The 8th Salem League kicked off this past Tuesday with a solid field of 10 paddlers, including several first-time participants. Besides myself and Mary Beth, we had Francisco Urena (warming down from his Molokai run on Sunday), Bill Kuklinski (after breaking through a PETA picket line), Ken Cooper, Matt Drayer, Bruce Deltorchio, Rick Stoehrer (the previous 5 paddlers all in V8's), Ciro de la Vega (in an FSK), and Rod McLain (in his trusty OC-1). As always, Ed Duggan was serving as ringmaster of the circus.
For readers unfamiliar with the Salem League, here's a summary. Each Tuesday over the summer we meet at Lynch Park in Beverly to race one of five courses (in the 5 to 6 mile range), chosen at random each week (with adjustments to randomness based on weather, tide, and sunlight conditions, as necessary). The start is "Le Mans style" - we run a short distance down the beach, grab our boats from the shore, carry them out to deep enough water, hop in, and paddle. The finish is likewise on land, requiring a refreshing run up the beach to cap off the evening. Paddlers are awarded points based on their position for the evening, with points being tallied over the course of the season to determine the League champion.
That clinical description of the League omits the visceral component. This ain't no bridge club. You're struggling against the same set of relentless competitors week after week, in what amounts to a series of 45 minute sprints. It's grueling and painful, but in an immensely satisfying way. The League is just about the most fun you can have while dry heaving.
Based on my warm-up paddle, I sensed it would be a tough evening. My strategy this season has been to concentrate on conditioning and form to prep for the early flatwater races. Nearly all of my training has therefore been on lakes, rivers, and ergs. After the Essex, I figured I'd ramp up my ocean workouts to get ready for the ocean races. With only one ocean paddle before this race, it looked like I'd instead be cliffing up. The moderately sloppy conditions weren't abnormal for Salem Sound, but they were sufficient to make me question my training methods. I had made my bed, now it was time to sleep (with the fishes?) in it.
Because of the weather - the possibility of thunderstorms and limited visibility - Ed wisely kept us close to shore with a non-stop version of course #4. We'd be heading 1.5 miles out of Beverly Harbor along the coast (into a 15 mph or so headwind), circle Black Rocks shoal, head 2.1 miles back into the harbor, circle a buoy (Red Nun #10 - also a fine Cabernet), then head the 0.9 miles back to the Lynch Park beach.
Like vegemite and self-flagellation, the Le Mans start is an acquired taste. My race starts this year have been poor enough without adding running, toting, and mounting into the mix. Despite many years of living and two years of practice in the League, I have yet to master any of these skills. When the smoke (don't ask) cleared, I was 10 lengths behind Rod and Francisco, both notorious cheaters (but like any skilled con-men, adept at making it seem like everything is legit). Most of the guys in V8's were also ahead of me, although I at least managed to slow down Matt with a well-timed paddle whack.
Battling upwind through uneven conditions, I slowly moved through the V8 squadron, then eventually passed Rod. Francisco was still 8 or 9 lengths ahead, but I was making up ground despite feeling a little wobbly. As we approached the turn-around, Francisco appeared to lose his bearings, looking back to reassure himself that he hadn't already past Black Rocks. Even though we were a couple of hours from high tide, only a handful of the rocks were peaking out up ahead. He quickly spotted them and continued onwards.
Rounding Black Rocks I was 4 or 5 lengths behind Francisco, but it soon became evident that I wasn't going to continue gaining in the downwind (ish) conditions. Already feeling the effects of balance fatigue after our short upwind (ish) run, I started throwing braces like hand grenades. Francisco started to pull away. It was going to be second place for me, at best. Then fortune smiled on me: I hit a floating two-by-four. Although I didn't realize it at the time, that thump of lumber against my hull was actually the sweet sound of an air-tight alibi... There was no way I could have won that race, officer! My boat was compromised!
It was obvious that something was wrong. Whereas before I had been flailing with a purpose, now I was just flailing haphazardly. I couldn't stay on course. At first I thought perhaps my rudder had been snapped clean off, although the collision hardly seemed violent enough for that. It slowly dawned on me that the rudder had been bent slightly backwards so that it was wedged against the hull. I had binary steering. If I pushed the left pedal really hard, the rudder would eventually work free and swing to full left deflection. Although my politics tend in that direction, I prefer a more centrist position for racing. I'd therefore lean on the right pedal to restore my middle-of-the-road course, ultimately resulting in a swing to the far right as the rudder again would stick on the hull momentarily before bursting free.
After struggling with deviant navigational behavior for a couple of minutes, I realized that I'd finish dead last unless I could fix the problem. I performed an intentional dismount (for those cynics inclined to scoff at this assertion, I have semi-controvertible video proof) and made my way back to the rudder, where I struggled to get enough leverage to loosen the bind. While enjoying the soothing Atlantic waters (53 degrees), Rod, Matt, and Ken passed me. No matter, I thought. With restored steering, my V12 would assert its extra 4 cylinders and I'd quickly catch Matt and Ken. And with only one blade and not a single V, what hope would Rod have?
After a blown slow-motion remount, I was in my boat again. I had fixed the problem and was back in business. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that while the faulty rudder had exacerbated my difficulties, I had been operating in the red even before the crash. I was misfiring every few strokes, counteracting most of the speed advantage my slender boat was providing over the slower vessels. I slowly gained ground, but it wasn't until we were nearly at the second turn-around that I managed to get back into second place. Catching Francisco was never an option.
There was some confusion about which buoy to turn around, in part because the target nun was screened behind a couple of moored boats (as is her habit). I saw Rod peel off around the first nun, but confident that the peek-a-buoy was hiding somewhere up ahead, I kept my line, with Matt and Ken following. Sure enough, the buoy leaped out from behind the boats at the last possible second, setting me up for an overly wide turn.
Heading back to the finish, I could hear Matt revving close behind me. Although we were in the relatively protected waters of the harbor, I was having more trouble than ever maintaining a steady stroke. After each frequent brace I expected to see his V8 pull alongside and then inexorably drop me into third. Fortunately, I was able to hold on just long enough, squeaking out a 14 second advantage over Matt, with Ken just 7 seconds behind him. Here are the results (skis only)...
It was an exciting opening night, despite the absence of some of the stalwart League paddlers from the past couple of years (Mike McDonough, Kirk Olsen, and Graeme Rockett). I'm looking forward to another great season of masochism and camaraderie.
For readers unfamiliar with the Salem League, here's a summary. Each Tuesday over the summer we meet at Lynch Park in Beverly to race one of five courses (in the 5 to 6 mile range), chosen at random each week (with adjustments to randomness based on weather, tide, and sunlight conditions, as necessary). The start is "Le Mans style" - we run a short distance down the beach, grab our boats from the shore, carry them out to deep enough water, hop in, and paddle. The finish is likewise on land, requiring a refreshing run up the beach to cap off the evening. Paddlers are awarded points based on their position for the evening, with points being tallied over the course of the season to determine the League champion.
That clinical description of the League omits the visceral component. This ain't no bridge club. You're struggling against the same set of relentless competitors week after week, in what amounts to a series of 45 minute sprints. It's grueling and painful, but in an immensely satisfying way. The League is just about the most fun you can have while dry heaving.
Based on my warm-up paddle, I sensed it would be a tough evening. My strategy this season has been to concentrate on conditioning and form to prep for the early flatwater races. Nearly all of my training has therefore been on lakes, rivers, and ergs. After the Essex, I figured I'd ramp up my ocean workouts to get ready for the ocean races. With only one ocean paddle before this race, it looked like I'd instead be cliffing up. The moderately sloppy conditions weren't abnormal for Salem Sound, but they were sufficient to make me question my training methods. I had made my bed, now it was time to sleep (with the fishes?) in it.
Because of the weather - the possibility of thunderstorms and limited visibility - Ed wisely kept us close to shore with a non-stop version of course #4. We'd be heading 1.5 miles out of Beverly Harbor along the coast (into a 15 mph or so headwind), circle Black Rocks shoal, head 2.1 miles back into the harbor, circle a buoy (Red Nun #10 - also a fine Cabernet), then head the 0.9 miles back to the Lynch Park beach.
Like vegemite and self-flagellation, the Le Mans start is an acquired taste. My race starts this year have been poor enough without adding running, toting, and mounting into the mix. Despite many years of living and two years of practice in the League, I have yet to master any of these skills. When the smoke (don't ask) cleared, I was 10 lengths behind Rod and Francisco, both notorious cheaters (but like any skilled con-men, adept at making it seem like everything is legit). Most of the guys in V8's were also ahead of me, although I at least managed to slow down Matt with a well-timed paddle whack.
Battling upwind through uneven conditions, I slowly moved through the V8 squadron, then eventually passed Rod. Francisco was still 8 or 9 lengths ahead, but I was making up ground despite feeling a little wobbly. As we approached the turn-around, Francisco appeared to lose his bearings, looking back to reassure himself that he hadn't already past Black Rocks. Even though we were a couple of hours from high tide, only a handful of the rocks were peaking out up ahead. He quickly spotted them and continued onwards.
Rounding Black Rocks I was 4 or 5 lengths behind Francisco, but it soon became evident that I wasn't going to continue gaining in the downwind (ish) conditions. Already feeling the effects of balance fatigue after our short upwind (ish) run, I started throwing braces like hand grenades. Francisco started to pull away. It was going to be second place for me, at best. Then fortune smiled on me: I hit a floating two-by-four. Although I didn't realize it at the time, that thump of lumber against my hull was actually the sweet sound of an air-tight alibi... There was no way I could have won that race, officer! My boat was compromised!
It was obvious that something was wrong. Whereas before I had been flailing with a purpose, now I was just flailing haphazardly. I couldn't stay on course. At first I thought perhaps my rudder had been snapped clean off, although the collision hardly seemed violent enough for that. It slowly dawned on me that the rudder had been bent slightly backwards so that it was wedged against the hull. I had binary steering. If I pushed the left pedal really hard, the rudder would eventually work free and swing to full left deflection. Although my politics tend in that direction, I prefer a more centrist position for racing. I'd therefore lean on the right pedal to restore my middle-of-the-road course, ultimately resulting in a swing to the far right as the rudder again would stick on the hull momentarily before bursting free.
After struggling with deviant navigational behavior for a couple of minutes, I realized that I'd finish dead last unless I could fix the problem. I performed an intentional dismount (for those cynics inclined to scoff at this assertion, I have semi-controvertible video proof) and made my way back to the rudder, where I struggled to get enough leverage to loosen the bind. While enjoying the soothing Atlantic waters (53 degrees), Rod, Matt, and Ken passed me. No matter, I thought. With restored steering, my V12 would assert its extra 4 cylinders and I'd quickly catch Matt and Ken. And with only one blade and not a single V, what hope would Rod have?
There was some confusion about which buoy to turn around, in part because the target nun was screened behind a couple of moored boats (as is her habit). I saw Rod peel off around the first nun, but confident that the peek-a-buoy was hiding somewhere up ahead, I kept my line, with Matt and Ken following. Sure enough, the buoy leaped out from behind the boats at the last possible second, setting me up for an overly wide turn.
Heading back to the finish, I could hear Matt revving close behind me. Although we were in the relatively protected waters of the harbor, I was having more trouble than ever maintaining a steady stroke. After each frequent brace I expected to see his V8 pull alongside and then inexorably drop me into third. Fortunately, I was able to hold on just long enough, squeaking out a 14 second advantage over Matt, with Ken just 7 seconds behind him. Here are the results (skis only)...
| Francisco Urena | Stellar SE | 41:26 | 12 |
| Greg Lesher | Epic V12 | 42:58 | 11 |
| Matt Drayer | Epic V8 | 43:12 | 10 |
| Ken Cooper | Epic V8 | 43:19 | 9 |
| Bruce Deltorchio | Epic V8 | 44:52 | 8 |
| Bill Kuklinski | Epic V8 | 46:37 | 7 |
| Rick Stoehrer | Epic V8 | 49:44 | 6 |
| Mary Beth Gangloff | Huki S1-R | 58:42 | 12 |
It was an exciting opening night, despite the absence of some of the stalwart League paddlers from the past couple of years (Mike McDonough, Kirk Olsen, and Graeme Rockett). I'm looking forward to another great season of masochism and camaraderie.
'Lubber question: What's an erg? UJ
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