In England, a spring without the Oxford/Cambridge crew race would be like a winter with sunshine. The race is one of the most-watched sporting events in the UK, watched on TV by some 400 million people around the world.
And so on this April day, we’ve joined a quarter of a million other Londoners along the Thames. Or, at least, that’s the theory. In practice, there’s simply not enough space along the Thames for a quarter of a million Londoners. London has evolved for river trading and river industry, not river race watching, and throughout much of the city, buildings crowd right up to the edge of the river, leaving little or no space for pedestrians.

After taking the tube to Hammersmith, Lauren and I thread our way through the crowds towards a paved stretch of the bank with a good view of the river, but it’s blocked off by barricades, and the police won’t let us through. There is simply not enough room for another human being to watch the race from that vantage point.
The other side of the river looks promising; there’s a grassy slope where we could sit, and the crowds seem more manageable. We fight our way towards the bridge to cross over, but moments before we get there the police close it. The race is about to start, and apparently, they are concerned that, given a foothold above the river, rowdy Oxford partisans might hurl their ascots and bowlers down upon the hapless Cantabridgians.
Fortunately, if we stand about thirty feet back from the Thames, we have a crystal clear view of a tiny sliver of river, running about ten feet from the pub on our left to the bridge on our right. We have an even better view of a TV set through the window of the pub. Thanks to the set, we see the start of the race, and watch the two sculls as they glide along the river. When the cheering noise from the TV set begins to fade into real life, we know that the racers are approaching. The cheering gets louder and louder, and suddenly, the boats are in front of us, neck in neck. And then, just as suddenly, they are out of sight.
The crowd from the river begins to pour towards us, and we duck inside the pub to watch the rest of the race.
I get a good spot, leaning comfortably against a wooden wall that divides the pub into two parts. Lauren heads off to the other side of the divider to get herself a pint. Moments, later, the crowd from outside has poured in, and the pub is so packed that she can’t get back. I know this because I can see her image perfectly framed in a Guiness Stout mirror, as she leans against the bar.
On TV, the camera pans along with the two sculls, making them appear almost still, as if all that furious rowing serves only to keep them in place. The only apparent motion is when one boat pulls ahead of the other by the tinest bit.
Inside the pub, the crowd shouts loudly for Oxford; the Cambridge fans are either fewer in number, or smart enough to realize that their team can’t actually hear them through the TV set.
And then the TV set switches to a view of the finish line, and the two boats come zipping in, suddenly in motion. To the naked eye, it’s a perfect tie. Somewhere, the judges are conferring; here in the pub, all is tense silence. An anguished voice from somewhere behind my cries out, “Oxford has won it, surely!”
A few moments later, the judges agree. Oxford has won the closest match in the race’s history, winning by a mere foot.
Events described occurred on April 6, 2003.