LONDON--The last place you want to find yourself is on a small capsizable boat on a gusty river racing against hereditary peers. Yet last week, there I was, piloting Boat 17 in the highly combative 12th annual House of Commons versus House of Lords Boat Race. My boss, a Labor Member of Parliament, willingly put his life literally in my hands--he'd never sailed before--in order to equal the score with the Lords. I was there because I knew how to sail, and, in a moment of supreme stupidity, I said I would like to sail on the Thames.

In fall and spring, I watch the small white sails tacking together on the Charles with envy as I ride the MBTA to Boston. I'm from San Francisco, where sailing is the preferred mode of transportation--some downtown commuters still take their boats to and from Sausalito every morning. The prospect of sailing on the Thames didn't, understandably, phase me.

Though I'd never sailed on a river before, I reasoned that the Thames had to be wider than the Charles. I thought it must be more like an ocean than a river really--it was probably identical to the San Francisco Bay. I knew from history classes that the Thames was the famed departure point for weighty galleons travelling to and from distant colonies loaded with raw materials on their way in, departing with holds full of finished goods.

I also harbored literary illusions of the mighty Thames a la Heart of Darkness. Joseph Conrad's words echoed in my head, "What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth!" In my mind I tacked widely against the great river's deep currents and slipped fleetly over the finish line in a victory over the former imperial power. My dream's finale had me starring in a miniature version of the Boston Tea Party.

It was a very different vision that faced me on the day of the race. The Thames I encountered was narrow, gray, and dotted with dark patches of choppy waves. Dingy black barges made their way up and down the race course, drawing little water. Our centerboard caught in the muddy banks before we were even off the mooring and our little craft was buffeted by the gusting winds. My confidence was as shaken--the only thing keeping me from running away was the trusting smile of my MP. He didn't seem to notice that I was the youngest skipper, the only woman and American, but it was clear to me from the minute I entered the room, an outsider.

This is a sensation I have come to be accustomed to in Westminster. Everything here, from Big Ben casting its massive shadow down into the courtyards to the statues of Churchill and Gladstone which flank the entrance to the Commons remind you of the almost entirely male history of parliament. And it is not simply a male history--it is as much a history of privilege and class. My working-class MP, who represents a former mining community in the North East, was almost as out of place that day as I was. Maybe more so; after all, I could sail.

Together we were the New Labor party, proper poster children for Tony Blair's ideology of inclusion. And together we faced the old guard--the old boys who treat Westminster as a clubhouse instead of a legislature. We faced them, and we won.

Fair enough, it was mainly a symbolic victory. The House of Commons probably could have defeated the Lords without us, but we did manage to edge out two boats piloted by the peers, despite getting caught around a buoy and running aground, again. At the end of the race we hadn't capsized, we hadn't come in dead last, and while my boss now knew that I could swear like a sailor, he hadn't fired me.