I have a soft spot for Rhode Island, and not just because it's the chock that holds Massachusetts in place. Our most miniscule state hosts more surfski races per capita than any other, with one competition per 23 residents. The Rhode Island season kicked off with the Narrow River Race this past weekend. The Narrow River, so called because of its unrelenting shallowness, is a long tidal inlet that stretches north from its mouth near the opening of Narraganset Bay. The race is most famous for being about 20% longer than you'd like it to be.
By the end of last season I'd complained enough about lugging around 33 pound boats and decided to put my money where Greg Barton's wallet is. I ordered up an Ultra V10 and an Ultra V10 Sport as Christmas presents to myself, but I'd have to wait until Spring to take delivery from Ed Duggan. The day before the Narrow River Race, I received the call. The boats were in.
Like kittens greedily lapping up the Baileys thoughtfully left out for Santa, we grabbed the new boats from Ed, applied a liberal coat of protective tape, then staggered over to nearby Chebacco Lake ("Now Only Semi-Frozen!") to moisten the skis prior to actually racing in them the next morning. In the two short hours it took for Mary Beth to set her foot plate to the correct position on the Sport, I was able to get a good feel for my lightweight machine. Depending on which source you listen to, dropping 5 pounds off your ski's weight will either cure lupus, shave 5-10 seconds off your mile pace, or just set you back an extra $1,000 for a boat that you could stick a pencil through. In any event, it did seem peppier than my old boat, and I felt confident that my competitors would be gracious enough to respect that perception come race time.
Allow me to nip a common misconception before it congeals into cold, hard, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-ski fact. Within minutes of arriving at the race, everyone was referring to the V10 Sport as "Mary Beth's boat". No. It's my rough water boat. In the interest of clarity, I'm going to ask that everyone please instead refer to "the boat which Mary Beth happens to be paddling today, but might well not be using in the next race". A little unwieldy, granted, but I think we can all agree that in the end, I'll be happier.
Winter has been tough to shake this year, but something shiny up in Newfoundland must have caught its attention on Saturday, giving us a chance to sneak in a quick warm-weather race while it was distracted. We'd start the 9.7 mile course by heading upstream for 3 miles, then return back down past the start to the mouth of the river before turning once again and returning upstream to the finish. The field was primarily composed of Tims, Bobs, and Chrises, with the token Jerry and Matt thrown in for diversity.
Tim the Elder called us in for a captain's meeting. Start here. Turn there. Pass under a bridge close to this stanchion. No firearms. You know the drill. However, he neglected to give the typical we're-all-in-this-together "if someone gets in trouble, your priority is to help them" speech. I suspect this was because the average depth of the Narrow River is about 18 inches, but I filed this omission away, just in case. We hopped in our boats for quick warm-ups and rejoined several minutes later at the starting line.
An inordinate amount of debate about the starting procedure had the desired effect - everybody was too befuddled by the process to jump the gun. Chris Chappell got out to a quick start in his Mohican, with Chris Laughlin pulling a close second. Wesley, Eric Costanzo, Tim Dwyer, and I locked into various drafting positions behind the leaders. My particular position was about 3 inches to the left of where everyone else was depositing their used paddle water, which was the only thing that saved me from drowning.
Gradually, Tim, Wesley, and Eric fell off the pace. Invigorated by my extended baptism, I jumped from Laughlin's draft over to Chappell's, then attempted to pass the latter on the left. He swatted away my attempt effortlessly, so I peeled back onto his wash for a few moments before giving it another try on the right. I pulled ahead a shade, but Chris C stuck fast on my left, his bright orange nose bobbing clownishly in my peripheral vision. After a few moments of this, I decided to squeeze out a quick interval to see how Chris would react.
A successful interval is bittersweet - a lot like when you're 14 and you finally convince your parents to let you go to sleep-away puppetry camp, only to carry around the nickname Googly-Eye Greg for all of high school. You reap what you sow, sure, but those confounded seeds all look alike. Having opened up a gap on Chris, my body was now stuck with my mind's rash decision. Not wanting to let myself down, I was forced to maintain a punishing pace to keep ahead.
For years now, the so-called "Markin Rule" has established that the leader of a race is free to deviate from the established course at his sole discretion, provided that he can trick the rest of the field into lemming-like pursuit. I therefore made the call to shorten the course by a half-mile, turning prematurely back downriver around the wrong set of buoys, while throwing nervous glances over my shoulder to make sure that Chris and Chris would follow in my wake. They complied, although perhaps a little grudgingly for my taste.
In my defense, the right set of buoys was more a figment of Tim Dwyer's mind that an actual concrete reality, and I didn't feel comfortable paddling in those deep and stormy waters.
After making the turn downriver, both the ebbing tide and a mild breeze were in my favor. By staying in the deepest (ahem) part of the channel (ahem), you could take advantage of a current that in places approached 2 knots. In many other places, however, you might easily find yourself glued to the mucky bottom. I managed to keep at least a thin film of water under my boat for most of the trip back past the starting line, then down towards the mouth of the river.
The turn near the mouth of the Narrow River is undoubtedly the toughest maneuver in the New England race repertoire. You have to swing your ungainly boat around 180 degrees in a stiff current, then slide through the narrow gap between a flagpole and the shore. Failure to execute this turn means you will be swept out onto the Double Beaver course, where you won't be found until August.
Certain acts are meant to be private. Just as you don't want anyone around when you delve into that stash of Too Close For Comfort VHS tapes you've hidden in the basement, you'd prefer to negotiate this hairpin turn free from the judgement of others. Since pulling into the lead, my sole focus had been on getting far enough ahead of the pack to avoid disgracing myself publicly at the turn-around. I wasn't positive that I was in the clear, but I held my breath, yanked back the rudder (I may be working that thing wrong), and took the plunge. Unless you hear otherwise from another eyewitness, everything went swimmingly. Fine. I mean fine.
The trip back up to the finish line was relatively uneventful. By staying out of the main current I managed to keep my speed safely in the range between "not backwards" and "utterly demoralizing", with occasional bursts up to "pathetic". I saw Mary Beth pulling her boat (dammit, even I'm doing it) across a sand bar, but fortunately was too fatigued to follow through on my urge to yell "Don't scratch my boat!" Head down, I kept pushing into the tide and wind. The finish line approached timidly, eventually succumbing to my repeated assurances that I wouldn't hurt it. Heck, I was as afraid of it as it was of me.
I had cut more than 10 minutes off of last year's time, which is exactly why I'll be running abridged versions of all the races this season. Next in was Chris C, followed by Eric, Chris L, and Wesley. I hinted earlier that I may have taken a swim (I probably did not), but one of our competitors did actually test the waters. Tim Hudyncia, in his insatiable zeal for racing, doubled back after finishing and joined Chris Sherwood and Mary Beth in their final half-mile sprint to provide coxswain-like motivation. And then he fell in. I don't have a joke here. I just figured Tim would want everyone to know.
Before the awards ceremony, Eric provided us with T-shirts from Seas It - a charity founded by Eric's sister to support cancer recovery through recreation. While the rest of us could enjoy a day of rest on Sunday (or, at least, a day of not racing), Eric was off to compete again the next day to promote Seas It. Ugh. OK, already. I'll donate. Tim D had us do something with Chinese finger traps that I expect we'll all come to regret, Wesley announced the times, and a good chunk of us retired to the Oak Hill Tavern for a well-deserved peanut overdose.
We're back on flat water at the Run of the Charles in two weeks.
By the end of last season I'd complained enough about lugging around 33 pound boats and decided to put my money where Greg Barton's wallet is. I ordered up an Ultra V10 and an Ultra V10 Sport as Christmas presents to myself, but I'd have to wait until Spring to take delivery from Ed Duggan. The day before the Narrow River Race, I received the call. The boats were in.
 |
| New boat. Slightly older paddler. |
Allow me to nip a common misconception before it congeals into cold, hard, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-ski fact. Within minutes of arriving at the race, everyone was referring to the V10 Sport as "Mary Beth's boat". No. It's my rough water boat. In the interest of clarity, I'm going to ask that everyone please instead refer to "the boat which Mary Beth happens to be paddling today, but might well not be using in the next race". A little unwieldy, granted, but I think we can all agree that in the end, I'll be happier.
Winter has been tough to shake this year, but something shiny up in Newfoundland must have caught its attention on Saturday, giving us a chance to sneak in a quick warm-weather race while it was distracted. We'd start the 9.7 mile course by heading upstream for 3 miles, then return back down past the start to the mouth of the river before turning once again and returning upstream to the finish. The field was primarily composed of Tims, Bobs, and Chrises, with the token Jerry and Matt thrown in for diversity.
Tim the Elder called us in for a captain's meeting. Start here. Turn there. Pass under a bridge close to this stanchion. No firearms. You know the drill. However, he neglected to give the typical we're-all-in-this-together "if someone gets in trouble, your priority is to help them" speech. I suspect this was because the average depth of the Narrow River is about 18 inches, but I filed this omission away, just in case. We hopped in our boats for quick warm-ups and rejoined several minutes later at the starting line.
An inordinate amount of debate about the starting procedure had the desired effect - everybody was too befuddled by the process to jump the gun. Chris Chappell got out to a quick start in his Mohican, with Chris Laughlin pulling a close second. Wesley, Eric Costanzo, Tim Dwyer, and I locked into various drafting positions behind the leaders. My particular position was about 3 inches to the left of where everyone else was depositing their used paddle water, which was the only thing that saved me from drowning.
Gradually, Tim, Wesley, and Eric fell off the pace. Invigorated by my extended baptism, I jumped from Laughlin's draft over to Chappell's, then attempted to pass the latter on the left. He swatted away my attempt effortlessly, so I peeled back onto his wash for a few moments before giving it another try on the right. I pulled ahead a shade, but Chris C stuck fast on my left, his bright orange nose bobbing clownishly in my peripheral vision. After a few moments of this, I decided to squeeze out a quick interval to see how Chris would react.
A successful interval is bittersweet - a lot like when you're 14 and you finally convince your parents to let you go to sleep-away puppetry camp, only to carry around the nickname Googly-Eye Greg for all of high school. You reap what you sow, sure, but those confounded seeds all look alike. Having opened up a gap on Chris, my body was now stuck with my mind's rash decision. Not wanting to let myself down, I was forced to maintain a punishing pace to keep ahead.
 |
| I've had black-tipped Epics for so long that now when I look down at my deck, I wonder who's passing me. (Thanks to Leslie Chappell for the photo) |
In my defense, the right set of buoys was more a figment of Tim Dwyer's mind that an actual concrete reality, and I didn't feel comfortable paddling in those deep and stormy waters.
After making the turn downriver, both the ebbing tide and a mild breeze were in my favor. By staying in the deepest (ahem) part of the channel (ahem), you could take advantage of a current that in places approached 2 knots. In many other places, however, you might easily find yourself glued to the mucky bottom. I managed to keep at least a thin film of water under my boat for most of the trip back past the starting line, then down towards the mouth of the river.
The turn near the mouth of the Narrow River is undoubtedly the toughest maneuver in the New England race repertoire. You have to swing your ungainly boat around 180 degrees in a stiff current, then slide through the narrow gap between a flagpole and the shore. Failure to execute this turn means you will be swept out onto the Double Beaver course, where you won't be found until August.
Certain acts are meant to be private. Just as you don't want anyone around when you delve into that stash of Too Close For Comfort VHS tapes you've hidden in the basement, you'd prefer to negotiate this hairpin turn free from the judgement of others. Since pulling into the lead, my sole focus had been on getting far enough ahead of the pack to avoid disgracing myself publicly at the turn-around. I wasn't positive that I was in the clear, but I held my breath, yanked back the rudder (I may be working that thing wrong), and took the plunge. Unless you hear otherwise from another eyewitness, everything went swimmingly. Fine. I mean fine.
I had cut more than 10 minutes off of last year's time, which is exactly why I'll be running abridged versions of all the races this season. Next in was Chris C, followed by Eric, Chris L, and Wesley. I hinted earlier that I may have taken a swim (I probably did not), but one of our competitors did actually test the waters. Tim Hudyncia, in his insatiable zeal for racing, doubled back after finishing and joined Chris Sherwood and Mary Beth in their final half-mile sprint to provide coxswain-like motivation. And then he fell in. I don't have a joke here. I just figured Tim would want everyone to know.
 |
| As a show of solidarity, the top 6 finishers crossed the line together. There were no winners and losers this day. Just 6 guys measurably faster than the other 7 paddlers. (Thanks to Leslie Chappell for the photo) |
We're back on flat water at the Run of the Charles in two weeks.
Unimpeded opportunity to brag about my top 10 finish, and what part of my race do you detail? No more kvas and chocolate for you, tilt dude. And next time, I'm packin' pencils!
ReplyDeleteJoking aside, great race, Greg, and highly entertaining article, as always. For the record, the water was remarkably colder than the air. I'm still looking for various appendages.