinity was a wimp, and Gromit had got away with punting one up the bottom on the Soar. In fact, Gromit has a pretty evil track record for this with ducks as well as swans. So, when the Pewsey swan went airborne behind us, we were unfazed, right up until the moment it hit Chunks’s paddle, landed in front of the boat and swung, glaring down the port side. As reminders of how vicious they can be, it was a rude awakening, but we were lucky. Apparently he caused a couple of other crews to capsize.

We were bang on time through Pewsey, where we picked up torches for the Savernake tunnel: half-a-mile of pitch black. We nailed it, sailing through confidently and on to Crofton. It was on this stretch we met Henning and Vibeke, who dispelled the organisers’ and my own doubts regarding crew behaviour. Henning moved alongside and cleared the weed off the front of our boat, and we exchanged pleasantries. This was the sort of lift which happened time and again through the race, and contributed to it being the experience it was. Henning and Vibeke were faster than us on the water, but we out-stripped them on the portages, and this meant we kept pace with them through much of the race. They also gave us much cause for speculation: Where were they from? Chunks had his money on Holland, me Sweden. As Brits, we know squat sometimes: Denmark!

Crofton flight, a concentration of locks in a mile-and-a-half of canal, saw one of very few cock-ups. Going through a gate I caught the rudder on a gatepost. If it had been out of sorts before, it was well and truly off the rails now. The midsection of Crofton had us jammed over to the right, and it took forceful correction in the boat to get to the next lock, and then more of the same to bend it back. The repairs I’d had done in Walsall the week before were for nowt. Trust it to go far right wing just before an election. But we put this out of our minds. The consequences of a failed rudder were unbearable. It simply had to carry on working.

At Great Bedwyn we came across the Deeley Boppers again. They were meeting their support crew there – the Men With Moustaches – and getting a dose of Jelly Babies. Ever the opportunist, I went for it: “ooooh, Jelly Babies….I love Jelly Babies!”. It worked. Over came the Men With Moustaches and we got a handful each. “Red Ones! Thank you!”. Immediately there was outcry in the Deeley Bopper boat: “You can’t give them the red ones!” From then on banter and Jelly babies were exchanged between us, the Men With Moustaches, and the Deeley Boppers at every available opportunity.

Kintbury was marked as the first pit stop en route, largely as it was the only lock with toilets alongside. It was also the first big meeting point of all the support crew and family. There were some confused looks as we set the boat down: “You’re stopping?” “Yup!”… ”Why?...... Oh……. Ohhhh”…as we disappeared through the hedge. Chunks took the opportunity to put on his rash vest which, while it improved his core temperature, was no match for my Henri Lloyd version, which has been keeping me nice and toasty since my fortieth. More food and on we went.

By now, we were picking up some flow, as the Kennett nipped in and out of the canal. At Newbury, we got our first really big taste of the mill races, and darn near came a cropper under the bridge. Only by grabbing the side and then just getting a key stroke in did we clear the barge barrels moored to the side and stay upright. With a bit more adrenaline in the system and alertness to the dangers, and congratulating ourselves on our quick-wittedness, we paddled on.

The weather closed in and the temperature dropped over the next few miles. Chunks was suffering. Although Chunks didn’t share it with me, his hands were beginning to blister and lose circulation, and rather more obviously he was getting cold. At Aldermarston, Bex and Gaz briefly wrapped him in a blanket, and it must have been a relief when we hit Sulhamstead.

Sulhamstead was the big stop. We had our first hot meal and a chattering Chunks got warm, dry clothes and cagoules. While we were eating, Gaz turned up with Chinese, unfortunately for the backup crews and not for us. Practicality got the better of envy. I’m not sure Chunks would have been safe to be with in the boat after a Chinese, given the chemical warfare he had more than proved to be capable of waging during training sessions. The millstream did for one of the crews going past, and learning from their mistake we entered it far left, and just missed the barge on the far right as the current whipped us over.

A few more miles, and another Swan. They breed ‘em brutal down South. He was fluffed up, but not doing the bouncy-up-and-downy thing preceding the usual shenanigans, so we weren’t expecting trouble. When he went for my knees and then the back of the kayak it was a bit of a shock. Fortunately it was all over before we knew it, and we made a mental note to give no quarter should another one of the b*ggers cross our path.

It was getting dark, as we closed in on Reading. At one lock – of many – we put the boat in the millstream alongside and pushed off, only for the current to grab the back end and swing us round 180º the wrong way. An unpreturbable nudge of the front end repeated the pirouette and we were off again, but closing in on the Buzzard’s most-feared portage. County lock is a nightmare. You either have a long drop into the water or it’s so high that there’s a standing wave on the weir alongside. We had the latter, with an eddy running off the drop-in point back into the wave. I took one look at it and knew that this was not going to be: “We’re not getting in there.” “…but they just did.” “They’re them and we’re us, and we’re not good enough to do that. If we have to carry to the next lock, we will.”

Chunks was not overly happy at this development, but  I was certain that this was the right thing to do. We carried the boat up and over the dual carriageway and into the Octagon centre, the big restaurant area in the middle of Reading. It was now dark and the tables were full. To say we got some odd looks is an understatement. Chunks spotted a spot by railings with barely a foothold on the other side.“This do?” “Yup!” As we put in, there was a disbelieving shout from the far bank:“They must be bloody mad!” We executed the put-in with military precision, and on we went to the ovation from our doubters. If only one of them had filmed it on their phone…. Dreadnought marked the start of the Thames. We felt strong and really positive, but maybe a little apprehensive of what was to come.

How we would cope with the night time was one of the biggest concerns for the pair of us. The combination of fatigue from continual paddling and Buzzard’s particular inability to cope without sleep meant this was going to be one of the biggest risks to completing the event. To aid us we’d come up with an in-boat sound system, comprising a Speedo waterproof MP3 player and a neat little speaker, which, with the aid of a cable tie, could hang nicely from a buoyancy aid.

This had provided much merriment and embarrassment in training. The inaugural track played in the boat was the theme music from Hawaii-5-0, and this had nearly led to the first swim of the year as we were laughing so much that we nearly shook ourselves in.  Furthermore, Chunks loaded a selection designed to irritate us into staying awake. At least, that’s my take on it. On a solo training session I got some pretty odd looks from bargemeisters as the likes of Scissor Sisters (I don’t feel like dancing), Tom Jones (It’s not unusual), and Leo Sayer. Where was Chunks that day? Cheers… Mate.

We were absolutely set on having music for the night section, but in the event it became apparent that it was not going to be necessary to keep us awake. Firstly, we were too terrified of the weirs on the Thames to want any added distraction. Chunks had never paddled the Thames before, so was flying blind, and I hadn’t done it for over a decade, and I couldn’t recall with any reliability on which sides of the river the weirs were. In the end, we were asking crews and supporters alike what side the next lock was going to appear on as we passed them. This had the added advantage that, as our memories were functioning on the same level as that of a goldfish, we only had to remember one lock layout at once. Secondly we were calling to each other non-stop. The river was so high that there were boils all over the shop. The current was swinging in all sorts of different directions, there were overhanging branches to watch out for, and then there was the hardest bit: it was, to state the slightly obvious, dark.

We managed fine when there were other crews to follow but, in the patches when the crews were spread out, we could see squat. Just determining which way to go was a challenge. As often as not, islands would crop up in the middle of the steam and we’d be guessing which side was best to pass through on, or whether the route we were selecting was going to finish up as a dead end. So: no music, but no silence either. When there was a quieter stretch of water, discussions turned to top ten hits, the merits of Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure over Bogus Journey, the comfort of a Jumanji cushion vs the warmth of a Henri Lloyd top, how friendly the other crews were, how strong we were, and even another half hour debate on the nationality of Henning and Vibeke.

Reading to Marlow was without doubt the darkest section we did. When we reached Henley at around 10p.m., the support crew were a welcome sight. Mick was there, and reminded me of my collapse last time we went through. It felt so different: we were on schedule and chipper, but with a focussed determination. Mick says that’s the point he knew we were going to make it, but for me that realisation had been the epiphany paddle in February. We reached Marlow at just gone midnight, still on time. The locks were challenging because of the current coming in, but we were managing nicely, our portaging drills fitting the bill nicely.

Marlow to Maidenhead is a long sweeping bend, or at least that’s how I remembered it. We tonked it. In fact, we were so quick that we outran our support crews. For the first time in the race, they were not at a designated stop point. After the Waterside experience we were primed for this eventuality and pressed on. Missing a support stop is not a show stopper, and judging from the daggers drawn in the last Waterside between Bex and Gaz, more stressful for the support team than the boat crew: we were more worried about Gaz’s life span than we were about ourselves.

This changed by Bray. At Boulters we missed each other again. We think that this was down to a crew in front of us going down the wrong channel towards a weir. All the support teams watched him in horror while we poled on through.. We saw him, but had more of a clue where we were going. By this time our drinks bottles were dry and we were getting hungry. Windsor was going to be pivotal.

And pivotal Windsor was. Fortunately there was no wave or danger from the weir as we came in, but there was no support crew either. Dehydration was now a major problem. We put the boat down and approached one of the other support teams and asked if they had any water. The request at the race briefing to do the race proud could not have been met with more gusto, nor my despair at crew and support behaviour in the Watersides be banished more spectacularly. They couldn’t do enough for us. Not only did the woman we asked provide us both with a full bottle of Lucozade and water apiece, but other support crews were over like a shot. Energy bars, biscuits, you name it, they offered it. As morale-boosters go, this was all the way to the top. We were back on course, munching and guzzling our way down the Thames.

In between our top ten discussions, a bloke on the bank announced the hundred mile mark. We were still good. Chunks was warm and comfy on his Jumanji cushion, and I hadn’t felt the need for my piece of foam to pad the fibreglass under my butt. At the next lock, there was a quiet call from the top of the gates: “Bob?” It was a decidedly worried Bex and Gaz. The teams had split to catch us; we re-established contact, and were now fully back in the groove.

The gaps between locks were now longer, the river was getting wider, and it felt like it was taking an awfully long time to cover the water. As we reached Chertsey Gromit and the Prefectionist were sat in the car off to our left. I started yelling to get their attention, fully forgetting that it was still silly o’clock in the morning. A quick prod from Chunks set me right and we went and broke their reverie. One drinks bottle of red Bull and Coke and we were on our way again. The rudder was still in Nazi mode, and at one point we ended up nose into bank, but Chunks was doing his best to bludgeon it into submission.

The day started to muscle its way through the clouds; it was turning into a glorious dawn, with none of the rain from the day before. I was now beginning to get an inkling that something was up in the front, as at the next two locks Chunks dropped the boat. I had no idea that he’d ripped all the skin off at least one finger, and had a number of other painful blisters beginning to develop on his hands. As we had set out from the start to focus on the positives he was not volunteering this, nor was I reciprocating about the increase in strain on my right wrist. At least not too much, I hope.

At Molesey we dropped the boat again, and this time it bent the rudder good and proper. We weren’t aware of this until we pushed off from the bottom of the rollers and the front slewed heavily round. There was no turning back - only to the right. After every four strokes we took we had to brake hard on the left to correct the direction. This meant coming to a complete standstill every thirty seconds. After what seemed like an eternity we spotted a boat ramp on the bank and pulled in. Chunks filled the river while I re-bent the rudder, and we were off again.

By this stage we were well over one hundred miles down the course, but Teddington still took an age to arrive. My bum was getting rather sore by this stage, although Chunks, as may have been mentioned once or twice before, was sat very comfortably on his Jumanji cushion. This was offset by the start of the new day which made the navigational jobs loads easier. We pulled in at the side before the tideway and had our second round of beans and sausages. I asked for my cushion, which was unfortulately still in the car, five minutes away. What the heck, I’d managed this far without it. With the same gung-ho approach as thirteen years ago, I reasoned that it was only seventeen miles to go. Yep. You know where this is going….

We were only twenty minutes down on a possible twenty four hour time, so we went for it on the tideway. After half an hour we were paying for that as well as for the previous twenty two hours work. Things were beginning to crack the hitherto rock solid positivity, but nothing could damage the team ethic. Not even the idiot in the dory burning up and down alongside his rowing four without a care for the chaos his wake was causing. We vented our frustrations as loudly as we could at him. Chunks’s hands were a mess, and consequentially his stroke rate was rapidly increasing. This had a knock-on effect of destabilising the boat, meaning I was having to do a lot more support strokes, which was causing me to holler in pain from the jamming through my wrists. Our arms were dropping from the solid, high strokes earlier in the race to a low dip, but our rhythm remained solid, and far better than many other crews. In addition, I was missing my cushion while Chunks, as I may have mentioned before, was still comfortable on Jumanji.

As we went under Hammersmith Bridge, which for the first time in three races I recognised, we spotted two people jumping up and down and yelling at us. Biz and Guy had arrived to provide much needed support. I shouted up to ask how far we had to go. “9 miles!” Oh no. This was really hurting, and that was another hour!

Things were tough, but we were gutsing it out. I could have sworn blind that there was a big red building on the right moving down the river faster than we were, but I reasoned that this was not possible, and as such it was probably best not to tell Chunks about it. At 23:50 a crew passed us and told us there was a mile to go. We briefly discussed a push for sub-24, but decided against it. With hindsight this, along with all the other decisions we made with the exception of Newbury Bridge, was the right choice. There was more.

We were looking for Big Ben. The river was now over 200 metres across, and the banks were vertical, and there was no sign of any support boats. Both of us separately came to the conclusion that if we went in, then that would be it. At last, at 9:25 we spotted the wheel. It was a huge lift for both of us. We de-tensed and Chunks took us across to the right bank. Big Ben appeared on the left, and so did the steps on the far side of Westminster Bridge. We’d made it in twenty four hours and twenty minutes.

In training we’d talked about the finish only once. For me there was unfinished business with those steps. Last time I’d reached them I couldn’t get out of the boat, let alone walk up them. In that one discussion I’d mentioned that I wanted to walk them, preferably carrying the boat. As we neared the bridge I asked Chunks if he was still up for it. I was aware that his hands were in pain, and because of this I was not going to push him to do this. But he was up for it, so as we pulled in and our turn came to get out we both asked our respective marshals, separately, if we could carry the boat up. Both marshals asked us why. Chunks, as ever, replied eloquently that the boat had carried us all this way, and we wanted to return the favour. My reply was a bit more terse: “because it’s our %@£ boat and I want to carry it up those £$%@ steps.” Fortunately the marshal got the emotive end of the stick: “I like your sentiment.” And that was it. As far as I know we were the only crew to carry their own boat up.

The top was hugs all round. Henning and Vibeke turned out to be Danish, and were the crew to finish right behind us, which meant we could finally introduce ourselves to each other, and we were able to stretch our legs and bums, although as I understand it Chunks’s was OK on account of a very comfortable Jumanji cushion. The same could not be said for the rest of him: He was dead on his feet. He showed his finger to the St John’s Ambulance lady, who told him off, asking why he’d done it. Silly mare: Why did she think he’d done it?

The scouts had laid on breakfast, and the reply to “what do you want” was simple: “Everything.”  We sat and had breakfast while still feeling like we were bobbing up and down on the water and, as Chunks got up to leave, his legs gave way and he crashed into the table in front of him.

We nailed it. In fact it was better than that, We bolted, riveted, and welded it. I had beaten my previous time by over eleven hours, and although twenty four would have been perfect, this was as good as. We’d delivered on our training good and proper. In with all the fatigue it was sinking in. I was in bits in the breakfast tent. As I understand it so was Bex as we came under the bridge to the steps. Gromit and Gaz drove us back to Granny and Grumps’s for lunch, a stellar effort given they were as shattered as we were. Both me and Chunks conked out on the way there, Chunks waking up when he banged his finger on the car door.

Chunks’s finger took a fortnight to scab over properly, and his hands are nearly better a month on. I was back in the boat less than a fortnight later. Looking back at it now, it’s a hell of an achievement. As a team effort it was outstanding. All six of us, Mick and Pat, and the family had really put it together. Support is a hard task and Gromit, the Prefectionist, Bex, and Gaz had really delivered on the job. And so did we. There’s nothing we did in that race that I’d change now. And if pride is a sin, then I’ll burn for a long time for this one.

Buzzard 13.05.10