The Legend and the Other Bloke Go to Westminster

Written By the Other Bloke!

Last year’s race was tough, really tough. With the Thames on red boards pretty much all winter, just getting out on the course was tricky. Record flow rates and water levels and bank erosion dragging trees into the river all made the race a much bigger challenge. Then to make things even harder, the night of the race was extremely dark, with the moon not coming out until just before dawn.

Despite all of this, Newbury Canoe Club excelled as a team. We were up against clubs much bigger than ourselves. All of our crews not only finished but were inside the top ten. It wasn’t quite David and Goliath, a bit more Scrappy-Doo versus the dark villain, and at the awards ceremony, I’m pretty sure, as we walked past the Richmond CC table whilst carrying our haul of trophies, I heard Tom Sharpe mutter, “We would have got away with more silverware if it wasn’t for those pesky Newbury paddlers.” Or words to that effect...

This year’s race was to be different, with only two paddlers from Newbury entered, albeit in different classes and boats. I was paddling with Peter from Pangbourne Paddlesport, a DW stalwart and paddling legend—everyone knows Peter! We had met at a Christmas social paddle and decided to team up for the Waterside Series and the big race.

Peter and Rob receiving their awards at Waterside 2025

Just after Christmas, we went out for our first paddle together. It soon became apparent I was the worst paddler Peter had got in a boat with—or so it seemed to me. But Peter had a plan. From the back of the canoe, he would highlight my errors and coach me as we went on our many training runs. The bottom line was: if Peter was quiet, I was paddling well... We rarely paddled in silence!!!

Despite my lack of style and finesse, we moved the boat through the water well enough to see us finish, most of the races we competed in, on the podium. I thought this was okay, but on Waterside B Peter was particularly vocal and disparaging about my technique. The last person who so consistently and comprehensively complained at me—I divorced?! We finished the race 3rd, as we had done in the previous race. Peter then apologized for being a bit of a monster in the boat; I sought refuge in the  changing room.

While sitting there I contemplated whether to throw the towel in or not—I really wanted to do the race, but at what price? If I was being current and woke, I would say it had upset my mental health and well-being. If I was being honest and real, I would tell you I was pissed off! Things seemed bleak.

So I decided to look at it from the other end of the boat: Peter had a frontline key worker job that was causing him stress, paddling was his way of de-stressing—his R and R—and he had to put up with some halfwit in the front of the boat splashing about like a 4-year-old in a bathtub. I decided to suck it up, try harder, and do better.

Waterside C went a lot smoother, but was the only one race we didn’t finish in the top 3.

 In between the races, we would regularly paddle the Thames at night. Night paddles seemed to bring a calm to the boat; maybe because we were at one with nature or maybe because Peter couldn’t see me paddling. It was on one of these runs up the river to Goring—about a mile from the lock—that we caught a fishing line on the front of the boat. I saw it at the last minute, but too late to do anything about it. Catching it set off the fisherman’s alarm, which was followed by the unzipping of a tent. We apologized and said we would be free and away in no time, but the owner of the line was not happy. He was, in fact, apoplectic with rage. Just about every word that came out of his mouth was an expletive, and despite Peter explaining we were on a training run for a big canoe event, this just brought up even more abuse. I think he was so annoyed that if the river wasn’t in spate, he would have jumped in and drowned us—or tried to.

Waterside D saw us take second place and with it the series trophy: we weren’t the fastest, but we were consistent.

Occasionally, when paddling,  there would be a “Well done, mate!” directed at me, however, Peter was cheered on at every portage and by many of the passing boats—or the few we passed. He truly is a paddling legend! It was as if I were a ghost in the boat with only Peter able to see me.

I had definitely become a better canoeist; as the season went on I progressed from being utterly useless to just plain useless, and then almost average... in other words, DW-ready.

Devizes - Start line for DW

Final preparations were made and a departure time set for the big day. The weather had been kind to us this year—no raging torrent of a river and not too cold—just one thing the paddler doesn’t like: a headwind.

Ten o’clock was the time we had set to leave. This, we had calculated, would get us to the tideway as it opened—if all went well. If not, it gave us plenty of leeway. Not everyone had factored this in.

Bruce's Tunnel

It was hard work paddling into the wind all day and we reached Newbury a little behind schedule, time enough for our soup and rolls before heading off again. Here we were greeted by club members, running friends, and the Taylors from Southampton who had  come to cheer us on.

Arriving at Newbury

Theale was our next major stop with a change of clothes and some hot food. It was as we changed that Peter’s, soon to be, son-in-law asked if he could have Peter’s daughter’s hand in marriage. Peter, of course, said yes—but only if he could help him with his buoyancy aid as he was struggling to put back on. There was no better place to ask for such a paddling-obsessed family.

We made short work of the run into Dreadnought Reach for the compulsory portage and lights check, and then the night section on the river. This year’s night section was so much more manageable—not having to battle a strong flow and navigate fallen trees—we made good progress down through Sonning and Shiplake, on through Marsh, and then to Hambleden where Peter missed his step and walked into the river. I held onto the boat, Peter extracted himself form the water swearing, dusted himself down and we paddled on into the night.

On approaching Marlow, while adjusting ourselves to the lights of the town, I heard the sound of a motor but couldn’t make out where it was coming from—too loud to be on the road but at this time of night, river craft are not supposed to be moving. Only at the last minute did I see a motor launch heading upriver full bore with no lights on—only the skipper’s face illuminated by the mobile phone he was looking at as he ploughed his way on totally oblivious to us or the rest of the outside world. I alerted Peter, and we turned the boat to ride the large wash he was kicking up, surviving unscathed we reached the portage, where we informed the marshals, and continued.

Midnight ticked by and turned into the early hours, which soon became dawn, and we headed steadily into the outskirts of London.

After passing Elmbridge Canoe Club and rounding the bend in the river at Walton-on-Thames, I heard a choir singing. I looked to the bank to see an Easter service being held outside by the river, everyone linked to large speakers to share the moment. They finished singing as we paddled under the bridge and from the back of the boat, Peter’s booming voice yelled to them, “And the Lord has risen!” to which the assembled mass replied, “Amen!” and then they applauded us on our way. Well—it was Easter Sunday!

The headwind of yesterday morning had slowed us, but still we had made good progress, albeit slightly behind time. Soon we were at the last portage—Teddington; time to refuel, put on our yellow hats and head torch, then we headed off into the abyss. The plan was to pass through Teddington at approximately 7:20, however, it was now 8:30. We still had plenty of time, but now we had more traffic ahead.

The first lot of traffic were the rowers between Richmond and Putney. My lovely neighbour is a rower and rows regularly at Goring, a very good scooter friend used to row with a chap called Redgrave, however, I must have missed the memo from Paddle UK telling us paddlers that rowers, on the Thames on Easter Sunday, had all rights to the river at all times. You would have thought for a few hours a year at Easter they would be happy to share England’s largest waterway, but it seemed not.

The rowers would only begrudgingly move over for us when asked, and their motor launches that follow them up and down—kicking up no small wash for such small vessels—rarely, if at all, cut their speed to help us. To say we felt unwelcome is an understatement. We were about as welcome as bird flu at a chicken farm...

Peter had said he wanted to stop on the tideway for a wee and to stretch. I agreed this was a good plan, so just before Putney we beached for a minute or two. I watered a tree, and Peter threw up. He was overheating, so decided to remove his over-trousers. Once refreshed, we set off for the final leg.

It had been rough through the whole of the tideway and was set to get no easier, but we plugged on, keeping the boat in the right bit of river and steadily making progress. Rescue boats were bobbing about keeping an eye on us, and it was a young lady skippering a RNLI RIB who excitedly came tearing up to us before cutting her engine to tell us we were doing really well, and it was very choppy in front of us. We thanked her for her praise—if not for adding to the chop!!

The London Eye came into view as we headed to Vauxhall Bridge, but there was something else that caught my eye—a very large passenger boat heading down the river towards us at speed. The Clipper boats had been asked to slow down for us and had been very respectful. There was wash off them, but we had managed fine. Whoever was in charge of this vessel did not give a damn.

Now, I like white-topped things such as Guinness and Christmas cake, but I did not like what I saw—a three-foot wall of water with a white top heading towards us. I alerted Peter, who assured me the best thing to do was meet it head-on. There really was no alternative. We squared the boat to face the coming wave, which had broken round the stanchions of the bridge just to make it even more messy.

The first wave tossed the bow skyward—we braced together. Then the second wave did the same—still bracing. The third wave had us swimming. The passenger boat just roared on down the river.

By the time we had grabbed hold of the canoe, a small rescue RIB manned by two young sea cadets had pulled alongside. They had seen everything and been ready. The skipper of the passenger boat had been asked repeatedly to slow down but had obviously not—or had sought advice from the rowing community...

Our rescue crew may have been young, but they were calm and adept. I grabbed hold of the side of the RIB, bobbed up and down in the river twice, and threw myself shoulder-first into the boat. A perfect entry—if I hadn’t dropped my chewing gum it would have been a straight ten. I decided the three-second rule counted for my gum and besides, the dirt and diesel from the bottom of the boat would cancel out the E. coli I had surely ingested!!

On the other side of the boat, Peter struggled to get in. The young girl and I tried to pull him in but to no avail, so she took the rudder and the young lad and I hauled a bedraggled Peter into the boat at the third attempt. It was at this point it dawned on me: I had one boating skill that was definitively better than my partner’s—entering a rescue boat! I decided now was not the time to brag.

Unable to empty the canoe at the side of the RIB, we were taken back upriver to a suitable landing point, jumped out, and waded ashore.

With the C2 empty, we re-entered the fray. I’d like to say things had calmed down—they hadn’t—but we slowly got back into our stride, with Peter calling the strokes, keeping things calm, and heading in the right direction.

Soon we were passing under Lambeth Bridge with the Thames fuel barge in sight. The water was still choppy as we made our way down the right-hand side of the moored barges with the finish looming large.

This is the bit of the race where adrenaline usually wipes away the aches and pains and you make a dash for the finish line, but progress was painfully slow. It seemed to take an age to get to the bridge. We were being thrown around like a balloon at a child’s party. One support stroke allowed a couple of paddle strokes, and as we neared the line, I could make out the individual voices of our support crew cheering us on. Peter yelled at them to be quiet—we needed to concentrate. Big Ben started to chime. I wanted to look round and soak it all up, but every ounce of concentration was needed for what seemed like the hardest bit of the race.

As we inched under the bridge, the water crew at the bottom of the steps started to yell at us: “You just have to paddle here!” I know this was meant as encouragement, but I have just paddled 125 miles—I could see where we needed to go, and I have no intention of heading off down to Greenwich for a lap of honour!! I just needed to concentrate.

It was at this point the noise from the outside world was switched off—no Peter, no supporters, no water crew—just me making sure I dragged this canoe the final few yards and exited it of my own volition.

For sure, if I had to swim the last 20 feet to the line, as so many had, and walk up the steps to receive my 99p medal before being told to sling my hook—then that is what I would do. But not today.

With one final push, we drove the boat into the waiting water crew and skipped out of the boat before running up the steps (almost).

We had made it. It had been tough in a very different way from last year. But if it was easy, everyone would do it.

It’s not.

Special thanks to our super support crew:

Earl and Patrick for the first shift form Devizes to Newbury,

Steve for seeing us to Dreadnought Reach,

Faye and Caroline who are at their happiest supporting DW and saw us to the finish,

Mike, Alfie and Pat for seeing us through the night to the finish,

Jak for having our soup at just the right temperature and making it to Westminster just in time to put my socks on!

And to everyone who cheered Peter and his partner on!

Oh...and of course Peter...who was—as Peter is—forthright in the boat; he was sick many times, stepped into the river late at night, got washed out in the middle of a busy river, and had to paddle with me. But he kept brushing himself off and carrying on, right to the finish line—as I knew he would.

Thanks Peter for getting us to Westminster and instilling in me the ways of the bow rudder...many thanks!