Telegraph Journal, January 6 1997

By Al Johnston

Regatta 125 attracted more than 10,000 spectators along the banks of the Kennebecasis River.

Al Johnston, Brad Hardwick, Dave Hartshorne and Brian Nuttall have proof that their visit to Renforth wasn't all fun and games.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Back in August, the village of Renforth hosted Regatta 125, a re-enactment of a rowing competition from 1871. Four rowers from Tyne, England - Al Johnston, Dave Hartshorne, Brian Nutall and Brad Hardwick - squared off against four of the best from our neck of the woods, with the locals coming out on top. Following is an account of how things looked from the British viewpoint, namely Al Johnston, one of the four competing Englishmen.

"You know, I'm just starting to believe this is really happening," said Dave (Lanky) Hartshorne as we rumbled onto the runway at Heathrow. I didn't say much at the time, but inwardly I was rather relieved. Aerodynamically, Boeing 767s aren't supposed to rely on the existential faith of those aboard, but you never know. I was just glad Brian hadn't heard, he was dubious enough as it was. Me pointing out that our plane only had two engines and that this was perfectly legal over the Atlantic these days probably hadn't helped his state of mind too much. The other two crew members: Brad and myself were far too busy maintaining our pose of cool, seasoned international travelers to do anything other than smile quietly to ourselves. Tyne Rowing Club were going to Canada and somebody else had paid for the tickets, sit back, relax, enjoy.

One hundred and twenty-five years before, in August 1871, a coxless four from Saint John, New Brunswick had been champions of the world. Since bursting onto the international scene in 1867 only one event had disturbed their equilibrium; defeat in 1870 at the hands of the Tyne professionals led by James Renforth. A rematch was arranged and revenge was at hand. Sadly, it was not to be: within a quarter mile of the start the Tyne crew had fallen behind, Renforth collapsing at his oar; leaving Saint John's Paris Crew to complete the rest of the six-mile course on their own. Later that night Renforth died amid (swiftly disproved) suspicions of foul play and the legend of "The Great Race" was born, kept alive in the village on the Kennebecasis River that was renamed in his honour.

Now, in August 1996, four men from the Tyne were on our way over to re-enact the Great Race, although not too exactly we hoped. For one thing we intended to win.

Our first steps on Canadian soil were at Halifax, where we just had enough time to change planes, change clothes, have my luggage searched by customs and for my hand-baggage to maintain its 100 per cent record in setting off X-ray machine alarms and be searched. Again. I packed it with sweaty kit on the way back. This worked a charm: with no gas-masks readily to hand, no Customs Officer dared go near it and it was waved through every checkpoint at high speed.

According to the papers we read there were more people there to meet us at Saint John's quaint little airfield than showed up to greet Steve Redgrave at Heathrow. At least one of these was Greg Zed. Very much much larger than life, Greg was the organization man; the prime motivator behind Regatta 125 as we learned the event had been named. Although the TV crew we had been warned about didn't show, the reception gave us our first inkling of just how big a deal the Canadians were making of this anniversary. And Greg's bone-crushing handshake was just the first subtle indication that they intended to win too.

That night was supposed to be a quiet one as we went off with the various families that would be looking after us for the week. I was staying with Brian and Carolyn Flood. As well as owning a garage that could have comfortably contained my entire flat back home, Brian was also the proud possessor of some of the most repellent shirts in the Maritime provinces. As I found when he lent me one for the beach party that night at the local country club. I took my sunglasses to protect me from unexpected mirrors. The family drawing the short straw were the Oxleys. Not only did they wind up looking after two Tyne oarsmen, one of them was Brian "Two kilos of pasta is hardly even a snack, man!" Nuttal. I believe a UN relief mission went in shortly after we left.

On Sunday we got our first glimpse of the Kennebecasis River. I did a double-take to check that this was indeed a river and not the Atlantic Ocean, and thought I could just about make out the far side in the distance. It turned out that was just the nearest bit of an island in the middle. I can truthfully say that I've rowed on rivers that aren't as long as the Kennebecasis is wide. Here the planning either demonstrated its smooth perfection or bumped into its first hiccup, depending on how you took at it. It turned out that all the boats were 18 hours' drive away at the Canadian National Championships, and wouldn't be back until Monday night. Undeterred we converted a coxed four to a coxless by the simple expedient of removing the rudder (an experiment we'd previously tried at Henley) and went out for a plodge regardless.

It was also on Sunday that we discovered that the reenactment was just a small fraction of Regatta 125. Still sweaty, we were gently ushered into the village hall for an ecumenical service. We soon learned that Canadians don't sing any of the (admittedly few) hymns we remembered from school. As my singing in particular is a clear violation of the noise abatement act, we mumbled our way to the conclusion somehow. Things looked up that afternoon at the Opening Ceremony, where we were introduced to the people of Renforth, and more specifically, Trevor (Pierce) the Moosehead man, Kennebecasis Rowing Club's secret weapon. For those unfamiliar with such things, Moosehead Beer is the principal export of Saint John, and one of the few industries of the Maritime provinces that doesn't involve fish. Trevor's mission was to ensure that most of the fluids and carbohydrates we consumed during our stay consisted of his company's products. Something about him suggested that, by comparison, Don Corleone was just an old softie and this probably contributed to the success of his endeavour. Certainly his suggestion for the Thursday night sounded a good deal more "entertaining" than the dinner we were officially obliged to attend.

So began a week of civic lunches, meeting Mayors, Official Dinners, statute unveilings, photocells, TV and radio interviews, parties and generally being treated like celebrities. I think I could get used to this. Checking the press for front-page photographs and column inches is not a common experience for your average rower. One item on our itinerary was a tour of the Moosehead Brewery. It was noted under a heading "Event the British Crew must attend." I explained to our hosts that this was clearly a misprint for "Event wild horses couldn't drag the British Crew away from." I think we made it as far as the hospitality room. Brian and Dave announced their intention of sampling every variety of this mainstay of the local economy, and appeared rather disappointed when they saw the range of bottles on display. The barman opened the other door of the fridge. I have a vague recollection that we also did some training. There is photographic evidence to prove it.

A highlight of the week was the barbeque at Ron Laskey's. Should Ron ever invite you to a barbeque, say "Yes," take his arm off, sell your grandmothers, abandon your family and get there. Your taste buds will thank you for eternity. Ron told us he'd imported a British cow specifically for our consumption. We said "Wibble" and dived in. Excellent.

A final day's debauchery with Trevor under the guise of a golf outing (well, we had some clubs in the van, passed a course at least once and threw some balls out of the window) and race day dawned alarmingly fast. It had all been a nice free holiday up 'til now, this evening we would have to justify it all. Dave insisted we get our new kit a little sweaty for luck, so in the morning we did some last-minute rehearsals of the turns we had worried about all week. We seemed to get around OK, but had no basis for comparison. We found one later, too much later alas.

While the crowds began to arrive, crews from the Kennebecasis RC raced a series of informal sprints against their deadling "local" rivals from Fredericton. Fredericton is 65 miles from Saint John. I suspect this may explain the competitive nature of Canadian rowing; with limited opportunities to sneak over and reassure yourself how slowly your opposition are moving, paranoia becomes a highly motivating force in training. The resultant combat over, the first serious event of the day was the Wallace Ross Memorial Sculls, a 3,000-metre head race. Back in the U.K., ignorance, optimism and the lure of $6,000 prize money had enticed me to have a go. Now, sitting on the start line in a boat borrowed from a man 50 pounds lighter than me, watching a U.S. Olympic team sculler vanish into the wide blue yonder over waves that would pass muster in the opening sequences of Hawaii 5-0, I was less than entirely convinced. I stayed afloat, but aside from that, did not trouble the scorers unduly.

So to the Great Race itself. We boated shortly before seven, for a short paddle to the main enclosure where we got out to be introduced to the crowd. Greg handled this in the manner of Don King, albeit possibly less shy and retiring. As he ran through the litany of our opponents' collective achievements: Canada Games appearances, National Championships, World Championship Bronze Medals, I felt genuine fear for one of the few times in my rowing career. These people had flown us here, fed and entertained us at considerable expense, all so we could give them a good race. Would anything we could do be good enough? The voices of friends back home, downplaying the standard of opposition we might encounter, rang hollow around my mind as we pushed off from the shore.

And so, we lined up at the start. Due to a meteorological miracle that passes for the normal climate of this part of the world the surface of the river was unruffled and mirror-like. Our lightweight opposition were in their new boat, sleek and low-slung. They had abandoned their plan B of changing to an older, deeper one when the wind died and the waves departed. Earlier in the week, we had almost persuaded them to go with this as plan A, but I overdid the practical joke. Water in the stern canvas convinced them they had a leak; if only I hadn't filled the bow canvas too and blown the gaff.

A quarter to eight and a 12-gauge blasted into the air: we powered off, the Canadians vanished. No matter, we'd had plenty of experience of this - throughout the season and we settled down in pursuit. Fifteen hundred metres later we were into the first of three turns. Oof! I'll never take the mick out of coastal rowers again! It became evident that our wooden shell, the only heavyweight coxless four in New Brunswick, was a lot less willing to turn round than it was to go in a straight line. Back on the course we flew along, gaining ground as the boat ran smoothly and sweetly between strokes, only to see our opponents pull away again as we hauled around the buoy. We sprinted off, chasing down the penultimate straight, the yells of over 10,000 people ringing in our ears, drowning the klaxons of all the cruisers moored along the course. A push to the final buoy and we turned together, but again the Kennebecasis men were away in front. Once more we set off in pursuit, their stern creeping toward us every stroke. We had overlap, I looked across to see their strokeman silhouetted against the setting sun. "I can hear Greg!" I called. Still 500 metres left! That would seem very funny later, but now we didn't have enough left to catch them and they crossed the line with clear water between us. Our traditional three cheers went unheard amid the general celebration, but we had given the home crowd what they wanted: a home victory in a pretty fine race. Ashore, we shook hands with our opposition, Chris, Wayne, Sean and Ed, four really nice guys.

So to the presentation, partying, signing autographs, more celebrations, quaffing beer from the trophy (I think we won that), drowning our sorrows and generally enjoying ourselves deep into the night. A final irony was that the official timekeeper had forgotten to start his watch in the excitement, something of a drawback when the finishing time was the subject of some considerable betting activity. In the end the "Official" time was a (reasonably accurate - honest, guv!) guesstimate from my heart rate monitor, but the woman who pocketed the money wasn't complaining.

The two days remaining until we flew home proved the value of the famous Maritime hospitality as we played beach volleyball (not as easy as it looked in Atlanta), waterskied, swam and came to terms with what was, on reflection, a truly excellent trip.

Our thanks must go to Greg Zed and the people of Renforth, particularly the families who looked after us so well, and Tracy Fraser and Mike Maloney who put in so much work. Not forgetting of course, Trevor the Moosehead man! So, roll on Regatta 150, metal walker or not, I'll be there!