Rowing into a world of pain
Sorry, let me be more specific.
For journalists, rowing is perhaps the greatest endurance sport of the Olympic Games.
This weekend marked my third expedition to witness rowers at an Olympiad. In Sydney 12 years ago it involved a mammoth train journey followed by a bus trip with the total commute time coming in at close to four hours.
Four years ago in China it was a more civilised 45 minutes each way in a coach, a journey which became very familiar as Eoin Rheinisch was competing at the same venue in the K1 kayak.
The plan on Saturday was a simple one — grab a media bus from the transport hub alongside our hotel and enjoy a leisurely spin to Eton Dorney, to see Sanita Puspure, our own competitor in the sport this year. The objective was to then hopefully grab a nice interview for Monday’s paper.
Puspure, born and raised in Latvia, but living in Ireland for the last number of years, wasn’t down to compete until 1.30pm so the strategy was to depart our London base around 10.30am.
But then we all know what happens to the best laid plans of mice and men.
On arrival at the designated stop I was informed that the last bus to the rowing had departed at 8.30am and was directed to the media information tent. There the helpful staff produced two maps to get me on my way. The first was to get me on foot to Euston Station, a walk of about 15 minutes. The next map was that of the London Underground along with a hand written note of what lay ahead. From Euston it was off to Waterloo.
There it was from underground to overground in search of the Eton Riverside service. Another volunteer then directed me to Platform 16 of the sprawling station and the 11.28am service. Slowly but surely the jungle of concrete and steel that is London gave way to suburbia and then to rolling countryside. Thirteen stops later I found myself at the end of the line at 12.28pm and set for the rowing.
But of course that would have been too easy.
The options at the station were threefold — a walk of 30 minutes, a shuttle bus followed by a walk of 15 minutes or a taxi. With the sun shining from a cloudy sky, I elected to stretch the legs and burn off some of the excesses of the McDonald’s meal from the night before.
But the walk was short-lived. Another volunteer — well there are thousands of them — said that half an hour was optimistic and pointed me back towards the bus. A quarter of hour later we were off and running again with the shuttle service heading for the rowing centre. On arrival I was slightly disconcerted by the lack of water. As I didn’t have a divining rod handy, I asked, yes you guessed it, another volunteer where the water was. He had the look of a man that was answering that question for the thousandth time. “About another 20 minutes walking bristly,” he replied.
The time was not 1pm. Puspure was competing at half past. My heart rate began to click into treble figures. There was no other option but to start running. Now the sight of me at the best of times breaking sweat is not a pretty sight. Consider now that I was carrying a laptop bag, badly fitting jeans and was encountering the thousands of fans leaving the venue after cheering on Team GB crews in the morning session. After lots of huffing and puffing (and I admit a little swearing), I got through security with the laughter of the British army staff ringing in my ears. It took another 10 minutes to find the media area where I arrived red faced and sweating after a three-hour trek with two minutes to spare. And before you ask, don’t even get me going on the return journey.
