Essex River Race: Timing Glitch

Although it's theoretically possible that a team of mathematicians, horologists, and astronomers could work through the byzantine calculations necessary to predict the exact date of the Essex River Race, I prefer to rely on the time-tested folk adage:  If Bob Capellini is standing on your porch holding a half-dozen home-made pizzas, it's the eve of the race.  I'd spent the last few weeks running to the front door every twenty minutes before, finally, the dinner-toting harbinger arrived.  I'm not sure exactly what Roger Gocking's subsequent appearance that evening presaged, but I wouldn't be surprised if we had an excellent tomato harvest.  Or a plague of starlings.  That's the fundamental problem with portents.

I've heard people say that the key to a successful Essex River Race is training.  Others maintain that navigation skills are more critical, given the estuary's shifting web of shallows.  Poppycock!  The next thing you know, somebody will be touting the advantages of proper stroke technique.  Or of not falling out of your boat seconds before the start.  No, the decisive factor to Essex performance has always been...  getting a good parking spot.  Having recently mastered the delicate art of securing the single best parking spot for the race (I don't want to get into details, but let's just say that town alderman Lionel Johnson has finally solved his "rabid possum in the mailbox" problem), I figured victory was all but assured.  While everyone else was trudging back and forth to their vehicles, I'd have my feet on the dash, eating cotton candy and listening to the inspirational comedy of the immortal Nipsey Russell.

So you can imagine my horror when I learned that the race venue had shifted to the Riversbend Restaurant ("Clams so fresh, you'll think you just harvested them yourself!  Because you did.  Here's a shovel.") at the Essex Marina.  My competitive advantage wiped out!  Not knowing the parking situation at the new location, our only hope was to get there Wednesday at around lunch-time and hope for the best.  Maybe bring along a couple o' possums as bargaining chips.

At first it's kind of cool to have curious paddlers hanging around where you can get a close look, but eventually you get tired of them crapping all over everything.  Hold on.  I may be thinking of geese.

The narrow residential road leading to the marina is festooned with colorful signs warning drivers that excessive speed will not be tolerated.  After nervously passing the fourth or fifth notice hinting at the kind of neighborhood vigilantism that might end up with me a foot shorter, my speedometer needle was somehow resting on empty.  Just to be safe, however, I put the car in neutral, pulled back just a smidge on the emergency brake, and had Mary Beth push the last half mile.

Despite the nostalgic skepticism of traditionalists who remember when the Essex race entailed building your boat on-site and then rushing to claim the prime clamming flats, the new venue turned out to be an improvement.  There was ample parking, sweeping views of the river, and better areas for milling about.  Additionally, the isolated location prevented restless competitors from drifting into Essex's many antique shops, where they'd inevitably miss the race while trying to find just the right weathervanes.  Of course, progress always leaves some behind.  I watched sadly as Bill Kuklinski aimlessly wandered in search of the tarring area, caulking mallet and oakum in hand.

Some people prefer to race against the best possible field, even if it means being soundly beaten by superior paddlers.  That's what motivates us to improve, they say.  Those people are fools.  Improving hurts.  Since losing also hurts, however, we're in a conundrum.  A logical solution to this dilemma is to just avoid competing against faster paddlers.  Do that and further improvement... well, that's just showing off.  So it was fortunate that Ben Piggot and Mike Dostal somehow got the impression that the race had been cancelled due to recent piranha activity on the river.  And that Jan Lupinski spent the weekend quarantined due to a bubonic plague scare.  And that Jesse Lishchuk was busy earning a spot on the national sprint team at the trials in Georgia (and also now appears on the no-fly list). Regrettably, Mike Florio never got the message that he needed to pick up his lottery winnings in Providence that morning.  And Hugh Pritchard?  Apparently he casually disregards dire fortune cookie warnings that mention him by name.

The backup at the ramp wasn't all bad.  It least it gave us extra time to work on our acts for the talent portion of the competition.

I don't know Hugh well, but he seems a decent chap.  He is soft-spoken, but an engaging conversationalist.  He dresses smartly.  If I were to ask you which paddler would be most likely to show up to race in a bow-tie and use the word "whomsoever", you'd invariably guess Hugh.  Then you and I would do a few minutes of cheesy "Hugh's on first" patter and maybe ridicule his accent, because that's the kind of shallow people we are.  I like Hugh.  I'm beginning to suspect, however, that Hugh may be evil. I can't put my finger exactly on why I feel this way, but it probably has something to do with his pre-race trash-talking.  Trash-talking is usually loud and coarse - the comic exaggeration is what makes it fun.  But as executed by Hugh, the disparagement is so subtle and so deftly administered that you don't even realize you've been mortally wounded until you look down and see the hilt of the dagger protruding from your ribs.  And there he stands, an amiable smile making you wonder if you've imagined the whole thing.  Also, I'm pretty sure I saw him strangling puppies in the parking lot.

After resolving a brief (and ironic, as it turns out) scare in which it seemed that the HPK division would be split into two heats, we were ready to race.  The marina has a single boat ramp, however, necessitating a regimented launch schedule.  When we finally got on the water, warm-up time was limited to a couple of brief runs under Route 133 and through the upriver marsh.  With most of the field heading to the start, Tim Dwyer and I decided to do one more pass under the bridge before turning to join everyone else.  Oops.

As Tim and I chatted leisurely rounding the final bend leading to the staging area, we were alarmed to see all of the other skis already arranged in starting positions up ahead.  Resisting the instinct to immediately tumble out of my boat, I checked my watch.  With six minutes to go until our scheduled 10:05 launch, I had plenty of time for my traditional ablution.  Tim yelled out "Hey guys, wait for us!" (which, for the purposes of this report only, you should imagine as being intoned in a little brother nasal whine) and then the field was off.

Tim and I paid a little extra for the platinum-level personalized start, but it was worth it to avoid the crowds.

We pursued.  Passing the starting line around 20 seconds later, the starter yelled out that we would be awarded our own personal times.  While I'll admit that did make me feel kind of special (I was hoping for 1:32am, but I'd be happy with almost anything), I didn't relish having to work my way through the pack in the winding, tide-narrowed river.  As it turned out, however, the skis spread out fairly quickly, and holes opened up where I needed them.  A few minutes into the race, I had pulled even with Kirk Olsen and Bruce Deltorchio, with a disheartening span of open water in front of us.  Finally getting a chance to look more than a boat or two ahead, I could see that Hugh and Mike had a significant lead on a chase troop consisting of Chris Quinn, Matt Drayer, John Hair, and Ben Randall.

Concentrating on scoping out the front runners in the distance, it took me a few seconds to register that the red blob in the foreground was the first of the massive six man rowing boats heading back towards the finish.  I angled right while Kirk and Bruce veered left, allowing the red juggernaut to continue plowing inexorably down the center of the channel.  Seconds later, I heard a lot of yelling.  A half-dozen boat lengths behind me, Tim Hudyncia had looked up to find himself about to be furrowed.  In the resulting mayhem, he capsized, had his paddle knocked from his grasp, and weathered the salty rebukes of the rowing crew.  With an assist from Chris Sherwood, Tim was able to recover his wits (and paddle) and continue racing.

Over the next five minutes I managed to reel in the chase pack.  And five minutes after that I exploited a slight navigational blunder by Mike to slip into the lead.   I had hoped by the time he and Hugh saw me sneak by an inside line that I'd be far enough ahead to prevent them from jumping on the draft, but that's not how things played out.  For the next mile, I had uninvited company on my stern.

Rounding the far point of Cross Island, Hugh made a bold move by cutting through rock-infested waters while Mike and I were forced to swing ridiculously wide after being caught on the wrong side of a conservative boat from an earlier heat.  Continuing to hug the shore, Hugh doubled down on his boat shredding gamble, parlaying it into four length lead.  A minute later, Mike tried to ride Hugh's winning streak, cutting inside a boulder to get on his inside line, only to grind to a momentary halt on an underwater ledge.  The house always wins.

A mile later, I had again caught Hugh.  As we paddled side by side, he launched into what I believe may have been a rehearsed monologue.  It was tough to make out over the pounding of my heart and my frequent cries of "Why, God?  Why?", so you'll (and Hugh'll) have to forgive me if the interpretation isn't spot-on accurate (or even all that close).  He seemed to be narrating an account of the competition in third person, with the announcer amazed that Pritchard - despite virtually no training and paddling at only 70% effort - was leading this far into the race.  The color commentator then jumped in to add that flawless technique and genetic superiority doubtless were contributing factors, especially in comparison to his troglodytic "rival" (setting down his paddle to actually gesture the air quotes).  Like I said, probably evil.

Hugh seemed entertained by our Verdi medley, but secretly he couldn't wait to get back to his lair.

Midway through his human interest background segment (I knew about the Olympics, but single-handedly eradicating hookworms in Ghana?), I finally managed to pull safely out of earshot.  I'd occasionally catch fragments of his elaborate taunt as we snaked through the Essex, but I made it to the finish before being overcome by demoralization.  Hugh and Mike came through in 15 second intervals to take the other podium spots.  In the women's race, Jen Kreamer edged Mary Beth for her inaugural win of the season, with first-time racer Olga Sydorenko taking third.  Bill, who has taken to retirement like a duck to a roasting pan, posted a convincing win in the SS20+ category over Ken Cooper and Bob. Another racing debutante, Karen Pischke, claimed the corresponding women's title.

We wrapped up the day with pizza, clams, and bacon-infused corn bread provided by Riversbend.  Apparently the bowls of melted butter were meant for the clams, but I found that by soaking the corn bread for a few minutes, I could cram a year's worth of cholesterol into just a couple of bites.  After a refreshingly brisk awards ceremony, a select crew of paddlers retired to an after-party at our nearby home, where we tricked them into painting our dining room.

With all the fresh blood at the Essex this year - Olga, Mike, Chris Q, John, Max, and others - the piranhas were in a real lather.

With ocean temperatures now warm enough to afford you up to 90 seconds of shivering lucidity after immersion, we've officially completed the river racing season.  So it's on to the Sakonnet River Race!  June 3.  You must pre-register at PaddleGuru.  Also.... If you find yourself on a Tuesday afternoon wondering how long you'd be willing to sit in rush hour traffic just to get in some gut-busting time on the ocean, why not find out?  Join us at Lynch Park in Beverly for the 12th season of the confusingly named Salem League.  Even if you're not planning on being a regular, it's a great chance to hone your racing skills and see Bill at peak grumpiness (don't worry, we confiscated his mallet).

Special thanks to Tim H, who, for the second year in a row, perceived that I was ill-prepared to start on the Essex, and pleaded fruitlessly for a delay.  That's the kind of gesture that makes me wish I could stop making fun of his culinary choices.

Run of the Charles: History Repeats

While a few masochistic hold-outs still suffer through the longer 19 and 9 mile courses of the Run of the Charles, the more portage-averse of us have settled into the 6 mile race like a long-lost shoe.  With 30+ surfskis participating, this would be the largest ever junior ROTC enrollment.  The entire graduating class of 2011 reunited for the occasion - former ski-cadets Chappell, Echols, Capellini, and Urena.  Francisco even brought his original boat, which is the oldest Stellar still on active commission in the New England fleet.

Your 2017 Run of the Charles field.  (photo courtesy of Bill Lesher)

Starting from Christian A. Herter Park we'd wind 2.5 miles down the Charles turn on a buoy, return a half mile past the start, then round a second buoy to head for the finish.  On the downstream leg of the race, you pass under 5 bridges.  Depending on your fatigue level, that number may increase dramatically on the upstream trip.  Remember to report discrepancies to the timekeeper after the race - you'll be credited for any extras.  With a light current and few opportunities to tuck out of the wind, navigational strategy at this race consists mostly of avoiding bridge abutments and staying clear of the odd duck (which is what we call Bill Kuklinski when he's out of earshot).

Before the race, I heard defending champion Jesse Lishchuk discussing a recent trial with the new Braca Xi (not sure if the model is a reference to the 14th letter in the Greek alphabet or the current president of China).  In praising the paddle, he mentioned that he was able to maintain 12.8 km/hour at his cruising pace of 85 strokes per minute in his ICF boat.  I don't know about you guys, but I need to get revved up to a turnover of at least 100 spm just to hold my position against a slight breeze.  Last year I obtained a Motionize sensor.  Not knowing about Eric McNett's inadvertent give-away promotion at the L2L, I paid full-price like a sucker.  I realized I had stroke power issues when the meters/stroke reading was displayed in scientific notation.  And not in a good way.  Fortunately, you can adjust the units.  It was too dispiriting to change to millimeters per stroke, so I went with meters per kilostroke.  I'm happy to report that after intensive strength training, I'm close to breaking into double digits.

Happiness is a pre-race ham and cheese sandwich.  And regret is that too.

Craig Impens and Ben Pigott - both of whom normally would be serious threats - had independently assured me that their early-season training had been perfunctory.  It seemed odd that they'd use that same term, but I took them at their word (and also put a down-payment on some can't-miss Jersey real estate that Craig was pushing).  Eric Costanzo had run the Bay Bridge Paddle in Maryland the day before (as had Jesse), so with any luck he'd still be recovering from crab cake withdrawal.  Jan Lupinski and Mike Florio - from them, I expected trouble.

Mike loomed large in my nightmares after a disconcerting 3rd place Narrow River finish in his debut surfski race.  It may take him a while to find his sea legs, but on the flat he'd again be a formidable fighter.  Exploiting the mystery surrounding himself as a newcomer, Mike holed up behind the tinted glass in the backseat of a car before the race, only to emerge into the chilly afternoon in his shorts moments before the race, letting his purple satin robe drop to the ground while throwing intimidating shadow strokes.  After the race, he'd reverse this process - returning to the car and declining all interview requests.  His publicist would later claim that this gamesmanship was actually indicative of Mike's lack of discernible body fat, combined with the fact that he forgot to bring long pants.  Only the most gullible among us bought this "I was cold" justification.

Quarantined to the car until the one o'clock race time, Mike was showing clear signs of cabin fever by 11:15.

Dodging the first wave of canoes to finish the 19 mile race, we warmed up and made our way to the starting line for an on-time departure.  Jesse immediately took point, with wing-man Jan in tow.  One of my New Year's resolutions - along with using fewer asides and parentheticals - was to stay well right of the left-leaning crowd on the initial bend of the ROTC.  Having embroiled myself in the bitter infighting along the left bank for the past three races, this time I'd take a more conservative route.  As one might expect, Tim Dwyer attempted to shepherd me back to the flock by angling gently to port in front of me and firing a few cutting Facebook posts across my bow.  I unfriended him, skipped a few strokes, and ducked behind his stern to liberty.

My dad hasn't quite gotten the hang of panorama mode. (photo courtesy of Bill Lesher)

Shortly before reaching the first bridge, I pulled ahead of a tight formation consisting of Craig, Eric, Chris Chappell, and Mike to move into 5th position (which was wreaking havoc with my circulation).  Jesse and Jan were already a good half-dozen lengths out front, with Ben and Andrius Zinkevichus giving independent chase.  A half mile later I had passed Andrius and pulled alongside Ben, sizing him up to determine exactly how much time that two-month old back at home had sapped from his training.  Thinking I saw some distinct signs of lethargy, I confidently made my move, only to find him locked onto a torpor-free starboard draft.  It took a half-mile and several concerted intervals to pry myself free from his grasp.  He would still manage to finish 5th, so I expect that once the kid is old enough to bungee to the back deck, father and son will be tearing up the race circuit.

Jesse and Jan continued out ahead by about ten lengths.  Although Jesse had been pulling for the first mile or so, now Jan was leading the pair.  Despite my efforts over the next mile, the stubborn gap between us remained constant.  After the turn, Jesse retook the lead.  As I straightened out to head back upstream, I glimpsed Mike charging towards the turn.  Given how fast he had closed on me in the final stretch of the Narrow River, I wasn't thrilled to find that he was within striking distance.

After duking it our for nearly an hour, Mary Beth and Jen decided to settle things on the race course. (photo courtesy of Bill Lesher)

Within a couple of minutes after the turn, Jesse had gapped Jan.  Over the next mile and a half, I whittled down Jan's lead by slowing carving off pieces from my life expectancy.  When I finally caught him at mile 4, I knew that it was critical to pass him with authority.  I couldn't let him know how much I was hurting.  While enjoying a brief rest on his draft, I girded my loins for the upcoming battle.  Apparently I was a little fuzzy on the meaning of "gird", because punching myself in the groin did nothing for boat morale.  Nevertheless, I peeled off to port and hurled myself directly into a stiff interval.  It was working!  I felt one eyeball bulging dangerously out of its socket and I was in real danger of suffering a kilostroke, but I managed to move along the shore inside of Jan into second place.  By forcing myself to maintain the interval until I was well into megastroke range, I hoped to ensure that he wouldn't grab my draft.

Chasing after Jesse seemed futile, but not every task needs to have a rational purpose driving it.  Shuffleboard.  Sudoku.  Showering.  And that's just the S's.  At least this pointless pursuit would keep me occupied until a minute or so from the end.  I'm going to try to avoid thinking of that as a metaphor for life.  As I passed the finish line on our way to the upstream turn, I heard cheers from the shore.  My parents, who insisted on attending the competition to "see if those years of piano lessons paid off", had overcome their disappointment at discovering the nature of the event to root me on. They remarked afterwards that I had always played with "a lot of passion", and that they were glad they could apply the same platitude to my paddling.

I was surprised to find that the second turn buoy was being patrolled by a sleek fishing boat with an electric trolling motor.  I'm no ichthyologist (at least, not since the state licensing board revoked my credentials following those sardine-marlin hybridization experiments - with my vast legions of daggerfish, I would have ruled the seas!), but I'm pretty sure that giant orange buoys aren't the kind of habitat that attracts sports fish.  And yet here was this bass-cracker circumscribing tight circles around the marker.  Underestimating his capacity for obliviousness, I had to correct my course at the last moment when it became clear he was going to block my direct line.  And that's how Jesse beat me by 47 seconds rather than 45.5 seconds.

This is why I'm sorry they cleaned up the Charles.

Some of us geezers remember when you could buy a nickel's worth of sweets for 4 cents and you could guarantee yourself a win by breaking 50 minutes at the ROTC.  Probably because of all that cheap candy everybody was eating.  Since 2016, though, you'd better break 48 minutes if you want to stand next to Jesse on the podium.  With a time of 46:34, a race-weary Lishchuk broke his old course record.  I finished at 47:21 and Jan at 48:02, meaning the newspapers could save a few bucks on film by reusing last year's podium photo.  Mike, Ben, Eric, Andrius, Craig, Tim D, and Chris C followed to fill out the top ten.  On the women's side, Mary Beth and Jen Kreamer sparred over most of the course, with MB ultimately getting the win.  Leslie Chappell took the final podium spot.

Invariably, after I've had a solid finish someone will come up to me and say "Great job."  Hey, thank you.  Then he'll add, "I don't know how you do it." Well, by putting in the bucket hours, I guess.  Then he'll stare off into the distance, shaking his head slowly to underscore that my performance literally defies his belief.  It's difficult to not take some offense at this - at least until I get home and watch my technique on the GoPro video.  It goes without saying that all of the above, including the head-shaking disbelief, is delivered with a pronounced Polish accent.

Tim glumly reminisces about his days appearing on the upper results sheet.  He finished 9th, so perhaps he should instead be reminiscing about days of better eyesight. 

The rains that started halfway through the race tapered off just as the Capellini's barbecued meat reached optimum temperature, proving once again the power of pulled pork.  Of course, there was other food as well.  Tim Hudyncia is legendary not only for an encyclopedic knowledge of semi-poisonous foods, but also for his willingness to broaden this culinary sphere with the help of unwitting test subjects.  I haven't been able to remember my middle name or comprehend US politics since last year's Hudynciation.  I was therefore pleasantly surprised to see that he and Jen had brought chocolate ice cream to the pot luck.  Evidently Tim had made a sudden about-face to conventionality.  It was only afterwards I found that the ice cream was made from dolphin milk and home-regurgitated cocoa beans.  Wasn't half bad.

I hope somebody remembered to take some food to car-bound Mike.

We have a few weeks off until the Essex River Race.  Check the site - same course, different registration venue.  Come brine your feet in preparation for open water season.  As usual, liquid, solid, and gelatinous refreshments will be available at our house following the awards.