The people on the bridges above recognize theCrimson color, and cheer the boat on--anunfamiliar but welcomed sound.

At the two-mile mark, the oarsman can see theHarvard boathouse out of the corner of his eye.

The long dock. The balconies. The flag.

The sight carries him well into the third mile.

Under the Eliot Bridge.

Under five minutes to go.

The oarsman remembers the Friday races when theentire squad splits up into even boats, and runsthe Head of the Charles course. He remembers theday they did it twice.

Only the sprint stands between the boat and thefinish line. Fifteen to 20 furious strokes. Thereis no thinking, here. Only pulling.

It's a personal thing.

Rowing back to the boathouse, the oarsman canlook at the spectacle and the festivity that hemissed before. He can look at the thousands ofvisiting competitors.

The race is over. The ritual is completed.

This is what the Head is all about.