Kit culture in rowing: when the etiquette of “earning it” conflicts with accessibility

Rowing is a sport built on unspoken rules. Some are practical – blade in and out flat on the water before getting in the boat; never let go of the boat when launching. Others are more cultural, shaping the way clubs may function and how athletes see themselves. 

The main one that stuck with me from junior rowing? You don’t wear the kit until you’ve earned it. Once you’ve raced you can wear the kit.

It’s not a rule enforced by coaches or written into club constitutions by any means, but rather a rite of passage passed down through generations of rowers that have come before you.

At first glance, it makes sense. A racing all-in-one isn’t just clothing; it’s a symbol. A marker of selection. Proof that you’ve represented your club in competition. It is a symbol of belonging, not because you signed up, but because you showed up.

But as rowing continues to develop, bringing in new athletes, new funding models, overdue equity in events and new conversations around accessibility, this long-standing tradition raises a bigger question:

What happens when earning the kit collides with the reality of affording it?

Steeped in tradition: why you have to earn it

There’s a reason rowing has a near-religious attachment to its kit. It’s more than just gear – it’s a marker of belonging.

At most British clubs and universities, you don’t just throw on the club’s racing all in one the moment you join or it comes in the mail. You train. You prove yourself. And only when you’ve competed for the team can you wear its colours.

Notably, some clubs such as Durham University formalise this process, presenting the first crew’s racing kit to new athletes in a small event before their Henley Royal campaign begins.

The rule is about respect. Wearing a racing all-in-one before you’ve actually raced can feel like skipping a step, cheating, like claiming something that hasn’t yet been earned. Without this process, the all-in-one might start to feel meaningless. At this point the fabric is just fabric: it carries no weight.

On the other hand, it’s fair to comment that you’ve bought the kit, it’s now yours and thus you have a right to wear it. 

However for those who have raced, the tradition makes sense. It’s what makes the process of racing special. But for those still waiting for long-awaited race day crew line-ups, or those stuck on the edges of the squad due to injuries, politics, or bad timing, this rule can feel like an invisible divide.

And that’s before we even talk about cost.

Wearing it too soon

So what happens if someone wears the team kit before they’ve raced?

Usually, nothing is said outright. But rowing is a sport built on subtle social codes, and the response can be sharp in its silence. A glance. A raised eyebrow. A quiet comment between teammates.

I recall speaking with a friend from Leander who wore his racing all-in-one for a training session. The coach pulled him aside, not to scold but to comment on how he should “save it for race day so it still feels special”.

At its best, this system protects the meaning of the kit, making sure that when someone wears it, it actually means something. That it carries the weight of the club they’re representing, the significance of those that have come before them and those that are to come after. Its legacy as such. At its worst, it creates an unnecessary hierarchy between those who have raced and those still waiting for their chance.

For the rower who trains just as hard as the rest but hasn’t yet had the right race come up, the lack of kit can feel like a visible marker of not quite belonging. And for those struggling with finances, the issue runs even deeper.

Affording the “right” to wear it

Rowing is expensive. The boats, the travel, the entry fees – everyone knows that. For a sport that claims to be for all, in reality, it remains exclusive to those that can afford it. But the cost of the kit itself is rarely talked about, even though it can be a serious financial hurdle.

A full rowing kit order – racing AIO, splash jacket, tech tops, leggings – can run into the hundreds of pounds. And if a club requires athletes to buy team-branded training gear, or even this season’s “edition”, the total cost can climb even higher.

For some rowers, this isn’t an issue. They place their order at the start of the season without a second thought.

For others, it’s a different story.

What happens when a rower finally earns the right to wear the kit but can’t afford it? Some may rely on borrowing or secondhand kit from older teammates at mate rates. Some hope for a club-sponsored reduced code that never comes. Some wear generic kits and feel an unspoken separation from the rest of the squad. Some aren’t allowed to race without the kit.

The tradition of earning the kit assumes that once you’ve raced, you’ll be able to buy it. But for many, the financial barrier is still there.

The American model

At training, I noticed that as soon as the kit order arrived at the start of the year, most of my fresher and American crewmates wore it immediately. Collegiate rowing in the U.S. takes a different approach that, at first glance, seems to solve the financial problem.

Many American university programs provide team kit for free, at least the essentials. A race all-in-one isn’t something you buy; it’s something you’re given once you’ve made the squad. Some teams go even further, issuing full sets of branded training gear, splash jackets, and bags.

On paper, this makes rowing more financially accessible. No one is priced out of wearing their colours.

But there’s a catch.

Once you row for a university or an elite club, you are only supposed to wear your kit. Unlike in the UK or Europe, where athletes often train in a mix of old club kit and new team kit, American rowers are expected to leave behind their junior club hoodies and past affiliations.

It’s a system that removes financial barriers but reinforces exclusivity in a different way. Instead of having to earn the kit through racing, you’re required to essentially erase your past to fit into the new one.

For some, this strengthens team identity -everyone looks the same, and fully unified as a squad. A uniform. For others, it feels restrictive, as if their rowing journey before this point is being wiped away.

Balancing tradition and inclusion

So where does this leave kit culture? Is it a rite of passage, or a barrier to entry? Should traditions be protected as they are, or adapted to be more inclusive?

Some teams I’ve observed are already finding a middle ground:

• Subsidised or loaned race kit for those who need it.
• Second-hand kit swaps to make gear more affordable.
• Flexibility on training kit, so athletes don’t feel left out before they’ve raced.

Because ultimately, what makes a rower part of the team isn’t just the kit. 

It’s the training hours. The commitment to the crew. Pushing through tough winter months, where race after race gets cancelled. The discipline of showing up, day after day, before the racing even begins.

Earning the kit should be a moment of pride, not a reminder of exclusion. 

So whilst rowing evolves and these conversations are had, these traditions should grow with it. Not as barriers, but as symbols of both belonging and progress.

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