Ride the Bull: Running the Gauntlet

Just moments after we pulled into our driveway after returning from the Sakonnet River Race, it was time to turn around and head back to the state affectionately known as "Massachusetts's Dewlap" for Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race.  After underbidding all other syndicates, we had been awarded the lucrative contract to transport Ryan Bardsley (with "associated racing paraphernalia transportee deems necessary") to Jamestown.  This necessitated installing an additional rack on our car.  Through a series of miscalculations and engineering blunders, this process involved stripping our Subaru down to a bare chassis before reassembling it to a rough approximation of its original state.  But with a third V rack.  As long as Mary Beth kept her seat belt on and I wasn't too aggressive on left-hand turns, I figured there'd be at least an 80% chance of her remaining in the passenger seat the whole trip.

With race-time winds of 15+ knots from the SSE, the normal Ride the Bull course was likely to be a mix of significant beam waves and frothing clapotis (second in severity only to dysentery among incontinence-related afflictions).  Although the race was expressly designed to test our resilience against scrapes, fractures, and contusions while being pounded against the picturesque rocky shore, Wesley and Tim decided that the lamentations of the guilt-ridden survivors might draw unwanted attention from the authorities.  Tim claims to have some powerful local connections, but even James Taylor would have trouble making multiple manslaughter charges go away.

Despite strict warnings against conviviality, pockets of amicable conversation kept flaring up. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

We forgot to tell our car-pool passenger about the carbon monoxide leak in the back seat, but Ryan eventually recovered enough of his cognitive abilities to solve this conundrum.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Putting their heads together (in a Laurel and Hardy fashion, while simultaneously leaning forward to study a chart of Narragansett Bay - at least in my imagination), a slightly concussed Wesley and Tim devised an alternative loop course in the bay to the east of Jamestown.  We'd first slog upwind 1.5 miles past the House on the Rock to round Bull Point Rock, then head on a glorious 4.5 mile downwind to the north end of Gould Island, then claw our way the 3 miles back to the start, realizing that we had flagrantly misused the term "slog" on that initial leg.  The new course would virtually eliminate any chance of being dashed against rocks, while ensuring that we'd instead be run down by the hundreds of predatory sailing vessels on the bay.  Of course, this shifts the liability for any "accidents" from the race coordinators to the offending boat captains.  Don't feel too bad for the yachtsmen, however - they doubtless can afford lawyers good enough to get any charges reduced to "depraved indifference" with a slap-on-the-wrist $50,000 fine.

A good portion of the usual gang showed up - Timmy, Jacko, Rotgut, Li'l Slipper, The Fez... hold on, that can't be right.  Probably shouldn't be half-watching the Jimmy Cagney marathon on TNT while I'm writing this.  Sixteen paddlers would be racing.  We would have had one more, but Chris Chappell showed up, took one look at the swarms of sailboats on the bay, and rushed over to Newport to get in on the betting for who'd rack up the highest tally.  Since the 2nd through 4th finishers from the Sakonnet River Race couldn't suit up for this race, three equally robust threats were subbed in as replacements - Jan Lupinski, Chris Quinn, and Chris Laughlin.  Given the conditions, I was particularly worried about the renowned skills of these gentlemen in rough-water handling, downwind paddling, and collision-avoidance.

Melissa and Jim wisely chose the "toe-to-head" carry to prevent any cross-brand funny stuff.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

We milled about for a 1 p.m. start, paddling slowly upwind amidst the moored boats while awaiting the start signal.  On another day, I might have joined Kirk Olsen in his playful pre-race antics - leaning forward to fiddle with your foot-strap until you topple off your ski is right up my alley - but figured I should save my energy for less frivolous remounts.  Soon after Kirk regained his bucket, Wesley counted us down to the gun.

Split up by obstacles in the mooring field, Jan led one small group to the left while Chris L spear-headed the main push closer to land.  Pushing through the chop, I soon found my way abreast the latter, casting wary glances to my port to assess the relative progress of Jan.  As our lines inevitably merged, Lupinski assumed a half length lead while Laughlin dropped slightly back.  To maintain the proper Chris equilibrium, Quinn moved in to take his place.

Five minutes into the race we encountered our first significant hurdle, our path taking us right through the gyrating core of a fleet of 35' sailboats jockeying for position prior to their own regatta.  Like the puffer fish inflates itself to fool its predators into thinking it's larger and fiercer than it actually is, I huddled close to Jan in an attempt to deceive the fast-moving craft.  I fear this may have back-fired, as several boats veered our way to attempt a two-fer kill.  Fortunately, our pack made it through unscathed.  Physically, at least.  As for the rest of our field, I just hoped our crazed dash through the gauntlet had distracted the sailors long enough to allow their safe passage.

Let the culling begin!  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining upwind trip was uneventful for me, largely because Jan acted as my coal mine canary, plotting a path through the shoals near the House on the Rock and helpfully identifying some tidal eddies by spinning out in front of me (with a little help from me pushing his stern, natch).  As we transitioned to the downwind portion of the race at the back of Bull Point Rock, Chris Q and I pulled even with Jan.  That arrangement lasted all of 45 seconds, at which point Jan's superior downwind skills asserted themselves and began to pry him inexorably from our grasp.  I never saw Chris L on the downwind leg, but based on the results, he couldn't have been too far behind.

I began calculating how much of a lead I might be able to overcome going into the upwind return leg, but my math (and grammar) must be rusty because I kept coming up with the same disheartening answer: none lead.  Jan had paced me (some might say pulled me, but that's just quibbling) on the opening upwind leg, so what made me think I could beat him in similar conditions over the final few miles?  Hubris, sure, but I couldn't figure out how to shoehorn that factor into the computation.  Looked like I'd just have to get out front by the end of Gould Island.

Never a team player, Jan didn't appear down with the plan.  For the next few moments he continued to pull away from Chris and I.  His lead grew to about 10 lengths, but at that point the gap stabilized.  We'd accordion back and forth as we caught different waves, but the net effect was a wash.  This delicate equilibrium reigned for a couple of minutes, but then I started to pull Jan back.  A key component of this transition was recognizing that we weren't "surfing" so much as "paddling in the direction of the waves".  I'm clumsy and inefficient at the former, but... marginally less so at the latter.  Once I stopped consciously trying to read the marginally surf-able waves and just started putting one blade in front of the other (on alternating sides, I eventually figured), that's when I started to make progress and identify bumps to boost me along.

The waves were offset by a few degrees to the east of our straight-line direction to Gould, so the three of us swung wide into the center of the bay.  Maddeningly, this is where some pasty-faced bureaucrat (who wouldn't know a fo'c'sle from a bosun) chose to randomly place the shipping channel.  Race officials must have radioed in our course, though, because commercial traffic gave us a wide berth.  I lost track of Chris as I closed the gap on Jan, but felt reasonably confident that he hadn't passed me.  About a half-mile before reaching the Newport Bridge, I moved into the lead.

Taking a cue from the "invasion stripes" painted onto Allied planes for D-Day, Tim decorated his boat with a predetermined pattern to eliminate friendly fire incidents from his sailboat skipper cronies.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

I understand that every Zen boat comes with a personalized mantra to repeat while paddling.  Based on what I heard from Wesley at the end of his race, he got "Uuuurgh".  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining downwind portion went by too quickly.  With a mile left, I had started preparing myself mentally for the grind lurking at the north end of the island.  So when the GPS gleefully started blurting out speeds 2.5 mph slower (I knew putting AI in those things was a bad idea), my bow began slapping over the waves, and my paddle fluttered in the wind, I was only 90% demoralized.  I had gotten a vague glimpse of a group of 2 or 3 paddlers perhaps a minute behind at the turn, but that'd be the last chance I'd have to check on the competition - an over-the-shoulder glance might well transform into an over-the-gunwale tumble.

You don't realize just how big the Newport Bridge really is until you watch it not get any bigger while paddling interminably towards it.  Eventually, however, the bridge started to loom.  I took this as a strong indication that I might actually reach it.  My hopes were not unfounded.  After passing under the bridge and then cursing through a long half-mile into some particularly obnoxious gusts, I finished the race.  Providing empirical evidence that my calculations regarding our relative upwind performance were spot on, Jan pulled in 70 seconds later.  Chris Q nipped Chris L a half-minute later to nab the final podium spot.  On the women's side, Melissa Meyer took the win.  Although Mary Beth had arrived at the finish almost an hour earlier, under cross-examination she cracked and revealed that she had skipped half the course because "riding back home with Greg will be enough drudgery".  I'm going to interpret that as an implicit aspersion on our passenger, Ryan.  Burned, buddy!

Paddlers anxiously await their relay partners.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Max Yasochka generously handed out alfajores - a traditional treat from his an ancestral homeland, Argentina.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Thanks, Wesley and Tim, for your work as co-directors.  Most paddlers figured the downwind leg of the race was ample compensation for the bookend slogs, although I'd have felt a little better about it had the guys slipped us each a crisp $20 bill to cover pain and suffering.  Something to think about for next year... 

For those rattled by the boat traffic in Narragansett Bay, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.  With zero verifiable strikes logged this past weekend, the yachtsmen "kill pot" carries over to the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29.  Register at PaddleGuru for your chance to lose!  Like war-time medics steel-wooling the red crosses off their helmets, you might want to consider toning down those fluorescent PFDs.

For more of Olga's great photos, see here.

Sakonnet River Race: Right Tool

The Sakonnet River Race is traditionally the first rough-water race of the New England season.  After careful consideration, however, race director Wesley Echols made a tough game-day decision.  We  had a handful of flatwater races under our belts, but given our collective performance at the most recent outing (three players with a half-dozen errors between them - myself included) he decided that we weren't ready for the majors.  We'd paddle the traditional course (12.6 miles round-trip from McCorrie Point to Third Beach, by way of Sandy Point and Black Point), but Wesley would use his administrator privileges to override the defaults and dial conditions down to "Mill Pond" - giving us one last shot to prove ourselves.

MB wouldn't be attending.  My helpmeet needed a little time away from home to "reevaluate her options", in large part because I insist on introducing her as my helpmeet.  Instead I'd be accompanied by my compeer, Bob.  [touches imaginary earpiece] Erstwhile compeer, I'm just being told.  He now prefers "acquaintance".  We carpooled down with my surfski catechumen, Janda.  [earpiece again] I see.  Is "fellow human" acceptable?  Good.  In any event, we three frabjous popinjays wended our way... [and again] Balderdash! [extended tinny harangue, audible to bystanders]  My apologies, folks.  I've been informed that the whimsical use of bygone vocabulary for humorous effect is no longer sanctioned.  [continued tinny denunciations]  Was, in fact, never sanctioned.  Oops.

A healthy quorum of regional paddlers met us at McCorrie Point Beach.  In addition to the cast of repertory players, we were joined by recent ski convert Andrew Metz and first-time racer John Litherland.   I figured my main competition would come from Matt Drayer (well-known by the Swampscott police from all those pre-dawn 911 calls regarding a wetsuit-clad prowler on the beach), Mike Florio, and Janda Ricci-Munn.  With flat conditions forecast, I felt comfortable bringing my V14, but Mike was playing it safe in his V10.  Ryan Bardsley, despite temperatures in the high 60s, was also playing it safe by dressing in head-to-toe neoprene.  Nobody was sure what the flash point of human flesh is, but we'd likely find out prior to the end of the race.

As Ryan is about to discover, Janda's bear hugs lie in that gray area between collegial bonding and stranger danger.

I tried to get Igor to share his larval hash with me, but turns out it was just cold risotto.  Blech.  No thanks!

You may have already noticed that the photos are better than usual.  Acquaintance Bob foolishly agreed to act as race photographer, not realizing that by borrowing my camera he had entered into an implicit licensing agreement that would prohibit him from sharing the profits I'd make from the lucrative surfski photo resale market.  He did get a free trip to Rhode Island out of the bargain, so he's really got nothing to complain about.

We find ourselves in the midst of a dangerous, bank-busting arms race.  I believe Tim got the ball rolling with his black-and-white Elite V10 3G last season.  Bruce Deltorchio followed suit earlier this year with the same boat.  And Matt showed up to the Sakonnet with an Elite V12 2G so new that its gelcoat was still tacky.  That's 63 feet of carbon hull between those three boats, the total probably weighing in at less than the first kayak I owned.  Of course, Wesley had gone nuclear long ago.  He just had the cunning to choose brands that don't broadcast their firepower by color.

"And if you'll just direct your attention this way..."

"...you'll be able to add the yellow-banded paddle stork to your life list.  No, stork.  S. T. O. R. K."

Soon enough the 23 skis were on the water setting up for another battle.  Wesley bellowing "Hold the line!" as he coordinates our rolling start has become something of a Rhode Island tradition.  I don't know about the others, but it makes me feel like we're not fooling around - there's really something at stake.  In an inspired twist, this year Wesley shamed a creeping scofflaw by name.  Wasn't me, but I won't rat out the weasel.  You can clearly hear in the first few seconds of my video, but even that doesn't remove all ambiguity.

We take turns so that he doesn't get suspicious, but every race someone mentions to Chris Chappell that there's a substantial payout for the first paddler to the 500 meters hotspot.  It's tough to maintain a straight face after all these years, but poor credulous Chris bites hard every time.  Once he's taken the bait, we let him make his run before reeling him in and breaking the bad news.  No, no, it was 1000 meters, not 500.  Or 2000.  Or whatever it takes until someone finally gets in front of him.  We then make sure that whoever that is flashes around a wad of twenties after the race to help perpetuate our cruel ruse.

Opening day of ocean ski season brought out quite the crowd.

Naturally, Chris rabbited to an immediate lead while the rest of us snickered behind his receding back.  After a start on the Essex that would charitably be described as "anemic", I vowed to at least splash around more at the onset of the Sakonnet.  My sound and fury approach appeared to be working, although I suspect it was just because everyone missed a stroke or two while glancing over to see who was being attacked by geese.  Within a minute I had caught Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Ryan (trying to achieve ignition temperature right out of the gate, apparently) to move into second place.  A minute later, I passed Chris.  For the first time ever, I may have legitimately stolen the hotspot from him.  While abreast of Chris, I noticed that we were skimming through maybe a foot of water.  I made a mental note of how shallow it was 50 meters off of McCorrie Point and filed it under "Facts to Soon Be Forgotten" for safe-keeping.

After years of working on my start, I finally discovered the key to success was cropping technique.

As promised, conditions were ideal for a lightning fast initial leg.  The previous Tuesday, Matt had dismantled my carefully arranged Salem League winning streak in convincing fashion, and now here he was in a faster, lighter boat.  Besides that, Iron Mike was finally in a ski he could hammer away from.  If those motivating factors couldn't push me to record speeds, then what could?  Hmm?  What's that?  Glass-flat conditions and a ripping tide propelling me along?  Well, agree to disagree.

Over the first several miles, I was pushing within a few tenths of 9 mph.  My hard training had finally paid off.  Like Bruce Banner or Peter Parker, all the disciplined hours spent in the "lab" had unlocked my latent abilities!  The sudden increase of 1 mph in my cruising speed was no surprise.  One expects such discontinuities in performance.  Pete didn't go through a phase where he could "kinda" hang upside-down from his fingertips.  During the early phase of flexing my new paddling muscles, I discovered that I grew even more proficient the more towards the center of the bay I tracked.  This correlation perplexed me for a while, until I figured out that dry land must be my (Uh-oh, should have thought my metaphor out a little better.  Oh well...) kryptonite.

I've written myself into a corner here, so I'm going to use my first "Get Out of Contrived Fantasy Free" card to snap back to reality.  Ish.  I did spend the first half-mile or so in awe of my ability to maintain such a blistering pace.  But as my speed continued to increase, it gradually dawned on me that a humdinger of a tidal current was mostly responsible.  Once I had made this realization, I could start properly obsessing over exactly how far out from shore I should be to optimize the speed-distance trade-off.  And, on the flip side, worrying about how much shore-hugging to do after the turn.

Shortly after passing Black Point, some unwelcome texture started to appear on the water.  Although you would be hard-pressed to categorize the subtle ripples as waves, I share no such compunction.  As far as me and my V14 were concerned, conditions transformed from calm to rollicking.  I didn't feel compelled to abandon ship and swim for shore, but I was destabilized enough to throw off my finely-tuned flat-water stroke (stop smirking, Jan).  My speed started dropping, a trend that was exacerbated as I moved out of the tidal current - edging shoreward in preparation for the turn-around off of Third Beach.

I always suffer from navigation anxiety when trying to identify the correct mooring buoy at the Sakonnet, despite Wesley's detailed instructions on triangulating a course using a house-less chimney, a lifeguard chair, and a cormorant.  My brain was too oxygen-deprived to pull up the specifics, but I did recall that the buoy was numbered 114.  In 8 point font.  Slipping on my reading glasses, I scrutinized each buoy in the bay until finding the correct one and turning for the return leg.  I could now see that Matt trailed by about 90 seconds, with Mike maybe half that far behind him, and Janda a comparable distance behind Mike.  With a sizable gap to the next paddler, it seemed like the podium we be drawn from us four.

Only after the fog lifted did Matt and I realize that we had been circling one another for the past twenty minutes.

I kept along the coast until reaching Black Point - a no-brainer since this was both the shortest path and avoided the outgoing tide.  After that, however, I had to choose between a straight-line course and a more circuitous track that would have me dipping into each bay between me and McCorrie Point.  Clearing Black Point, it was obvious that the once-friendly tide had turned openly antagonistic.  And, in bald-faced defiance of all meteorologists, a playful headwind was also greeting me.  Not knowing how much current the coastal route would avoid, I decided to choose the devil I knew.  For most of the remainder of the race I would only see 7 mph when an anomalous mini-wave happened to be heading my direction.  I nervously monitored the inner passage to make sure that nobody was zooming up the shore, but since I still had my reading glasses on, they would have to be waving giant fluorescent banners for me to actually spot them.

Given what I wrote a few paragraphs ago, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I'd soon be crashing into the rocky bar off of McCorrie Point.  That was misdirection.  I didn't, in fact, forget how shallow it was off the point.  I forgot how far off the point it was that shallow.  As a result, I swung ridiculously wide, setting up a half-mile in advance for a sweeping turn that would have allowed a supertanker to skirt the point unscathed.  Only to find criminally inadequate docking and off-loading facilities.  One port-a-john for a crew of 27?  Oof.

Although Matt swears by the express route he took along the shoreline, the proof is in the plodding.  My path may have been slow-going and tedious, but it ultimately got me to the finish first.  Matt pulled in shortly after to claim silver, with Mike outlasting a hard-charging Janda for the final podium spot.  In the women's race, Leslie Chappell took the crown, followed by Melissa Meyer and Jean Kostelich.  These three paddled together for the first leg of the race, but Leslie had another gear when she needed it.

How is it that Timmy is smiling in every photo?  It's starting to get a little creepy.

All those clinics have done wonders for Bruce's technique.

Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting the race.  I wouldn't miss it for the world.  Unlike, say, Mary Beth.  Just something to think about after she trades up and you need to choose which of us to remain friends with.

We've seen a whole lot of flat this season, but rest assured that this is about to change on June 15 at Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race.  Should there be not a breath of wind, should all other boats be banned from Narragansett Bay, should the moon be reassigned to another planet to stanch the tides... we'd still be bouncing around while cursing the diabolical duo that created this abomination.  Probably also a little concerned about the ecological and political chaos associated with the moon thing, but there'll be plenty of time to fashion our paddles into weapons after the race.  Please register at PaddleGuru.  Don't forget to indicate your blood type and post-apocalyptic tribe preference.