The Head of the Charles is about extremities. Pain and pleasure are never so close as they are on the Charles River.
The pleasure is on the shore. Talk. Food. Laughter. More talk. More food. More laughter.
The pain is in the boats. Rowers rowing. Muscles aching. Rowing. Aching.
The people on the shore hardly pay attention to those in the boats. Occasionally the people will glance up to see what boats are passing. It is hard to distinguish the colors of the rowers' jerseys.
"Is that a red shirt?"
"No, I think, it's orange."
"Must be Princeton."
"No, I think it's MIT."
The people in the boats hardly pay attention to those on shore. They focus on the next stroke. Pull. Okay, the next one. Pull. Okay, the next one. Pull.
Given nice weather, more than 200,000 people will line the banks of the Charles Sunday to watch single boats barreling through the water. One after another, boats appear, disappear down river. Another boat. Another disappearce.
On the shore, heads rise and fall.
"Is that Harvard?"
"No, I think it's Columbia."
"But those are crimson jerseys."
"No, they're baby blue."
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