At the front of the rowing club I hesitate. Should I enter one of the boat bays or take the stairs at the side that might go up to offices and meeting rooms. I know no one and the frenzy of activity on the tarmac is overwhelming. I am expected, so I can’t turn around and go back to the hotel. I straighten my shoulders, plunge into the activity.

As others arrive, there is a flurry of greetings and air kisses on both cheeks. Some crews are already organized enough to carry quads out of the boathouse and set them up, hull down, on stretchers, adjusting the position of the footplates, checking that the seats roll smoothly on the slides.

I interrupt a man in a gilet from Aviron Union Nautique Lyon undoing bolts on a rigger. I ask where I can find “l’enregistement”. It’s up the stairs. I push and smile against the throng descending, slide into the line going up to reach a table half filling the hallway. I shout above the clamour to explain to a young woman who I am. She stands up and waves to a man laughing with others in a doorway. “Michel, viens. La dame du Canada est arrivée”.

I am in Lyon, France and today I turn 60. Every year on May 1^st, my birthday, La Traversée de Lyon takes place. The timing this year fits perfectly within my travels. I have a rowing colleague in Lyon and asked her if I might be able to join a crew, without telling her the reason. Four French rowers were rustled up, a coxed quad found at the last minute and here I am, helping to carry an old, heavy boat down the steep ramp to the dock on the Saône River.

Everyone is friendly with the camaraderie of our sport, the seriousness and excitement of a big event. Michel introduces the rest of our équipe: Corinne, Marc and Fréderic. Air kisses on both cheeks all round. Immediately we use the informal “tu”.  They are all wiry and slim, past racers, current coaches who have rowed this Traversée dozens of times but seem glad to be rowing again with me on this cool and dreary day. The French muster admirable team spirit for collegial sporting events like this one.

I learnt the hard way on a previous French club row that you do not sit down in the boat first, then push off from the dock with your hand, as we do in Canada. Mais non. Right foot into the boat, balancing on that one leg in the one place where it is possible to stand. Grip the handles of both oars with one hand, the other on the gunwale for balance. Push away fluidly from the dock with your left leg as you lower yourself elegantly onto the seat, gracefully sliding your foot into the foot plate straps or shoe. I manage this without too much embarrassment. We are off.

Misty drizzle drips off the brims of our caps, obscures the view. Impossible to see all 100 rowing shells on the water. It is a true traversée or crossing of the city and its history over the 30 km return trip. Lyon straddles the Saône and Rhône Rivers, a protracted joining forming the jut of land at the confluence in the centre of the city. We will descend the Saône to the confluence. Row up the Rhône to the halfway point. Turn around for the return trip.

We are too cold, too hot, too cold. We stop to put rain coats on, take rain coats off, land at a dock to switch Fréderic who is jammed into the bow coxswain position. He has lost all feeling in his feet from not moving.

A steady chatter floats along the length of the boat. A little grumbling about how old it is. Soon we are making jokes about the squealing pig noise of the wheels on the slide and the old bones creaking of the oarlocks. We are all silently heroic about the hard narrow, wooden seats. Or at least I am, and I notice subtle shifting and minor wriggling of the rowers in front of me.

Michel is stroking and sets a relaxed pace, sustainable for the distance to be covered. He is very easy to follow. This is what I love about rowing, how we all have essentially the same technique anywhere in the world. Strangers now a crew moving in unison, making a boat glide forward.

Initially the shores are almost bucolic, vines reaching to touch the water, green trees rising tall from the bank or framing small groups of two and three-story stone houses. “Regard l’église, Ruth”. Corinne has designated herself my official tour guide. I learn that the square, straight and simple bell tower we just rowed past is from a 12^th century church, located on the l’Île-Barbe, the name derived from the Latin insula barbara, “unspoiled island”. It is one of several churches that serenely survey the noisy, passing rowers. It is the prettiest.

The sun tries to appear, then gives up as we approach the confluence. The buildings became denser, the trees rarer, the sky more visible. Clouds still mostly obscure the massive basilica above on the hill of Fourvière.   We pause for a break and to drink water. Corinne explains that we are in the Renaissance section of Vieux Lyon, the heart of the silk weaving industry in the late 1400s and early 1500s. The long row of buildings crowding together on the far bank rise five to seven stories, unornamented facades painted pink, beige, pale yellow, faint orange.

We row on in silence for a bit, just the rhythmic clicking of the oars turning in the oarlocks, the splash of the blades into the water, the noise of cars on the shore and the laughter from other rowing shells.

My mind drifts with the steady strokes to my very first trip to Lyon, maybe 40 years ago. I came here with my mother.  It was the first trip we took together, just the two of us, the vanguard of many. We came to see weaving, and especially the silk. We visited a silk museum. It must have been in the part of Lyon we just passed. From a narrow street crowded by tall, pastel buildings we entered an inner courtyard, ringed by balconies, slashed by angles of stairs. It was dark. The museum was cramped with looms, warp winders, spindle spoolers all stuffed into small quarters. My mother was in her element, inspecting every item, asking questions in her terrible French. I bought a souvenir – a small white silk scarf. An impractical purchase. It is too small to really wear and white is too plain. I still have it, tucked into a drawer, soft with memories.  

Now we are rowing past the modern jumble of fantastic and brilliantly coloured architecture at the confluence. We leave the gentle pull of the Saône to push against the strong current of the wide Rhône. No more talking. Drop the blade in at the catch. Push hard with the legs, open with the back, finish with the arms. Blades come out square, feather them flat with the water and slowly, slowly pull up the slide to the catch. Over and over and over again, the regular rhythm of rowing.

The halfway turning point is by the university, a mix of classical and concrete buildings.  Time for a break on the shore, stretching and groaning slightly under the gaze of buildings on La Croix-Rouse hill. Corinne tells me that the silk weavers moved there from Vieux Lyon.

It is a fast spin back to the confluence, and we return to the club without any further breaks or tour guiding. We are all hungry, our rear ends hurt, blisters irritate our hands. It’s been a fabulous birthday row. Clean and warm from hot showers, we join a boisterous yet elegant party in the clubhouse, as the French do so well.

Sometime after the aperitifs, the speeches and in the midst of the massive lunch, I confess to my crew mates that this was not only my birthday but a special one. Well, something had to be done. Decisions are made and after the festivities wind up, we retire to someone’s home high on a hill on the other side of the Saône. Somehow a cake is produced. There are toasts to birthdays, friendship and rowing.  I add a silent toast to my mother and the silk of Lyon. I am going to slide these rowing memories into the drawer with the scarf.