It was overcast in Worcester. The air was heavy, and the clouds were ready to explode. The traffic on Route 9 was light, but steady. On the shores of Lake Quinsigamond, people wandered about, looking for a comfortable vantage point along the rocky banks or hovering over the Tastee-Freeze trucks with visions of soft ice cream twinkling in their eyes.

The snake of parked automobiles wrapped around North Quinsigamond Avenue and up through the parking lots encircling the University of Massachusetts Medical School. The farther north you went, the more infrequent the cars got. There was an occassional tailgate contingent, complete with hibachi and cold beer, and the die-hard cyclist, determined to pedal 2000 meters every 15 minutes or so.

In the shadow of a pair of massive green and white tents, put up to protect the precious racing shells, the 34th annual Eastern Sprints had set up house. This was the culmination of the majestic sport of rowing, the tradition-rich spectacle that focuses all eyes on a set of human machines splitting the quiet waters of the murky Quinsigamond.

For Harvard crews, the Sprints had always been a festive occasion, a day to display the dominance Crimson oarsmen had exerted on the sport and claim the awards and recognition they so justly deserved.

In 33 years, Harvard had won the Rowe Cup (for most points in the combined varsity, J.V. and freshmen heavyweight races) 17 times. The next closest competitor was Yale, with six wins. The Worcester Bowl, awarded to the winning varsity heavyweight eight, had resided in Cambridge from 1964-70 and the again from 1974-77.

In the lightweight stable, the Crimson had compiled an even more impressive record. The Jope Cup, awarded for total combined lightweight points, had gone to Harvard every year since 1968; and the Crimson had lost the Wright Trophy (varsity lights) only twice in this decade. In addition, the J.V. lights were taking a 12-year streak with the Cornell Trophy into the 1979 race.

Carrying that formidable history in its wake, Harvard entered the 1979 race with an uneasy feeling. The lights had been beaten soundly by Yale the weekend before--all except the J.V. boat, which carried a 4-0 record to Worcester.

The three heavyweight eights were all undefeated, at 3-0; but none of them had faced Yale. And the Elis were big, bad and brutal.

The stage was set. This was to be a showdown of rival Harvard and Yale, the likes of which had never before been seen. The one new twist to the story, though, was that Yale had been given the inside track. Harvard went in an underdog, seeded second behind Yale in every race but the J.V. lightweight contest (where Yale had a very weak boat).

With gloomy skies and a somber lake, Sunday, May 13, presented the Crimson oarsmen with a less than inspiring day. It had been an eventful evening prior to the races. Last-minute reservations had forced Harvard into a Route 9 motel for what one oarsman described as "horsemeat for dinner and Frisbees for breakfast." It was a less than luxurious start; but then again, the Harvard thoroughbreads were more interested in champagne on the dock than in their rooms.

However, the taste of the bubbly was to come only infrequently for the Harvard crews in 1979.

As the heavyweight varsity eight pulled up to the dock after Sunday's 5:15 p.m. final, Harry Parker was standing silently, his yellow rain slicker wrapped carelessly about one arm. The concrete countenance, which carried with it power and dignity, revealed a slight grimmace that accentuated the signs of strain in Parker's weathered skin. The Schoenbrod shell glided to a halt as Parker grabbed one of the oars and pulled the boat closer to the dock.

Harry You was huddled in his coxswain's position. His eyes were glazed with tears, and his lips were pursed to hold back a sob. The powerful engine room was hauntingly silent. Hap Porter blinked back tears while Charlie Alterkruse hurried off, oar in tow. Paul Templeton, in the bow, looked worn--he too was ready to cry.

As the oarsmen left the boat, Gordie Gardiner, the stout and resolute stroke and captain, carried the weight of defeat gracefully. He leaned over, put an arm around the much smaller You, and offered some words of encouragement, along with a brotherly poke in the ribs. The lean coxswain looked up, and in silence, there was a clear understanding that this brotherhood was appreciated. The close-knit family was at hand to help one another.

While Porter sought out the supportive embraces of his girlfriend and Jay Smith fielded a barrage of questions from reporters, Parker wandered about silently, seeking out each of his athletes for a firm handshake and a typically brief word or two of wisdom.

Around the corner of the boathouse, on the edge of the dock and in the warm cheers of the Eli-infested multitudes, the massive Yale eight was gathered, Worcester Bowl held high, as photographers flashed cameras and reporters fired questions. Jubilation filled the deep blue ecstasy of the Bulldog reverie, and champagne quenched New Haven thrists where it had once satiated Cambridge appetites.

Winning its first Rowe Cup since 1948 and its second consecutive Worcester Bowl, the Elis had found their own burst of sun on this gloomy Sunday in Worcester.

Through early-morning hints of sunlight, the Harvard fortunes had proceeded well enough. All six boats had qualified for the finals, five of the six winning their heats. The super-psyched varsity lights had posted a time six seconds better than any other crew on the course that morning. It was nothing unexpected, but at least it wasn't disappointing.

When the afternoon finals rolled around, a guarded optimism pervaded the Harvard mood. Supporters were flagrantly partial to Harvard success, but the athletes themselves were hesitant.

In encouraging-enough fashion, the freshman lightweights led off with an upset win over Yale. The three-second victory brought a dock-side eruption from the crowd. It left the freshmen in delerium as they accepted the lightweight trophy amid a champagne shower that ended with everyone pulling each other into the lake--as the delighted crowd howled.

But as quickly as the joy had erupted, disaster struck back. After a torrential downpour held up the races for 15 minutes, the freshmen heavies embarked on the Grand Finale. As the boats came into the view of the crowd gathered at the home stretch, Yale held about a half-length lead on Harvard and Northeastern. With just 400 meters to go and the boats in an all-out sprint to the flag, the Harvard eight suddenly stopped dead, Cornell and Wisconsin whisking past like a pair of flashes.

A gut-wrenching crab in the boat's engine room had stopped two oars mid-stroke and left the boat powerless. The shell limped home in fifth place, sorely disappointed and near shock.

As the Eli freshmen climbed up to accept their award and then returned to their shell very ceremoniously, one woman in the crowd turned to her friend and said, "Oh, they're no fun. They didn't even throw each other in the water. They're too boring to win."

But the pattern of defeat had been cast for the afternoon. It was to be an Eli event all the way. With the exception of a brilliant win in the J.V. lightweight race, which kept the talented boat in possession of a perfect record for '79, Harvard was to be a bridesmaid, never a bride, for the rest of the day.

With a considerable size advantage over the relatively small Harvard crews, the Elis understroked and overpowered the Crimson all afternoon. It was supremely frustrating.

The varsity lightweight boat that had come to Worcester screaming "No prisoners" louder than ever and vowing revenge for the May 6 loss to Yale, was just one of four boats that could not make up the difference. After rowing furiously hard through the middle 1000 meters of their race, the lights fell victim to exhaustion in the closing sprint. The Elis took an obnoxiously comfortable win while hard-charging Princeton closed with a flourish that left Harvard third.

As coach Peter Raymond watched his charges leave the boat in funereal silence, seven seat Pasha Lakhdhir remained on the dock, his feet resting in the boat and his head buried in his arm. The letdown, the sudden drain of adrenalin and the misery of a second loss to despised Yale kept him rooted there for a good three minutes. Finally Raymond's hand descended to grab the hand of his disconcerted oarsman, and the pair walked away from the shell for moment, in the somber aftermath of defeat.

The season was almost over before it had started for Harvard's J.V. lightweights.

In Philadelphia, on April 14, the Crimson boat trailed Penn by open water at the 1000-meter mark. Seven seat Tony McAuliffe remembers, "My head was really turned around at that point. I was thinking, 'This just doesn't happen to the J.V. lights.'"

Well, it didn't happen. In a remarkable comeback, the lights roared past the Quakers to snatch a 5.4-second victory and the first leg of what was to end up as an undefeated season.

"They came back because they were in such incredible condition," J.V. cox Alexandra Dixon recalls. From that shaky start, Harvard's only undefeated crew for 1979 just continued the uphill climb. As J.V. six seat and team captain Jeff Cooley says, "It seems like J.V. lightweight crews at Harvard are destined to win."

This was a boat with character. From nine-year rowing veteran Cooley to novice cox Dixon to second-year-model-of-dedication-stroke Corty Gates, this eight was a special blend.

It was a diverse group, but it found a unity. Cooley notes, "I think the captain's role in uniting the boat is not as great as the sport's role itself. Whoever it is that's rowing is working towards the same goal--winning. No matter what the background, it's a very, very common bond."

That bond, and the improved rowing it produced, surfaced rapidly--fast enough so that by May 6, the J.V. eight stormed into Derby, Conn., and came away with the only victory Harvard could post over Yale that day.

"We had an incredible warm-up--everyone was concentrating real well. You could just feel the power and the control in the boat," Dixon remembers.

Subsequently, the boat that called itself "Beautiful Cox," supposedly a tribute to its female coxswain, cruised through the Sprints, holding off a Navy challenge, and came away with the Cornell Trophy for the 13th year in a row.

This was a boat that had faced the pressure of a winning tradition each time it hit the water. But it hurdled the obstacles.

"This was a boat that had a lot of problems to begin with," Dixon says. "Aside from the technical questions, there were questions of just personal chemistry within the boat."

Peter Raymond's mixture, it turned out, worked perfectly. And as for the pressure--well, every Harvard crew bears the weight of a great Harvard tradition. But Cooley may have best captured the spirit that motivated at least this J.V. boat to win, when he said, "I personally didn't feel the pressure, probably because I didn't think we were going to lose."

Over-confident? Perhaps. But in the end, his feeling was dead right.