Run of the Charles: Back of the Pack

Many had given up the venerable Run of the Charles for dead after it went belly-up in 2020, but just like my pet goldfish Rodney, its bloated carcass turned out to actually be a pupal stage, from which a renewed Rodney emerged while I was at day camp.  The ROTC returned this year, and, just like Rodney, wasn't exactly how I remembered it, but nevertheless provided hours of entertainment.  Here's hoping the race doesn't also have to go through another half-dozen pupations (ending up, surprisingly, as a gerbil).

Including a few doubles, 21 skis would be competing in the 6 mile race - not quite as many as in the pre-COVID years, but a solid field to build on.  Coming off his dominant performance at the Narrow River Race a few weeks earlier, Mike Florio was practically crowned champion by dint of taking his boat off the car, but we'd make him run through the motions on the water.  I figured my primary competition would come from Joel Pekosz and Chris Chappell, although you never know who else might secretly be doing serious early-season training.  The course would have us heading downstream for a half mile, turning on the first bridge, then working 3 miles upstream to turn on an inflatable marker, finishing back where we started.  The weather was fine - sunny and in the mid 50s, with a light breeze.

I must have missed the memo.

I hadn't planned on missing the start of the race, but sometimes these things are simply beyond your control.  Sure, we were told multiple times that our heat would go off at 10:00 sharp.  And I had my watch set to provide verbal reminders of the impending start at regular intervals.  And, as I stepped out of the porta potty, a hooded crone whispered to me in dire tones that she saw tardiness in my future (and also, in the present, some toilet paper stuck to my foot).  But there were old friends to catch up with.  And I had to make multiple last-minute runs back to the car to retrieve forgotten items - seat pad, heart rate monitor, cup (you can never be too protected), etc.  These unavoidable delays put me at the tail end of the launch queue.  I adjusted my safety equipment on the water and was slowly paddling towards the start when the siren sounded.

Look to the person on your left.  Now look to your right.  If Greg is either of those people, then one of you three is going to miss the start of the race.

The more punctual members of the field were invisible to me at their start - hidden well over the horizon - so I can only speculate on what transpired.  However, I know as a certainty what didn't happen.  None of my erstwhile friends said "Wait, where's Greg?  Let's collectively hold up until we ascertain his whereabouts!"  Or, if one did, he was shouted down by craven opportunists looking to pick up a spot or two at my expense.  In any event, we know that not only did the cowards leave without me, but in fact everyone went out faster than usual in a kick-him-when-he's-down orgy of profiteering.

In the interminable span it took me to reach the starting line (yes, technically only 20 seconds, but I hadn't the chance to start my GPS, so time was literally at a standstill), apparently Mike jumped out to an early lead with Chris and Joel in pursuit, along with the double of Hank Thorburn & Joe Guglielmetti.  By the time I could make out individual paddlers, the field was starting to string out, with Mike pulling away.  Despite an effort some might described as Herculean (as in, "Just like Hercules, that guy has no clue how to paddle a kayak."), I started catching those paddlers who, weighed down by the guilt of abandoning me at the start, could no longer maintain a sprightly cadence.

What began as playful ribbing between Tim and Sean quickly escalated to a full-blown noogie fight.

Uh-oh.  Protect your heads!

Once you accept your misfortune, the psychological freedom provided by getting a late start can not be overstated.  All performance pressure is off.  You can't be expected to compete with such a handicap.  Not only do you begin some minutes behind everyone (and nobody can deny that 0.35 is "some"), but you miss out the all-important drafting phase, where you get hauled involuntarily along behind Mike at breakneck speed for the first 250 meters before getting spit off his wake - disoriented and whiplashed, but ahead of everyone else.  So you know that any position you can pick up is gravy.  And, more importantly, you can use the late start to gain sympathy from those you pass, while simultaneously demoralizing them.  For this to work, of course, you need to explain the situation.  Some exaggeration is to be expected.

Here's a typical conversation.

Me: Got started about 10 minutes late.

Victim: But it's only been 3 minutes since the start.

Me: Yeah, yeah, I'm moving along well today. 

Victim: But that doesn't make any sense.

Me: Huh?  Sorry, Doppler shift is making it difficult to understand you.

Victim: You sound just fine.  And you're barely inching past me.

Me: Inching... good one.  I'm using a falsetto voice to compensate.  Surprised you can still see me though.  Infrared vision? 

And so on.

Under the misapprehension that we were required to touch both shores of the Charles during our downriver turn, I ceded several lengths back to the field with an elegant arc best described as
"marginally curved".  Heading back upriver, however, I began to catch more paddlers.  Describing to each subsequent racer how I had still been driving down to the venue when the gun sounded, I slid by Matt Drayer, James Legrand, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley Echols.  At this point I was getting winded, so I pulled to the shore and ran to a Kinko's (in my fantasy world, it's still 1997) to have some 3x5 cards printed up with the details of my late start.  I stuck these under the bungies of subsequent boats to save myself further verbal exposition.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to catch those ahead, so I couldn't afford to waste words.

It took most of the remaining upriver leg to creep by Cliff Roach, Eli Gallaudet, and Chris Chappell.  Before the forthcoming turn buoy even became visible, I saw Mike cruising back towards the finish - several minutes ahead of a nominal chase group consisting of  Joel and Hank & Joe.  By the turn, it was clear that I was closing the gap on that pair of boats.  Over the course of the next mile, I worked my way onto Joel's stern draft.  I didn't really think I could beat him, but if only I could pull up another half-boat length, at least I could slip him my card.  Also, I might be able to get a glimpse of his stern on my backward-facing GoPro so that future generations would know that I was in the fight for silver.

Ignoring the fact that I was starting to hear a celestial choir while merely struggling to stay on Joel's draft, I pulled out of his slipstream to make a move.  The intense discomfort quickly ramped up to intolerable torment.  As I started to pass through the mortal veil, the choral vocals became more distinct, and unless there have been some serious quality control issues at the Pearly Gates, those weren't angels singing.  Sure, maybe I had been tricking rubes into thinking I started later than I actually had, but that hardly seemed sufficient for an obscenity-laced welcome from the infernal choir.  That guy I shivved while in the slammer, though - that probably didn't help my cause.  Since this wasn't a gold we were talking about, I decided that an eternity of suffering wasn't quite worth it.  I backed off and returned to Joel's wash, never even getting video evidence of my ill-favored push.

Knowing that I lacked proof that I was right on Joel's tail, my buddy really had me over a barrel. (Photo provided at exorbitant cost by Tim Hudyncia)

I continued to draft behind Joel, recovering from my brief foray into the nether realms.  With perhaps a half-mile remaining in the race, Hank & Joe opened a small lead on us, which inspired me to make one last stand of my own.  With the imagined notes of a cavalry bugle ringing in my ears (trying to silence that damned choir), I made a valiant charge.  Since my direct attack had been heroically rebuffed by Joel (or, as he might tell it, "fizzled pathetically with no intervention whatsoever on my part" - toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe), I'd have to try a different strategy.  My early Herculean effort had yielded some gains, but it was now time to go Pythagorean on the competition.  To that end, I applied all my expertise in geometry to navigate the final sweeping bend of the Charles.  Some may claim that I just "cut the corner" to shorten the distance, but those ignoramuses wouldn't know a hypotenuse from a hyperbolic secant.

Despite the meticulous planning, the best I can say of my maneuver is that I didn't actually lose ground to Joel.  I must have misinterpreted an axiom or something.  At one point I might have succeeded in overlapping Joel's boat, but by the finish he was clear of me by a half length.  Of course, we had both finished 4 and a half minutes behind Mike.  He had gotten so far ahead of the pack by mid-race that officials considered applying a "mercy rule" to terminate the race early and avoid further mass humiliation, but Florio had already holstered his ski and cleared town before the committee could take a vote.  Hank & Joe took the men's doubles crown, with Max Yasochka & Olga Sydorenko claiming the mixed title.  On the women's podium stood Leslie Chappell, Jean Kostelich, and Pam Browning.

I like this picture since it allow me to imagine myself just out of frame.  On the left, of course - I'm not completely delusional.  (Photo courtesy of Tim Hudyncia)

I've been told that I can no longer speak for everyone, but, to the last person, we deemed the resuscitated Run of the Charles a great success.

Traditionally the next meet of the season would be the Essex River Race, but that event has been on ice since the regrettable debauchery of 2022.  The drunkenness and nudity could (and definitely should) be overlooked, but the town board was fed up with all the supplemental tourist income.  And the abandoned livestock.  I'll instead be doing the 12 mile course at the Mystic River Herring Run and Paddle on May 19th - a surprisingly bucolic route that winds through some of the most notorious neighborhoods of Boston (namely, Somerville and Medford).  And, of course, the open water season starts with Wesley's Sakonnet Surfski Race on June 8th - returning to its ancestral home at McCorrie Point after years of tense negotiations there.  Don't forget your goats!