Although technically a flatwater paddling race, the Run of the Charles is better known as a demonstration of just how miserable New England weather can be in late April. I must say, the organizers didn't exactly knock it out of the park this year. Winds gusting to 20 mph, 48 degrees, and intermittent rain? Please. In some past ROTCs, I've had to swerve to avoid ice fisherman. We still grumbled about the conditions, of course, but our hearts weren't into it. Here's hoping we can return to dry suits, balaclavas, and fur-lined undergarments in 2026.
Since Mary Beth and Bill Kuklinski were compelled by Family Court to paddle their joint-custody double together, we decided to car pool down. Despite being a frequent (and deserving) target of this blog, Bill is a treasured member of our dysfunctional racing community - due in no small part to his infectious malaise-de-vivre. When I first met Bill 15 years ago, I was roughly half his age. Somehow I now find myself 94% as old. I knew that D- in algebra would come back to haunt me. As a result, I share his geezer-dom. On the trip down, I was shocked to discover that instead of rolling my eyes, I was nodding my head in sympathetic agreement as he droned on about his distended spleen and squeamish tendons. I even pitched in my own anecdote about luminescent bowel movements (don't judge - it's a thing). If my math is correct, in another few years I'll actually be older than Bill. I just hope I remember him when he comes to visit me at the Old Paddler's Home.
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| Bill was downright giddy after I showed him that his "pocket mirror" had a power button. |
The Run of the Charles now offers 3, 6, and 9 mile courses for individual boats, and a 14 mile team relay. There was no shortage of old-timers lamenting the loss of the erstwhile 19 and 24 mile courses, with a few particularly crochety racers - perhaps addled by one too many paddle whacks to the melon - wistfully recalling the original 67 mile course that started in a Dunkin' Donuts a good 8 miles "upstream" of the source of the Charles, and included a lengthy portage down Route 495 South. Despite never having paddled anything other than the 6 mile course, I couldn't help but agree that things were better in the old days. Back when the course actually felt like 6 miles, rather than twice that. Objectively, the route heads downriver for a half-mile before turning on the Eliot Bridge, followed by a 3 mile upstream jaunt to a turn buoy, culminating in a 2.5 mile leg back to the finish. My GPS never seems to track the subjective detours, but that doesn't make them any less real.
The field comprised roughly 40 boats, most of which were kayaks. Although Mike Florio wasn't originally registered for the race, he replaced a competitor who had to cancel at the last minute. Nobody seemed willing to step up and sabotage his boat, so he entered as the clear favorite. Paddling a K-2, the wildcard pairing of Hank Thorburn & Orion Fleming threatened north-of-the-border trouble, however. MA border. From #23 and #14, not #51, despite their polite and friendly demeanors.
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| Leslie's warm-up regimen may explain why she couldn't seem to paddle a straight line in the race. |
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| At the other end of the spectrum, after his 7th packet of Gatorade's new Slurp-o-Caffeine, I could literally see Wesley's heart beating. |
Of course, it's important that I minimize the accomplishments of my competitors - particularly if they finish ahead of me. Keeping in mind that this is definitely not foreshadowing, let's discuss Eli Gallaudet. Since joining our Tuesday night Salem League in 2023, Eli has been threatening to overthrow the old guard - Matt Drayer and myself. We were apparently concentrating a little too much on Eli, since Bernie Romanowski has since usurped us - but that's beside the point. In any event, as a mentor to the eager youngster (don't worry, I tell myself, he'll soon be my age), I thought I should pass on some paddling tips. Finding my Warehouse of Surfski Wisdom had been mysteriously emptied, I instead turned to my Basement of Exercise Equipment and lent him my moth-balled paddling erg last fall. Let it gather dust at Eli's instead of cluttering up my house, I figured. Naively. Still not foreshadowing.
In last year's race, I futzed around on shore too long, got tied up in the launch queue, and missed the start. Determined to avoid the same mistake, I got on the water early Friday morning, leaving me ample futzing time. After a couple of nights of fitful rest, I lined up with a couple dozen latecomer competitors in the first wave. Over the megaphone, the starter intoned "One minute warning!", followed after the appropriate delay with "Start in 15 seconds on the siren!". Wait. That's not quite right. Let me try again. "Start in 15 seconds on the [sound of siren, overlapping the word 'siren']!" I was momentarily baffled by the mixed message, wondering if this was just a demonstration of the siren. Figuring that a false start was preferable to another late start, however, I went with the former. Fortunately, this proved to be the general consensus. We were off - a good 12.5 seconds ahead of schedule.
I had lined up between Eli and Hank & Orion, with Mike on the other side of the double. The four of us got clean starts and quickly moved into the lead. We managed to break with the rest of the field after about a quarter mile. Mike was in the lead, followed by Hank & Orion, me, and Eli. Approaching the downriver turn at Eliot Bridge, Eli made a smart passing move on the inside. Given that my V14 with a small river rudder has the turning radius of a locomotive, I was glad to find that bridge construction forced us to loop around via the two outermost arches. Such a gentle turn allowed me keep in contact with the leaders without derailing.
Shortly after the turn, Mike started to pull away. When it became clear that the double wouldn't be able to respond to Mike's move, Eli passed them, but he too was unable to latch onto Mike. I usually avoid drafting out-of-class boats, even though the ROTC (nor most other local races) has any drafting rules. It's a rare point of honor. But when you find an out-of-class vessel is between you and the in-class boat you want to be drafting... Well, it's not so much that you "compromise" your ethical code as add a codicil detailing acceptable extenuating circumstances. The compromise comes when Eli pulls away from Hank & Orion and you continue to draft the double. And, technically, that's not so much a "compromise" as a well-considered excision of the ludicrous clause regarding out-of-class drafting.
After a mile or so receiving completely legal and morally sound support from Hank & Orion, our lines would diverge slightly and then re-converge as we serpentined upstream and upwind. Although there were stretches where it was impossible to avoid the demoralizing headwind, in other areas you could tuck close to the north shore to find relative peace. When you weren't dodging submerged trees and ducking under low branches. Eli continued to open the gap on our pursuit team, while Mike was in danger of disappearing entirely from view up in the lead.
With a half-mile to go before the upstream turn, I dropped the double via sheer willpower. I don't mean that I used an iron resolve to dig deep enough to pull up a lung. No. I mean, I thought "Sure wish I could pull away from these spuds!" and, voila, that's what happened. No extra physical effort required, and, to be quite honest, I can't say much psychic energy was expended either. After the race, Hank suggested that they had snagged something on their rudder at this point, but the exact mechanism whereby my otherworldly power manifested itself is immaterial. Unfortunately, subsequent attempts to exploit this ability to catch Eli and to accomplish various household chores (don't want to start too extravagantly) have revealed that my reality-bending capabilities need some honing.
At the turn, Eli was perhaps 30 seconds ahead - a lead he had extended to 45 seconds by the time I completed my own semicircular riverbank-to-riverbank survey. Once finally heading in the right direction, I was excited for the next push. With a teeth-crushing effort, perhaps I could edge out Eli! And for the final 2.5 miles of the race, we'd be heading downstream with the stiff wind now whisking us along at a breakneck pace. You can imagine my disappointment when I discovered that instead of getting on the Valhalla Blitz rollercoaster, however, I had been inadvertently shunted onto Mr. Plumpy's Caterpillar kiddie train. Sure, I enjoyed the bright colors flashing before my eyes and I only vomited twice, but I lost any hope of transmuting my bronze into silver. Afterwards, a number of competitors confessed sheepishly to also getting on the wrong ride.
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| I'm wasn't sure exactly what Jim did to work Igor into a murderous rage, or why he decided to take it out on me, but I didn't stick around to find out. |
