Scam on the Cam by Clementine Beauvais

was . . .
    â€œThe
morning
?” I gasped, running into oneLondon street and then another, and tumbling down a flight of steps. “It’s Saturday morning? Then when Will opened the trunk earlier, I’d slept the whole night in that van? But then it means . . .”
    . . . and right then I had to stop as I’d reached a howling, screaming, laughing, cheering crowd, glued to the barriers overlooking the river Thames . . .
    â€œ. . . then it means . . .”
    . . . and I ran down bank after bank after bank of people pressed against each other, a tidal wave of dark blue and light blue, shaking flags in the air . . .
    â€œ. . . then it means . . .”
    The Boat Race is NOW!

XI
    â€œSorry, sir, but when does the Boat Race start?” I asked a random Oxford supporter, painted dark blue from head to toe in the manner of a Smurf.
    â€œThe men’s first crews? They’re racing in about ten minutes,” he said. “The women’s teams have just raced, Cambridge won. Look, the men are getting ready!” he added, pointing at a giant screen above the crowd.
    Indeed on the screen everyone could see the Cambridge and the Oxford teams, all of them looking remarkably nervous, standing in two neat lines next to the river, surrounded by journalists. The poisonous Will Sutcliffe was there, equipped with his cox box, and justthen Gwendoline arrived and started to pat the shoulders of all the rowers in the Cambridge crew.
    â€œAnd the coach of the Cambridge team is here,” roared the presenter, his voice magnified by the amplifiers on either side of the screen. “Gwendoline Hawthorne, twenty-two years old, is encouraging her boys to beat Oxford! She also seems to be hugging what looks like an oily teddy bear. Anyway, in the midst of rumors about the general state of health of her team, it looks like Oxford may have the psychological advantage . . .”

    â€œWhere is it?” I asked hurriedly. “The starting point of the race?”
    â€œOh, up there,” said the Oxford fan, pointingvaguely at the river. “But I wouldn’t go there, if I were you—no point! You won’t see anything. You should stay here and watch them pass by!”
    â€œI’m not interested in watching them pass by. I’m interested in stopping them from racing!” I exclaimed, and started to run.
    Well, that was the intention. Because I ran into a very compact group of Cambridge supporters, crawled between their legs, emerged within a wave of Oxford fans, squeezed between them and proceeded in this extremely inconvenient fashion until I finally managed to pop out of the giant crowd and actually start to run.
    Seven minutes now! And I had no idea how far I was from the starting point. If only I’d had my roller skates! But that treacherous Will must have left them in his room.
    So I had to run.
    In my socks.

    The problem is, whether in socks or not, as you may or may not know—and I admit it freely, because I have many other qualities—I’m not a very good runner.
    Not a very good runner . . . at . . . all.
    Not . . . even . . . a little . . . bit.
    I’d managed a minute and a half of sprinting before it started feeling like I was about to spit out my own lungs, while both my kidneys were shattering into millions of pieces, not to mention my extraordinarily painful knee joints. In my mind I could hear Mr. Halitosis shouting at me, “Faster, Sophie Seade, faster! Your jogging style reminds me of a seal hauling itself onto an iceberg!”
    I understood now that he was cruelly right.
    Panting, I stopped somewhere along the bank and wheezed and coughed and cursed myself. Ah! Wouldst that I were a professional marathon runner! But alas, not a drop of that talent in my otherwise excellent blood: it had to