With a couple of Rhode Island races shifted into July to avoid the hustle and bustle of kraken season (and, sure, the boat-chomping too), the Nahant Bay Cup remained as the only August race in New England. Despite retiring from competitive paddling back in the mid-teens, Mike McDonough was on hand to host the 10th running of the race. Harpoons were optional this year, but infrared goggles were mandatory.
The forecast called for overcast skies with light winds, clearing as the day wore on. But those gathered at Fishermans Beach in Swampscott watched with impotent horror as thick fog stole over the ocean. As successive landmarks of Nahant Bay were lost to view, Mike was forced to repeatedly improvise new course proposals, aided by a cacophony of suggestions, opinions, and casserole recipes (I got confused in the excitement). Paradoxically, the course options became more convoluted as the viable race area decreased. One proposed course required that we find the blue key to unlock the secret passage that would lead us to the kidnapped princess (after killing the Squid King, of course). By race time, our world had been reduced to a white-walled region adjacent to the beach, barely a half-mile across.
Bruce may have uttered some choice phrases later on, but his last words heard by anyone else were "It doesn't seem so foggy to me!"
Calmer heads prevailed when it came to defining the race route. Starting from just off the beach, we'd round an unoccupied mooring buoy, curve out around the mooring field, turn on a red nun, return to the mooring buoy, repeat the nun-buoy loop, head back to the nun, then turn into shore for a finish on the beach. At a semi-sprint distance of just over 3 miles, this would be the shortest surfski course many of us had ever raced. I'd have to abandon a cherished tradition of early-race lollygagging to have any chance at winning. Paddlers with fast starts, like Andrius Zinkevichus and Matt Drayer, would have a clear advantage. I also had concerns about upstart John Hair.
In our innocence, we initially welcomed Rochester paddlers as friendly tourists to our New England races. With their funny accents and quaint ceremonial headgear, these in-lander heathens were more to be pitied than feared. Oops. If we had known then what we know now, we would have blown the bridges over the Hudson (sorry, Jan - collateral damage) to prevent the conquering horde from gaining a foothold. I suspect they might have eventually flanked us by paddling down the St. Lawrence, but at least we'd have bought ourselves some time. John was the lone representative at this race, but his recent Blackburn performance was sufficient to unnerve us. And also his necklace of human ears.
Although he's developed into a fine paddler, John remains a clumsy saboteur.
Twenty minutes before the scheduled start, a hushed murmur raced through the anxious racers. Jan Lupinski was on his way! Swooping in at the last second - often sans some important piece of equipment, like a boat or pants - is kind of his trademark. "Classic Jan," some chortled. "What a character!" said others. I, on the other hand, walked a few minutes down the beach, shook a resentful fist at the heavens, and cried out "Lupinskiiiii!!!" Based on the odd looks I got after rejoining the crowd, I perhaps should have moved a little further off before this outburst. In earlier flatwater races this year, I'd spent the first 5 miles or so chasing down Jan. Which meant in Nahant I'd catch him about the time of the awards ceremony.
Once Jan had arrived, Mike marshaled us to a quick start. With the initial 90 degree left-hand turn less than a quarter of a mile into the race, it seemed likely that the field would still be clumpy at that point. In a rare moment of tactical foresight, rather than pushing for the lead I concentrated on maneuvering to the right side of the pack so that I could swing wide and remain clear from any turn-induced mayhem. Of course, with just a little more advanced planning, I needn't have started from the far left side of the line. Next time maybe I'll splurge and get the extended foresight package.
I executed this rudimentary plan flawlessly - to the point that scarcely anyone cursed at me during the sweeping turn. Heading out around the mooring field, Andrius, John, Chris Chappell, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley Echols were ahead in a pack on a tighter line. Matt and Jan had chosen to swing wide, mostly by dint of unwisely being caught outside of me. Rather than cutting back and working through the lead pack, I stayed out and tried to pass them in clean water. During this slow-motion move, John and Andrius pulled free from the others.
When it became apparent that my original plan of leaving everyone in the dust prior to the first 180 degree turn wasn't going to pan out (insufficient resources...), I settled alongside of John. Not taking the hint that we were looking for some alone time out front, third paddle Andrius stubbornly continued to draft between us. After making the turn around the nun, our awkward trio fell apart briefly, but we shortly after returned to our established roles. Every time I thought perhaps we had ditched our unwanted chaperone, he would nose forward to remind us that we weren't alone. One time, when Andrius thought John and I were getting a little too cozy for his comfort, he had some stern words for us. I couldn't exactly understand what he said (I think it might have been in Lithuanian), but the gist was clear - we needed to stay at least a paddle length apart.
Despite Andrius' warnings, as we approached the next turn buoy, there were a couple of instances of literal friction between paddlers as John and Andrius got tied up with one another. The rebukes were definitely in English now. Although it takes two flanks to execute an effective pincer movement - even if inadvertent - I managed to deflect most of the blame by whistling non-nonchalantly while surreptitiously pointing at John. After the turn, our formation came permanently unglued as John made a nice push to seize a solo lead and drop Andrius and me.
At the last couple of turns, I had noticed that Jan and Matt were closer on our heels. At this buoy, Lupinski must have spun his 560 around on a 10 Groszy piece, because almost as soon as John took the clear lead, Jan relieved him of his duties. Panicked that the two new-found partners would sail off together into the mist without a designated guardian, I ratcheted up the intensity (should I be worried that there's now an actual creaky mechanical sound associated with that metaphor?) and grabbed onto John's stern wash. We'd stay in this rough drafting arrangement through the next couple of 180 degree turns, although with each change of direction the gaps between us would temporarily accordion out a couple of boat lengths. In general, I was getting a cleaner draft off of John than he was of Jan. Any guilt I might have felt about not taking a turn pulling John was alleviated by an almost total lack of conscience.
Rub his belly once and you've got a friend for life.
We hit the nun for the third and final time in a tight draft line, Jan throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to assess the state of the field. With less than a half-mile to the finish, the sprint commenced immediately after the turn. Jan quickly opened up a gap of a few boat lengths, which John and I narrowed by taking a line tighter to Lincoln House Point and paddling slightly harder. With a quarter mile remaining, I pulled even with John. We remained abreast for the next half-hour, neither one of us able to seize the advantage. Finally, by dint of louder grunts (that's right - I just broke all the rules of writing etiquette by doubling down on "dint") I was able to convince John that I was actually paddling faster than he was. The stalemate broken, I move ahead to chase down the leader.
Unfortunately, Jan was less susceptible to the illusion of my speed. Although I managed to trick him into giving up a boat length of his lead, he had enough in reserve to beat me to the line by a couple of seconds. John was about the same distance behind me. I had convinced myself that the three of us had dominated the race, but Matt, Andrius, and Tim belied this conceit by finished within the next minute. The most exciting finish of the day was provided by women's champion, Mary Beth (paddling her new foggy conditions boat), who passed Bob Wright as he fidgeted with his leash on the beach. The most exciting acceptance speech of the day was provided by Bill Kuklinski, who, upon receiving the Legends award from Mike, grumpily yelled at us all to get off his lawn.
Not content with walking away with just the title, Jan also had to take the last of my remaining dignity.
We had only paddled a third of the distance of a normal Nahant Bay Cup, so it only made sense that we triple our typical post-race caloric intake, gorging ourselves on the bountiful spread provided by Carol and Mike. Was I suffering a sausage and cookie induced hallucination, did the third course consist of pickle sandwiches? Many thanks to the McDonoughs for adapting to less-than-ideal race conditions.
Take some time off. It's been a long slog through this season's races (not to mention race reports), but now it's time to recharge. You'll need to be at full capacity for the 20 mile Great Peconic Race (September 9, register at PaddleGuru), the flatwater Great Stone Dam Classic (September 10, no need to pre-register), and the paddler-packed Lighthouse to Lighthouse (September 16, register at PaddleGuru).
Since my unnerving at the 2014 US Surfski Championships in San Francisco, I've been content to frolic about in the friendlier waters closer to home. While I can generally hold my own in purposeless rough seas (mostly by dropping a notch or two down on the boat stability ladder), downwind conditions continue to flummox me. If the stars line up just wrong and we accidentally end up with a genuine downwind race, the regional guys with surfing mojo will mop the ocean floor with me. Having suffered through several such crash courses, it was time to get serious about my downwind education.
With Carter Johnson at the helm, the Gorge Downwind Championships has quickly become the pre-eminent race in the New World. Driven by temperature and pressure gradients between the east and west sides of the Cascades, the consistent summer wind funnels east up the dramatic Columbia River gorge, interacting with the outgoing current to stack up eminently surfable waves. That would be enough to make this a world-class downwind destination, but let's also throw in warm freshwater, sunny skies, convenient direct-line shuttle options, numerous safe take-outs, little boat traffic, spectacular scenery... it's actually kind of surprising that we haven't all just moved there. It's the perfect venue for realizing the extent of your downwind deficiencies. And, for those so inclined, getting to work on fixing them.
Somehow these friendly denizens of the Columbia River didn't make it into the Gorge promotional materials.
The Gorge is more of an extended paddling festival than anything else. With daily shuttles providing superb 7.5 mile runs, colorful paddlers from across the world, and $2 craft beers - the race itself was only one facet of the event. Despite the mind-bending logistics of accommodating over 500 registered paddlers (between skis, OCs, and SUPs), 94% of everything went smoothly - a good 30% better than most twenty-person races I've been to. I never once had to wait in line for a port-a-potty, so that starts it out at a B+ right there. I'd refer to Carter as indefatigable, but I'm pretty sure he and his crack team of volunteers just did a good job of hiding the fact that they were running on empty by the end of the week.
Mary Beth would be accompanying me to provide solace and resuscitation, as necessary. Although we'd try to squeeze in some hikes and other team activities while in Hood River, there was a clear asymmetry in the vacation-ness of the trip. As part of the pre-Gorge negotiations, I had already ceded the expansion of her celebrity cheat list from 5 to 20 members, although I questioned whether "that yoga instructor at the Y" met the necessary qualifications. Turns out he's got like 170 followers on Instagram, so I guess I can't really argue with that. Additionally, I had agreed to certain upgrades to my personal hygiene regimen and to stop embellishing race reports. Despite our understanding, each time I watched a glowering Mary Beth recede from the rear window of the shuttle, I could feel the balance of household chores shifting.
The importance of staying hydrated cannot be overstated.
A significant fraction of the Northeast contingent at the Gorge boarded at a spectacular house procured by Jim Hoffman and his family. Tucked away in the middle of a pear orchard just out of town, the estate featured postcard views of Mt. Adams to the north and Mt. Hood to the south. And vacuum-assisted toilets that, should you accidentally trigger while still perched, would also eliminate the next day's meals. Joining us in the house were northeast paddlers Tim Dwyer (along with his long-suffering daughter, Gaelyn), Mark Ceconi, Steve Delgaudio, and Timmy Shields. Other Gorge paddlers from our neck of the woods included Kirk Olsen, Jan Lupinski, Eric Costanzo, Hugh Pritchard, and Mike Alexeev (not technically from our area, but some region needs to claim Columbus) - none of whom managed to pass Jim's onerous entrance exam. I knew all those hours spent on adult coloring books would eventually come in handy.
Another failed attempt to gather a quorum for breakfast.
Jim is a cross between your favorite uncle and a mostly-shaved Sasquatch. You'd want him on your side in an old-fashioned rumble - heck, the rest of the gang could just workshop their nicknames during the melee (I'm thinking of going with either "The Nose" or "Bleeder"). But he'd be too busy saving the children to be any help in a knife fight with carnies. Guests at our exclusive Hood River retreat were privy to certain executive benefits. As a result of graciously hosting dozens of paddling dignitaries at his New York home, Jim is connected. This meant that during the course of the week, we got to dine with luminaries like Austin Kieffer (who, improbably, is actually friendlier than he looks) and Oscar Chalupsky (who, improbably, is quite the unicyclist).
Mary Beth and I arrived in Seattle on Friday to do a little sight-seeing prior to arriving at Hood River. It's a bit of a blur now, but 90% of our photos include wildflowers, pints of beer, and/or marmots, so I'm assuming we had a pretty good time. We were the final guests to arrive at the house Sunday evening, which you'd think would have given everyone adequate time to hang the celebratory bunting and prep the fireworks. As it was, our gala welcome consisted of Mark glancing up momentarily over his book. And - I'm pretty sure - frowning. Might have been a grimace. He got his comeuppance, however, when he fell victim to a classic taco scam at the Mexican restaurant we dined at later.
Perhaps it goes without saying, but we were asked to never return to the Sixth Street Bistro.
The next morning the crew made its way to Waterfront Park to sign-in and get our rental boats sorted. Indemnification is kind of my specialty, so I breezed through the necessary waivers and joined the registration line with my paddling peers. I'm sticking with that characterization, even though Jasper Mocke was a few places ahead of me.
I found myself next to Eric Mims in line. Nice guy, Eric. On the surface. We reminisced about how, almost exactly a year ago, he had kicked my ass at the Blackburn Challenge and speculated on how soundly he was going to thrash me at the Gorge. That may have just been in my head, now that I think about it, which goes to show you just how devious a competitor Eric is. He did, however, relate a tale about paddling a river down South where the banks afforded no take outs. You'd slowly sink knee-deep in black ooze, while razor-sharp shells embedded in the muck would cut your legs to ribbons. I've awoken screaming and clutching my calves pretty much every night since. Of course, Eric's ham-handed attempts to throw me off my game were completely unnecessary (or, alternatively, extraordinarily effective) - he'd finish 57 places ahead of me later in the week.
Kenny insisted that I demonstrate a half-dozen remounts before he'd let me take the boat.
After registering, I found Kenny Howell at the Epic tent to pick up my rental boat - a brand new V10 Sport, still enveloped in shipping film. After we cut it free, I proceeded to sheathe it a protective coat of pipe tape so extensive that it now appeared to be some type of well-disguised prototype ski, its true lines hidden from competitors' eyes. Anxious to get in my first run, I hoisted my mystery steed onto the next available shuttle to Viento State Park.
My paddling buddy for most of the week would be Kirk. I've competed against Kirk in nearly 100 races over the past six years, so I figured to have a pretty good assessment of his skill set. He's a solid paddler who's perhaps 30 seconds a mile slower than me in average New England conditions. So, naturally, watching him consistently surf away while exerting half of my effort was pretty damned annoying. Fortunately, by over-clocking my heart to a medically unsafe tempo, I was mostly able to match his pace. There was even a proud moment when I pulled cleanly ahead, his cry of "Hold up, I need to take this call!" fading in the wind.
Within a minute of getting out in the Columbia, we were in better downwind conditions than I had seen in many months of paddling back home. And not just because I mostly train on a lake with a fetch only slightly longer than my boat (hey, it's 90 seconds closer than the ocean). I couldn't match the ease and grace with which every other paddler was surfing, but I still whooped it up - almost as if I wasn't seething with envy. Even a downwind bumbler couldn't help catching thrilling rides, although I'd advise such a hypothetical bumbler to hold off on the Carter Johnson-style paddle showboating. Over the course of a half-dozen runs during the week, I noticed distinct improvements in my skills; it'd almost be impossible for this not to be the case given the ideal learning conditions. I skipped lunch to squeeze a second run in Monday. Hitting the beer tent immediately afterwards, I spent the rest of the evening figuring out how to work a folding chair.
Tim and Jim spent most of the day hanging around at the take-out, loudly bragging about the legendary runs they had just completed through Swell City.
With people arriving Monday and getting slowed down checking in and configuring their rented boats, the shuttle situation was manageable as a do-it-yourself affair. On Tuesday however, with one of the four buses out of commission due to mechanical issues, more strict enforcement of the deli-style take-a-number system was required. Apparently down on his luck, five-time world champion marathon kayaker Ivan Lawler was forced to accept a volunteer position governing the shuttle queue. Standing in the dusty parking lot for the entire afternoon, the no-nonsense Brit ran the operation with ruthless efficiency. A whiteboard was involved. Latecomers who had missed their number were relegated to the back of the line. Confused patrons attempting to order a half-pound of pastrami were instead put to work tying down surfskis and outriggers. Ivan leveraged his outstanding performance reviews at this task to climb the organizational ladder, from charity auctioneer that evening to announcer on race day. He was last seen trying to wrestle the bullhorn from Carter to take charge of The Gorge 2018.
The Tuesday shuttle shortage caused quite the back-up, but fortunately I had my trusty Baudelaire to while away the hours.
I'm sure the vast majority of paddlers at the event went the entire week without spilling gracelessly from their boats. A base level of surfski competence? Not really my style. Despite the temptation, however, I limited myself to three wet exits. Spread out over perhaps 10 hours of paddling at 30 seconds per event, that represents 0.25% of my time on the river. So I can count myself damned lucky that one of these spills was captured on video while under the ad hoc tutelage of Sean Rice.
Just after entering the area known as Swell City on Tuesday, three black Think skis came surfing by Kirk and me, captained by Sean Rice, Kenny Rice, and Mackenzie (Macca) Hynard. Sean pulled up and started offering some downwind instruction, filming from alongside via a handheld GoPro. The astute reader will correctly infer from this that little paddling was required to pace me. I've taken 3 clinics and a private lesson from Sean over the past few years, yet he stubbornly refuses to give up on what he privately refers to as "my greatest failure". Would that my parents had been so persistent. After talking me through a few runs, Sean felt confident enough in my abilities to frame himself in the foreground and shout out "Downwind coaching! Woohoo!" - just as his hapless pupil slid ignominiously into the Columbia. My one chance at non-blooper related stardom, and I had blown it.
If you insist on humiliating yourself in front of a world-class athlete, I can't recommend Sean highly enough. He complimented me on my remount, chatted for a moment about upcoming clinic #4 (in Rhode Island the following weekend), and just generally acted like I had no reason to feel sheepish. After dinner, we ran into the Rice brothers and Macca at the ice cream stand. When the topic of the video came up (I owe you one, Tim), it became clear that the Think gang had watched it. Kenny made some cheery comments about how perfect the timing of my slow-motion dismount was. The whole encounter was so sweet-spirited that I rate the good-natured ribbing as one of the high points of my week.
We discovered on Wednesday that the race would be held on Thursday. Mary Beth and I did some low-impact touring at the Bonneville Dam in the morning. Kirk took the opposite tack, hiking up a rough trail to a waterfall and then jogging back down. Just a couple of weeks earlier, Kirk mentioned to me that he had run 3 kilometers - the furthest he had managed since ACL surgery last fall. Given this, running a couple of miles down a steep and rocky trail didn't seem like the ideal rehabilitation strategy. Although he suffered no immediate after-effects, by the end of our sole afternoon downwind from Viento, his knee had the size, firmness, and odor of a ripe honeydew. When the swelling hadn't subsided by the morning of the race, he was forced to withdraw.
In addition to holding the world record in the K1 1000m, Taneale Hatton is also a licensed EMT. She kindly agreed to look at Kirk's swollen knee. Her professional recommendation? "Suck it up, wuss."
Race day dawned with uncharacteristically overcast skies. Arriving at Home Valley Park on the Washington shore, an astounding collection of more than 400 boats greeted us. With 185 of these being skis, this would by far be the largest ever surfski race in the Western Hemisphere. Not content with that regional record, Carter pulled out all the stops to also also break the world record for longest captain's meeting. By the third hour of his filibuster, twenty-six competitors had DNF'ed due to exhaustion, but nobody could complain that we weren't fully apprised of the brewing process used for the the after-party beer. I noticed several desperate paddlers googling "Washington physician-assisted suicide" on their phones, but to the best of my knowledge nobody got much beyond the psychiatric consult stage.
I know everyone says it, but in this case it happens to be true. We did not park on the railroad tracks.
Sean and I are now practically inseparable.
I wanted to join Steve, Jim, and Mark for some pre-race camaraderie, but they warned me away, saying there were "too many bees". Odd. Same problem as at dinner the night before.
Eventually, however, Carter's vocal cords gave out and the meeting trickled to an end. With the start pushed to 2 p.m. to give the wind adequate time to freshen, we still had nearly two hours to ponder our game plan. I had a strategy for the race, and that strategy consisted mostly of being a coward. On flattish water I'd have a legitimate shot to finish in the upper mid-pack. Aided by some judiciously targeted sabotage (loosening a foot plate or sawing three-quarters of the way through a paddle shaft leaves too much to chance - I'm thinking more along the lines of sliced Achilles tendon or fork to the eye), maybe even lower upper-pack. In a downwind race, however, lower mid-pack seemed optimistic, even with liberal maimings. My only hope of doing reasonably well (and avoiding extensive prison time) was to play to my strengths. That is, to find the flattest water possible, then flail about like a hyperactive wind-up monkey until either I hit the sand at the finish or my torsion spring gives way. You might ask "But doesn't that defeat the whole purpose of coming to the Gorge?" In response, I would slowly come to the realization that my life has consisted of an endless series of misguided decisions. And then Mary Beth would read this, be terribly hurt even though that's not what I meant, and it's good-bye Greg, hello yoga instructor. Or possibly Matt Damon. So just let me make my mistakes, unchallenged.
As the start time approached, an endless stream of boats launched from the small beach and made their way downriver (or upwind) to the staging area. The four starting heats would be SUPs, women's skis and OCs, men's skis, and men's OCs - sent off in 5 minute intervals. There's been some debate about whether the men's surfski start was technically a "debacle" or a "fiasco", although a vocal minority insisted that it was, in fact, a "clusterflub" (or something to that effect). It's hard to blame the race organizers. The various heats started exactly when they were supposed to, and the serious competitors found themselves at the starting line at the right time. So what happened with the rest of us?
Sure, it seems pretty flat. But when in doubt, legs out.
Working from the web diagram of the start (as reinforced by Carter's interpretative dance), I was under the impression that everyone would meet in the protected waters at the mouth of Wind River, moving to the front for our respective heats. Finding that shallow area littered with tree stumps and rock piles (and too small to accommodate so many boats), however, confusion clouded my already-foggy judgement. A large number of paddlers headed well downstream to keep clear until their start, so I lemminged along behind them.
From this distant perspective, it became impossible to tell what was going on with the orange and pink spangles back near the start. It wasn't until I noticed the growing dimness of the pink contingent that I suspected that the first two heats had already been launched. I hadn't heard the start siren (previewed for us on land), nor any directions from the officials' boat, but I leisurely made my way towards the ragged line of skis ahead. As I got within a couple hundred meters, I could finally hear faint but agitated murmurings through a megaphone. It sounded like something exciting might be about to happen, but given that nobody around me was in any great hurry, I thought perhaps the raffle winners were about to be announced. Despite being only a hundred meters away from the line a few moments later, from my upwind position I barely heard the muted siren that sent off the skis. I was fortunate to be only 30 seconds or so back. Probably half the surfski field was behind me. Tim Dwyer was so far off the line that he was practically being cradled by the warm ama of a fourth-heat OC before he finally figured out the rest of the skis had already started.
Based on the weeks' scouting reports, it seemed like the best bet for minimal current and flatter conditions would be to stick close to the Washington shore for the first few miles, then jump across the river to the Oregon side for the remainder. And that's what I did. During the first couple of miles, I hammered past a couple dozen slower paddlers who had gotten off to better starts. But then it started to get too downwind-y for me to maintain a steady cadence. For the rest of the race, hammer became nail as I tried ineffectually to claw my way through the waves. A steady stream of late-off-the-line competitors surfed by me on a more central line, each taking a whack at my self-confidence. Finally the OCs came by from the final heat to seal my coffin.
A housemate had reminded me before the race of one of Oscar's maxims - If you're not 99% sure you're going to get on wave, save your energy to jump on its sibling right behind you. That unfortunate advice became something of a self-fulfilling spiral of wave skipping as my confidence waned.
Yes. I am aware that outriggers are generally slower than surfskis. And that they started 5 minutes behind us. And that the outrigger guy appears to be in his 70's. But thanks for pointing all that out.
Perhaps to prevent weasels like me from side-stepping the bigger conditions, prior to the finish we had to round a buoy anchored mid-channel. I plied my lonesome path along the Oregon shore until mile 12, when I finally angled out to intersect the marker. Shortly before I reached the buoy, yet another ski passed me, close on the right. My initial frustration was replaced by an unexpected hopefulness when I realized I knew this paddler. It was southern California paddler Brian Kummer. Even if Brian had gotten a bad start, hadn't been training regularly, and had gorged himself on three pounds of Tillamook cheddar immediately before the race (at least the first two factors turning out to be true), the fact that I was (formerly) ahead of such an accomplished paddler gave me the morale boost I needed for the final leg. I was doing ever-so-slightly better than I had anticipated!
While Brian took a straight line towards the finish beach, I arced shoreward to escape the current. When our paths merged a few minutes later, he was a half-dozen lengths ahead. He seemed to be flagging, but with only 500 meters left I doubted I could catch him. Just as I was about to give up hope, a Fenn cruised by (carrying Bob Woodman, it turns out) and I was able to grab a ride, passing a disinterested Brian in the final 30 seconds. Of course, I had ceded a place to Bob in this process, but I'll take my meaningless victories where I can get them.
We were supposed to carry our paddles with us past the finish line, but damned if I was going to let that extra weight slow me down.
I'm pretty sure I'm shrinking.
I had finished as the 83rd ski (75th male) at 2:02:03 - 30 minutes behind overall winner Kenny Rice and 15 minutes behind women's champion Rachel Clarke. The best showing from the Northeast contingent was Jan's 1:57:21 (despite a very late start). Eric had also finished ahead of me, but my dubious strategy had kept me in front of my housemates. I had done about as well as I could expect, but regretted not just seeking out bigger surf and enjoying the conditions, even if it meant dropping a a couple dozen places.
Fortunately, the week wasn't over. After taking Friday off to visit with friends in Portland, I had one last magnificent run on the final day at the Gorge. With Kirk on his way back home (he recovered from his honeydew ordeal with no permanent damage, by the way), I buddied up with Tim. It wasn't the biggest conditions of the week, but everything finally came together. As I told Tim during the run, Awoooooohaaaaaa! Where's Sean when you need him?
