tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77841160680421419752024-03-20T22:24:42.868-04:00Full TiltA season on (and in) the drink...Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-74908305173761769032023-11-03T13:33:00.001-04:002023-11-16T09:09:23.422-05:00Narrow River II: Stuck in a Groove<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4xQ2seV6B8_8-Vcnxb_1sZAFYiEkHy9TACC0bUceGYuYPJkU6YejxvRCn2cmKeIA8vlDmBsTKPhftMnXNsdwsjXvE2t85Hcx3qGmPsmeNy_dQASy5oJQLqMkoga9ItY_dOmlaiaAN3gbIF4Lau3OIcV1HD2GS8YIxKHKUh1gYLqgyQ3OiSeMeqyhcLA/s1600/nrr01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="1600" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4xQ2seV6B8_8-Vcnxb_1sZAFYiEkHy9TACC0bUceGYuYPJkU6YejxvRCn2cmKeIA8vlDmBsTKPhftMnXNsdwsjXvE2t85Hcx3qGmPsmeNy_dQASy5oJQLqMkoga9ItY_dOmlaiaAN3gbIF4Lau3OIcV1HD2GS8YIxKHKUh1gYLqgyQ3OiSeMeqyhcLA/w640-h396/nrr01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>It was inevitable that Tim Dwyer would exploit the name recognition of his lucrative spring-time Narrow River Race enterprise by launching a fall version. With a lock on both ends of the season, he would wield almost unfathomable power over the New England surfski community. Although the first couple of fall celebrations carried the bitter taste of crass commercialization, Tim announced that starting with the 2023 race, all proceeds would be donated to the Elderly Paddlers' Support Association. A savvy PR move, although I have yet to receive my cut from EPSA.</p>
<p>A healthy crew of 23 competitors showed up in Kingston, Rhode Island to find the Narrow River bulging at the seams - the victim of a powerful spring tide. Nobody could remember seeing the water levels this high. Less experienced paddlers were excited that they wouldn't have to deal with the notorious shallows of the waterway, but I knew better. The high water would tempt us to plot courses impossible at normal levels - cutting corners and passing over shoals instead of around. The mischievous river had given us some slack, with confidence that we'd tighten the noose around our own necks.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41XHiG5Fw1oOH7cyTYlIGVwcBypP5I358fAEKQu88nMM3D1zAjIH7Xkl8WMn4peJ0_IPc2GJL2V2gb9OiqmVzpfCO0rtafqgXpYn2BN25fb8TZsxoZSMQG2ZdXErfxSDQLELfiIYvS6vK_SKHxm3LJPDIiqierjCN5vyH2azz2AGPXLNw1_sgpio46Sk/s1600/nrr03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41XHiG5Fw1oOH7cyTYlIGVwcBypP5I358fAEKQu88nMM3D1zAjIH7Xkl8WMn4peJ0_IPc2GJL2V2gb9OiqmVzpfCO0rtafqgXpYn2BN25fb8TZsxoZSMQG2ZdXErfxSDQLELfiIYvS6vK_SKHxm3LJPDIiqierjCN5vyH2azz2AGPXLNw1_sgpio46Sk/w640-h480/nrr03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just when you think everyone has forgotten they're being filmed...<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJOtpyaydFP8a46C-GxAU4GdTSwGgzXrjByIwPMO7FoGx3MU_vwk2AdUkaTCfQSdv3aPjGf9Vhhi2V637f5AFCN3ZiPkktmudqR68_PVIxcV-hynW1TMCkM_LbPnTa-WZw5iok87zzg08ii9AkOTv1fO_jwCqf06_uJbvN5cE83hiMmLe2d5GOABhvGoc/s1600/nrr02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1075" data-original-width="1600" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJOtpyaydFP8a46C-GxAU4GdTSwGgzXrjByIwPMO7FoGx3MU_vwk2AdUkaTCfQSdv3aPjGf9Vhhi2V637f5AFCN3ZiPkktmudqR68_PVIxcV-hynW1TMCkM_LbPnTa-WZw5iok87zzg08ii9AkOTv1fO_jwCqf06_uJbvN5cE83hiMmLe2d5GOABhvGoc/w640-h430/nrr02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim concluded the captains meeting with a brief pep talk to rile us up. I'm not entirely confident that he knows what "grabbing a bull by the horns" means though.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Over the years, my fuddy-duddy buddy Bill Kuklinski has been a favorite
target for playful digs and harmless gibes. His recent attempts to
inoculate himself from this "actionable harassment" (as his attorney's
cease-and-desist letter recently called it) have included partnering in a
tandem with Mary Beth, who, as my soulmate (and, incidentally, editor), enjoys
blanket immunity to even the gentlest mockery. Nice try, buddy, but even
MB's aura of invincibility can't protect you. To avoid ferrying Bill
down to the race from his burrow near our home, we told him that our rear
seats were still damp from a recent Simonizing, leaving Kirk Olsen to Tesla
him to Rhode Island. Kirk reports that Bill was generally well-behaved
in the state-of-the-art vehicle, but kept repeatedly exclaiming "What will
they think of next?!?" In reference to the passenger-side floormat, of
course.</p><p>I wouldn't say there was a favorite to win, because that implies at least a modicum of uncertainty about the outcome. Mike Florio was there to win a 6th consecutive race on his home course. The rest of us attended to witness and then spread his gospel. I hoped to stand on his righthand side afterwards, but to merit this exalted position I'd have to fend off worthy congregants like Chris Chappell and Jerry Madore. In the women's competition, Loukia Lila (in an ICF boat) would be up against Leslie Chappell. Mary Beth & Bill would be facing Patty White & Chris Sherwood in the doubles' race. In addition to the kayakers, we had 5 outriggers, a couple of SUPs, an ocean rowing shell, and a hulking Banks Dory (that weighed nearly as much as all of the other boats combined).</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8B6I7h6CMjezWkjT_5fhXL0Patszqp2Os4sHvyRXvSQsa_4o_pvTvcBjWOGC1dmnCmgD35yd9-y58jso10Lxz0Lu3WS0Qiu_zdJ1jlcDbe5CoSMIU8L_AgHfAnmerhq2SuGZ6ZtCZpNIL-8F7HuLXavydiwx86B_iJW8aD795EjhRV2bCcCOjItV-59k/s1600/nrr05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1137" data-original-width="1600" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8B6I7h6CMjezWkjT_5fhXL0Patszqp2Os4sHvyRXvSQsa_4o_pvTvcBjWOGC1dmnCmgD35yd9-y58jso10Lxz0Lu3WS0Qiu_zdJ1jlcDbe5CoSMIU8L_AgHfAnmerhq2SuGZ6ZtCZpNIL-8F7HuLXavydiwx86B_iJW8aD795EjhRV2bCcCOjItV-59k/w640-h454/nrr05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris doesn't use his broad-reaching authority as Chief Compliance Officer often, but even Mr. SurfskiRacing.com himself isn't exempt from random banishment.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A side note. People have asked if I've tried getting ChatGPT to help
write race reports. I did some research and found that "generative AI
has a tendency to produce distorted versions of the truth embedded in
whimsical near-gibberish, assuming that it's not 'hallucinating' outright
confabulations." Uh-oh. That's pretty
much <i>my </i>thing. Rather than being cast into the dustbin
of history, I've decided to take the fight to the Cloud. If AI can do
what I can, the inverse must be true. I'm therefore boning up on
"limericks about racquetball in the style of Dr. Seuss" and "recipes that use
basil, bok choy, and bear kidneys". Be on the lookout for GregChat 1.0 -
just in time for the holiday season.</p>
<p>
I've gotten slightly better on my race starts, but guess I better work on
writing about them, because darned if we're not already a minute into the
affair. We join the race with me just slipping on to Mike's stern draft
after weathering the early sprints of Chris, Jerry, Tim, and Loukia. Or is it
just slipping off of Mike's draft? We'd need a high-speed camera and a
team of philosophers to solve that metaphysical conundrum. Let's just say it
was all part of a single continuous motion. Jerry lasted hundreds of
times longer on my draft, but I managed to drop him after another 30 seconds or so.
</p>
<p>
I made a game of seeing how long I could remain on Mike's successive
wakes. I first did some calculations to gauge my expectations.
I've found that an immediate stern draft is worth about 0.15 mph of effort for
me. Let's say that when you fall back to the next wake, you're getting
2/3 as much help as on the preceding wake. So 0.10 mph for the second
wake, 0.067 for the third wake, etc. Given that I couldn't stay on his
first wake for very long, I'd say that Mike was natively about 0.25 mph faster
than me. So if I were getting <i>no </i>help from the wake, he'd be
putting an extra boat length between us every 54.5 seconds. On the first
wake, it'd take him 136.4 seconds. On the second, 90.9 seconds.
Using this line of reasoning, I was able to calculate that I'd finish roughly
1,273.6 feet behind Mike. I'll admit that my in-the-moment computations were slightly fuzzier than this - more along the lines of "I'm losing ground mighty
fast!", but the fact that I ultimately finished 17 inches <i>closer </i>than estimated means that I actually exceeded my true potential.</p>
<p>
At the upstream turn, I was on Mike's 16th wake (reveling in that 0.00022 mph
boost, baby!) - roughly 30 seconds back. Chris was somewhat more than
that behind me (felt like maybe the 27th wake), with Jerry just behind and Tim
in stones-throw pursuit. I continued a backward wake progression, until the wind
mercifully disturbed the water enough to erase any visual indication of my
reversal. Although the outgoing tide was now providing some help, I
eventually found the thigh-deep suck-water necessary to offset that
advantage. Passing under the final downstream bridge, Mike enjoyed a 1.5
minute lead.
</p>
<p>
Another side note. When they stopped at a gas station to grab some
coffee on the way down, Kirk said that he returned with the drinks to find
Bill trying to stretch the gas pump hose across the parking lot to the Tesla. It'd be funny, instead of sad, if Bill hadn't just recently
retired from a tech job. Vacuum tube design, if I'm not mistaken.
</p>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jj2ni-u3mGc?si=4Z_ZB7FLKpWhHakK" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
<p>
Around 11:30, local powerboat enthusiasts finally conceded that the
summer-like weather was not in fact a prank designed to lure them out into the
open, only to be subjected to a sudden sleet-ridden squall. Scrambling
to their vehicles like reverse storm-chasers, they raced to area boat launches
for the year's last opportunity to satisfy their paddler kill quota.
Since the Narrow River races are held in early spring and late fall (the
"crotch side" of the so-called "shoulder seasons"), we're used to having the
waterway to ourselves. On this day, however, more than one paddler (I assume)
found themselves screaming obscenities at malevolent boaters. "<i>Florio</i>,
you #$@!% idiot! I paid you to take out <span face="Roboto, arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #4d5156; font-size: 14px;">@#$!%&</span> <i>Florio</i>!"... and the like. Despite my best efforts, Mike continued
far ahead as we neared the final turn.
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnmgLM67KEOoEprVj2oH0kn0AoR8N2UbDKIPAmiJATUhW5i8zl5qM7GBLbwO9gPp2UBipds0eg9pkZpxVm20tt5BXLxidBBUNMh50BgYWyVu3LPN3og1eCfO7NKmPCPiCKCa06eTJcoWMCVryaH_ZQwKh4uD1G77qWpG97cwXABb1CobSKa38DGOiIQ0/s1600/nrr07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1017" data-original-width="1600" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTnmgLM67KEOoEprVj2oH0kn0AoR8N2UbDKIPAmiJATUhW5i8zl5qM7GBLbwO9gPp2UBipds0eg9pkZpxVm20tt5BXLxidBBUNMh50BgYWyVu3LPN3og1eCfO7NKmPCPiCKCa06eTJcoWMCVryaH_ZQwKh4uD1G77qWpG97cwXABb1CobSKa38DGOiIQ0/w640-h406/nrr07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't worry. We made Kirk go back and clean up all the paddle slicks he left.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>When you're watching artfully filmed fly-fishing, as in <i>A River Runs Through
It</i>, it's impossible not to gaze in mesmerized wonder at the graceful,
undulating arc of the line reflecting the sun as the master fishermen lasso
their prey. That's how it works, right? In any event, it turns out
the whole spectacle is not so enthralling from the water-level perspective of
the trout. Approaching the downstream turn, I entered a gauntlet of
wader-clad assassins. Only a perfectly triangulated course between them
would protect me from their gossamer snares. I watched Mike emerge
unscathed from the trial-by-angler, his iridescent, mottled skin glistening as
we crossed paths. I similarly managed to thread the needle, although the
barbed laughter that accompanied my clumsy 180 degree turn did hurt my
feelings.</p>
<p>
I spent the final mile back to the finish pondering the enigma that has
troubled mariners since early man first climbed aboard the floating carcass of
a dead whale and started paddling it: If the downstream current is X, how can
the upstream current be 2X? I know... for idiots tooling around on boats
of rotting blubber, they were surprisingly advanced in symbolic
mathematics. Mike must have received some kind of special dispensation
on this leg, since he was obviously in more of a 1.5X situation. He
finished 2 minutes ahead of me at 1:06:05, with Jerry coming in 3.5 minutes
later to claim bronze. Mary Beth & Bill had a strong showing to take
the double's crown at 1:12:36. Loukia was the women's champion in 1:17:02.
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3py3XbZ_wC1YDTab_QO-z7KLp_O-0aV_X9QxxC3CbRFo428Fwv7SMqG-Wy9u8fRyfd46bYHrmkXRP1z0g6iGX-zvjn4sZ4GyIssrfMMs0p2k4kXJ21Ou0lRGZBJMyIHDYFIOEpbFG9zToz2KZw6YRvVl7aPAaeLO9U4rRjAjvqnT7IBh0wyDfBV_RZ8/s1600/nrr04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1228" data-original-width="1600" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3py3XbZ_wC1YDTab_QO-z7KLp_O-0aV_X9QxxC3CbRFo428Fwv7SMqG-Wy9u8fRyfd46bYHrmkXRP1z0g6iGX-zvjn4sZ4GyIssrfMMs0p2k4kXJ21Ou0lRGZBJMyIHDYFIOEpbFG9zToz2KZw6YRvVl7aPAaeLO9U4rRjAjvqnT7IBh0wyDfBV_RZ8/w640-h492/nrr04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You wouldn't know it to look at them, but these kids are celebrating their 12th Narrow River Race together. Not in the same boat, mind you. That'd be a one-and-done situation followed by a bitter custody battle over the Subaru.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It's been a kind of lousy surfski season, with paradoxically more cancellations
than there were scheduled races. But rather than letting things end on a
high note with a spectacular fall day on the Narrow River (thanks, Tim!),
Kuklinski has to have the last word. The Bridges of Essex County (named
with a finger on the fading pulse of Boomers) will close out the racing
calendar on Sunday, November 5, in Danvers, Massachusetts. Bill can't
<i>promise </i>30 degree temperatures, a bone-chilling rain, or gale-force
winds, but he'll do his best to make this 6 mile flatwater paddle a fitting
close to the season. Please preregister at
<a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/TheBridgesofEssexCounty2023">PaddleGuru</a>.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbk_PKqAKywzr2ct-gu-h0ulMi5XqLUJPIfANtg6aA4L5MECGv5mkMsoM0KryHljwFQ1jxuIWaSnJRx_B22uv-PJoMtlvN5fmlqNB9IxXjbmI_h10Z3qF7yBws6oCNHOP10rEMyqe4_QapghoQQGwsqRyUCQH1eyKFTptq8PnG3_toqNhwaC-O5lRqYE/s1600/nrr08.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="965" data-original-width="1600" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwbk_PKqAKywzr2ct-gu-h0ulMi5XqLUJPIfANtg6aA4L5MECGv5mkMsoM0KryHljwFQ1jxuIWaSnJRx_B22uv-PJoMtlvN5fmlqNB9IxXjbmI_h10Z3qF7yBws6oCNHOP10rEMyqe4_QapghoQQGwsqRyUCQH1eyKFTptq8PnG3_toqNhwaC-O5lRqYE/w640-h386/nrr08.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>
<p><br /></p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-32166181552146069752023-07-21T13:20:00.005-04:002023-07-22T10:27:29.560-04:00Blackburn Challenge: Slow Motion<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSPCuynnmNVzgumaw-n0WFb-Ujk1tnZYc58XpQXGxjwhlxowBNQn0O1-KcZtz6n-Ohxz9yt30z-0UIWgYT6M_m02Uthtwe1TgU1hWC7fdYjCrwWR-M1ZfWT8eSPIwMqI_7VRGsB69ID3ZaZSqRq5nG9S1bnix2TBMVlnjHOPbVXnGu95yyAmzWANV3bs/s1600/bb06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1600" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbSPCuynnmNVzgumaw-n0WFb-Ujk1tnZYc58XpQXGxjwhlxowBNQn0O1-KcZtz6n-Ohxz9yt30z-0UIWgYT6M_m02Uthtwe1TgU1hWC7fdYjCrwWR-M1ZfWT8eSPIwMqI_7VRGsB69ID3ZaZSqRq5nG9S1bnix2TBMVlnjHOPbVXnGu95yyAmzWANV3bs/w640-h374/bb06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The champ. (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I was excited when the Blackburn Challenge organizers announced an web-based
competition to provide a pithy slogan for the race. They were probably
expecting something upbeat like "Twenty miles of liquid fun!" or "Take a
magical tour of Cape Ann." That was a miscalculation. As we're now all aware
due to the high-profile copyright lawsuit by the producers of Rocky IV, the
new official slogan is "I must break you." Odd choice to personify the
race that way, but somehow apt. I personally preferred "Nope", but
admittedly that had infringement issues of its own. Despite the ominous new tagline, competitors didn't seem dissuaded.</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
In the spirit of race namesake Howard Blackburn (who famously ate his crewmate
before starting his epic winter row to safety, just to bask undiluted in solo
glory), Mary Beth and I invited fellow competitors Tim Dwyer and Rob Jehn to stay with us
before the race. This proved to be an error in judgement on everyone's
part, as we all spent the night sleepless in the candlelight, daggers at the
ready.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Last year, Rob Jehn and Craig Impens battled for the entire race, with Craig
getting the edge in the final sprint. I sensed that Rob hadn't quite
negotiated the five stages of grief over this devastating loss, mostly because
he kept denying that he had even participated in 2022. When confronted
with photographic evidence from the finish line, he just muttered something
about doppelgangers while jabbing Craig's face with a handy dagger.
C'mon, dude. That was my phone. In any event, Rob was looking
forward to repeating his dominant performance from the last time he had raced
the course, back in 2021. He'd be joined by inveterate Canadians Jack
Van Dorp and Brian Heath, who made their annual summer migration to Gloucester
in hopes of claiming their own podium spots.
</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2n9pNLMsCLBwmjLJooheBWK9XWVqd16e8tNi-k1jcZk9rUBrv3MdqJhwXeyCt571w38S9Miua8iVfxPS4iQRqK--m54JuLT7BFd3hTeWNW_2_jmlGeEEhdQ7jrF3aUQKUFv65xRjzeeWRCBpP07y9pnmDxexrUMEoYwh2EuSMOhK0Cv5uIrExDdgTNI/s3840/bb01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="3840" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2n9pNLMsCLBwmjLJooheBWK9XWVqd16e8tNi-k1jcZk9rUBrv3MdqJhwXeyCt571w38S9Miua8iVfxPS4iQRqK--m54JuLT7BFd3hTeWNW_2_jmlGeEEhdQ7jrF3aUQKUFv65xRjzeeWRCBpP07y9pnmDxexrUMEoYwh2EuSMOhK0Cv5uIrExDdgTNI/w640-h360/bb01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one photo of the North Shore crew deserves an entire blog post of its own.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Local ne'er-do-well and perennial nemesis, Matt Drayer, would mercifully be
out of my category, paddling a V10 Double with beloved native Dan
Brooks. They'd be facing off against Team Lamb (Erin & Alan, who
have repeatedly rejected my preferred moniker, The Dylambic Duo) in their own
class, and Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer in an SS20+ tandem. Other notable
paddlers included the legendary Dana Gaines, who hit platinum membership way
back at his 15th Blackburn and has since accrued so many multiplied miles that
he'd technically be completing his 244th iteration this year.
Doubles "partner" Phil Warner was assigned to do the actual paddling, as well
as serving complimentary lobster and champagne at Straitsmouth.</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Before the race, I heard someone offering simple, practical advice for
navigation once exiting the Annisquam - "Keep the land to your left". Oops. He must have misspoken. "Port." I helpfully corrected. Assuming the recipients of this wisdom
averaged 40 miles a day, brought a few extra energy gels, and carried a change
of underwear, we could expect to see them at the finish of the 2025
Blackburn. I felt bad for the suckers who didn't bring enough cash to
cover the Panama Canal transit fee, though. Of course, the quicker
circumnavigation - keeping Cape Ann to your starboard - would entail only 20
miles of paddling, although in some years that extra underwear might
nevertheless come in handy.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
I lined up next to Rob, Jack, and Brian. Or rather, amongst them.
With my less-than-explosive start, I should have known that I would soon find
myself squeezed between these guys, desperately looking for a unclaimed patch
of water large enough to plant a paddle blade. After a couple of solid
plants on Jack's boat threatened to cause an international incident, I
relented and ceded the disputed territory of Rob's starboard draft to
Jack. I slipped onto Rob's stern, with Brian likewise behind Jack.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Rob managed to free himself of parasites within a couple minutes, opening up a
half-dozen boat length gap that would persist for most of the trip out the
Annisquam. As we progressed, the strength of the incoming tide grew,
knocking a knot off our speeds even when tucked out of the worst of the
current. I managed to get around Jack, who I now pulled in pursuit of
Rob. Brian stayed on the train for a mile or so, but eventually tumbled
off.
</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW42NPpoQ4uQ0FEHp3OWqVAgafkxLKp3MGj4z3W9-xs16C_1TAAs6MIOhb8kAkwh2Ff-rhaPz1mIfQQHQJdMd4UYRxHMVmOl6RPKKMdeGZs6I-iZ3hv2UnvCc1-HPxUghlT2AlxkAMe8mEPfjBXPO8HpkchmAjxZZGTeSyCmA8J6wyrJk4_WzK1FyOB_8/s1535/bb04.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1058" data-original-width="1535" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW42NPpoQ4uQ0FEHp3OWqVAgafkxLKp3MGj4z3W9-xs16C_1TAAs6MIOhb8kAkwh2Ff-rhaPz1mIfQQHQJdMd4UYRxHMVmOl6RPKKMdeGZs6I-iZ3hv2UnvCc1-HPxUghlT2AlxkAMe8mEPfjBXPO8HpkchmAjxZZGTeSyCmA8J6wyrJk4_WzK1FyOB_8/w640-h442/bb04.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I enjoy the Hokey Pokey as much as the next guy, but I'm not sure it was a particularly effective as a group warm-up drill.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Despite not having kayaked there until I was 37, my formative years were spent
paddling the Annisquam. Having been practically whelped on the marshy estuary,
I've been able to use a few navigational sleights-of-hand to my advantage in
past Blackburns - including some feats that left Rob blinking in disbelief
that his 10 length lead had been magically cut to 8 and a half. From
such harsh instruction, he's since learned to frequently check back with me,
adjusting his behavior accordingly. Little did he realize that my
greatest trick had been in planning all along for just such an adaptation.</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Each time that Rob started to crane back, I'd adopt a crazy new "strategy" for
him to mimic. Weaving through the moored boats. Only paddling on
one side. Wearing my shorts inside-out. He invariably took the
bait, but these moves were just for giggles. The real pay-off came when
Rob looked back to find me cutting the final bend of the Annisquam
ridiculously close to shore. He corrected his course to adopt my
purported line, while I swerved away from the sandy shallows once his gaze
returned forward. I watched with glee as Rob heeled his boat
increasingly to one side to avoid scraping his rudder and then ground to a
halt. The few seconds it took him to hop out of his boat and drag it to
deeper water was just enough for me to catch him. Jack, who had remained
scrupulously clear of the shallows, hovered a few lengths back.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
My ingenious ploy bought me all of 3 minutes of draft time. Exiting the
river, Rob broke free once again while I was clumsily (and boorishly) trying to
pass an outrigger who had the temerity to be out on the same course.
Over the next mile, Rob stretched his advantage to a dozen length lead.
A short distance back, Jack was resolved to stay on a line 50 meters inside of
mine. At one point, I tested his commitment to this strategy by angling
over to within 25 meters of the shore. Sure enough, when I glanced to
the right, there was Jack, boat on his shoulder, scrambling spryly across the
rocky coast. He seemed to be gaining on me during this stretch, so I
quickly veered back to open water, a subdued splash behind me signaled the end
of Jack's portage. There may have been some mild degree of
exercise-induced hypoxia associated with this anecdote.
</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMBakDDxoF8tbn6Uk2FRhcehlyXwzLVGTdsl0qm0LDboQTQlzwoH-zYs3gjGABnmo6WPwwTC7UogncpBnPk5e6ECuJWovRNfMGpZWSCHQS5VyO1Sccad6O89hRWfCTye64I3CktwbQIeFXgO-wmcFKvmuCZ59YujniYsE-lmgzHuMFIoDvGBFV1uD2GU/s1600/bb07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhMBakDDxoF8tbn6Uk2FRhcehlyXwzLVGTdsl0qm0LDboQTQlzwoH-zYs3gjGABnmo6WPwwTC7UogncpBnPk5e6ECuJWovRNfMGpZWSCHQS5VyO1Sccad6O89hRWfCTye64I3CktwbQIeFXgO-wmcFKvmuCZ59YujniYsE-lmgzHuMFIoDvGBFV1uD2GU/w640-h426/bb07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Race buddies Elmore, Jerry, and Bernie. The camaraderie of mile 7 was inevitably replaced by the bitter recriminations of mile 12 (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Although the tide had been restraining our exuberance in a motherly manner
(firm, but gentle, and with occasional snacks), the sea was smooth with barely
a wisp of wind. At Halibut Point, however, we were collectively shipped
off to boarding school, where "tough love" was the order of the day.
Inevitably, this would later evolve to rampant sadism and, for some of the
less hardened pupils, psychotic breaks. I'm getting ahead of myself,
though. At orientation, we were merely slapped in the face and reminded
that this was the Atlantic Ocean, not our mama's duck pond. There was
some confused refractory chop around the rocky points and an unwelcome
headwind, but crossing Sandy Bay towards Straitsmouth wasn't an unreasonable first assignment.</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Rob was slipping inexorably further ahead during this span, but I took some
solace from the possibility that Jack had the same feeling about me. If
his inside line had been helping him while closer to the coast, in Sandy Bay
it was doing him no favors - I could see him gradually falling back. A
quarter of the way to Straitsmouth, I heard the first waft of the dreadful
sound that would burrow itself into my brain so deeply that I hear it
still. Hut! The six-person outriggers had started immediately
after the skis. Hut! The lead OC-6 had blasted by as we left the
Annisquam, but now the second was approaching at a rate usually associated
with glaciers or your slower growing mosses. Hut! For the next
half-hour, the rhythmic call to switch paddle sides would scrape at my nerves,
fraying my sanity. Hut! I can now testify from first-hand
experience that torture is an unreliable interrogation technique, since at one
point (dear God, make it stop) I confessed to war crimes in Bosnia, cheating
on my Econ 101 mid-term, and having a secret crush on Mrs. Garrett.
Hmm. <i>Somewhat </i>unreliable.
</div><div><br /></div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0EkfgZgoX1Q" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div>
<div>Before you comment that "the OC-6 paddlers themselves seem to have no problems
maintaining their sanity after 3 hours of calls", I'd say that (a) you
apparently haven't met that many outrigger paddlers and (b) it's a matter of
<i>context</i>. If your own 5 year old (it's Walter, right?) whacks you
repeatedly on the head with a croquet mallet, that's adorable. If it's
me getting whacked on the melon, that's felonious assault and Walter is going
to be spending the next 35 years in the Big House. I forgot to mention
that in this analogy, we're in Canada - they don't mollycoddle minors up
there. In any event, my hypnotherapist (you may remember Dr. Huber) has
promised to wipe all memory of the traumatizing chant, but so far he's only
succeeded in making me forget where I put my wallet.</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
By necessity (except, perhaps, for shore-clambering Jack) boats are funneled
through the narrow Straitsmouth gap after traversing Sandy Bay. I must
have got a hold of some bad juju before the race (never trust unlicensed parking lot vendors), because, despite my best efforts, I arrived at the
throttle point simultaneously with the OC-6 mentioned in passing above, two
rowboats, and a double ski piloted by Chris Kielb and Rob Flanagan. The
tightening situation required deft maneuvering to avoid incident, but I
instead opted to close my eyes and hope for the best. Only when the
screaming (mine) stopped did a I dare to reopen them. I have no new
scars, so it seems like everything worked out just fine.
</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXaXfDhbdoGkmIhS9OFWEPaq7jrFgrCCfAOv-Sg04sV2BSE82p_3HRQzPMBe_OPAXrXEPw0xVDi_s7Py5gDbaNdsjpb61r7XvGSM-aX--ObRXMbyvNqlAtKxp0j8jI2G4reK1eA3XpPZVZA8yI2S7-fIeALbhiFhRvY3nPmHAGAwNNXYXE-PdYKX4iiQ/s1600/bb05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBXaXfDhbdoGkmIhS9OFWEPaq7jrFgrCCfAOv-Sg04sV2BSE82p_3HRQzPMBe_OPAXrXEPw0xVDi_s7Py5gDbaNdsjpb61r7XvGSM-aX--ObRXMbyvNqlAtKxp0j8jI2G4reK1eA3XpPZVZA8yI2S7-fIeALbhiFhRvY3nPmHAGAwNNXYXE-PdYKX4iiQ/w640-h426/bb05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If technique and style points were factored into the results, I would have been disqualified. (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Although tempered by the disturbed waters around each subsequent headland, we
enjoyed a tidal boost after Straitsmouth. This uncharacteristic respite
from antagonistic conditions faded after clearing Lands End, where we started
our 3 mile trek across open water. Our punishment now took the form of a
headwind and waves predominantly from the quarter beam. Seconds
stretched to minutes, and minutes stretched to curses and impassioned prayers
that the distant coast would get at least marginally less distant. That
particular request wasn't immediately granted, but I did receive one
unexpected blessing from above - the OC-6 took an outside line ahead and was
finally out of earshot. On a negative note, Rob had similarly advanced,
and was finally out of eyeshot.</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Many of those anxious for landfall after their endless odyssey found
themselves in emotional turmoil after achieving their goal. On one hand,
Hooray! On the other, Zounds! It's tough to describe the chaotic
ocean surface exactly, but perhaps "prickly" comes closest. We would
also accept "nettlesome". Between the prevailing beam waves, slop
reflected randomly from the craggy shore, and undersea seismic activity,
conditions were sub-optimal for paddlers who already had 15 miles worth of
balance fatigue under their belts. Although challenging even for
veterans, this rough-and-tumble hazing took its toll on the underclassmen. Several had to be hustled into decompression chambers after the
race, lest the sudden change in anxiety levels burst their fragile psyches.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
I managed to bumble through the disorder, bouncing along haphazardly in a path
that led more-or-less in the right direction. How different from my
early Blackburn years, where I mostly floundered instead of bumbling.
Rounding East Point, the beam waves were finally forced into a more favorable
alignment, providing juicy rides along the Dog Bar, just waiting to be
harvested. That's more of a theoretical than empirical observation,
since fatigue prevented me from actually sinking my teeth into most of those
plums.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
The two mile trip from the Dog Bar to the finish across a busy Gloucester
harbor is typically an interminable slog - a life sentence punctuated by
moments of powerboat-induced terror. With a breeze at our backs and the
reduction of the bounty on paddlers (recently reclassified from "pestilent
scourge" to "nuisance species" by the Harbormaster), this year's traverse was
only 95% as unpleasant as usual. And now with a sustainable cull
rate! For once I passed the finish line looking robust enough that
concerned spectators weren't calling 911.
</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0gdpPH1z8FYLCjTp5tem7m0x5RcL__h9kmmARZNidBXmvM9Evr3jT5z0WGixgglRoqCcXVcsRgf4w5qznAhP_DPv90ST6HDJ3ylpe06K0oVBc3pQPIpTHy8BkZ8mChmss7K7ZMgtfEXCzN0HCYzHEXjr2ocOxmlXd4JYdpusIxjn7bGw8B47G_CdiHM/s3840/bb02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="3840" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0gdpPH1z8FYLCjTp5tem7m0x5RcL__h9kmmARZNidBXmvM9Evr3jT5z0WGixgglRoqCcXVcsRgf4w5qznAhP_DPv90ST6HDJ3ylpe06K0oVBc3pQPIpTHy8BkZ8mChmss7K7ZMgtfEXCzN0HCYzHEXjr2ocOxmlXd4JYdpusIxjn7bGw8B47G_CdiHM/w640-h360/bb02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two legendary watermen. That's 12-time Molokai winner Oscar Chalupsky in the black shirt. And Blackburn rower extraordinaire Rich Klajnscek in the blue shirt and orange hat. Our staff is still trying to identify the guy next to Oscar.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>No single stretch of the Blackburn was particularly onerous this year, but the
relentlessness of unfavorable conditions made for a humbling race.</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Rob had notched his second Blackburn championship in 2:54:03. I don't
mean to take anything away from his performance, but I'd hardly be a
conscientious journalist if I didn't point out that this was the slowest
winning time in nearly 25 years. I will, however, graciously admit that
his 5 minute advantage over 2nd (me) and 10 minute edge over 3rd (Jack)
indicates that Rob isn't quite the slouch the facts objectively show him to
be. Johna Till Johnson claimed the women's HPK class, while Jean
Kostelich won the SS20+ class. John Stevens was the men's SS20+
champ. The HPK tandem team of Matt & Dan came in as the overall
fastest surfski at 2:51:50, while the SS20+ duo of Wesley & Tim slotted
themselves between me and Jack as the 4th overall ski. Rejuvenated by
his first tandem race, Wesley was heard to shout "We're going around again!"
just prior to being knocked unconscious by Tim.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Here's the prescription for those who need to ease themselves back into racing
after their 3-to-7 hour long Blackburn trauma. Start with a flatwater
outing on the relatively tranquil Connecticut River - the New England
Paddlesports Championship (register at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/45thAnnualNewEnglandPaddlesportsChampionship2023">PaddleGuru</a>) on July 30th in Hinsdale, NH. Follow that with the more
adventurous Clean Ocean Access Paddle 2023 in Newport, RI on August 19th
(register at
<a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/Paddle2023">PaddleGuru</a>). Then
throw yourself whole-heartedly back into the open water fray at the Nahant Bay
Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 26th (probable date - keep tuned).
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
You can view many great photos of the race from Phil Sachs (at
<a href="https://altacimaphoto.smugmug.com/Blackburn-Challenge-2023-PhilSachs/i-6DJvdqW">Halibut Point</a>) and Glen Tine (at
<a href="https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1GDH6xB7wM5D6MKybMnpr7JosjCzdCded?usp=sharing">Straitsmouth</a>).
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>Hut!</div>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-23987188860544075962023-07-07T12:25:00.001-04:002023-07-07T12:25:50.867-04:00Double Beaver: Double Trouble<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGnyhYX3a1o88F_QGjjy1Zqoc7Tet0_kqN9hkJckaKHzTCYhAyFrc1ylx0KsC4L_Dsm2-QVSn5PWEsQkJmb21lQaKD4vvn6uKGpZOPF71EHAJWU21E_LnF_o4Mi7PZmMJEfRhD0BGsH1hoq7ZI5WjDSTh5xsMSXHLWu4Y9f5AwVIp72F3l7ed9ulX9Uk/s1773/jdb10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="1773" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGnyhYX3a1o88F_QGjjy1Zqoc7Tet0_kqN9hkJckaKHzTCYhAyFrc1ylx0KsC4L_Dsm2-QVSn5PWEsQkJmb21lQaKD4vvn6uKGpZOPF71EHAJWU21E_LnF_o4Mi7PZmMJEfRhD0BGsH1hoq7ZI5WjDSTh5xsMSXHLWu4Y9f5AwVIp72F3l7ed9ulX9Uk/w640-h382/jdb10.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>There's been a lot of speculation as to exactly how Tim Dwyer manages to convince world-class paddlers to participate in one of his races every few years. I suspect he has some dirt on the Rhode Island Bureau of Tourism that he leverages to obtain generous subsidies, because the alternative - his warm personality, long history in the sport, and extensive network of paddling contacts - doesn't make for good copy. For this year's running of the Jamestown Double Beaver, Tim really put the squeeze on the Visitor Services Officer (not his real name) to arrange a public appearance by US national sprint team member Jesse Lishchuk.</p><p>I'm old enough to remember being beaten by Jesse as a child prodigy (him, not me), but for others this would be their first chance to meet this amazing athlete in person. He didn't disappoint - in either the race itself or in his post-lunch workshop. Jesse spent the race flitting around like a deranged hummingbird, combining
interval training, paddler wellness checks, and just plain youthful
exuberance. If there were classes in this race, starting with Jesse alone in
"Elite" and progressing through "Expert", "Advanced", and lesser levels from
there, we'd have had about 7 empty classes before getting to the rest of us in
"Present". It goes without saying - at least from this sentence on -
that Jesse won. Poof. For the purpose of this report, he wasn't in
the race.</p>
<p>
With the kid out of the picture, recent Ride the Bull champion Ed Joy was
undoubtedly the favorite. Ronald Rivera finished only a couple minutes
back in that race, after having honed his rough-water skills dodging ferries (as well as items left best unidentified) in the disturbed waters around Manhattan. Hailing from western
Massachusetts, flatwater specialist Joel Pekosz had edged me out in the Oxbow
Paddle earlier this season. A few weeks later, however, I really turned
things around when we met at the Mystic River Herring Run. Alas, not in
a good way - Joel absolutely kippered me at that race, smoking me by several
minutes. I'd need a little help from a surly ocean.
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51NuNMI8P1RHaKDgzHIzuSIcgdlUgTqyYEGsWOnGMciEHIhpxqI40zC48OvzFWYLf_PshEr62r7ees8gs1Hwvh9I4Nwh9emcCGAfxzyq58LGISNojUpM1NTVnFQ0TCnZMHgObc9dkeuOtEkYjMGxVqqQRXjNlf44tDXdN9-9fN-7E3HTNcnyHsD2wfFY/s1600/jdb02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="975" data-original-width="1600" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51NuNMI8P1RHaKDgzHIzuSIcgdlUgTqyYEGsWOnGMciEHIhpxqI40zC48OvzFWYLf_PshEr62r7ees8gs1Hwvh9I4Nwh9emcCGAfxzyq58LGISNojUpM1NTVnFQ0TCnZMHgObc9dkeuOtEkYjMGxVqqQRXjNlf44tDXdN9-9fN-7E3HTNcnyHsD2wfFY/w640-h390/jdb02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During the captain's meeting, Tim had trouble competing with the contradictory instructions I was relaying via my drone's loudspeaker. We came <i>this </i>close to running a half mile version of the race where we paddled backwards.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1upEoSVLt9HDJFRL_MLcVuR-ijbHJEmJAfAetbLHTPdNaSRvqZIsPSqdmvjX69N-ld42uSMTIGaIVGDFwC_ZmdrS5lI5dylY24GMlcXgU1XjEJTycFwmsg2c-yoOgGsLpb7zrVubjmrroR8npWP6QEMOUi2hiFlU5Qy6TngOn1vdJv2llieVkx7dIV8/s1378/jdb13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1034" data-original-width="1378" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1upEoSVLt9HDJFRL_MLcVuR-ijbHJEmJAfAetbLHTPdNaSRvqZIsPSqdmvjX69N-ld42uSMTIGaIVGDFwC_ZmdrS5lI5dylY24GMlcXgU1XjEJTycFwmsg2c-yoOgGsLpb7zrVubjmrroR8npWP6QEMOUi2hiFlU5Qy6TngOn1vdJv2llieVkx7dIV8/w640-h480/jdb13.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just in case you're wondering, the guy with the paddle - <i>that's</i> the international-caliber athlete. (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Intriguingly, 4 doubles would be competing. It seemed quite likely that
the pairings of Tim & Wesley, Max Yasochka & Andrius Zinkevichus, and
Mary Beth Gangloff & Kirk Olsen would be mixing it up with the top singles
for the overall title (again, excluding Jesse). Robin Francis & Igor
Yeremeev might not be contenders, but it was nice to have a tandem that
<i>wasn't </i>crewed by scurrilous cutthroats. In addition to the skis, we were joined by a handful of OCs and SUPs of undetermined demeanor.</p>
<p>
This would be at least the 15th running of the notoriously challenging race -
it's hard to pin down an exact count since many of the early records still
remain sealed due to ongoing litigation by next of kin. Racers would
start off the end of the Conanicut Yacht Club dock, proceed 1.5 miles across
the relatively protected waters of Jamestown Harbor, round Bull Point, then
spend 3.5 miles crossing open water to the Beavertail Light buoy before
returning to the start. Traditional geometry puts the total length at 10
miles, but after factoring in boat wakes, refractory waves, and unpredictable
tidal currents, I've seen paddlers who have logged thrice that in subjective
distance. Sorry, typo. Not "seen", "been". Although the
forecast was for mild conditions and the harbor was calm, veterans knew to
strap down their valuables, get their affairs in order, and gird their
loins. That may seem redundant, but it pays to triple-check these
things.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6UweasEh4AoartUI6Mcw0Z7i1HFxISWIZPvXdabuf0HUVV6TNmoenLYTXYiwkBY3zG9MB9_0OXbZNbHHZgUWc48T3He_6SNQidaZx-cW4fBFqt1n9ZyD-d3FT0trbZRgnGVJlO3l0Ps_7X687qJNuev8Fec1MqO73SY5e7wdnlHlqtpRZ6E54g_LFwg/s1588/jdb12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1091" data-original-width="1588" height="440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC6UweasEh4AoartUI6Mcw0Z7i1HFxISWIZPvXdabuf0HUVV6TNmoenLYTXYiwkBY3zG9MB9_0OXbZNbHHZgUWc48T3He_6SNQidaZx-cW4fBFqt1n9ZyD-d3FT0trbZRgnGVJlO3l0Ps_7X687qJNuev8Fec1MqO73SY5e7wdnlHlqtpRZ6E54g_LFwg/w640-h440/jdb12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's the take home from this picture... In a fight with Andrius, you'd end up stabbed through the heart with your own broken femur. In a fight with Max, he'd set a kitten on your head. (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)</td></tr></tbody></table></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfvGK8TlB9zp3ojT5Wyc02gGcw1C2anbftTO4d73ly1Q3bjSf6Cq1ynroovmrOWHPZdMIlgqaHcZRgsAOWbZpRsC6rc6cHcbzHqL6XZIYh6LrlwHazrLAMIRS-uKMO0rxhEN6_dPpXBaPW88IcQRXJCgiH8JnXXSsKUC737lh_NFObpbT6AYF4zNeeQNk/s1600/jdb04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfvGK8TlB9zp3ojT5Wyc02gGcw1C2anbftTO4d73ly1Q3bjSf6Cq1ynroovmrOWHPZdMIlgqaHcZRgsAOWbZpRsC6rc6cHcbzHqL6XZIYh6LrlwHazrLAMIRS-uKMO0rxhEN6_dPpXBaPW88IcQRXJCgiH8JnXXSsKUC737lh_NFObpbT6AYF4zNeeQNk/w640-h480/jdb04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris watched, forlorn, as the last paddler left the beach headed to the start. A single tear ran down his cheek. Then he remembered that he brought a boat too.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>If anyone was hoping for a gradual enough start by the leaders that they could
slot in easily on a draft, I was sorely disappointed. The abrupt
acceleration of Ronald, Ed, and Max & Andrius practically dislocated my
confidence within the first 15 seconds of the race. With some moral (and
hydrodynamic) support from Joel and Tim & Wesley, however, I managed to
cling to a glimmer of hope. After weaving through the densest
concentration of boats and buoys in the harbor (with one notable
near-collision where I nearly dropped a stitch), I noticed Ed pulling landward to
catch a few runners. He's a master at finding the subtlest boosts.
Knowing that anything I could do, Ed could do better - but hoping that
anything he could do, I could do maybe 72% as effectively, I followed his
lead. Joel did as well, but I was pleasantly surprised that my mere
100-fold advantage in ocean paddling hours allowed me to crack a gap between
us. He soon reverted to the outside line that most of the other leaders
were pursuing.</p>
<p>
At Bull Point, Max & Andrius and Ed had a 10 length lead over me, with Tim
& Wesley right on my tail, Ronald just behind them, and Mary Beth &
Kirk less than a half dozen lengths further back. Now targeting the
distant Beavertail Light, I pulled slightly ahead of the others. I
chased the leaders from 5 lengths back. When I again noticed the other
three boats a few minutes later, they were a good quarter mile outside of me
in approximately the same arrangement. I was clearly still ahead of
them, until, in a matter of less than 10 minutes, I wasn't. I'd heard
Tim claim many times that even though he'd been paddling here for nigh on 75
years (he's older than he looks), he was still as confused by the Narragansett
tidal currents as he was by push-button telephones. I bought into this
hokum, in part because I'd repeatedly seen him searching for the finger holes
on his cell phone. But I should have known that the crafty locals would
be taking the best line for the outgoing tide.
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4NQEEoKQkePFXGKbXcTtncC0qa1f797UtiNVrf7JXfoR0v0rZe3G6xGRywv2Mlymp5bb7AK6T-dMLWTHFwG2CCbvQJ4-sYqUe2I20sCXcXCY21weCTs6YKqYassW-I51MvgV2ttK-YDMre8FO1jgi04NyGxOCt0bMe07vCEf70pGvkxOTj_03SfPzgcQ/s1600/jdb11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="973" data-original-width="1600" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4NQEEoKQkePFXGKbXcTtncC0qa1f797UtiNVrf7JXfoR0v0rZe3G6xGRywv2Mlymp5bb7AK6T-dMLWTHFwG2CCbvQJ4-sYqUe2I20sCXcXCY21weCTs6YKqYassW-I51MvgV2ttK-YDMre8FO1jgi04NyGxOCt0bMe07vCEf70pGvkxOTj_03SfPzgcQ/w640-h390/jdb11.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I tried not to be squeamish about it, but I wasn't exactly thrilled about the last-second cockpit adjustments Wesley asked for help with.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>While Max & Andrius and Ed slowly lengthened their lead, I merged with the
train led by Tim & Wesley as the upcoming Beavertail headland began
pinching us together. I zippered in a couple of lengths behind their
double, and a couple ahead of Ronald and Mary Beth & Kirk. Tim &
Wesley looked more comfortable than one would have liked at this stage - not
exactly paddling languidly, but at a measured pace that hinted at deeper
reserves. Figuring I'd better give myself a buffer before they spooled
up to full power, I used some interval efforts to put them back behind
me. At the Beavertail buoy, Ed and Max & Andrius were 10 lengths
ahead of me, Tim & Wesley 3 lengths back, with Mary Beth & Kirk and
then Ronald each a half-dozen lengths further back.</p><p>Given Tim & Wesley's line-related gains on the outbound leg, I probably should have shadowed them on the way home. In my defense, they were flagrantly ignoring <i>my </i>navigational lead after the turn, so I felt petulantly justified in refusing to acknowledge the superiority of the upstarts' course, even after they slipped ahead on an inside line. I was, however, willing to eat enough crow to, uh, let's say, <i>trend </i>in their general direction to avoid being lapped. Ed and Max & Andrius, who had started their return on a line much further out than mine, realized how much of their effort they were wasting against the current as they fell behind both the new lead double and me. They veered shoreward in response. I now had Ed and two doubles in pursuit as Tim & Wesley widened their lead.</p>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/AxgF87aJXkQ" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div>Being ahead of Ed had a "I'm just happy to be nominated" feel to it. Now
that we were on the same line, it wasn't likely I was going to win the award,
but if I could drum up some kind of grassroots support from the other paddlers
while simultaneously waging a black-ops smear campaign on Ed, maybe I'd have a
chance. Unfortunately, nobody was close enough to either pull me to
victory or cancel Ed. After a heated battle (that is, Ed periodically overheating and
stopping to douse his head), he overtook me in the polls and opened a runaway
lead. Now I had only Max & Andrius and Mary Beth and Kirk to thwart.
<p>
Although I wasn't obsessing about the relative position of the pursuing
doubles, a mild curiosity resulted in what my new orthopedic surgeon, Dr.
Huber, refers to as "severe C1-C2 degradation due to excessive head
rotation". If I were the anxious type, the fact that Max & Andrius
loomed comically closer with every backward glance might have sent me into
full-blown hysteria. The memory of my <i>actual </i>reaction is a little
vague, however, since Doc Huber also has me on pretty heavy doses of Paxil and
Klonopin. He's kind of a jack-of-all-trades.
</p>
<p>
Inevitably, Max & Andrius passed me shortly after we entered Jamestown
Harbor. After the race, they complemented me on my ability to navigate
through the rocks at the entrance of the harbor without once actually looking
forward. When fighting for dominance, it's important to maintain eye
contact to avoid the appearance of weakness. Based on the results,
however, it's evidently more important to actually not be weak. With Max
& Andrius successfully flushed from the Worry Pool (as Hube suggests I
call it), I could concentrate on the existential threat posed by Mary Beth
& Kirk.
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72eft5o0VtovmjbcJu9kKgGn_76kY3v9ZevwXLpMuF4ubRO2G_k-ZDx5R_8NCGJ0-aJi62AH3MzphEaDnXJ0ir2NN7LF3VVReTudjZLWdRuDKt6jpBxOks-vXHkgtqu6VxbYPltPhfUtIuV644hah7eMi20twor_i37UtezkhM30MAW7D17OKwqLx5uY/s1432/jdb09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="1432" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72eft5o0VtovmjbcJu9kKgGn_76kY3v9ZevwXLpMuF4ubRO2G_k-ZDx5R_8NCGJ0-aJi62AH3MzphEaDnXJ0ir2NN7LF3VVReTudjZLWdRuDKt6jpBxOks-vXHkgtqu6VxbYPltPhfUtIuV644hah7eMi20twor_i37UtezkhM30MAW7D17OKwqLx5uY/w640-h470/jdb09.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kirk demonstrates why the Epic V8 Double is nicknamed "The Crotchbuster". (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Up ahead, Ed challenged Tim & Wesley for the lead, but wasn't able to
permanently overtake them due to ongoing malfunctions in his heat dissipation
subsystems. Steam (hopefully) venting from his orifices, he had to
settle for the non-Jesse solo crown 15 seconds behind the non-Jesse overall
champions, Tim & Wesley. Max & Andrius took third overall 16
seconds later. Driven to a berserker state by the prospect of having to
move out of our house to avoid the incessant gloating of Mary Beth (just
packing up my Hummel collection by itself would be unthinkable), I actually managed to
close to within 20 seconds of Max & Andrius while staying
<i>well </i>ahead of Mary Beth & Kirk. In the Big Bang cosmology
time-frame, that 8 second gap encompassed at least a half-dozen distinct epochs. I
particularly enjoyed the Inflationary Phase. Ronald took the non-Jesse
solo bronze soon after.</p>
<p>
While rinsing off the heat beyond the finish line, we excitedly rehashed the
events of the race. Usually such discussions are peppered with "shoulda"
and "if only" lamentations, but, miraculously, the paddlers from the 6 lead
boats all seemed to be pleased with their performances. Well, it was
tough to tell with Ed since he was cooling off by floating face-down in the
water during the 15 minute discussion, but he definitely wasn't complaining.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXZ3DP0C1AH43mGvDVT20cdhL0p-hzUrFqCu85iE9-oseYrZHxk02w_FwOKsO31VDLHXcvYBUdMtMJ3QtgJGmS7O1bKBkGRf-lYPS-nDXEC-zx7px2w97aWoL7-3-7w1OyvUMlXzdTAA89cY4CI0p4NBYO0rh2drBe7AN_vBGcPbR97oxZqY2FwIBEMI/s1600/jdb07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1131" data-original-width="1600" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZXZ3DP0C1AH43mGvDVT20cdhL0p-hzUrFqCu85iE9-oseYrZHxk02w_FwOKsO31VDLHXcvYBUdMtMJ3QtgJGmS7O1bKBkGRf-lYPS-nDXEC-zx7px2w97aWoL7-3-7w1OyvUMlXzdTAA89cY4CI0p4NBYO0rh2drBe7AN_vBGcPbR97oxZqY2FwIBEMI/w640-h452/jdb07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the fan favorites of Jesse's post-race clinic was this moment. They eventually had to call in 3 more people to wrestle me into the proper paddling position.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiel1epxQchVVY1nem8hYtQ694nCaa16F0_zpzQZyKzjxjM4Ul68W1kSO4sPPBUhfUccSO9CNsVhssLh60V0cJujD7N5sGpEIt2IsEZmf0fD3Ja7_WS42bzUPILf7PVXHw8Vo9efCe1feS4VBY3Rl0BmhEQmBt7rbRVHN0yEDdK0QHOnYWKKLOmtWwwsg8/s1600/jdb08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1242" data-original-width="1600" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiel1epxQchVVY1nem8hYtQ694nCaa16F0_zpzQZyKzjxjM4Ul68W1kSO4sPPBUhfUccSO9CNsVhssLh60V0cJujD7N5sGpEIt2IsEZmf0fD3Ja7_WS42bzUPILf7PVXHw8Vo9efCe1feS4VBY3Rl0BmhEQmBt7rbRVHN0yEDdK0QHOnYWKKLOmtWwwsg8/w640-h496/jdb08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's mocking me, isn't she?</td></tr></tbody></table><p>At roughly half the length of the
<a href="https://www.capeannrowingclub.com/blackburn-challenge-race-logistics">Blackburn Challenge</a>, the discomfort engendered by the Double Beaver should be sufficient to
dissuade even the hardiest of paddlers from subjecting themselves to the
longer race on July 15th. Please keep that in mind before registering
and foiling my rapidly diminishing chances at ever winning the thing.
Better see if the Hubester has anything that might help.</p>
<p>
You can find additional photos of the Double Beaver by Olga Sydorenko
<a href="https://www.sportsnut.pro/Water-Sports/2023-Double-Beaver-Race-Jamestown-RI">here</a>.
</p>
</div>Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-9297682309262002032023-06-21T13:35:00.000-04:002023-06-21T14:06:56.350-04:00Ride the Bull: Stormless Weather<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikH0RahJJGjlCUgddL9FLDUcCvwpYVmfksIXyy-aSFExt870Pwnp0En-sKAzDgDnIJH5qZkSkU-03GbxUW97uS-bOq9-mqTF7DRIVPhwWrPw1GNobXyjFmyGKfF2zAj1vXjsufXgkIz62lGq9RCsqGXMkQ1IqhOABtfbhyn05-ABuD_hCf_8jAxtGCtJ8/s960/rtb07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikH0RahJJGjlCUgddL9FLDUcCvwpYVmfksIXyy-aSFExt870Pwnp0En-sKAzDgDnIJH5qZkSkU-03GbxUW97uS-bOq9-mqTF7DRIVPhwWrPw1GNobXyjFmyGKfF2zAj1vXjsufXgkIz62lGq9RCsqGXMkQ1IqhOABtfbhyn05-ABuD_hCf_8jAxtGCtJ8/w640-h480/rtb07.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>The Ride the Bull race in Jamestown, Rhode Island is the high point of the season for many paddlers. And not just because it's the only course in New England in which misjudging the confused surf might leave you stranded 10 feet up a cliff face. It's a beautiful course with conditions that is never anything less than exciting. As co-director of the race with Tim Dwyer, I feel compelled to say that Tim is almost entirely responsible for anything that goes right, wrong, or sideways at the RTB. I mostly just lend my gravitas.</p><p>In the week leading up to the race, the forecasts for Narragansett Bay had been all over the map. We had already lost a couple of races this season to inclement weather, so nobody wanted to see yet another scrapped. One site said clear skies with a light breeze, another predicted thunderstorms with bluster-class winds, and a third calmly advised readers to give away all their worldly possessions, strip naked, and await the Rapture. Even the day before the race, meteorologists couldn't seem to decide between utopia and cataclysm, although as with life in general, the balance was tipped in favor of the latter. The morning of the race, however, there was a general consensus. We might get wet, but we'd neither be blown out to sea nor blasted to kingdom come. With the final verdict in, I borrowed a boat, fashioned a towel into a make-shift loin cloth, and headed to Jamestown.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ4IuLMRxdihc2JeRs6bWb63wB-bDMra5d8nnmTEdRHi91ZDQjTHUWjYLGCX2xbUpGH9up5ZNh7xNT9v9GOB3IPIk8-8Nuid19rVardtjn-huBdSKcMd1lcYyul0yegaKSEFhvvxxXXQjidZbkLgzYDgf2hIB-MmdBmsW15otXIQwmZAhzppaNs4oqppU/s1600/rtb01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ4IuLMRxdihc2JeRs6bWb63wB-bDMra5d8nnmTEdRHi91ZDQjTHUWjYLGCX2xbUpGH9up5ZNh7xNT9v9GOB3IPIk8-8Nuid19rVardtjn-huBdSKcMd1lcYyul0yegaKSEFhvvxxXXQjidZbkLgzYDgf2hIB-MmdBmsW15otXIQwmZAhzppaNs4oqppU/w640-h360/rtb01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What started out as the world's saddest tailgate party turned into a fine race.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>In last year's race, Sean Brennan had schooled the field - winning the race by a margin that makes one wonder if anyone else was actually using a paddle. Apparently some of us didn't learn our lesson, however, because we returned to the scene of our humiliation. Fortunately, the Headmaster couldn't bear the prospect of teaching the identical course to the same bunch of dunderheads and instead chose early retirement. Without Sean, I wagered that Rob Jehn (NJ) and Ed Joy (NY) would vie for the title. Other noteworthy competitors from afar included Manhattan paddler Ronald Rivera, the New Jersey "Pair Extraordinaire" Erin and Alan Lamb (with special appearance by bonus mini-Lamb), and John Hair, who insists on making the trip out from Rochester, NY every goddamned year. New Englanders Mary Beth Gangloff and Kirk Olsen would try their luck in the double's draw.</p>
<p>After an injunction from the FDA against "egregious experimentation on unwitting human subjects", the ever-changing Ride the Bull course was locked into its current state in 2018. Participants are now forced, Clockwork Orange-style, to watch a sobering race video beforehand so that they can officially be qualified as "well-informed victims". Roughly 90% of this film consists of Chris Chappell complaining about how much he hates the course. Chris was not present this year. The 8.8 mile course starts in West Cove, proceeds for two laps around a flattened triangle defined by a rocky island in Mackerel Cove, buoy G7, and buoy G11. There's then an additional loop back out to G7, ending near our launch point. Conditions this year were mild, with a light northerly breeze, but you never want to turn your back on the Bull.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48ZeiglDGFvz_WeHgK8axy55y2s1I5eCt9a4bI2Qiqxi58mlnTV7Ody3-1VhPTxDD-WgFTHuPvddAPJh83karX3BYXo7Nke7gkMfFYXS-oUvA8NQhuNY-CaQ7P9ZOq6dj1rI3EUOnkWXAmmIlPmLlM_h-Uu5HtqShCyLDZhdXwQFpWstDSCBgbKOZ-H0/s1600/rtb04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="943" data-original-width="1600" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj48ZeiglDGFvz_WeHgK8axy55y2s1I5eCt9a4bI2Qiqxi58mlnTV7Ody3-1VhPTxDD-WgFTHuPvddAPJh83karX3BYXo7Nke7gkMfFYXS-oUvA8NQhuNY-CaQ7P9ZOq6dj1rI3EUOnkWXAmmIlPmLlM_h-Uu5HtqShCyLDZhdXwQFpWstDSCBgbKOZ-H0/w640-h378/rtb04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We stood in silence for 10 full minutes before Tim remembered that he was supposed to be leading the captain's meeting.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY32ADeAuYjjj_qN6hdxsZZijkydzYNChb7Cahdc4IvmQZVHr-qpmUSPvjXfhvt09sRtfdRqAjK78I2Yhu6Y_w8PRvo3xm99K9IZmvWNgq-PZxPDToiJ4M2CEZjNOSHroEtj7PJrUKQ-jS2XBas_Ef5538w8wuBX5idJ45eQrKNeuk_RDGY3lxJG34tew/s1600/rtb03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1222" data-original-width="1600" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY32ADeAuYjjj_qN6hdxsZZijkydzYNChb7Cahdc4IvmQZVHr-qpmUSPvjXfhvt09sRtfdRqAjK78I2Yhu6Y_w8PRvo3xm99K9IZmvWNgq-PZxPDToiJ4M2CEZjNOSHroEtj7PJrUKQ-jS2XBas_Ef5538w8wuBX5idJ45eQrKNeuk_RDGY3lxJG34tew/w640-h488/rtb03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I had known beforehand that it was Charles Schulz Appreciation Day, I would have worn my Woodstock costume.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Tim did an effective job of corralling a field of paddlers so exuberant to finally be racing on the ocean that they could hardly be contained in West Cove. After getting us arranged in a buzzing line, he counted us down to the start. Ed, Rob, Ronald, and the Lambs jumped into the lead. The charge out of the cove was led by this team of powerful boats, hitched side-by-side, behind which the rest of us were pulled along. Inevitably, as paddlers were jostled by an unexpected bump or misjudged a stroke, they were thrown from this gravy train and left to continue under their own power. Just before I was to be ejected myself, the lead team started to break-up, with Ed and Rob separating from the others. I managed to harness myself to Ronald, who himself clung briefly to Erin & Alan before falling off.</p><p>Knowing Ronald came from a sprint background, I kept waiting for him to ease back on the throttle. I tried to get around him a couple of times, but could make no progress. Approaching the mouth of Mackerel Cove, however, I saw an opening as both Ronald and the Lambs gave a wide berth to the rocky headlands. I cut inside and took the tightest line I dared. Or, more accurately, I accidentally took a line a half-dozen feet tighter than I dared. Fortunately, I'm so cowardly that I left myself an ample enough peril cushion. The gambit paid off and I pulled ahead of both boats.</p><p>By the turn at the rock island in Mackerel Cove, it was clear that Rob and Ed would be standing on the top two podium steps, or perhaps sharing the summit in a show of solidarity. Having hit it off in last year's race as silver-n-bronze paddle buddies, I wasn't surprised that they were attempting to rekindle the magic. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see the pair heading out of the Cove together, plotting a course 45 degrees off course in a direction that would send them out of Narragansett Bay into the open Atlantic. Were they planning to Thelma and Louise themselves over the horizon? Or was this just a navigational error? As I was taught in childhood, I counted slowly to 250 before saying anything rash, then yelled out a suggestion that the leaders might want to try aiming for the next turn buoy rather than the endless abyss of the ocean. Since they'd each paddled this course multiple times before, I seasoned the recommendation with the appropriate amount of sarcasm.</p><p>Despite their roundabout detour, Ed and Rob reached G7 about 10 lengths ahead of me. The Lambs and Ronald were several lengths back, but I managed to open this gap to perhaps a dozen during the subsequent stretch to G11. Unfortunately, the leaders had added as least as much distance to their own safety margin. Completing the first lap some short time later, we benefited from a decent swell angling towards shore. Up front, it seemed that Ed had either (a) leveraged his vast experience of reading waves to get slightly better rides or (b) whacked Rob over the head and broke free while he was disoriented. It was tough to tell from such a distance in back. In any event, Ed was alone in the lead and separating quickly from a semi-conscious Rob.</p>
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<p>I was also having a good leg, catching some nice runners and occasionally even entering that magical zone where you feel like <i>maybe </i>you're not the uncoordinated dweeb everyone who signed your high-school yearbook insisted you were (and whose <i>mother </i>signs their yearbook?). There could be no doubt that I was gaining on Rob. By the time we re-entered Mackerel Cove, I was actually close enough to make out his species.</p><p>I'm unsure whether to say that through superhuman effort I clawed back most of Rob's advantage, or that through a lack of vigor Rob ceded most of his lead. When given a choice between aggrandizing myself and belittling another, however, I've found the best policy is to just do both. When considering both my potency and Rob's feebleness, then, I'm quite frankly surprised that I didn't shoot right by him.</p><p>Coming out of Mackerel Cove, I was 10 lengths behind. At the second G7 turn, I slipped the buoy attendant a sawbuck to set the bell a-ringing. "Hear that, Jehn?" I shouted (with just the right tinge of deranged hysteria), "It's tolling for thee!" It was tough to tell from behind, but I'm pretty sure he blanched. On the subsequent downwind leg, I proceeded to methodically hunt Rob down. Smidge by smidge. Within 5 minutes I had shaved an entire dollop off his lead. Some quick calculations in my head indicated that I'd have to stalk a little faster if I wanted to catch my prey before Tuesday. I did manage some incremental acceleration, but by the G11 turn Rob was still 5 lengths ahead.</p><p>There are many theories about how Rob then managed to reverse the trend and start reopening his lead: He's a better paddler. He's fitter. He wanted it more. Karma. That last one hurts a bit, I'll admit, but all these "reasons" are poppycock. His shocking turn-around was due entirely to my inability to improvise another demoralizingly villainous quip at this buoy. Why, oh why, had I not composed a few dastardly catchphrases before the race?!? His spirit unburdened by what he perceived to be my silent concession, Rob soared away on this penultimate leg of the race.</p><p>I rounded the final buoy and turned for home with Rob now 10 lengths ahead. Between my increasing levels of existential discomfort and Ed's gradual recession into the distance, I had pretty much forgotten that Joy existed in the world. This made the wave of euphoria all the more intoxicating when I then noticed Ed paddling 50 meters to my left along the coastline. Not content with his modest navigational blunder earlier, he had doubled down with a tremendous directional gaffe in the final leg by heading into the wrong cove. He scrambled to correct his "oopsie" (that's Ed for you), but now the race was on! Oh, not with me, mind you. But by sacrificing a good portion of his minute lead, Ed had given Rob a new impetus. Despite Rob's best efforts, however, Ed was able to salvage the win by a couple of boat lengths. I galumphed in 30 seconds or so later to take bronze. Although Erin & Alan established a convincing lead early in the double's race, Mary Beth & Kirk refused to concede. They worked their way back into contention by the half-way mark, only to be led by Lambs to a finish line slaughter - a full 2 seconds behind the ovine winners.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVjQHQ_XP4Gmw5C7WnTmltlcdxwTVI4EsNCIRyt7WLYGcjy5Lytj5VHybRRJ0UKq1jK6xTY-zO651ACB4yw5w4QoRz1sPWP4vQco7YFTJXjNk_LBpkplMy_i7b-nsjDvaDK26nV7FEyuzzWEOlOSwlIFNHQuM3s8plM2HMcGCNsl_VcLu1DN2xyJQEJA/s1600/rtb05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVjQHQ_XP4Gmw5C7WnTmltlcdxwTVI4EsNCIRyt7WLYGcjy5Lytj5VHybRRJ0UKq1jK6xTY-zO651ACB4yw5w4QoRz1sPWP4vQco7YFTJXjNk_LBpkplMy_i7b-nsjDvaDK26nV7FEyuzzWEOlOSwlIFNHQuM3s8plM2HMcGCNsl_VcLu1DN2xyJQEJA/w640-h426/rtb05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What the...? In a few more years I'll fit in the palm of your hand.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOMKcE0FzJmaCOOK8UOBotVU5coxnobeS48gwis2ufbh48WYKCpXIIWm4cqyv6U0l_R8w4zogmkdgMVAz-cwX5uiE1Q1S4kfE2l6fKLQN5fim3vU-jSO5Mf16VZCXK3G9QvVovI4CVD-QpSeyZMSTFUHETqe_bzo8UnjPNDs1JMqTf6P0LJ_TE6VomnM/s1600/rtb06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqOMKcE0FzJmaCOOK8UOBotVU5coxnobeS48gwis2ufbh48WYKCpXIIWm4cqyv6U0l_R8w4zogmkdgMVAz-cwX5uiE1Q1S4kfE2l6fKLQN5fim3vU-jSO5Mf16VZCXK3G9QvVovI4CVD-QpSeyZMSTFUHETqe_bzo8UnjPNDs1JMqTf6P0LJ_TE6VomnM/w640-h360/rtb06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ed just can't.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The days festivities ended with a drawing for a paddle donated by race sponsor Epic. It was coincidentally won for the 6th time by Mary Beth, who I'm pretty sure "sold" it back to Tim for $25 so that it could be raffled off again in a future race. And yet she didn't even treat me to the after-race lunch held down the road in Jamestown.</p><p>With the Blackburn Challenge only a few weeks away, there's not much time left to build up your pain tolerance. If you're tired of thumb-screws and can't quite get the hang of self-flagellation (it's all in the wrist), the Jamestown Double Beaver may be just the shock to your system that you need to push you over the edge. Register for this free 10 mile suffer-fest at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/JamestownDoubleBeaver2023" target="_blank">PaddleGuru</a> and join your fellow masochists on July 1.</p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-9762341479029600492023-04-14T12:13:00.000-04:002023-04-14T12:13:21.166-04:00Narrow River Race: Delayed Reaction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglSgk4g8JNNley9vn92sd4_fxVBEqNUcOgtcJWf2YnV4sL8o8KGLfof2evuqPf3D90NBLP-nm5OVLRmLwYAqPE7MIma-HmpVMWIN5JqmOZM1SaetLmVDpLjmPh2q1m95HzXv5Y8PRz72Cd530mB7qoT8Mj_1BVHH1FrhJUO87V54WbzUeTBZivDYMS/s1600/nrr11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="999" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglSgk4g8JNNley9vn92sd4_fxVBEqNUcOgtcJWf2YnV4sL8o8KGLfof2evuqPf3D90NBLP-nm5OVLRmLwYAqPE7MIma-HmpVMWIN5JqmOZM1SaetLmVDpLjmPh2q1m95HzXv5Y8PRz72Cd530mB7qoT8Mj_1BVHH1FrhJUO87V54WbzUeTBZivDYMS/w640-h400/nrr11.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>A one-week delay imposed by fickle spring weather had given us that much extra time to work ourselves into a collective tizzy about the grand opening of the surfski race season. Like gleeful orphans on an early January Christmas morning, we gathered excitedly at the Narrow River, each wondering if race directors Tim Dwyer and Bob Wright would leave them a shiny medal or a lump of coal. Tim's sooty face and surly demeanor did not bode well, however, nor did the mysterious absence of "good elf" Bob. Oh, well. At least the race itself would be marginally more enjoyable than another 14 hour shift at the textile factory.</p><p>After the briefest of greetings and perfunctory life updates upon arrival, competitors threw themselves energetically into the complex social dance known as "training one-downmanship". Bobbing unsteadily with an anemic torpor, racers took turns regaling one another with tales of bed-ridden COVID recovery, unrelenting work travel, and recent amputations. Chris Sherwood proudly showed us the possum nest in his footwell, although this excuse was somewhat compromised by his heavily bandaged feet. It appeared that Sam Duffield might emerge the champion - after all, who else could credibly claim that they couldn't get on the water because of spending the last 90 days in the brig? The details are very hush-hush, but something about taking the Alabama out for a joy-ride. But when Wesley revealed that he had only been born last week, dropping his pants to show off his Huggies, we grudgingly agreed that he was the least trained of us all.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82jiPgfm7beb2vF7VJJo3VOS8k9xvelqvk9bxVXq_j3MD7Jxtlo7_HTyLBE7EM2mbduiKwZ6ZrNCQywVAslCCj-eQO3-8fIRKvSxPum1ZXKqWjPscSn4T6qjAEv2BVwaIAfH-sT414SW6QtzAvg-Sfo-4RWYezjih8dJY0--al7YCKkPwUR5utpbt/s1600/nrr05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82jiPgfm7beb2vF7VJJo3VOS8k9xvelqvk9bxVXq_j3MD7Jxtlo7_HTyLBE7EM2mbduiKwZ6ZrNCQywVAslCCj-eQO3-8fIRKvSxPum1ZXKqWjPscSn4T6qjAEv2BVwaIAfH-sT414SW6QtzAvg-Sfo-4RWYezjih8dJY0--al7YCKkPwUR5utpbt/w640-h480/nrr05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was disappointing when prize money was discontinued back in 2017, but at least the champion still gets something to show off.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSVEofYWFSvKZ-ataWxXV_xTzRPFvDqcGrU3tB5M06aHTmfLtY6Gu_SynmmjYoeQIwCRRlJuX2_B3sVwDRyMr40FlSjU7UE3WzzjP1bvzCGijrBROu_cCMvlECpK3Akh4M0pcNI1e_CSkv7JLFCUkX9TGync0jzCdO0a1uC1VjaCtXPxbS24CF1VJ/s1600/nrr08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdSVEofYWFSvKZ-ataWxXV_xTzRPFvDqcGrU3tB5M06aHTmfLtY6Gu_SynmmjYoeQIwCRRlJuX2_B3sVwDRyMr40FlSjU7UE3WzzjP1bvzCGijrBROu_cCMvlECpK3Akh4M0pcNI1e_CSkv7JLFCUkX9TGync0jzCdO0a1uC1VjaCtXPxbS24CF1VJ/w640-h480/nrr08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After all the bad press and constant hounding by paparazzi, it was only a matter of time before Tim snapped. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>With Mike Florio winning the last 4 races held on the course (including the inaugural 2022 fall race - "2 Narrow, 2 Shallow"), Tim and Bob were determined to find a way to reintroduce an element of surprise and spontaneity. After months at the drawing board and an uncountable number of crumpled iPads, they emerged with a design for a revolutionary new class of boat that might just level the playing field. The "woggler" would sit sideways on the craft, gripping a network of lines in each hand, moving their arms hither and yon (Bob really argued for thither, but yon won the day) - propelling the boat forward via a series of pulleys, sprockets, and cantilevered woggles. However, when the prototype quickly burrowed itself under the riverbed like a spaghetti-armed quahog instead of moving forward, the remaining race director decided that he'd instead just recruit a pair of expert rowers to give Mike some competition - New England standouts, Dan Gorriaran and Betsy Harling. I was hoping to play second fiddle to Mike in the paddler's ensemble, but knew that Chris Chappell, Jerry Madore, Tim, and a dozen others were eager to steal that seat for themselves.</p><p>We'd run the now-standard course - up the Narrow River 3 miles to an on-your-honor turn-around at a dock, back 4 miles past the start to a turn on a mid-river piling (no honor needed there - a nearby "fisherman" in waders was clearly a narc), then back a final mile to the start, for a total of what feels like somewhere between 14 and 37 miles, depending on how successfully you didn't train. Tim patiently outlined the course for each of the new participants individually, after which the veterans took them aside and thoroughly erased his verbal sketch via clever misdirection and, in my case, dangerous navigation recommendations and outright lies. I'd be surprised if Chris Sousa managed to finish the race still in Rhode Island.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGv2KIcejpR7xYk5CD2rAXk7I8yl9bM9odNiP5J0hhnV02Wf5G9hpvwa6e-cew0k2er2lIFAlsokI3NQ_sFVWOvGzvKAl15nwGAxVSAWGPkay92r7NpB4yV7_PRUXdRD4ym9Ae2ZjVUy-cySF-DobYjJZwS9aCpDYSlBZz0hKnTAYxxs433r8P2yXu/s1600/nrr07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="1600" height="462" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGv2KIcejpR7xYk5CD2rAXk7I8yl9bM9odNiP5J0hhnV02Wf5G9hpvwa6e-cew0k2er2lIFAlsokI3NQ_sFVWOvGzvKAl15nwGAxVSAWGPkay92r7NpB4yV7_PRUXdRD4ym9Ae2ZjVUy-cySF-DobYjJZwS9aCpDYSlBZz0hKnTAYxxs433r8P2yXu/w640-h462/nrr07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The level of pre-race excitement was off the charts.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGZ1XASkTqHxcrPOagOo0OYViieEYlEbBuH4TFTg1ZnLBKMFOHmOXEBILQYuiVkolp9zy1XWw9wtIlgMiTmSjkDZ_x5kI6VwwZPjGM6p3wYsNCkglBQK3HTUCMt2fx3ET3JvngJlWDG9vAvQj4eU2RHDPtNYB79k1LOos-U3WKaRdOM1AJOt9e-qu/s1600/nrr04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGZ1XASkTqHxcrPOagOo0OYViieEYlEbBuH4TFTg1ZnLBKMFOHmOXEBILQYuiVkolp9zy1XWw9wtIlgMiTmSjkDZ_x5kI6VwwZPjGM6p3wYsNCkglBQK3HTUCMt2fx3ET3JvngJlWDG9vAvQj4eU2RHDPtNYB79k1LOos-U3WKaRdOM1AJOt9e-qu/w640-h360/nrr04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best drone shot is the one that leaves you questioning whether it was just taken by a tall guy holding the camera over his head.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It was soon time to start the race. After traipsing around the river for several minutes in search of the odd depressions deep enough to float our boats, we were counted down to the start by Tim. Fortunately, Dan had no need to deploy his advanced anti-surfski weaponry to cut down the number of competitors. Although most of us would have voluntarily avoided the semi-circular exclusion zones around him anyway, he removed any "wonder what would happen" knife-in-the-outlet temptation by briskly separating himself from the field. Betsy was slightly behind me, so I can't say definitively how the paddlers in her vicinity fared, but I'm pretty sure I would've heard the tell-tale squelching of a decapitation. Or at least noticed afterwards that, say, Dave Grainger was unusually quiet.</p><p>Mike started well to the right of the main pack, moving smartly into the surfski lead (henceforth, "the lead", because if we start treating rowers like real people, we may never see the podium again). On the left, I went out with Jerry, Tim, and Wesley, with Chris even further inside to set up for the first gentle bend of the river. Getting ahead of Tim and Wesley, I veered over to get on Chris' side draft, misjudging the angle and crowding him unnecessarily. Although he had previously been skimming by the protruding docks, he apparently wasn't interested in actually scraping off his gelcoat on them. A missed stroke and an accusatory half-glance backwards were sufficient to express his umbrage, so the bloody hatchet I found that night under my pillow felt like overkill.</p><p>I corrected my course and managed to pull ahead of both Chris and Jerry - neither of whom apparently wanted to be too close to the guy crazily swerving over the center line. Mike is more of a super-charged tortoise than a hare, meaning that (a) he hadn't yet receded out of range and (b) I was unlikely to sneak by him napping at the turn. By channeling my own inner hare, I managed to put together a twitchy surge that culminated in a string of mini-strokes. And an unsteady perch on, uh, that guy's draft - you know the one, the guy I had been chasing, starts with some letter, maybe an Ω? I had hoped for a long ride, but it was so taxing to maintain Mike's pace that when the 8 second horn finally sounded, I was happy to hop off the bull and catch some shut-eye.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSX7XwnmgedrSaComKwukjwPV5wfJYHU7QP_TVo4Q0m7KaApECi1V85gXdwZEZk9reBaHHZe8q6B92oQ6JgaPGCgvz6sXXtrpgVSIU5pcUqz9eHluzKxFI25RuXKO0g-uKPjMyP0aroAikLRz3bWyjWVwbSeFJQOouDgaEBAPJ3vDSoFOdmNf_CqO/s1600/nrr09.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTSX7XwnmgedrSaComKwukjwPV5wfJYHU7QP_TVo4Q0m7KaApECi1V85gXdwZEZk9reBaHHZe8q6B92oQ6JgaPGCgvz6sXXtrpgVSIU5pcUqz9eHluzKxFI25RuXKO0g-uKPjMyP0aroAikLRz3bWyjWVwbSeFJQOouDgaEBAPJ3vDSoFOdmNf_CqO/w640-h480/nrr09.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although it's not the best photo, I spent over a week hiding in the rushes to get just the merest glimpse of this reclusive fellow. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Apparently I was sleep paddling again (which wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't also prone to sleep capsizing) because when I roused myself 15 minutes later, I was emerging into the widened lake-like portion of the river. Mike was a solid 90 seconds ahead, with Dan stroking away perhaps half that distance further along. Without the meandering shore to provide some wind protection, nor the incoming tide to give us a boost, we were completely at the mercy of an unrelenting Beaufort force 3 headwind. As you can imagine, the subsequent battle to the turn-around a mile later was nothing short of a waking nightmare. OK, so a 3 is <i>technically </i>categorized as a "gentle breeze", but I assure you there was nothing "gentle" about the smooth caress of that placid zephyr! </p><p>Despite my grumbling, I was rubbing my hands for the expected downwind bonanza (which doubtless contributed to my lack of upwind progress), but as quickly as the gale picked up in my imagination, it died down in reality after the turn. I did get a burst of motivation from seeing Betsy, Chris, and the Jerry-Tim train in close pursuit, though. Of course, this didn't keep Dan and Mike from further increasing their leads as I made my way down the lake.</p><p>Normally I'd insert a video of the race here - to many, the high point of the report, at least in terms of scrolling speed. Due to sabotage or operator error, my GoPro had been maliciously reconfigured to take a sequence of stills at half-second intervals. So rather than a video I have 10,550 individual pictures. I've printed them all out and put them in old-school photo albums. Let me know if you'd like a limited edition 44 volume set for your records. Shipping and handling charges apply.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3qgY5SphFaaPcvZ7olU94kifIMLaSH3C2stDxnncCxHf2ltOUyxYXM8Jbi592vR73NNeJuVyIxbLwo2TTsywMln1TIMRxgZT7Wd5P34Mpz1V-Qmackza-Ox9NuLXyBWHkluh9HAZNIr0BmW1zCgrXWSFcPchXysroblrimLJsFS7GnSeUMJu0BDI/s1600/nrr02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3qgY5SphFaaPcvZ7olU94kifIMLaSH3C2stDxnncCxHf2ltOUyxYXM8Jbi592vR73NNeJuVyIxbLwo2TTsywMln1TIMRxgZT7Wd5P34Mpz1V-Qmackza-Ox9NuLXyBWHkluh9HAZNIr0BmW1zCgrXWSFcPchXysroblrimLJsFS7GnSeUMJu0BDI/w640-h480/nrr02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a taste of what you might expect in the other 10,549 frames...</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I was not looking forward to re-entering the river proper, and my apprehensions soon revealed themselves to be be well-founded. Between the opposing tide and the relentless suckwater, I would have made faster progress by getting up and punting. Unfortunately, I had left my striped blazer and straw hat in the car, and the United Fellowship of Punters & Gondoliers doesn't take livery violations sitting down. After half-heartedly exploring various alternative navigational options (cutting corners, taking corners wide, hugging the shore, getting crosswise to the flow and just paddling back and forth between shores, etc.), I resigned myself to lumbering up-tide, nervously eyeing my waning GPS battery level and being passed by the occasional wading egret. </p><p>By this point, I probably shouldn't have been surprised when the downriver turn yielded no significant improvement in my speed. And yet there I was, shaking my fist at the heavens (again, not helping the pace) and launching into an obscenity-laden tirade about the vagaries of winds, tides, and the commodities market (what the hell is going on with molybdenum futures?). I vented the majority of my spleen in that outburst, but left enough in the tank to get me through the final leg to the finish, muttering invectives as necessary. I cursed my way over the line roughly 7 minutes behind Mike. In a just universe, they'd cut the lower steps off the podium, ban the rest of us from the sport, and crown Mike as Eternal God-Champion. Because racing results are graded on a curve, however, my next-day finish was good enough for surfski silver. Woohoo?</p><p>Dan was the overall winner. Given the mechanical advantages of rowing - sliding seat allowing for fuller use of legs, application of power via a fulcrum, built-in cup-holders - it's truly remarkable that Mike finished scarcely a minute behind one of New England's premier scullers. Competing back-to-back, neither Betsy or I had a solid read on how close we were to one another, but she pulled in less than 2 minutes behind to claim the 4th overall spot. Tim took surfski bronze, although he insisted that Jerry be awarded an assist - completely ceremonial and destined to soon be forgotten, naturally. Leslie claimed her 3rd Narrow River title, with Mary Beth taking her 5th 2nd (to go with her 5 previous wins, I'm told I <i>better </i>note).</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWElJTbOgcunJYq0dF8lyqzCNujlwZBpUmx5iNtUNOPBZGkUzCa85pkIyQXuBZT6yVOqgTxjkBX0AXAHszW3_1ACpjAMdu4tm2VK7JhvCB52_MNtRa4T8oN5uoMmynKhqxck9wND9Gxw5ZhRQ7yWBWdjtvxmZWgVtyc-rzF53OM9nu4guwJoTAb7yr/s1600/nrr10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWElJTbOgcunJYq0dF8lyqzCNujlwZBpUmx5iNtUNOPBZGkUzCa85pkIyQXuBZT6yVOqgTxjkBX0AXAHszW3_1ACpjAMdu4tm2VK7JhvCB52_MNtRa4T8oN5uoMmynKhqxck9wND9Gxw5ZhRQ7yWBWdjtvxmZWgVtyc-rzF53OM9nu4guwJoTAb7yr/w640-h480/nrr10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know you're wondering why Jerry is dressed in a bear suit and Wesley is wearing a mask stitched together from human flesh, but sometimes it's best not to ask.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Tim congratulated the podium finishers, shaking his own hand a little more vigorously than was comfortable for we spectators, and dispensed raffle prizes supplied by Epic. Once the on-site festivities were concluded, we retired to the Oak Hill Tavern to resuscitate ourselves with post-race gruel.</p><p>As many of you have heard by now, the Charles River Watershed Association has permanently discontinued the Run of the Charles. Apparently it was "not aligned with our core mission" and "had too many yahoos showing up for a footrace". You didn't hear it from me, but there are rumors of a spontaneous gathering on Sunday, April 30 at 10am at Christian Herter Park. I'm not sure of the purpose, but maybe bring your boats and watches. And your lucky racing hat! I've... said too much.</p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-74086062422347234622022-09-23T11:55:00.009-04:002022-09-24T16:17:23.773-04:00Josh Billings Triathlon: Ups and Downs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRmSzELFje6FhEJePAvQIMGZClVTOLb0ZaEPLd8eeOvDsl1BSgEWxagU8CfDxI_PoBiARF0EqwW3t8HzsWpN5dPen7nO4o4LDD5KKnf-GfcYDE_As0p-JbrIwyjCOVakEOynpQJdNNDHudwR-VZG_aV5kUFUHpJGZX0aURcYuJ1DeyXXTPTrKvH87/s1600/Josh-01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="1600" height="524" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRmSzELFje6FhEJePAvQIMGZClVTOLb0ZaEPLd8eeOvDsl1BSgEWxagU8CfDxI_PoBiARF0EqwW3t8HzsWpN5dPen7nO4o4LDD5KKnf-GfcYDE_As0p-JbrIwyjCOVakEOynpQJdNNDHudwR-VZG_aV5kUFUHpJGZX0aURcYuJ1DeyXXTPTrKvH87/w640-h524/Josh-01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>As one of the oldest multisport events in the country, the Josh Billings Triathlon has achieved legendary status in New England. Cyclists, paddlers, and runners have been joining one another since 1976 to compete in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts in mid-September. While most people race as part of a 2, 3, or 4 person team, a growing percentage compete in the "iron" category as solo racers. The Josh had been on my radar for years, as some paddling friends race every year. I long had a secret desire to compete as an iron, but was able to use a scheduling conflict with a long-standing paddling race to avoid confronting this masochistic urge. The cancellation of the paddling race, combined with prodding from my friend, Janda Ricci-Munn, finally convinced me to take the plunge. A former national-caliber triathlete, Janda won the Josh iron race in 2021, establishing a new solo course record in the process. If he thought I could do the race, despite having no multisport experience and knowing nothing about cycling, who was I to argue?</p><p>The 27 mile cycling route starts in Great Barrington and ends at Stockbridge Bowl boat launch via a circuitous hilly route that includes around 1,900 feet of ascent in five significant climbs. Unlike most triathlons, drafting is allowed (and, in fact, essential) on the bike leg. The 5 mile paddling course takes you 1.75 times around the circumference of the small lake, ending at the Camp Mah-Kee-Nac beach. And the 6.4 mile run loops around the lake back to the Camp entrance, with around 500 feet of climbing. Both the ride and run include <i>net </i>ascents, which is just plain mean-spirited. I suppose we should be thankful the organizers couldn't find any rapids for us to paddle up. Most of the 300 or so teams (and individuals) finish somewhere between 2.5 and 4.5 hours, although there are outliers on either end. My goal was to wrap things up in under 3 hours, which would likely put me comfortably in the top 50.</p><p>Under Janda's patient tutelage, I started multisport training in the spring. Lots of easy volume across disciplines (which I was fairly conscientious about) combined with much briefer gut-busting high intensity workouts (which I'd seize upon the lamest excuses to avoid). Despite spending drastically fewer hours paddling than in past years, under this new regimen I was still performing comparably in my surfski races. In the spirit of preparedness, I crashed my bike in June so I'd have the appropriate sense of dread of the riding leg come race day. I didn't think that through fully, however, as the resulting sore hip sidelined me from run training for a couple of weeks. Even with this setback, I was feeling pretty good about my fitness level.</p><p>In early August, I dipped a toe in the water via a short run-ride-paddle triathlon in central New York. I discovered that rubbery legs weren't conducive to stability in my skinny boat, but performed well enough overall. At roughly half the distance of the Josh, my misery level at this race fell just below the threshold that would have contractually permitted me to abandon plans for the longer race. There would be no escape from the suffering.</p><p>If you were prone to understatement, you might describe the logistics of the Josh as "challenging". With different sites for the start, both transitions, the finish, and parking - not to mention closures on roads linking them - your planning requirements make the Apollo program and the D-Day landing seem like child's play. Without a helper, you finish the race with equipment strewn across the Berkshires and must then embark on a tedious treasure hunt to find and retrieve it. Of course, it's difficult to find such a dupe locally since the helper role is widely known to be more exhausting than the triathlon itself. I had to reach well out-of-state to find a chump - my old college housemate and former business partner, Bryan. After weeks of unsuccessful cajoling, I suspect what finally convinced him to make the 4.5 hour drive were the 1989 house party photos that I innocently reminded him weren't yet posted on Instagram. If all went as planned, he'd leave home pre-dawn to arrive in time to meet me at the bike-to-boat transition. I should note that Mary Beth <i>probably </i>would have agreed to help, purely out of brand loyalty, but was out of town.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-Bgb3O3RxXWonEfoPqV-kIMVCmqYwfFEP-Agf3GsznfBPLUAS0R6q297nW-cspLfFe1wAI3hDs49ZRc4wwGhYQPQUnK9fHEvzFXu317qRqW2vDoJFqvIVTOlL2zDbXu7w3ekqDqLRwBntFxsu34XnyRvF_NgGw_ybNouQNiWRcyA7H2crCCsWdOH/s1600/Josh-05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1190" data-original-width="1600" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-Bgb3O3RxXWonEfoPqV-kIMVCmqYwfFEP-Agf3GsznfBPLUAS0R6q297nW-cspLfFe1wAI3hDs49ZRc4wwGhYQPQUnK9fHEvzFXu317qRqW2vDoJFqvIVTOlL2zDbXu7w3ekqDqLRwBntFxsu34XnyRvF_NgGw_ybNouQNiWRcyA7H2crCCsWdOH/w640-h476/Josh-05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bryan was so proud of his bib, he's taken to wearing it around town. (Photo courtesy of Helper)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I arrived in the Berkshires a day earlier. I picked up my race packet at the Arcadian (a sporting goods store in Lenox), where I ran into several paddling buddies who were members of canoe or kayak teams. I was also surprised by a somewhat less familiar face - Michigander endurance athlete, Denny Paull - along with his daughter, Mandy. Denny and I met at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race, where we finished within a minute of each other in 2016 and 2017. The pair had driven 1,000 miles to race as iron competitors. As fellow neophytes to group bike racing, we eagerly shared tips garnered from various sources. Later, I checked into a hotel in nearby Lee, where Janda and his family would also be staying.</p><p>Early the next morning, Janda and I ran our surfskis over to the boat launch, laid out our paddling gear in the transition zone, and dropped off my car at the finish area parking lot. We'd be carrying our running paraphernalia in dry bags on our boats, so there was no need to also visit the second transition area. We returned to the hotel for a breakfast that I hoped wouldn't be making a showy reappearance later in the day. I had kept my pre-race jitters under control thus far, but while subsequently shuttling down to the start with Janda and his family, I struggled to refrain from diving out of the moving car to safety. Once we arrived at the staging area, at least I had the mechanical distraction of gear prep and warm-up to keep apprehension from suffocating me. I soon found myself perched expectantly at the starting line on Route 7 with 275 other riders.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwsQl-7CWW513Ssuc57OnYhwWbFVSAUXvmjZoCTa2lhFf7j4yOor46QTUS10dpAcUbHWIeJ1cxGZXyL47osojUgT3wbzkPjVNqJfU4OgfcbcU09S60tPlmY_il223xG_-ct2Fg99B9ExWYlq5sJR96WOBaFcviM-_wAbJcPfD5b3idiMAxM3Gzpqc/s1600/Josh-07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjwsQl-7CWW513Ssuc57OnYhwWbFVSAUXvmjZoCTa2lhFf7j4yOor46QTUS10dpAcUbHWIeJ1cxGZXyL47osojUgT3wbzkPjVNqJfU4OgfcbcU09S60tPlmY_il223xG_-ct2Fg99B9ExWYlq5sJR96WOBaFcviM-_wAbJcPfD5b3idiMAxM3Gzpqc/w640-h480/Josh-07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janda's a true pro. Prepared for any eventuality on race day, he wore his headlamp in case of an unexpected eclipse.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As a nervous Josh greenhorn, I had asked a number of veteran racers for advice on cycling strategy. They were happy to comply. And then, to calm my anxieties, they'd invariably show me their crash scars or tell me about some guy who hit a pothole in Stockbridge and was thrown under a steamroller. In any event, the two things everyone agreed on was that I should (a) go out fast with the field on the flat stretch through town and then kill myself on the initial climb to establish myself in a fast pack and (b) watch out for yahoos who went out too fast and were now making a nuisance of themselves by dying on the initial climb. They apparently failed to see the irony.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0j4dI6fF7nRbfgmRvyuPNVkj9YwRj2cqhix_tH4dPHyWrJykEPnU9kEsOHDTwoshrFpURfZOcQgbFiKY8cVVBcVPaL-v-8oXRGzmpadYgv5FkP6D4fEO_LdCxqjrG3-chsaE1pznNK62BLw0mT6WEW3UseXo2ACyLquj7g5JoDb1ZW36AWKj3tO-a/s1600/Josh-06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1600" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0j4dI6fF7nRbfgmRvyuPNVkj9YwRj2cqhix_tH4dPHyWrJykEPnU9kEsOHDTwoshrFpURfZOcQgbFiKY8cVVBcVPaL-v-8oXRGzmpadYgv5FkP6D4fEO_LdCxqjrG3-chsaE1pznNK62BLw0mT6WEW3UseXo2ACyLquj7g5JoDb1ZW36AWKj3tO-a/w640-h450/Josh-06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-race picture included for contrast with photo at end of report.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Starting amongst a pack of several hundred riders along the flat village roads, I'd been told that I'd be sucked along at a breakneck pace with scarcely any effort. It took a moment for the field to get moving as cyclists clipped in and found their rhythm, but soon enough we were flying along. With the exhilarating whir of the multitude echoing in my ears, I enjoyed the sensation of flowing with the current. Perhaps a little too much. As the riders ahead encountered a small incline, I could finally see the sheer number of bikes in front of me. I was mid-field at best. Despite concerns about soon becoming an object lesson in yahoo-hood, I ramped up my effort to improve my position prior to hitting the first climb. Working conservatively to avoid being Rider Zero of a cascading twenty bike pile-up, I managed to get into the first third of the field by the foot of the hill.</p><p>To experienced cyclists the climbs of the Josh are doubtless humdrum, but to a novice rider from an area with no significant hills to train on, they are imposing. As advised, I attacked the first ascent with more vigor than seemed wise. The painful effort paid off, however, as I moved past many competitors and, at the top, found myself riding with what I estimated (based on an embarrassing amount of time spent analyzing past Strava results and YouTube race videos) to be the pack that would finish between 1:10 and 1:15. I got my first real taste of cooperative cycling as a dozen of us absorbed smaller groups up ahead. Our group stabilized at around 25 people, including Denny and a couple of extroverts who enthusiastically narrated their upcoming tactical moves to one another.</p><p>I felt uncomfortable riding in such a large group, worried that out of ignorance or incompetence, I'd cause an accident. I had expected there to be more structure with the pack - a line of riders in an orderly rotation from front to back. While that occasionally happened, we'd quickly revert to an unpredictable and amorphous blob. This felt more inefficient than it did dangerous, though. Hills were particularly vexing, as there was such variation in climbing style. I invariably found myself moving to the front of the pack at the start of an incline, then falling back as riders with a more measured approach caught me. At around mile 12, this would prove disastrous. Frustrated by the pace starting up a gentle hill, I accelerated and took the pull. The grade steepened slightly, but I foolishly kept the power going, much as I would during a solo ride. As I tired, the pack inevitably began to pass me. I tried fruitlessly to slot in, but couldn't find an opening until the end. Falling a few lengths behind the last rider, I didn't panic until it was too late. Having lost the benefits of the draft, I now lacked the power to catch up.</p><p>My erstwhile companions in the pack ahead would ultimately finish 4+ minutes before me, meaning that by the end they were well over a mile ahead. But it took only a few moments for them to disappear from view on the winding course. I had been told that if you lose your pack, the smart move is to pedal easy until the next gravy train comes along. You're going to get caught anyway - why waste the effort by pushing when solo? That's fine in theory, but it felt like a ridiculous option in practice. I was in a race, dammit! Maybe I could stay ahead of this hypothetical chase pack.</p><p>The fact that I was having to expend much more energy than I would have in a pack was galling, to say the least, but it didn't keep me from appreciating the perks of cycling solo. Most importantly, unless I went off-piste and took out a guy mowing his lawn, I no longer had to worry about my mistake ruining anyone else's day (or skeletal integrity). Another benefit was that I could absorb 100% of the support from roadside spectators (and there were a surprising number of them) - those cheers weren't being diluted within a pool of riders. And finally, there was the police motorcycle escort along the busier roads. Presumably each officer was assigned a zone and would loop back to accompany successive packs. As a pack of one, I was eligible for the same treatment. For a few moments, I could imagine being a lone breakaway in the Tour de France. Or the guest of honor at a funeral procession.</p><p>At the start of my solo journey, I didn't seriously expect to keep ahead of the next pack. I anticipated their arrival at any moment. But apparently my original group had been faster than I realized, giving me quite a substantial buffer. Passing through Stockbridge and starting the penultimate climb, I began to wonder if I might just make it on my own. On the subsequent flat, however, I started to notice how the fickle spectators would focus behind me immediately after I passed. How much longer could I hold their allegiance as the plucky solo rider? During the final climb, I could clearly hear shouts of encouragement directed at someone other than me. Humph. Fair-weather fans. And then, just after the final turn, with less than a mile to go, I was caught. This hurt my soul, but I took some solace in seeing a friendly face - Mandy - leading the charge. Resigned to finishing as just another cog in the machinery of the 1:17 pack, I nestled into a mid-pack draft position for the final descent.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6SkE6jSO6u_r2_MZ4T1XFrDFLIBIekCo5qRrbMLULX1dhMYzjh8G8OEgr7g8SGJTY6ZhiO6BujPLvVjXbh5RIg0DswpulmOQloD3hLxquwF4BaY2hR1kTmCPKvh7uAMNLNRropFFvpHfMqez--n5iYa-WGlGWTzAa-yFRmmeKu8Ld5DnNOzxoO5Lz/s1600/Josh-03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1147" data-original-width="1600" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6SkE6jSO6u_r2_MZ4T1XFrDFLIBIekCo5qRrbMLULX1dhMYzjh8G8OEgr7g8SGJTY6ZhiO6BujPLvVjXbh5RIg0DswpulmOQloD3hLxquwF4BaY2hR1kTmCPKvh7uAMNLNRropFFvpHfMqez--n5iYa-WGlGWTzAa-yFRmmeKu8Ld5DnNOzxoO5Lz/w640-h458/Josh-03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Following Mandy into T1. Just one of the gang. (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Pulling into the transition area, I was relieved to find that helper Bryan had indeed arrived. As we had agreed upon, in exchange for the negatives (it was 1989, after all) he released my paddling equipment to me. I had half-heartedly practiced some transitions earlier in the week, but these leisurely exercises had virtually nothing in common with the race-day experience. All I had to do was exchange my helmet for a hat, cycling shoes for water shoes, and put on a PFD - tasks that wouldn't tax the facilities of, say, your average raccoon. And yet I now stood motionless, at a complete loss as to how to proceed. Remove helmet? Maybe. Shoes? Could be. But what if instead I put on my PFD like pants? The combination of fatigue and stress had mentally incapacitated me. Turns out that a more effective transition training program would have consisted of reducing myself to a state of exhaustion and then solving Wordle and some Sudokus.</p><p>Bryan was probably on the verge of calling over emergency personnel when I groggily emerged from my paralysis of indecision. I got prepared for the paddle leg with clumsy inefficiency and waddled down to the water (because of cycling legs - I had the PFD on correctly). My hands were so sweaty that I had trouble getting a grip on the boat, but I managed to launch it and get underway. I was now theoretically in my element, prepared to chase down the fleet of watercraft with head starts provided by their bikers.</p><p>In anticipation of having fatigue-induced balance issues, I brought a wide enough surfski that I wouldn't have to worry about toppling over or sacrificing stroke power to instability. Heading into a brisk headwind on the first lap around Stockbridge Bowl, I started to pick off slower paddlers. In many cases, this was because they were in inherently slower boats - recreational plastic kayaks, heavy metal canoes, or stand-up paddleboards. For the most part, these craft were helmed by competent paddlers, so passing them simply involved providing a little clearance. The two-man crew of one particular canoe, however, had not only apparently never paddled a boat before, but appeared also to be suffering from a severe case of vertigo and/or inebriation. They were moving vaguely in the direction of the course via a sequence of comically exaggerated zigzag corrections. I calculated a safe lateral passing margin, doubled that after witnessing a couple of particularly erratic deviations, and they <i>still </i>managed to collide with me as I overtook them. I suspect it was neither the first nor last such close encounter they had.</p><p>Although I was passing people, I wasn't going very fast. I initially attributed my disappointing speed to the headwind, but halfway through the first lap I could no longer maintain that useful fiction. My <i>downwind </i>speed was roughly what I had targeted for the entire paddling leg, so I was clearly falling short of my goal. Despite recognizing this, I lacked the mental fortitude to increase the intensity. A growing malaise was soon compounded by minor leg cramps. By the end of the first lap, I had begun the insidious psychic shift from race mode to survival mode.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkpYn8ojnywCHVZsJHdypdVhaMhPf8hCshpUr6Q38gPvq0JGFFdbQrgKBOtbIk9mhMYsgx9aVY-m7ICh2emhE2nuREaaF7Oc2rnzRsG8K-V6wViVh4WIKTj5j1-ApdsBmmYzoyU8On694WnQPgAj02ZGcP6FcrSgHj8ZkMfB_lI8FMQlWdP1lEAgu/s1600/Josh-02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1103" data-original-width="1600" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkpYn8ojnywCHVZsJHdypdVhaMhPf8hCshpUr6Q38gPvq0JGFFdbQrgKBOtbIk9mhMYsgx9aVY-m7ICh2emhE2nuREaaF7Oc2rnzRsG8K-V6wViVh4WIKTj5j1-ApdsBmmYzoyU8On694WnQPgAj02ZGcP6FcrSgHj8ZkMfB_lI8FMQlWdP1lEAgu/w640-h442/Josh-02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't blame the boat assistants for holding back - I was emanating a lethal miasma by this point. (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Since paddling is my specialty (and, let's remember, was in a fast boat), I managed to do fairly well on the leg in objective terms, even though I felt subjectively sluggish. I was 66th after the bike leg, but emerged 22nd coming off the water. Bryan was waiting on the beach, talking me through the most basic transition steps while watching warily for renewed signs of dementia. After a lethargic T2 that couldn't have been any slower without also incorporating a nap (denied, unjustly I think, by my helper), I burst onto the running course with the zeal of the condemned heading to the gallows.</p><p>I had long since thrown any "plan" out the window, but to raise my spirits I reviewed the ludicrously optimistic running goals I had established. With two second-half hills responsible for most of the climbing, I'd burn through the first 3 miles with a 7:15 to 7:30 pace, then try to hold on through the uphill sections to finish at an average pace of 7:30 to 7:45. I chuckled grimly as my pace on the flat leg settled in at the upper end of the overall average target range. Fortunately, my growing sense of apathy helped blunt the disappointment. It wasn't really doing anything for the discomfort and fatigue, but at least it kept me from diving any deeper into suffering.</p><p>I was surprised at how lonely it was on the course. I passed a couple of people early on, but then could see nobody else ahead. I had expected to be overtaken by a continuous stream of faster runners, but as the miles slowly accumulated only a handful streaked past. I made it through the flat portion maintaining my languid pace. While struggling to find a lower gear that wasn't neutral during the first climb, I was caught by Ryan Smith - previously unknown to me, but now heir to half my estate and kidneys (should that eventuality prove necessary). We hardly talked while running side-by-side over the next couple of undulating miles, but nevertheless established a lifelong pinned-down-in-a-foxhole kind of bond. I'm pretty sure I would have slid backwards on a couple of hills without Ryan pacing me. When we came to the final climb, however, I urged him to save himself. I was a goner. With tears in my eyes, Ryan finally moved ahead. Shortly afterward, my right hamstring began cramping and I ignominiously had to revert to a limping walk. </p><p>I rallied (to the extent that resuming a running gait in a race qualifies as rallying) before the summit of the hill and entered the final half-mile with renewed fervor. Hmm. "Renewed fervor" may be overstating it a bit. Let's say instead that I now had "slightly less disinterest in racing". This didn't translate to an accelerated pace, mind you, but I did start looking back to determine if my overall place was assured. Nope. A particularly spiteful runner was rapidly gaining ground, even though I had done absolutely nothing to provoke him. You can probably figure out who he was from the official results, but I'll spare his family the shame of naming him here. Turning into the steep downhill entrance to Camp Mah-Kee-Nac, I enjoyed a modest lead over the fleet-footed scoundrel. By the final turn into the grass timing chute, my nemesis had pulled even. The final sprint was a laugher. The ne'er-do-well had cravenly held enough power in reserve to accomplish a genuine finishing kick, whereas I barely managed to stagger drunkenly across the line.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLso-6KHt48DUvxBI0Jx1PtsSIqU2Ke3ZsfCsR7OER1K5tE5cKltX8D-wQFdpnNBXllTM3-ugEpHgjpfDPguDwDP7mtotoyceDf1vkXPgcdvrJYYpzNSlptWCFDUxyHwIWVlPcvAh8ZCq5K8eNtWEpu0xTP6_24Z6pg9DuZzGsrzOolN7yNWw_v2h/s1600/Josh-04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLso-6KHt48DUvxBI0Jx1PtsSIqU2Ke3ZsfCsR7OER1K5tE5cKltX8D-wQFdpnNBXllTM3-ugEpHgjpfDPguDwDP7mtotoyceDf1vkXPgcdvrJYYpzNSlptWCFDUxyHwIWVlPcvAh8ZCq5K8eNtWEpu0xTP6_24Z6pg9DuZzGsrzOolN7yNWw_v2h/w640-h480/Josh-04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't remember being punched repeatedly in the face during the run, but I can't deny the photographic evidence. (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYqt-UBse-cgDPfyaMbC17XpFmTueT565GQWe20zLayVJD-I70XreuayvB6wTHiR1Ay_6Y7Bgo8Earrtf6EaSGaew7Ai3QsIiY3IKaEOLyv7qJx-4aZSwsPZ7xpMWizIe6VWrmevSScHXCKQtgtfE7l7veRtXa7w8_gOo2Ic7ogeZmXuCm6OCsH8c/s1600/Josh-08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="1600" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYqt-UBse-cgDPfyaMbC17XpFmTueT565GQWe20zLayVJD-I70XreuayvB6wTHiR1Ay_6Y7Bgo8Earrtf6EaSGaew7Ai3QsIiY3IKaEOLyv7qJx-4aZSwsPZ7xpMWizIe6VWrmevSScHXCKQtgtfE7l7veRtXa7w8_gOo2Ic7ogeZmXuCm6OCsH8c/w640-h434/Josh-08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janda and Denny discuss their races while I try to imagine a time when everything no longer hurts. (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I had managed to finish in just under three hours (2:58:29). Remarkably, I had only dropped 5 places during my anemic run, allowing me to finish 27th overall. Among iron competitors, Janda finished first (4th overall at 2:31:45) and Denny second (13th overall at 2:44:14). I was fourth. Mandy was the first iron finisher among women (39th overall at 3:04:43). You can find full results <a href="http://www.plattsys.com/m1shell.php?eventid=2049&fbclid=IwAR0znPPFFnU4EHPZW6ZKEyi8kLIrOrG9J_4Yhb37bdsZVzeSqSh7gczd6-c">here</a>, and official race photos <a href="https://topshots.smugmug.com/2022/Josh-Billings-2022/?fbclid=IwAR2_d_Az01JRpbeqqSQeSxQ7Yr0obP6LI-pmqJ4PHYwZCzh23wd5P0IRwOM">here</a>.</p><p>I'm extremely glad I competed in the Josh. I genuinely enjoyed about 23 minutes of the 3 hours I was out there. That's not a bad ratio, even for life in general, so it may be enough to lure me back for another shot 2023. Thanks to Janda for the many weeks he spent guiding me through training and prepping me for the race. And also, I suppose, to slacker Bryan for those few measly hours he also sacrificed for the cause.</p>Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-66739414836513329572022-09-01T12:22:00.000-04:002022-09-01T12:22:49.875-04:00Nahant Bay Race: Debronzed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6vGtKeLmln4fxwl9Cm3ZEn3PdwOqJmXzJFBD5pLe_qcMPDOhyKOmxR_ulAG9RQdiW7R_7fFVqejkkL4VIirnJfABfkaxm8Fjo5cxcC_2zlk5YvEj-9CKV8FNGuLfMwFoxztJm8-IpsplYER2BRas5L1CzQjwQoPqLjHgestpQLBQFBAHEfQTaVG3/s1600/nbc14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="1600" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje6vGtKeLmln4fxwl9Cm3ZEn3PdwOqJmXzJFBD5pLe_qcMPDOhyKOmxR_ulAG9RQdiW7R_7fFVqejkkL4VIirnJfABfkaxm8Fjo5cxcC_2zlk5YvEj-9CKV8FNGuLfMwFoxztJm8-IpsplYER2BRas5L1CzQjwQoPqLjHgestpQLBQFBAHEfQTaVG3/w640-h346/nbc14.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>The Nahant Bay Race was once a shining star in the constellation of New England races. It hasn't lost any of its inherent luster, but with a couple of years off for the pandemic and some unfortunate fog-bound appearances prior to that, it's admittedly been a little difficult to see the sparkle of late. Granted sweeping new meteorological powers over airborne pathogens and humidity levels by the Swampscott town council, however, director Mike McDonough has pledged to restore 100% of the dazzle to the race. Based on the beautiful late summer day he had arranged, we were off to an excellent start.</p><p>The course of the race has always been malleable - adapted to the prevailing conditions. With a 7-10 mph north wind forecast to swing around to the northeast during the race, Mike dug through the archives for some moments, muttering quietly to himself. He emerged dramatically holding aloft a faded chart of the 2014 course. From Fisherman's Beach, we'd pass by Dread Ledge at the northern cusp of Nahant Bay, proceed on a northeast course to Ram Island, where we'd turn east towards the Roaring Bull day marker. After reaching the marker, we'd fly directly downwind back to Nahant Bay with a running (or hobbling - racer's preference) finish on the beach.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2j0ngnCrXzwWAafL80IUJnhbX2MkBjR0WQ6TwwRMdn7IgwznXkluVDhzzjLosanFIVDdq3cDb4OwyhADrm0lLUaODz7cIpptRTibyF9ygCMTrKO7wKGxFdfpwzezLYOZSM-BAeSx97lUjWtldkRbbi8S1nE394y2Xp8yW7Dz7V1s8C2kYVuxUZhz/s1200/nbc01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2j0ngnCrXzwWAafL80IUJnhbX2MkBjR0WQ6TwwRMdn7IgwznXkluVDhzzjLosanFIVDdq3cDb4OwyhADrm0lLUaODz7cIpptRTibyF9ygCMTrKO7wKGxFdfpwzezLYOZSM-BAeSx97lUjWtldkRbbi8S1nE394y2Xp8yW7Dz7V1s8C2kYVuxUZhz/w640-h320/nbc01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All I can say is that Mike's damned lucky that we weren't zombies. (Photo courtesy of Francisco Urena)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNF9gNM12KJfxCt2JWelSRaOaRGrfswa03PWyQFbrfAf8eaZqgcQ66hQbKMerLAG4xveWFSdjys9kWEuoQBIfi14YhUoFcTgNm8d8Y-hsoyGMGbPRyVNc5HmbYS-Dj15japs9aahs1-_ntbQzN3OEW54E8ZvFJWJQMa-YP33jTEziPTZHPI3q_q9xW/s1600/nbc07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNF9gNM12KJfxCt2JWelSRaOaRGrfswa03PWyQFbrfAf8eaZqgcQ66hQbKMerLAG4xveWFSdjys9kWEuoQBIfi14YhUoFcTgNm8d8Y-hsoyGMGbPRyVNc5HmbYS-Dj15japs9aahs1-_ntbQzN3OEW54E8ZvFJWJQMa-YP33jTEziPTZHPI3q_q9xW/w640-h428/nbc07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In an odd twist for an ocean race, Timmy had to be treated for altitude sickness.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The course change left Mike in a bit of a quandary. Famed (in no small part due to this blog, I'm proud to say) for his deft pointing skills during the captains meeting, he would now have to somehow illustrate a route for which none of the landmarks were actually visible from the shore! I could sense his growing fear and confusion as he vainly scanned the vista in search of a viable target. And then - in what I imagine it must have been like to witness Einstein finally crack the riddle of general relativity - you could see a wave of transcendent insight wash across his visage. Starting with slow movements, but rapidly gaining momentum until his arms were a blur, Mike began pointing over the buildings of Swampscott to distant ocean way points discernible only to his mind's eye. Bewildered paddlers whirled around in a panic, attempting to identify whatever aerial attackers were being indicated. True genius is always misunderstood.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxig9sD60MSwfeisAB-DE6xsNyzA2nWRHbAv9fXhO9IWqYuWkq2kN7lcwRkOTN6i29w3HjIuwXjl7XDcmzdMwSql1eV4X6ybzNxHPXWgeFAzROYyoWZv2MSzXekylyApQesgesfVXnrBlyeBPQrkHzzqg3lFi9YgJukQlLMpn4YXbcmFdIl03MSHC-/s1600/nbc09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1204" data-original-width="1600" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxig9sD60MSwfeisAB-DE6xsNyzA2nWRHbAv9fXhO9IWqYuWkq2kN7lcwRkOTN6i29w3HjIuwXjl7XDcmzdMwSql1eV4X6ybzNxHPXWgeFAzROYyoWZv2MSzXekylyApQesgesfVXnrBlyeBPQrkHzzqg3lFi9YgJukQlLMpn4YXbcmFdIl03MSHC-/w640-h482/nbc09.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If Michelangelo had Mike for a hand model, maybe the Creation of Adam in the Sistine Chapel wouldn't be such crap.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12t2eO5jbfS3yEFC8bWwo_WilnFrvdpw94UskuYpLHswe0Uh6Lg88ND6gn9mQVXwx5F-V6-JTWy15DqK19cBkzefGQA7v0Skvcuo-Fjc9BHonjsC4C20XahMtYgZ7KjT4DMfJ_l5Ki44avvgmf6UfWruFSpUbM4rXZq70dmdM5mSV-hXYE8jZ6H71/s1600/nbc12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg12t2eO5jbfS3yEFC8bWwo_WilnFrvdpw94UskuYpLHswe0Uh6Lg88ND6gn9mQVXwx5F-V6-JTWy15DqK19cBkzefGQA7v0Skvcuo-Fjc9BHonjsC4C20XahMtYgZ7KjT4DMfJ_l5Ki44avvgmf6UfWruFSpUbM4rXZq70dmdM5mSV-hXYE8jZ6H71/w640-h428/nbc12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Despite Rob's grandiose claims, he has yet to foil a single crime.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Fifteen boats would be racing, including 3 tandem skis and an OC-2. Rob Jehn, Matt Drayer, and Janda Ricci-Munn would be my principal antagonists, but I wasn't optimistic about my chances against them. Rob, of course, has been beating me with a percussive regularity all season. Matt, who I narrowly bested in the Blackburn Challenge, has won each of our Tuesday night league match-ups since. And in a recent time trial on our local lake, Judge Janda had recently sentenced me to solitary confinement twenty lengths behind him - despite the fact that my V14 was ostensibly two notches faster than his Falcon <i>and </i>I was cutting corners with abandon. As the "joke" Magic Eight Ball my parents gave me for my sixth birthday might have responded when asked if I'd podium at Nahant, "Nobody loves you" (or, alternatively, "Signs point to... you being an idiot"). Not <i>directly </i>responsive to the question, but illuminating nonetheless. Don't get me started on the gag Ouija board.</p><p>We lined up off the end of the Fisherman's Beach pier to await the start. You can count on Chris Chappell to launch himself violently off the line, but you're never quite sure if he's going to flame out after a few moments or continue to arc gracefully over the horizon. With hard-charging Rob to my right and Catapult Chris (I guess this is something I'm doing now) to my left, I likely wouldn't have to paddle for the first couple minutes of the race. Janda apparently had a similar plan, but Matt graciously self-handicapped himself to neutralize his home field advantage - positioning himself well off to the side behind some slower paddlers. He was in the middle of strapping resistance bands to his hull when the starting horn sounded.</p>
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</p><p>The race unfurled as expected, with Janda and me being towed to planing speed by Chris and Rob, while Matt bitterly regretted his better nature. I soon found myself in a compromising position with my nose lodged between the sterns of the leaders. Trouble loomed. Before anyone could snap a blackmail photo, however, Chris suddenly lost combustion pressure and initiated emergency reentry protocol. While he would have been well within his rights to shift onto Rob's port draft during this deceleration phase, thereby squeezing me out, Chris instead stayed on his ballistic trajectory, allowing me to maintain my own side draft. This was a generous gesture, but ultimately fruitless as I quickly fell back to Rob's stern draft, with Janda quartered behind me.</p><p>During the cruise out to Dread Ledge, Janda fell back a few lengths and rendezvoused with Matt. Nearing the scattered outcroppings that marked the visible part of the shoal, Rob veered wide to proceed through the so-called Inner Gut - a known safe passage at the current tide level. Seeing my chance to out-maneuver the leader, I held my breath and, taking a more direct line, dove head-first into the uncharted bowels of Dread Ledge. I saw barnacle-covered protrusions and weedy bulges in that nether region that I'll never unsee, but emerged unscathed on the other side, in the lead of the race. My smirking glory lasted approximately 8 seconds, as Rob quickly relegated me to his side draft, then with a smirk of his own, dropped me back to his stern.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIiUABB6AXqA-nOf93qDeiej6LbDm8ZolRskA1eqGfSpoSxSlhRdo_E4HZNZL4v78AUfL9wSo506dUjVooz66MtF38X28lpnHv7pu1Kz6v44VLSx6eqVl7L7vKJZLNH2qUeV3jNjmIDhq5oa35X7wp4zdbyIrGlWNaFf-EUY-wn7fKepAARdbc2zwf/s1598/nbc03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="969" data-original-width="1598" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIiUABB6AXqA-nOf93qDeiej6LbDm8ZolRskA1eqGfSpoSxSlhRdo_E4HZNZL4v78AUfL9wSo506dUjVooz66MtF38X28lpnHv7pu1Kz6v44VLSx6eqVl7L7vKJZLNH2qUeV3jNjmIDhq5oa35X7wp4zdbyIrGlWNaFf-EUY-wn7fKepAARdbc2zwf/w640-h388/nbc03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of the three video frames in which I'm in the lead, this one best captures my <i>joie de vivre</i>.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Fortunately, I was spared actually <i>seeing </i>the self-satisfied expressions Rob manifested as he subsequently put a couple of his wakes between us on the 2 mile crossing to Ram Island. I instead was subjected to Matt's steely look of resolve, chasing from some lengths back, but positioned on a wider line so that with just a slight turn of my head, his relentless determination was clearly visible.</p><p>I dropped a few additional lengths behind Rob on the trip from Ram to Roaring Bull. Before this leg I would characterize myself as being "in contact" with the leader. By Roaring Bull, however, Rob had blocked my number and filed a restraining order. I had just about given up any hope of a reconciliation when I received a call. Neglecting to check Caller ID before answering (I'm not saying the miles of telephone line spooling out behind was slowing me down, but I'm thinking it may be time to abandon the land line), I breathlessly answered. You can imagine my shock and disappointment when I was greeted by Matt's voice instead of Rob's. Turns out he was in the neighborhood and wondering if he could drop by. Throwing a glance backwards as I completed the turn around the marker, I realized that the call was coming from inside the house - Matt was only three lengths behind.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivNrzaxbqeFG46re3Mywd3SDb38QyMH5vDFYomdP9Tqb1O35TjQ6y2qMAv9Yu1dDVwYH6buUVfvQmg2h1Xk8Y80UZecQOcV5XropcwuFcYJvraPAGPs8Dr9sCFR4tF0EPdxADP28UvhhP90hmqvaWdTAoW9yFB3SO8Nd2Jf6T9YXTVaUforGWob1gl/s1627/nbc05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="998" data-original-width="1627" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivNrzaxbqeFG46re3Mywd3SDb38QyMH5vDFYomdP9Tqb1O35TjQ6y2qMAv9Yu1dDVwYH6buUVfvQmg2h1Xk8Y80UZecQOcV5XropcwuFcYJvraPAGPs8Dr9sCFR4tF0EPdxADP28UvhhP90hmqvaWdTAoW9yFB3SO8Nd2Jf6T9YXTVaUforGWob1gl/w640-h392/nbc05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The antithesis of "Never let them see you sweat."</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Let's put aside our relative skills for a moment and concentrate on the tools we were working with. Me in an V10, Matt in a V12. Given paddlers of equal abilities, over a 3 mile downwind leg with moderate wave size you'd expect the V12 to have <i>at best</i> a 30 second advantage. Given this, I call on the race stewards to conduct a thorough investigation as to how Matt gained over a minute on me in this stretch. <i>Without </i>challenging any of the indisputable baseline assumptions! I held off my pursuer for perhaps a mile before conceding to the inevitable. At least I was still safely in a podium position.</p><p>At Roaring Bull, I had spotted Janda perhaps 45 seconds behind. With relatively little downwind experience and in a new boat, I figured he had roughly zero chance of catching me. Nevertheless, you underestimate Janda at your own peril. Keeping this in mind, several times during the downwind leg and upon reentering Nahant Bay, I did a thorough scan for pursuers. Crickets. I was alone and could thus focus my efforts on getting beaten by Rob and Matt.</p><p>Before the race, in an attempt to straighten the backwards-facing GoPro mounted on my bow, I gave it a few injudicious whacks with my paddle. Although I didn't know it at the time, this heavy-handed adjustment cracked the mounting mechanism in several places. It was just dumb luck that the camera didn't tumble into the water at some point of the race. And by this, of course, I mean dumb <i>bad </i>luck that the ignominy of my race was preserved.</p><p>As clever readers might have already surmised, Janda would soon be passing me. It happened with a half-mile left in the race. The GoPro video tells the tale - one moment he didn't exist, the next he was motoring by me on an inside line. A close frame-by-frame analysis reveals that he didn't <i>quite </i>teleport, but his closing speed still defies the laws of conventional physics. Once he had safely debronzed me, Janda must have disabled his quantum inverter, since I was able to track him to the finish.</p><p>Rob successfully held onto his lead, claiming his fourth New England title of 2022 with a time of 1:12:41. Matt and Janda finished at roughly half-minute intervals behind to fill out the podium. Kirk Olsen & Bill Kuklinski were the fastest tandem surfski at 1:19:22. They had the <i>overall </i>doubles' crown all but locked up, but let the cagy OC-2 of Marc Lessard & Paul Dyka slip by in the final leg. Mary Beth Gangloff was the sole women racer, but still brought some drama to that competition by threatening to paddle clean by the finish.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqccNn2-5ms8_rWOBU8fFW-Pr9ZdiL8qY6tJta1Py0H76sazUB6V342DqZd4Zt7atA2u2scW2y87rsGMAkkISHwfI31anSekXKpNFtg5OdfB4BQDitVeQJeCdW70mg12BMzAuvM4kk7AuuSc5i5bm_HYSR3t_MRMQruV8kFnDqiO4YHPgNtEiq7Gt/s1600/nbc13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwqccNn2-5ms8_rWOBU8fFW-Pr9ZdiL8qY6tJta1Py0H76sazUB6V342DqZd4Zt7atA2u2scW2y87rsGMAkkISHwfI31anSekXKpNFtg5OdfB4BQDitVeQJeCdW70mg12BMzAuvM4kk7AuuSc5i5bm_HYSR3t_MRMQruV8kFnDqiO4YHPgNtEiq7Gt/w640-h428/nbc13.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just can't shake the feeling that they're laughing at me.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Many thanks to Mike and his family for a wonderful day, complete with a gratis post-race meal. Next up on the calendar is the <a href="https://sites.google.com/site/greatstonedamclassic/">Great Stone Dam Classic</a>, which returns on September 11 (a Sunday) to the Abe Bashara Boathouse in Lawrence, MA. Registration is onsite. And, on behalf of the Salem League, I'm happy to announce the new Salem Sound Spectacular, to be held at West Beach in Beverly, MA on September 24 (a Saturday). It's free, but please pre-register on <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/SalemSoundSpectacular">PaddleGuru</a>.</p>
<p></p>Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-5098580510810290072022-08-02T08:15:00.002-04:002022-08-02T08:15:25.113-04:00Blackburn Challenge: Showing Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrwsME4RCxsbKpz-l_giQTzo1ckN53DP9SPUkaVSkbaAjLm8t-he2Uv0Vyqc0nE4D4mC0QG_5-qnKdQxBpZaRFQxEui3DExc5_PY4xeGCEePBL_VRg1AqpxW8QTzfnSN6sfDzDY8IfuFQs-JD7w0_6_WgRgX2DlTiFdKrcJd1GRBA85S7w3WpRMm-/s1600/bc14.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1129" data-original-width="1600" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWrwsME4RCxsbKpz-l_giQTzo1ckN53DP9SPUkaVSkbaAjLm8t-he2Uv0Vyqc0nE4D4mC0QG_5-qnKdQxBpZaRFQxEui3DExc5_PY4xeGCEePBL_VRg1AqpxW8QTzfnSN6sfDzDY8IfuFQs-JD7w0_6_WgRgX2DlTiFdKrcJd1GRBA85S7w3WpRMm-/w640-h452/bc14.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>After retreating into seclusion in 2020 citing "public health reasons" (as if we knew nothing about the sordid affair with Chattajack), the Blackburn Challenge unexpectedly turned up last year in Gloucester as a "semi-organized group paddle" - a ridiculous disguise about as effective as a stack of kids wearing a trench coat. With the release of a recent tell-all memoir ("Currents of Passion"), however, the Blackburn embraced the scandal and was in full promotional mode for 2022. Not everyone has forgiven the 35 year old race its indiscretions (as evidenced by lower attendance), but I think it's safe to say that after the excitement of this year's surfski competition, the public will see the past in a more forgiving light.</p><p>As is my habit (or pathological mania, Mary Beth might say), I pored over tthe registration list to generate a handicap sheet that the Vegas bookies would have killed for. Or perhaps the Atlantic City odds makers would have been more interested, given that the top two prospects hailed from New Jersey. I'm referring, of course, to thoroughbreds Rob Jehn and Craig Impens. Both are previous Blackburn champions. Rob has been trampling my ego all season, but now Craig would finally have a chance to get in a few kicks of his own. At the recent Toms River Race, Craig edged out Rob by less than a minute - the only time they've been head-to-head in the last 4 years.</p><p>With the blasted border open again, Canadians Brian Heath (12 top-ten finishes, including two silver medals) and Jack Van Dorp (Mr. Consistency - placing between 4th and 7th in each of his seven appearances) would again be lapping on our shores. Area favorite Matt Drayer would be trying to improve on last year's second place, while local pariah (hey... what the hell?) Greg Lesher would be latching on to the draft of whomever wasn't quick enough to swat me off. So it would be a battle between New England, New Jersey, and New Brunswick. Jack and Brian are actually Ontarians, but I poetic licensed them a couple of provinces east for symmetry. With his usual mind-boggling fitness level but very limited bucket time - Gloucester native Janda Ricci-Munn opted for the SS20+ class, hoping to be the first ever to break the 3 hour mark in such a craft. The slower among the contenders hoped that he wouldn't also break us in the process.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CdAnPMbZN8OYYaa8Gx-scUi0B03OYW2s7vO2gL4YUmM4ZWBk1O6vo8STZetrsU8xsb-9bJXt5Rpr0Dm4XP3Yg-0jltnOnN3aZRHtsLVGo0R68BsUxA2oVmzlwk0zmiAuttjMH9B1Rn0dSa8t97MGLWHNp09UcpnoTHxMIewEEO5dZK0wT-zo88aS/s1600/bc08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1600" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-CdAnPMbZN8OYYaa8Gx-scUi0B03OYW2s7vO2gL4YUmM4ZWBk1O6vo8STZetrsU8xsb-9bJXt5Rpr0Dm4XP3Yg-0jltnOnN3aZRHtsLVGo0R68BsUxA2oVmzlwk0zmiAuttjMH9B1Rn0dSa8t97MGLWHNp09UcpnoTHxMIewEEO5dZK0wT-zo88aS/w640-h500/bc08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matt was so focused on the upcoming race that he struggled with even the simplest tasks.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Obsessing over Saturday's weather, Matt, Janda, and I had been keeping a dedicated team of meteorologists employed. Netflix only wishes it could have a streaming hit that garnered the kind of binge watching that WindFinder.com enjoyed over the past two weeks. Despite offering little in the way of plot or character development, we'd gather every couple of hours to gossip about the latest twists of our Blackburn fate and debate how scripted our favorite reality show actually was. Despite our write-in campaign to influence the outcome, the weather eventually unspooled exactly like it had to.</p><p>Let's get this out of the way. The race between Craig and Rob has been branded as an instant classic - one of the greatest head-to-head match-ups in the annals of New England racing. Strategic maneuvering. Attacks and parries. Feints and dodges. It was legendary! <i>Maybe</i>. I mean, sure, we saw them jockeying for the lead at the start and a few people watched Craig surge to the victory in a final sprint. And there are a few photos of them "dueling" at Halibut Point. But they were so far ahead of the field that the majority of their race was conveniently witness-free. For all we know, Rob and Craig flipped a coin before the race and spent the majority of the Blackburn tour getting their stories straight. They couldn't fake blowing everyone else off the water (unless... could we all have been in on it?), but the evidence for a GOAT race is circumstantial at best. Nice try, chumps.</p><p>As usual, my starting strategy was to sidle up to Rob and try to cadge a ride off the line. I've got a little "Reserved" placard that I set on his rear deck to prevent other moochers from horning in on my turf. Over the years I've developed a preference for Rob's port draft. His paddle release on the left provides a gentle spray of fine droplets, while the right has a chunkier consistency more likely to induce draftee spluttering. In retrospect, I should have worried a little less about exhaust streams and more about relative paddler positioning. Craig started to the left of us, with Brian and Jack between. Given that Rob and Craig would most certainly converge while fighting for the lead, in hindsight it seems obvious that any bystanders between the two would be the hapless victims of an unintended pincer movement. Within seconds of the start, I found myself interlacing strokes with Jack as we were forced to share an increasingly narrow lane of international water. On his other side, he and Brian were similarly squeezed, although in their case I sensed some internecine rivalry as paddles clashed and jaunty repartee followed (they are Canadian, after all). While fine-tuning my stroke synchronization mechanism, I slipped off of Rob's side draft.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJICpgr9BTyesv6vZDNt4KkYHxrRYT5I5khjEGOIeYpPldMuiV6gaYZm4zZa57OADtf0auZk_xQxBkAGRoc_Qt_Y3aUP8hWG52XbDwBhf_EOMTGCGFOQGyB2e8R7Bvsl1ArQgpwr230BNgfmguUDj2GAQcSI0QkwYTuc0QEF8XLpoYGmgcJtJCmga/s1600/bc09.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="1600" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJICpgr9BTyesv6vZDNt4KkYHxrRYT5I5khjEGOIeYpPldMuiV6gaYZm4zZa57OADtf0auZk_xQxBkAGRoc_Qt_Y3aUP8hWG52XbDwBhf_EOMTGCGFOQGyB2e8R7Bvsl1ArQgpwr230BNgfmguUDj2GAQcSI0QkwYTuc0QEF8XLpoYGmgcJtJCmga/w640-h358/bc09.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Number 34 was a worthy competitor, but Jack and I eventually were able to drop him. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Rob soon pulled into the lead, with Craig nonchalantly brushing off my placard to claim my port draft exemption. We unfortunate three teetered for a moment on the razor's edge of a stern draft before tumbling into an abyss of despair and regret. The lead pair opened a gap of a couple of lengths, with Rob making erratic course changes in an attempt to either avoid being torpedoed or to shake Craig off his draft. I pulled slightly ahead of Jack to move briefly into third, but after taking a wider line around a river bend found myself again by his side, with Brian and Matt in close proximity. While I'll admit that I was morbidly fascinated by Jack's eclectic garb (signature floppy hat, floral compression shorts, knee socks, and epaulets), by avoiding staring directly at his outlandish costume I was able to focus enough to pull ahead again, this time opening a decent gap on Jack, Brian, and Matt. The lead pair continued to extend their lead through the winding Annisquam, while we four pursuers wove independent paths along markedly different lines - fruitlessly trying navigational tricks to gain some advantage. A superposition of our GPS tracks would resemble nothing more than a spirograph trace.</p><p>I took a hard look at my situation as I passed Annisquam Light at the mouth of the river. Craig and Rob were each demonstrably faster than me on their own. Having one another for drafting and motivation would only widen that performance gap. If inspirational sports movies are to be believed, sometimes it's more about heart than strength, ability, or stamina. But in that regard I found myself lacking as well. I'd be happy to win this thing, but I was too fundamentally lazy to do anything as taxing as bursting the shackles of physical limitations. All that wasn't quite enough to cause me to abandon all hope, so I devised a couple of fictitious reasons to nudge me over that line - my rudder was jammed at full right deflection and I was born without any ribs. Mission accomplished! I could now coast around the remainder of the course (clockwise, luckily) with a clear conscience. And little to impede torso rotation.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FOLl6sNrerSO1qu3wcDyxIdeJxXIadwuzLM7jO3uTinRgrytNT_RnY2PxIjdhCLBBXPjBdycYA2z9I883xTSoZfg_1wDHMr456Oi2VXf7qgfch0PuQmhrz5LtmQtZzJyeHJkmIqXEQN3maI_PTQzqJE9KcB_670cyibJWvCXIv1dJl93tDsBQU6C/s1600/bc21.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1078" data-original-width="1600" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5FOLl6sNrerSO1qu3wcDyxIdeJxXIadwuzLM7jO3uTinRgrytNT_RnY2PxIjdhCLBBXPjBdycYA2z9I883xTSoZfg_1wDHMr456Oi2VXf7qgfch0PuQmhrz5LtmQtZzJyeHJkmIqXEQN3maI_PTQzqJE9KcB_670cyibJWvCXIv1dJl93tDsBQU6C/w640-h432/bc21.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Would the leaders have been so poised and confident if they knew that... (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38UXhM_ag9AaHHCiK5urNYRdn4vB6DVaaEp6T5NLT-pKPyTpV20vsldmUL2SUxDf2Dt7TYFrk3a109fXKbrW8ZXbZupXXDWTfLIcVCgzscK3UcY9PFObeImF3ck-qTlR-abXnve4YrDLCmkhvR4sFOzmqsfss3I2Olw0n6pp1V_7uVKX__BJEfvkR/s1600/bc20.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi38UXhM_ag9AaHHCiK5urNYRdn4vB6DVaaEp6T5NLT-pKPyTpV20vsldmUL2SUxDf2Dt7TYFrk3a109fXKbrW8ZXbZupXXDWTfLIcVCgzscK3UcY9PFObeImF3ck-qTlR-abXnve4YrDLCmkhvR4sFOzmqsfss3I2Olw0n6pp1V_7uVKX__BJEfvkR/w640-h426/bc20.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... <i>this </i>guy was watching them steadily pull away? (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A few minutes after arriving at this happy conclusion, the beaver of doubt began gnawing at my resolve. Weren't there, at some previous point, surfskis in this race other than Craig, Rob, and me? And if by some chance there were, mightn't some of these wispy memories be endeavoring to overtake me? By following this impeccable chain of reasoning, I reached a terrible conclusion. My race was not yet run. Suffering and woe lay ahead.</p><p>While the fear of being overtaken by faceless pursuers was enough to kick me back into high gear (having been a recurring nightmare since hearing an old-timey radio horror show as a child that featured an antagonist with no mouth, nose, or eyes), I soon chanced upon a more concrete form of motivation that might be sufficient to keep me pushing through the finish. Passing the double ski of Robin Francis & Igor Yeremeev (mercifully,with faces intact), I remembered that there were 3 more such doubles up ahead. With a 5 minute head start (or even without), I might not catch them all, but at least I'd have specific targets to shoot for.</p><p>You know, it's not like I grew up in the 40s. I need to have a talk with my parents about why I was listening to antiquated (and wholly kid-inappropriate) AM radio shows rather than playing Atari or grooming my pet rock.</p><p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oq-jVtkXlQI" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe><br /></p><p>Operation Treble Double was a success of sorts, although it developed at the same leisurely pace that ultimately put Kodak out of business. I would invariably spot the next double from quite some distance behind, but given that my pace was at best a fraction of a mile per hour faster, it took some imagination to convince myself that I was actually in the process of overtaking them. And inevitably, I'd become <i>their</i> motivational fodder when I appeared alongside, As a result, I'd be unable to complete the passing operation until they achieved motivation-fatigue equilibrium. I caught Ed Duggan & Bruce Deltorchio just before Halibut Point, Erin & Alan Lamb at Straitsmouth gap, and Bernie Romanowski & Andrew Metz without a nameable landmark in sight. I passed so much time overtaking the Lambs that I'm now to be the proud godfather of their unwitting third passenger.</p><p>Actually, I already know the answer to the question. I wasn't playing Atari because we didn't have one. I asked for the game on my 11th birthday, but instead got a mustard-colored knock-off Pong console (made in Bhutan, if I'm not mistaken) with sliders rather than knobs. And as for the Pet Rock, well, it was "too dangerous". So I suppose old-timey radio was really my only entertainment option.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDcGF0BMWxnlJD9bI7RXzDh5XYa62Ns22ehWu5OwB6R053c-FCPLFMJCox2iVM3j_MOIuL9C24NsGEJmyT-c6KGr4m4Rr1dji9nThrpBWkrjdJQlE17vyaL4m4-CxHEhvl-Lq1R_c2iM8wU3FSzU2X35EhqOSEa-vKuq30azgk7AOlvJDZ4e7q-wvE/s1600/bc19.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="1600" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDcGF0BMWxnlJD9bI7RXzDh5XYa62Ns22ehWu5OwB6R053c-FCPLFMJCox2iVM3j_MOIuL9C24NsGEJmyT-c6KGr4m4Rr1dji9nThrpBWkrjdJQlE17vyaL4m4-CxHEhvl-Lq1R_c2iM8wU3FSzU2X35EhqOSEa-vKuq30azgk7AOlvJDZ4e7q-wvE/w640-h318/bc19.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The next time I'm struggling to get out of bed for a morning workout, I'm going to remember Craig's savage grin at the finish. And, realizing that I'm never going to match that intensity, hit the snooze button. (Photo courtesy of John Costello)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>By the time I had inched by Bernie & Andrew, roughly 5 miles remained in the race - a short enough distance for a go-getter like me to self-motivate through. Water conditions had been neutral in the Annisquam, favorable to Straitsmouth, and mildly irksome since - a light headwind and current working against us. Making landfall near Brace Cove, however, reflected waves and tidal eddies reformed the ocean surface into a nubbled canvas. Some quirk of the wind then applied a glossy sheen, making it difficult to discern the irregular hills and valleys. I found the experience to be much like attending an experimental theater production - you didn't really understand what was going on, you felt a little nauseous, and you were terrified that the next scene might include nudity and/or audience participation. So I adopted a similar coping strategy - I kept my head down and repeated "it will soon be over" to myself until I emerged on the other side of the confusion, fully clothed and with a new appreciation for the avant-garde.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM24eadMn3wQ38wvDAkBtHaOzAgTfgLDIU-UNaJaVQCxmT7m6h0pvSAwE_uBFtlxZH9I6NE7M8pzRU8XmQHeEUulNe-och74CLeQk6WsGrIh3EKldNamICbNWUJN9A-F6Ut39uCcJlCFRcQJbL0rrW0tzPNxxmDou1uhtjferlO-yywTzo1aJbdNo1/s1600/bc15.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="1600" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM24eadMn3wQ38wvDAkBtHaOzAgTfgLDIU-UNaJaVQCxmT7m6h0pvSAwE_uBFtlxZH9I6NE7M8pzRU8XmQHeEUulNe-och74CLeQk6WsGrIh3EKldNamICbNWUJN9A-F6Ut39uCcJlCFRcQJbL0rrW0tzPNxxmDou1uhtjferlO-yywTzo1aJbdNo1/w640-h442/bc15.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Needless to say, I was disappointed to discover that hang time wasn't factored into your final score. (Photo courtesy of John Costello)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Approaching the final leg of the race, the ocean remained disgruntled, but in a more predictable way. I kept well off the Dog Bar, fearing: instability-induced slowdown in the confused waters, catching my rudder on a stray fishing line, and being dashed to a pulp against the ragged granite (in no particular order). I was able to catch a few decent waves out there, but marveled at how effectively an OC-1 I had previously been overtaking was now exploiting the rebound close to the rocks. Clearing the end of the Bar and turning into the harbor, I finally took a good look behind to confirm that I could safely phone in the last leg. Seeing nobody, I had just cracked open a Mai Tai (everything comes in a can these days) when I heard a little voice in my head saying "Greg... I'm gonna catch you." That didn't make much sense since I generally refer to myself in third-person internal dialog as "Your Grace" (or "Melon Head" if I'm in a playful mood). I glanced around again, this time catching the barest suggestion of a dark V12 moving silently along the Dog Bar. The bright orange person sitting on top of it definitely helped. Whether Matt had actually yelled out that taunt or my subconscious had generated it in response to some tickle of recognition after the first glance, only Matt can say. And he says "You're an idiot, Melon Head." Which I believe leaves some room for interpretation.</p><p>Matt, who I had assumed had been lost at sea a couple of hours ago, was actually perhaps only 15 boat lengths back. Quickly chugging the remainder of my citrus cocktail to calm my nerves, I girded my loins (I'll let you know in a couple of days if duct tape was the smart approach) and pointed my bow towards home. Although the tide was against us, there was a slight wind at our back and some incoming swell. In a conversation I once had with Sean Rice, he said that every wave you miss in a downwind run is one your competition won't. He was also somehow Foghorn Leghorn at the time, which makes me wonder if maybe this didn't occur in a dream. Nevertheless... it rings true. I took the giant rooster's axiom to heart, adding my own corollary - every wave I was on, my competition wasn't. This doesn't make any sense, but I can't say that logic was a high priority at this point. Doubly prompted, I drove myself to catch every little bump. Thankfully, the girding held up under the strain.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdzB1KASVFz2NwHS73WDABGTX4XoVRtPloUhxWpWjt7qiRyaPdp_nGoS29LhJdKmmYLU2EWH4lcMG27tO3f7axxLTRsdJFyeljrPOsOfB5KcTZbbzhJYKV8V7GIkm70hEMXuRAYul2h7Orlpn8TrFNRyyBiGPJ7C1YjkMirvLcENG9E6s5m0gYl0z/s1290/bc17.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="805" data-original-width="1290" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBdzB1KASVFz2NwHS73WDABGTX4XoVRtPloUhxWpWjt7qiRyaPdp_nGoS29LhJdKmmYLU2EWH4lcMG27tO3f7axxLTRsdJFyeljrPOsOfB5KcTZbbzhJYKV8V7GIkm70hEMXuRAYul2h7Orlpn8TrFNRyyBiGPJ7C1YjkMirvLcENG9E6s5m0gYl0z/w640-h400/bc17.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andrew struggled to disguise his grimace as a smile, but piteous moaning betrayed his fundamental misery. (Photo courtesy of John Costello)</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUCsbbSa5yPksgW_rOSLDsGZNkitRURD-rxzngwQQJyx26tF0bylJXuN013NmV7JLfIxHShhmxEFs9VxnpShiOwJMJL-IRz93PQSWzjme-e0xIOBpm6BiZkS1GouCR20cf3OuKWy50G7I6OsnJyKD5_0GknlWOI3Qjkwz54fx4IRMH8XX_Uj-zziw/s1600/bc18.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1600" height="464" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTUCsbbSa5yPksgW_rOSLDsGZNkitRURD-rxzngwQQJyx26tF0bylJXuN013NmV7JLfIxHShhmxEFs9VxnpShiOwJMJL-IRz93PQSWzjme-e0xIOBpm6BiZkS1GouCR20cf3OuKWy50G7I6OsnJyKD5_0GknlWOI3Qjkwz54fx4IRMH8XX_Uj-zziw/w640-h464/bc18.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's reassuring to know that Janda wasn't handed that sub-3 hour SS20+ time on a silver platter. (Photo courtesy of John Costello)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Craig told me after the race that whenever Rob threw a look over his shoulder in the final stretch to check his lead, it fueled Craig's confidence that he could overtake Rob. If that were likewise the case for Matt, he would have wagered his children against a fiver that he'd end up ahead of me. Halfway across the harbor, I figured it made more sense to stop glancing backward, and instead start glancing forward. Even with near-constant surveillance of Matt, I oscillated between imagining (A) myself congratulating Matt for pushing me to the limit and expressing sympathy for just missing a medal and (B) Matt spitting contemptuously on me from the podium. It was good to know that, regardless of the outcome, I would have been the more gracious winner. As the finish line grew closer, however, option A seemed increasingly likely. Or at least the part about me earning bronze. I coasted in 30 seconds ahead. Fortunately for Matt, I was too dehydrated to work up any condescending contempt.</p><p>As I alluded to above, after a spirited mano-a-mano brawl (alleged), Craig passed Rob in the final few hundred feet to take his third Blackburn title in 2:40:46. The nine second gap between gold and silver was the narrowest margin of victory ever in a full-course Blackburn. I finished nearly 5 minutes behind the leaders, but as a "fellow" podium dweller I was shielded by tradition from spittle. Janda was successful in his bid to break the 3 hour mark in the SS20+ class, finishing 7th overall in a time of 2:55:46. The top 6 have already conspired to exaggerate expected ocean conditions for the 2023 race in an effort to keep him in a fat boat. On the women's side, Mary Beth chalked up her third HPK Blackburn title, but in a Janda-esque effort Beatrice Weinberger notched the fastest women's surfski time in winning the SS20+ class in 3:33:23. Bernie & Andrew claimed double's gold in 2:53:58.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbcQZdIVrNE-mUmBqbKvhTEcf6OI73J7lUBwv62v0DLbaREASux0wAXdevs3PrjM2N9OKbm47AU11XFJIVl_h-p66JMW273KZ3UNYltXlVluFs67M0XZibic2jkhql8ArGCZVqUxZ4-4HZMn9iuqGg8FAvtiThFtFJ1RjJgR-CI3-mjEtLaX-yk6j/s1600/bc02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="1600" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbcQZdIVrNE-mUmBqbKvhTEcf6OI73J7lUBwv62v0DLbaREASux0wAXdevs3PrjM2N9OKbm47AU11XFJIVl_h-p66JMW273KZ3UNYltXlVluFs67M0XZibic2jkhql8ArGCZVqUxZ4-4HZMn9iuqGg8FAvtiThFtFJ1RjJgR-CI3-mjEtLaX-yk6j/w640-h456/bc02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As in the race itself, I was asked to keep my distance from the leaders in the podium photo.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Thanks to the many volunteers from the Cape Ann Rowing Club and beyond who resuscitated the Blackburn. To relive the excitement, check out the stunning photos of the race by <a href="https://jjcostello.smugmug.com/Blackburn-Challenge-2022-JC/">John Costello</a>, <a href="http://mikesachs.smugmug.com/Blackburn-Challenge-2022/n-vpdSNw/">Mike Sachs</a>, and <a href="http://facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10161673585199256&type=3">Granite State Race Services</a>. As a bonus, if you step through John's 1,800+ pics at 24 frames per second, you can essentially watch a video of the event.</p>
<p>
A slight pause in the New England ocean racing schedule will give us all
plenty of time to formally withdraw our post-Blackburn renunciations of
paddling. Next up is the Paddle for Access in Newport, RI on August 20th
(register at
<a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/2022PaddleforAccess">PaddleGuru</a>),
followed by the Nahant Bay Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 27th (watch for
details). If you'd like to decompress on some flatwater prior to those
efforts, try NECKRA's New England Paddlesports Championship (register at
<a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/44thannualnewenglandpaddlesportschampionship">PaddleGuru</a>) on August 7th in Hinsdale, NH.</p>Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-46193445656544505872022-06-22T16:57:00.002-04:002023-06-18T17:32:59.397-04:00Ride the Bull: Crash Course<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSozzfBIElFPTYrGBIeu8jVQ1LPicjwxZX9v-Ozwb_zhUcFlKjBtnzZwx8yUX7AMtHEiPRw-AYItCIn9TK7y77xeJhmHzm4au3PIn-IyHQSZEbuUAw9Kdvv_d8OLPnGa-AXxz6XACTF9mN9SUFkc3amdq4FU8czZaYUxTvPEYnJTULrtZd8T1bWDU9/s1600/rtb08.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="1600" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSozzfBIElFPTYrGBIeu8jVQ1LPicjwxZX9v-Ozwb_zhUcFlKjBtnzZwx8yUX7AMtHEiPRw-AYItCIn9TK7y77xeJhmHzm4au3PIn-IyHQSZEbuUAw9Kdvv_d8OLPnGa-AXxz6XACTF9mN9SUFkc3amdq4FU8czZaYUxTvPEYnJTULrtZd8T1bWDU9/w640-h386/rtb08.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<p>
By now we're all familiar with the origin story of Ride the Bull.
Concerned that surfski races were just too sedate to land a lucrative ESPN live coverage contract, Tim Dwyer and Wesley Echols devised a treacherous coastline
course guaranteed to have viewers slavering at the carnage. Taking a cue
from Big Tobacco, they figured that with all the youngsters recruited via the
sexy publicity, they could afford to gradually kill off their best
customers. It took them a few years of tinkering with the course, but
they finally arrived at a sustainable attrition rate. Although Wesley had
taken over sole directorship some years back, his conscience finally got the
better of him. He handed the reigns over to Tim and myself this
year. Proud to carry on the tradition, we summoned paddlers to Fort
Wetherill for the annual Narragansett Bay culling extravaganza.
</p><p>Before getting down to the race itself, let's take a quick detour to discuss my 2022 fitness strategy. I've started to incorporate more cross training this season, folding in healthy doses of cycling and running to my time on the water. In general, athletes might adopt such an approach to promote sport-specific recovery, enhance motivation, or avoid overuse injuries. My principle motivation, however, was to extend the life of the 20 year old neoprene shorts I paddle in. If I didn't seriously curtail my bucket time, a mid-race disintegration (think Thanos finger snap) was all but inevitable. As part of the preservation effort, I bought a new road bike this spring.</p><p>While I enjoyed riding a couple of times a week, I recently realized that although I was getting an aerobic benefit from this cross training, I should also be looking to enhance skills that would also be useful on a surfski. With this in mind, the day before the race I found a flat and straight section on a country road to practice my remounts. Moments later as I lay sprawled in the ditch alongside that road, I couldn't help but think that there should have been more planning on the <i>dismount </i>phase of the drill. First off, a bed of poison ivy probably wasn't the ideal landing zone. In my defense, though, even had I identified a more suitable target area beforehand, it would have been difficult to navigate to it while rag dolling along the shoulder. Which brings me to the second major deficiency in my dismount maneuver. In retrospect, decelerating to a stop while <i>on</i> the bike would have made a lot more sense. There's a reason (perhaps a few) they don't make brake pads out of human skin. My third and final planning faux pas was not alerting area residents that a drill was in progress. To an unknowing observer - say an elderly woman on her mid-morning walk - it can be difficult to differentiate between a true 911 emergency (like a cyclist wiping out and disappearing off the side of the road) and a minor training snafu (same). Next thing you know, you might be asking the EMTs if they have anything for acute embarrassment.</p><p>I'm in excruciating itchiness, but otherwise fine - my body absorbed most of the impact. Just some minor scrapes and bruises. Also snapped off part of my shifter assembly, but I'm told it will grow back.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_c7_vLW7of30dMozsBvY0zAhRnNgZV3vmEnxAIQ66ifQimYHlSG66oqL8AwAcOftuF_xE0pb7B3RH4vmgduZAkN9rZtkJyv4PSLF0ke9GyuDTxoMtjYHmUA-ChersSwwxHfVsWOuRHRF5tx0PCeVdQDtUIojmtt3GH0N9q1hJOwwy02OWLtXdlfx/s1600/rtb05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip_c7_vLW7of30dMozsBvY0zAhRnNgZV3vmEnxAIQ66ifQimYHlSG66oqL8AwAcOftuF_xE0pb7B3RH4vmgduZAkN9rZtkJyv4PSLF0ke9GyuDTxoMtjYHmUA-ChersSwwxHfVsWOuRHRF5tx0PCeVdQDtUIojmtt3GH0N9q1hJOwwy02OWLtXdlfx/w640-h480/rtb05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paddlers are easing back into the intimate camaraderie we had before COVID, but we're not <i>quite </i>there with the traditional pre-race huddle.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__YZUby21TUKog2B24nqAjMqPAnesnjkVPXoYW0IOHjRelHVlizba19KScZ0Tc3e-zMrWMXt9XWcUNeX-qHClSFuHOK7K2oCW9Qa1TkzbnyS0RHG2ZrkfchuUHCLWG6YzLyV2VUvbQifWwRFDMyT3GFDcDBX_sbZywPerfgsFgi87VUjD-7GkwROp/s1600/rtb06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh__YZUby21TUKog2B24nqAjMqPAnesnjkVPXoYW0IOHjRelHVlizba19KScZ0Tc3e-zMrWMXt9XWcUNeX-qHClSFuHOK7K2oCW9Qa1TkzbnyS0RHG2ZrkfchuUHCLWG6YzLyV2VUvbQifWwRFDMyT3GFDcDBX_sbZywPerfgsFgi87VUjD-7GkwROp/w640-h480/rtb06.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</td>
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<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm not exactly sure why we were roasting Chris, but Tim had some of the best oceanographer-related zingers I'd ever heard. I'm never going to hear "Woods Hole" again without laughing.</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>Back to Rhode Island. Lest we get too big for our britches (that's assuming they're still in one piece), every year we order a world-class paddler from the ICF to compete in at least one of our New England races. You never know if you'll get a Sean Rice, an Austin Kieffer, or a Nate Humberston, but we've never been anything less than completely humiliated at our relative incompetence. Hold on. I take that back. One year they had a shortage and pawned a Jan Lupinski off on us. Oh sure, he probably won, but nobody wanted to quit the sport afterwards. This year we got the Sean Brennan model - a real bargain since we only had to pay freight charges from New Jersey. We last saw Sean at the 2021 Sakonnet Surfski Race, immediately after which the local used surfski market crashed due to the glut of sellers.</p><p>Although it seemed improbable that Sean would be seriously challenged, if
anyone could be forgiven for dreaming above their station, it'd be fellow
out-of-towners Rob Jehn and Ed Joy. Rob has been repeatedly kicking the
beloved local favorite in the groin this season and yet for some reason we
keep letting him come back. Although Ed has some mileage on him
(including serious off-road ventures while a younger man, as he told us at
lunch), he's got a rebuilt drive train and the best rough-water navigation
system money can buy. And as the two-time defending champion, he wasn't
about to let a "candy-ass teenager" like Rob beat him on this course. I
figured.
</p>
<p>
We're not even halfway through the list of outside barbarians that stormed the
gates of Fort Wetherill. For weeks, Rob had been frightening me with
tales of Anthony Colasurdo's ferocity from shared NJ training sessions.
New York's John Hair is always a wily competitor, but this year he's taken
things to a new level - creating a bogus Strava feed designed to make
it look like he hasn't been training much. Finally, Epic Kayaks muckety-muck Bruce Poacher would be paddling a double with Eric Costanzo (yet another
Jersey boy). Bruce flew his parents over from South Africa and then
drove them up from Tennessee so that they'd have a chance to apologize for the
cold-hearted manner in which their other son (Ross) had eviscerated me in the
2019 Blackburn. That's the kind of thoughtful gesture that makes
everyone love the (non-Ross) Poachers. Also, Bruce brought snappy Epic
hats for everyone.
</p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGk8grc0R9LkpCDVlsZzRIqKfiodMmA-FaiE_6oxdTE8deuw1gZIVRV0e3pSJ89t1v08hmmv8ZU5-BXe7nbXiZsVGaOBgV56wng8EMC9Mz5MKYUm_r58zquBnB5Tce7hYG69mV-RkoDit_2i6xsEF5Z4y1jVEMerOrA53HgwKkYUMMZ2eWLA_UuBhQ/s1600/rtb02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="897" data-original-width="1600" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGk8grc0R9LkpCDVlsZzRIqKfiodMmA-FaiE_6oxdTE8deuw1gZIVRV0e3pSJ89t1v08hmmv8ZU5-BXe7nbXiZsVGaOBgV56wng8EMC9Mz5MKYUm_r58zquBnB5Tce7hYG69mV-RkoDit_2i6xsEF5Z4y1jVEMerOrA53HgwKkYUMMZ2eWLA_UuBhQ/w640-h358/rtb02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just found out about the "Psychedelic" setting on my GoPro. Groovy.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<p>The area we use at the park also serves as a base
for scuba diving certification, so for once we weren't the silliest looking
bunch of weirdos in the parking lot. We were however, the baldest, with
nearly half the paddling crew opting to redirect our supply of testosterone
to, uh... more critical areas. Eyebrows, ears, noses, etc. Behind
more than a few diving masks, I noticed the distinct glint of envy.</p>
<p>
With an assist from Sean's encyclopedic knowledge of the navigational markers
of Narragansett Bay (get that guy on Jeopardy!), Tim deftly guided us through
the 8.8 mile course at the captains meeting. Starting from West Cove,
we'd motor west to round a rocky island just inside Mackerel Cove, head out
into the bay to turn on bell buoy G7 (recently refitted with a
state-of-the-art Hayes-Kendall "Monsoon IV" free-swinging clapper, as Sean
helpfully informed us), continue northeast past West Cove and the House on the
Rock to G11 (criminally outdated with a Maritime East "Flop-About" dangler),
and return to the mouth of West Cove. Just to make sure we got it right,
Tim asked that we then repeat the loop a second time. After that, we'd
be rewarded with an extra leg that would take us directly back to G7 for one
more glorious bell recital before returning to the finish.
</p>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LzfOKgjzBj4" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<p>
The launch area was congested with floating weeds and scuba students (almost
always grounds for an automatic failure), so once we picked our way through to
open water, we carefully checked each other's rudders for tangles of regulator
hoses. We soon made our way next door to West Cove and lined up for the
countdown start. Tim's gotten so good at counting backwards that he
earns a little extra dough on the side as a test subject for anesthesiologist
training. Based on general demeanor I suspect he may have taken a few
too many hits of ether over the years, but on the brighter side he never has
to worry about his tonsils, appendix, or gall bladder giving him
any problems. He was in fine form today, though. We were underway
exactly 54 seconds after the one minute warning.
</p>
<p>
Knowing we'd soon be making a hard right turn around a particularly solid
looking rock at the mouth of the cove, I had lined up on the left side of the
pack to avoid any temptation to heroically cut things close. Struggling to
get by Tim on the outside, I couldn't lend much attention to what was
happening in the thick of things over to the right. Based on what I saw
after clearing the turn (and Tim) and angling towards the point marking the
entrance to Mackerel Cove, however, I can only assume that what had been
happening was a whole lot of cheating. That's the only rational
explanation for the fact that scarcely a minute into the race I had already
lost contact with the first 5 boats. Sean, Ed, Rob, Bruce & Eric,
and Anthony were well out in front.
</p>
<p>
Once clear of the well-protected start cove, the true nature of the race
conditions were revealed. Between the brisk northwest wind, swells from
the south, boat traffic, and refraction from the rocky coastline, there were
waves traveling in pretty much any direction you wanted. Conanicut
Island was blocking most of the 12-15 mph wind, so none of the legs would be
an upwind slog. Technical conditions, but not overly demanding. I
figured it would give competitors with years of varied ocean paddling (like
Sean, Ed, and Tim) the benefit. I have more than a decade of open water
experience under my belt (and, quite often, over my head), but by stubbornly
refusing to learn much from this exposure, I remain mid-pack in my
abilities. Perhaps by waterlogged osmosis I had absorbed skills enough
to catch newcomer Anthony, however.
</p>
<p>
Amazingly, there seemed to be some merit to this hypothesis. Anthony had
dragged me around most of the Narrow River Race a couple of months earlier,
but in livelier conditions I was rapidly closing his early lead. Being
in a more stable boat doubtless helped. Turning around Southwest Point
into Mackerel Cove, I took a tight line inside him (only semi-heroically close
to the rocks) and moved safely into 5th place. Now all I had to do was
linger close enough to the pursuit group (Ed, Rob, and the double) to pick off
any exhausted stragglers.
</p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOI8cqSk7s2iSI1CQrb9Aklqf8S7D8YItw9XqJhP5pDCUfduMqtRdqCefugQPczQ0K7Jj2zkx1N0l0bJZI69Gn4Skryh7r4W2pyzcRZnb87C_QiDzTFGp_1hNl3y4v8AMgHdJmqvKAHzGPo0HHxRNTGhVAxDPnHRpeTSXCaUnjN7vqJsadSh0VgzPJ/s1600/rtb04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="954" data-original-width="1600" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOI8cqSk7s2iSI1CQrb9Aklqf8S7D8YItw9XqJhP5pDCUfduMqtRdqCefugQPczQ0K7Jj2zkx1N0l0bJZI69Gn4Skryh7r4W2pyzcRZnb87C_QiDzTFGp_1hNl3y4v8AMgHdJmqvKAHzGPo0HHxRNTGhVAxDPnHRpeTSXCaUnjN7vqJsadSh0VgzPJ/w640-h382/rtb04.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You'd never have expected it from him, but as we passed in opposite directions at turns I heard a steady stream of motivational obscenities directed at the "gutless maggot" up front by drill sergeant Bruce.</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<p>
At the completion of the first lap, the pack ahead extended their gap while
demonstrating an uncommon degree of cohesion. The two smaller boats and
the larger double appeared to be atomically linked - the H2O of the paddling
world, so to speak. I'm working towards a spectacularly tortured
metaphor/pun here, so bear with me. Here's the premise. Water is known as the "universal solvent" because almost everything dissolves in it. But
"solvent" also means "having sufficient funds to pay one debts". So if
the group is universally solvent, they have unlimited resources. Which
explains why they were showing no signs of fatigue! I spent about an
hour unsuccessfully trying to craft this harebrained premise into a
Shakespearean turn of phrase that would at best elicit a collective groan, and
would more probably elicit a collective "Close Tab". I mostly write to
amuse myself, and I failed at even that. I <i>did </i>come up with the
hilarious-to-me phrase "pithy apothegm" while brainstorming, however, so it
wasn't a complete loss.
</p>
<p>
Enough self-indulgence. Let's get back to the actual topic of this
report. The advantages of liquidity! The inseparable Fluid Crew
were nimble and flexible, while I plodded behind, all of my assets frozen in
stodgy long-term investments (like life insurance, which I might well dip into
sooner rather than later). Sorry. I could've sworn there'd be a payoff in doggedly pursuing this angle.</p>
<p>
The remainder of my race overflowed with adventure and excitement (look for the Netflix miniseries in October), but since I've wasted so much space
on tangents, I'll distill it to the essentials. Periodic checks on
Anthony after each turn revealed that I was maintaining a solid grasp on 5th
place. As the pursuit pack pulled further head of me, it became
difficult to tell how close-knit they remained, but at the final discordant
turn on G11, I could see that Rob and Ed had dissociated themselves from Bruce
& Eric. The singles would struggle for supremacy over the final
couple of miles, with Rob out-sprinting Ed for the silver. In winning 4
minutes earlier, Sean had established a new course record of 1:11:56.
Finishing 4th overall about a minute behind Ed, Bruce & Eric were forced
to share the doubles crown, leading to quite the fracas in the parking
lot. We had a couple of fatigue-based DNFs, but a 100% survival rate. We'll have to try harder next year.</p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCT3kzWBoDcjMLOY5NMOxKBql7Ab6K8jTaGmcyVJiXYZjjSf6yp__zckC_NnX1sRtFR5IZDfRGHqwsImJCM0VCvXvpontlyvm0VaSxe78yhiF4NnydeSQfo9zjiTo8PYbu0jl1LHDbubvXEstsrO1JhMd69tlNVI6-pXCcNNbTHJNOpqlGHuDZygF/s1600/rtb01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="979" data-original-width="1600" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCT3kzWBoDcjMLOY5NMOxKBql7Ab6K8jTaGmcyVJiXYZjjSf6yp__zckC_NnX1sRtFR5IZDfRGHqwsImJCM0VCvXvpontlyvm0VaSxe78yhiF4NnydeSQfo9zjiTo8PYbu0jl1LHDbubvXEstsrO1JhMd69tlNVI6-pXCcNNbTHJNOpqlGHuDZygF/w640-h392/rtb01.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I guarantee you that in reality, the field wasn't nearly this photogenic.</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table><br />
<div><span>For a final ocean tune-up before the Blackburn Challenge, you have two options. If you just can't seem to kick the Rhode Island habit, head back down for the Jamestown Double Beaver on July 9th (register at PaddleGuru). For those looking for a different kind of fix, you can see what kind of thrills New Jersey has to offer at Toms River Paddle Race on July 10th (register at </span><a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/TomsRiverPaddleRace2022">PaddleGuru</a><span>).</span></div>Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-25931650322271728402022-06-07T12:53:00.001-04:002022-06-07T12:53:31.882-04:00Sakonnet Surfski Race: Becalmed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0p9Ka8xONyOar7-uLrWPSQndtOchtJhclCC1-wMCfgAqmux-geBFt2c_sD_8cFfSkYENKLp7CuWPoCRSS7GMDmcXZHHJg-VaFRJZN9lm24COlpwrrVLoreWv0cNKlU4MeJErN1XGZi1sDSlrdSnBVWc3GFLcClVNO1HoXRblTXviYHrgtjYC4dSt/s1600/srr02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="978" data-original-width="1600" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf0p9Ka8xONyOar7-uLrWPSQndtOchtJhclCC1-wMCfgAqmux-geBFt2c_sD_8cFfSkYENKLp7CuWPoCRSS7GMDmcXZHHJg-VaFRJZN9lm24COlpwrrVLoreWv0cNKlU4MeJErN1XGZi1sDSlrdSnBVWc3GFLcClVNO1HoXRblTXviYHrgtjYC4dSt/w640-h392/srr02.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>The Sakonnet Surfski Race celebrated its 15th installment this past weekend. This is the longest continuously operating surfski race in New England. The youngest competitor this year, Sam Duffield, wasn't even <i>born </i>when the gun first fired on the Sakonnet. Oops. Might just have blown his cover with the Navy. When Wesley Echols started the race way back 2008, who could have guessed that any of the competitors in that inaugural race would still be paddling today? Now well into their twilight years, four such elder statesmen showed up this year, although only Wesley seemed to know exactly where he was. </p><p>Several years back, Wesley and his neighbors convinced their town to restrict access to their local beach at McCorrie Point to only those with resident permits. Unfortunately, not all paddlers got the memo that they were now persona non grata at the ancestral home of the Sakonnet race. As a result, in early June of every year, the town constabulary has to extract neoprene-clad geezers stuck firmly in the razor wire and rake up the detritus left by those who made it as far as the mine field. We probably have a few more years of safe access to the new venue at Island Park Beach before the inevitable lock-down on invasive species, but if you notice a red dot on your chest or a billowing yellow cloud of noxious gas heading your way - maybe just drop your boat and start running.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_usVqg0u0UqfUB3uzqrkzzcw6hA3Z7Gu2a9QpOfcE5vrKZb5wsxPQJJWrUrBLkQX9Tn8tS1SHwCugD6fIR7_tpnVSKzvAW3fnItokQ6BJ9U78E1aKL4cyP7iSgVP1bFYVJ6zwh0h21ii7vokrCOGuoQiZA9rlVBHC-FqHzTAWFkSrODKcKFsaZuos/s1600/srr07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1600" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_usVqg0u0UqfUB3uzqrkzzcw6hA3Z7Gu2a9QpOfcE5vrKZb5wsxPQJJWrUrBLkQX9Tn8tS1SHwCugD6fIR7_tpnVSKzvAW3fnItokQ6BJ9U78E1aKL4cyP7iSgVP1bFYVJ6zwh0h21ii7vokrCOGuoQiZA9rlVBHC-FqHzTAWFkSrODKcKFsaZuos/w640-h444/srr07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim's attempts to recruit new members to the Narragansett Paddle Drill Team were, once again, unsuccessful.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvBQ8t7LOS4P6aN-yyRvwx4K3f6_zN5Rws4Qpm76jhJbPhzMrDDi7_HBC-lFlawlSvqejh_LdT1Qfq9N_BIE2Nxo1Ad65IMlFm7eF4JRidl8Fw0mhZU9MABvsbqL4cMOLgYIVhBereoM3IeciTKqkUN8w1sLlgVQ0CMYHlmrcutGVo-uxr0Q-Yrmrz/s1600/srr05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvBQ8t7LOS4P6aN-yyRvwx4K3f6_zN5Rws4Qpm76jhJbPhzMrDDi7_HBC-lFlawlSvqejh_LdT1Qfq9N_BIE2Nxo1Ad65IMlFm7eF4JRidl8Fw0mhZU9MABvsbqL4cMOLgYIVhBereoM3IeciTKqkUN8w1sLlgVQ0CMYHlmrcutGVo-uxr0Q-Yrmrz/w640-h428/srr05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can thank me later for cropping this photo in such a way that exactly <i>what </i>Igor just realized he forgot isn't explicit.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Although there was historically a "standard" course for the Sakonnet, varying weather conditions (and now the venue change) have necessitated frequent ad hoc changes. At times, these revised directions have had the distinct feel of a scavenger hunt. One year, the winner was the first paddler to return to the start after finding (1) a Clorox jug inscribed with the Sanskrit word for "fellowship", (2) a bobbing flock of Buffleheads ducks, and (3) a patch of floating seaweed in the shape of Poland. So naturally I was suspicious when Wesley instead described this year's course with clinical precision. We'd proceed 4.63 miles towards the mouth of the Sakonnet, turn on navigation buoy RN6, and return to the start. I kept waiting for him to add "... and also circumnavigate the completely submerged wreck of the trawler Glory B", but he kept silent. Doubtless he'd wait until just before the start to spring that course addendum on us.</p><p>With just a few days left until the race, it appeared that the entire field might earn spots on the podium. By Saturday, however, our ranks had been swelled by procrastinators, impulse registrants, and parolees assigned to the paddle release program. Twenty-one paddlers showed up, but since there were only 18 boats we played musical buckets to decide who had to double up. We can't seem to move our races far enough from New Jersey to keep Rob Jehn from attending. As winner of the last couple of races, he was naturally the favorite. Matt Drayer was also competing. I had recently beaten Matt in consecutive races in our Tuesday night league, but my margin of victory had shrunk alarmingly between the two. Another 4 days worth of whatever super-soldier serum he's been taking might well make the difference here.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIx4HuxWQkJNZmFxogwudc1OUM0Vn2yn72TOxvlQuO7XyoGI6kG8WhOh5nxDxPZYRExkIc1ALS_7NAGbGl_lS-MAtDtGNF5xUWcDHdTcUI2YVIe0KIEeyTDxajkhULX_fPc-RxvDa-_3usc-LNVm04IRtRvrHMk2wGiR-txs07bvLYXWvmARDs3FNJ/s1600/srr08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1213" data-original-width="1600" height="486" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIx4HuxWQkJNZmFxogwudc1OUM0Vn2yn72TOxvlQuO7XyoGI6kG8WhOh5nxDxPZYRExkIc1ALS_7NAGbGl_lS-MAtDtGNF5xUWcDHdTcUI2YVIe0KIEeyTDxajkhULX_fPc-RxvDa-_3usc-LNVm04IRtRvrHMk2wGiR-txs07bvLYXWvmARDs3FNJ/w640-h486/srr08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Since discovering that tattoo removal isn't covered by his insurance, Timmy has taken to passing the hat.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>In our previous two races, I had clung desperately on Rob's draft until my grip gave way, then faded gradually behind in quiet despair. I'd only been 15 to 20 seconds back at the finish, but the gap seemed so insurmountable it might as well have been 18 to 23. Those earlier races had been contested in dead flat conditions, but any hope (unwarranted, granted) that the rougher water of the Sakonnet would mix things up were dashed by the forecast - a whispered breeze from the north at race start, dying to a preternatural calm (weird for the National Weather Service to phrase it that way, but whatever) midway through. I therefore decided to just make a couple of tweaks to my tried-and-true "draft, fade, despair" strategy. As we lined up for the start, I could barely contain my excitement at implementing the improved "draft longer, implode, despair" approach.</p><p>To maximize drafting time, I maneuvered to set myself up on Rob's port side as Wesley counted us down to the start. He must of forgotten about the course adjustments. The usual suspects - Chris Chappell, Tim Dwyer, Matt, and Rob - shot off the line, but this time I was dragged along with them. Unaccustomed to the g-forces associated with such sudden acceleration, I blacked out briefly. When I came to, I was still safely ensconced in the warm embrace of Rob's generosity, pulling away from the rest of the field. It might have been a little warmer if I wasn't catching a paddle-scoop of water in the face every few seconds, but after the race I was happy to provide Rob with a few tips for maximizing my future comfort.</p>
<p>We continued peacefully in this mutually satisfactory manner. The sea was so smooth that we'd occasionally see stripers finning at the surface ahead, darting away in a confused swirl at the last moment. Rob made perfunctory efforts to shake me from time to time, but it was obvious that he wasn't seriously committed to these attack intervals. He could hardly maintain his delusion of being in a competitive race if he dropped me so early. I wish he would have made a little more effort to <i>sell </i>these break-out attempts, however. Checking email while ostensibly sprinting? Come on. On my part, I didn't bother with even a token show of trying to seize the lead (or take a turn pulling, as Rob might have worded it) - the most credulous audience would hardly have bought such a fiction. </p><p>Halfway to the turn buoy, I sensed we had established an uneasy truce. I'd keep on his draft so that Rob didn't have to admit to himself that he drove 5 hours for a cake walk, and he'd let me stay on that draft because he sensed the looming darkness of competitive irrelevance that lay in my future. We'd carry on this pitiful charade until the buoy, at which point Rob would break our wispy bond of mutual deception. And that's pretty much what happened. Rob's Nelo gave him superior turning agility and his strength gave him superior acceleration. There's no way I could keep with him. At least, that was the rationalization I used for not gutting it out and fighting back to his draft immediately after being dropped. </p>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/AEhNLupvzhQ" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
<p>I took some solace in surveying the oncoming field as we headed back towards the start. Rob had pulled me well clear of Matt, who in turn had opened up a solid lead on Tim. For the first couple miles of the return trip, I managed to keep within a half-dozen lengths of Rob. My planned implosion was disappointingly fade-like - my end came not with a fffwoomp, but with a whimper. As I fell further back, I resorted to increasingly wild-eyed tactics. I weaved to and fro searching for non-existent waves or tidal currents I could exploit to negate Rob's advantage. I'm ashamed to admit that I grew so desperate that at one point I resorted to trying to paddle really hard. Not my finest moment.</p><p>With a half-mile to go, I heard a tremendous splash just behind the bucket on the starboard side. Despite any corroborating evidence from my other senses, and perhaps a little addled by lack of oxygen to the brain, I suspected that I had fallen out of the boat. And on my weak remount side! Fortunately, a quick head count revealed that all the crew were accounted for. Apparently a large striper had taken offense at my trespassing through his domain and decided that retribution was in order. The worst thing about being a fish, however, is that you lack convenient access to the judicial system. That and gill worms. Lacking any legal remedy against my incursion, he settled for a startling splash.</p><p>The capsize scare failed to quicken my heart rate - I am, after all, still around to write this - but it did provide a sufficient boost of adrenaline to see me through to the finish. Rob had crossed the line 35 seconds earlier at 1:15:58. Matt came in a few minutes later to claim the final podium spot, with Tim and John Redos taking 4th and 5th shortly after. Leslie Chappell earned the women's title, while Bill Kuklinski & Kirk Olsen were the double's champions.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUpmddyUV0a_BH4fOy8UpFJ4raxW36kh7Sg-p7WwufLCBMPMdk4xKf-rjZIyP4JCKa0hXbbX7kXU85rmhQbWNc9l5yVl2a5KXkfWOH7Wrl0x_eZET_e5ny6edgU1o2zO7bpACVxPtf4ohWRznU10RWC6i51hc44zlgw2Q_pIBQjCZw4OtdvECt37v/s1600/srr03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1230" data-original-width="1600" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUpmddyUV0a_BH4fOy8UpFJ4raxW36kh7Sg-p7WwufLCBMPMdk4xKf-rjZIyP4JCKa0hXbbX7kXU85rmhQbWNc9l5yVl2a5KXkfWOH7Wrl0x_eZET_e5ny6edgU1o2zO7bpACVxPtf4ohWRznU10RWC6i51hc44zlgw2Q_pIBQjCZw4OtdvECt37v/w640-h492/srr03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill placed 14th in the first Sakonnet race, but even while carrying a passenger, improved all the way to 5th this year!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_8UKBqR2OD6Zufm2E2P25Jcjta3Iy6_TqTcc1uiGeZ9REJEi2V_yjwiKDXJCXFZyuVf6IfykIyixqFWu3r4ij5NeQcfwT-ZT2y6vAqSGkG_agZw11QRBHrHDhBLTlKkHQ0QJzBb3jQ4S4esJXp0_eQ5m_-UupBQHqoaczUOYdpSxDZgtqZYK9S5m/s1600/srr09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1290" data-original-width="1600" height="516" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_8UKBqR2OD6Zufm2E2P25Jcjta3Iy6_TqTcc1uiGeZ9REJEi2V_yjwiKDXJCXFZyuVf6IfykIyixqFWu3r4ij5NeQcfwT-ZT2y6vAqSGkG_agZw11QRBHrHDhBLTlKkHQ0QJzBb3jQ4S4esJXp0_eQ5m_-UupBQHqoaczUOYdpSxDZgtqZYK9S5m/w640-h516/srr09.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having survived the Great Kumquat Deluge of 2012, the odd banana peel doesn't phase Matt at all.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Thanks to Wesley for having us down for a fantastic day on the water. We'll be back in Rhode Island on June 18th for Ride the Bull (no charge, but please register at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/RidetheBull2022">PaddleGuru</a>). Some paddlers were disappointed that this year's calm Sakonnet didn't provide a suitable warm-up for the notoriously lively conditions at the Bull, but I think it'll make for a better consumer experience. Would Friday the 13th have been any good if Jason made his first appearance skulking around basket weaving class in broad daylight? No! In his initial reveal, he's gotta be stabbing a counselor in the eye. So buck up little campers! You're in for a treat.</p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-38749117535502223442022-05-19T12:42:00.001-04:002022-05-21T19:12:15.592-04:00Essex River Race: Climate Change<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmTPQpWoWYXp7u3U7sr0Wn3qDNy-C7phx2kqzeUyYwyupQx_5xuLdWZgAHabMgVmiI5I0Rf8S4xC7C74db0BruuFFEEWqlUBXAoVtLmbUX8UFOoaVrQqkF73k9nNGIhlkKj3eYcJKB8HN2PvgEUS3-B6WXV75IYd8oA8bSTFKIhqhzmLxQpn-ikPF/s1203/err01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1203" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMmTPQpWoWYXp7u3U7sr0Wn3qDNy-C7phx2kqzeUyYwyupQx_5xuLdWZgAHabMgVmiI5I0Rf8S4xC7C74db0BruuFFEEWqlUBXAoVtLmbUX8UFOoaVrQqkF73k9nNGIhlkKj3eYcJKB8HN2PvgEUS3-B6WXV75IYd8oA8bSTFKIhqhzmLxQpn-ikPF/w640-h426/err01.jpg" width="640" /></a></p><p></p><p>After taking off a couple of years to "find itself", the Essex River Race ultimately returned to the North Shore of Massachusetts with a renewed sense of purpose. Locals would be forgiven for believing that this purpose was to snarl Saturday morning traffic, but the true purpose is to bring together competitors in an orgy of paddling and rowing enthusiasm. Which, now that I see it in writing, might be the actual reason that the upstanding citizens of Essex are so disgusted with us.</p><p>The 5.8 mile course entails a tour of the inner zone of the Essex River estuary. From the start in town, competitors follow the winding tidal river until it widens into an open expanse (of either water or marsh, depending on the tide), then circumnavigate Cross Island and return back up the river. The surfski wave would start shortly after high tide, meaning that we'd have unfettered access to many questionably effective shortcuts usually safely above sea level. Temperatures were in the high 70s, with a light to moderate breeze from the south.</p><p>In 2021 a group of paddlers held the unsanctioned Essex River (Replacement) Race on the standard course, which Rob Jehn won despite paddling a circuitous route perhaps best described as a "search grid". Needless to say, he was embarrassed to finally discover that he himself was the lost paddler. Rob made the trip from New Jersey to maintain his cock-of-the-walk status. As the last winner of the <i>real </i>Essex River Race in 2019, however, I strutted and preened before the match (resplendent in fluorescent plumage) to let Rob know that he was there as the imminent <i>usurper</i>, not the inevitable <i>defender</i>. We'd be competing in a field comprised of 15 single skis. Although several of those paddlers could also contend for the gold, I was most worried about Ben Randall. We don't see this talented downriver paddler from Maine in our parts very often - what with the hassle of the tourist visa and all the inoculations - but he always puts up a good fight after clearing quarantine.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWONNdCwb1aI-ORkIZPuXm9VPudWWpRKYqF1pS-SOzSGZy11KUa7ms0hBh-6rITXNUZQjwoqj1WOaBOuvRgdZ2hKquUEGvTe6iKH6LiBhq69QVAHXG5RMG7o1eYwoYPj1NQzVwvQQcfiE-ZZVU1ckrneHBhXbfjQ1xJqcXwJXRB4xfkhuBfxF5lB8/s1600/err06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlWONNdCwb1aI-ORkIZPuXm9VPudWWpRKYqF1pS-SOzSGZy11KUa7ms0hBh-6rITXNUZQjwoqj1WOaBOuvRgdZ2hKquUEGvTe6iKH6LiBhq69QVAHXG5RMG7o1eYwoYPj1NQzVwvQQcfiE-ZZVU1ckrneHBhXbfjQ1xJqcXwJXRB4xfkhuBfxF5lB8/w640-h480/err06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I thought at first maybe the guys had sighted a green-winged teal, but it turns out they had actually just spotted a much rarer red-decked nelo.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojc-rkNs1HyxRCXMVXa95VD0mDnKVgHB2rCVuZ6_PjuGVS-kF44iNe8NaCbeyNFoUbMN6syPjuE1pQsFJUuFlTTXooYabNZoKRGftK47T35x799UaxWxAmveV8IYQ6Dljoi3yFjcrzrt4JLi_j50ErpuFC_tLNmTAV19VrJGuKLLKEVIVTTvTLKNW/s1600/err04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojc-rkNs1HyxRCXMVXa95VD0mDnKVgHB2rCVuZ6_PjuGVS-kF44iNe8NaCbeyNFoUbMN6syPjuE1pQsFJUuFlTTXooYabNZoKRGftK47T35x799UaxWxAmveV8IYQ6Dljoi3yFjcrzrt4JLi_j50ErpuFC_tLNmTAV19VrJGuKLLKEVIVTTvTLKNW/w640-h480/err04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Probably the best feature of a surfski is that it seldom requires 13 people to launch.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I had more than my usual motivation to do well. Prior to the race, but after an unfortunate incident which involved accidentally leaving the toaster timer set to "bagel", Mary Beth had told me not to bother coming home after the race if I didn't win. Actually, she didn't include the conditional part of that statement, but I think it was implied.</p><p>The Essex River Race is open to virtually any human-powered watercraft. For nearly an hour before the surfski start, wave after wave of more expendable boat classes (if you take offense at that characterization, cannon fodder, get your own blog) were sent out to soften up the course for us. By the time it was our turn, the tide had literally turned. Fourteen skis jockeyed for starting position, while I absent-mindedly let myself drift into whatever hemmed-in trash compactor site the currents took me - the doofus kid in left field picking wildflowers. The start siren sounded. Fortunately, by mugging Andrew Metz in the first few seconds, I was able to swipe a path to open water. He's probably fine.</p><p>Jerry Madore, paddling a snazzy Nelo 550 so new that the gelcoat wasn't fully set (not that I tested it by drawing obscene figures with my finger), shot into the lead like an excited toddler capitalizing on his burgeoning coordination. An opening gambit like this usually ends with either hospitalization or maritime rescue, but Jerry managed to hold form for a solid top-five finish. Hank Thorburn and Tim Dwyer chased him along the bank of the opening left-hand bend, while Rob and Ben swung wide. I squeezed Tim a little too tightly from the right around that first curve, which elicited a gentle reminder that although we're pals in real life, he would not hesitate to "end you right now" if I didn't give him some breathing room. You don't want to mess with a guy who paddles with Woody and Buzz figurines lashed in his cockpit, so I gave him more leeway as I moved by.</p><p>By the time I maneuvered fully past my murderous chum, Rob had pulled slightly ahead of me, with Ben in tow on his right draft. Jerry had initially opened up a two boat length gap on the field, but had burned through a couple of quarts of high-octane adrenaline and was now in desperate need of some apple sauce and Cheerios. Rob started to pass Jerry on the right, but after my recent upbraiding I was skittish about trying to shoehorn between the two on Rob's left draft. I instead passed wide to port, which I can retroactively pretend was actually a smart tactical decision since it theoretically gave me an advantage approaching the next bend in the river.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcT20IAc5FTO5aCqJmTlsrgcpkdgL04fPhh8e5jEqiqcBHpGmh5szDoUSKXRWEbL7zjtGpcgI_wjOA9Fs3geNOtxRAq5REVK14ihsHQmfJfXRakmR3H527cfQqRiSoJ1bIaY_10k5mqmSCv9Ln9wQHxsFSwFjAtPIMYUE8Lvqrr6fQ4W4dcNJrtoM/s1600/err07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJcT20IAc5FTO5aCqJmTlsrgcpkdgL04fPhh8e5jEqiqcBHpGmh5szDoUSKXRWEbL7zjtGpcgI_wjOA9Fs3geNOtxRAq5REVK14ihsHQmfJfXRakmR3H527cfQqRiSoJ1bIaY_10k5mqmSCv9Ln9wQHxsFSwFjAtPIMYUE8Lvqrr6fQ4W4dcNJrtoM/w640-h480/err07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hadn't seen this many people in one place since my late cousin Victor's super-spreader themed barbecue.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After converging, I found myself back on Rob's left draft, with Ben latched on my stern. We continued in this fashion, dodging the oncoming rowers who - having started so long before our wave - were laboring through the final leg of their races and therefore well past giving a damn about maritime regulations. Ben dropped off the draft at some point, although by doing so silently he selfishly neglected to provide any ego-boosting sustenance for the remaining miles. In the future, Ben, I suggest shouting (in a strangled manner befitting your exhausted condition, naturally) something along the lines of "Alas! I founder! I must capitulate to your Herculean might and fortitude!" Feel free to tweak the verbiage. Hearing this would have been a real shot in the arm. I would, of course, have conveniently ignored the fact that Rob had done the lion's share of the work.</p><p>I was paddling in my native waters (which should give you some idea of just how hard I was working). Ostensibly, this would provide me with a navigational advantage. I'd thoughtfully remind Rob of this periodically by suggesting minor course corrections. I've found that steering from a draft position is seldom appreciated, but it's just not my nature to keep unsolicited, unreliable advice to myself. To the extent that he heeded my guidance, I didn't lead/follow him into any trouble. Which perhaps gave him a false sense of confidence (in me, that is) when I veered behind him to cut right towards Conomo Point as the Essex River widened. After following my lead (but, paradoxically, through absolutely no fault of my own), we both suddenly found ourselves in what a duck might consider navigable waters, but a goose definitely would not. Shallow water alerts rang in our ears, although I quickly silenced them by closing my mouth.</p><p>Rob managed to avoid disturbing the delicate intertidal seabed by artfully heeling his boat to one side to lift his rudder clear. While I admired his ecological sensitivity, I opted for a bull-in-a-china-shop strategy - leaving a sad trail of uprooted eelgrass and disoriented clams in my wake. We both came to a virtual stop, but only one of us also managed to make a bold metaphorical statement about mankind's callous indifference to nature. The point having been made, I plowed my way back to deeper water. Rob soon rejoined me. With an inexplicable holier-than-thou attitude, if I'm not mistaken.</p>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NS9YSJM2xL8" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
<p>We resumed our customary drafting arrangement, but I could tell that Rob's commitment to this relationship was flagging. Shortly thereafter he started straying off my preferred line, despite continued exhortations from behind. Hoping that perhaps he just needed some time to come to his senses, I gave Rob some lateral space. He apparently misinterpreted the directional bounds of his newfound freedom, instead insisting on also adding longitudinal distance between us. By the time we passed Conomo Point and rounded the bottom of Cross Island, he was two lengths ahead. When we cleared the top of the island several minutes later, Rob had extended his lead to a half-dozen lengths.</p><p>Heading back towards the river mouth along the shore of the island, we were now crossing a broad expanse of sandy-bottomed water only a few feet deep. Recalling from the Narrow River Race that my V14 was better in shallows than Rob's 560 (or, to be more precise, "sucked less"), I redoubled my efforts to close the gap in this stretch. It was calm enough that the progressively smaller transverse waves trailing obediently behind Rob were clearly visible. Starting from the 6th wake back, I managed to climb forward to the 2nd wake before my progress stalled back in deeper water. In an attempt to make further gains I tried varying my technique. Faster cadence. Exaggerated hip rotation. Samba syncopation. Having sowed my wild oats exploring these deviant paddling techniques, I discovered I was back home on good ole wake #6.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7cvtOqYECoTFfbA1JH_EIChoU9JKpOqwmyzC9903LVUommu6yaYSgn55E4LCrXDeabK6pvJRiuEOi2U_LdlEOKC4d6vaYD1oNAsyvyOsU7edkKfni39dWlj5YlrcHKFPicUeIBMkkriutf2sSKh-1f_-8OY1dI5mmsife8k3nCDKDM-UanQnNGcM/s1600/err05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7cvtOqYECoTFfbA1JH_EIChoU9JKpOqwmyzC9903LVUommu6yaYSgn55E4LCrXDeabK6pvJRiuEOi2U_LdlEOKC4d6vaYD1oNAsyvyOsU7edkKfni39dWlj5YlrcHKFPicUeIBMkkriutf2sSKh-1f_-8OY1dI5mmsife8k3nCDKDM-UanQnNGcM/w640-h480/err05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sam's a solid paddler and a good guy and all, but mostly we want him around for PR purposes. He's 30 years younger and 75 points cooler than the average New England surfskier, but nobody else needs to know that.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Clearly I also didn't have the might or fortitude to beat Rob. I'd have to rely upon my wits and wiles. That's admittedly a shallow well to draw from, but at least a mental battle was apt to hurt less than a physical one. Exiting the broader estuary for the river proper, I therefore decided my only hope was to out-navigate Rob. Perhaps I could escape the outgoing tide by paddling ridiculously close to the riverbank in search of eddies. You probably have serious doubts about this strategy given that I'd already run aground once. And your instincts wouldn't be wrong. Nobody had to pour water over my gills or pull me by the tail back into deeper water, but I <i>can </i>provide you with a detailed report on sediment strata based on empirical paddle sampling. These close encounters with the bottom had no impact on the outcome, but I document them to suggest otherwise to gullible readers.</p><p>While I was shaving the shores, Rob took a more sensible line back up the winding river - avoiding the brunt of the tidal current while still maintaining a safe operating depth. He finished in 47:24, a half-dozen boat lengths ahead of me. Ben, who had been forced into soloing the course after dropping off our draft, pulled in some moments later to claim the third spot. Leslie Chappell had little trouble in seizing her fourth consecutive crown on the Essex. The best race of the day, in the sense of being both the closest and the most, uh, let's say "strategic", was between the three doubles of Robin Francis & Phil Warner, Mary Beth & Phil Sachs, and Patty White & Chris Sherwood. Each boat held the lead at some point in the race, but they finished in the order listed above, all within 7 seconds of one another. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBECIumR8v85pZBQn0tRMG8aNcwU_TQDQZA0Wec4DokSUrTfwCRciz6yI73ZWO0EUcy4HXDDzRuzri067EUNpoOSdwZS2vrgVejzosDfEUQSNlc5YVdkglXcY98aeY36DjMg8Py2AjleujJIfOJ1W0Ew5bkYW4jMy0hlRRCDQT7H_vMKFBzIkLcZHJ/s1200/err02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBECIumR8v85pZBQn0tRMG8aNcwU_TQDQZA0Wec4DokSUrTfwCRciz6yI73ZWO0EUcy4HXDDzRuzri067EUNpoOSdwZS2vrgVejzosDfEUQSNlc5YVdkglXcY98aeY36DjMg8Py2AjleujJIfOJ1W0Ew5bkYW4jMy0hlRRCDQT7H_vMKFBzIkLcZHJ/w640-h320/err02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Would it have killed the photographer to use a wide angle lens here? Oh. He did? Well, maybe try a fisheye the next time. (Photo courtesy of Granite State Race Services).</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Thanks to the stalwart volunteers of the Cape Ann Rowing Club for making a return to Essex possible. The scene cuts back to Rhode Island for our next race this coming Saturday - Tim Dwyer's Battle of the Bay. Register (for free) at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/BattleoftheBay2022">PaddleGuru</a>. Tim asked me to remind everyone that the change of venue (from his home on Goat Island to Fort Adams State Park) was definitely <i>not </i>because his neighbors threatened legal action if he didn't "keep your degenerate friends out of our gazebos".</p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-61253939593936128922022-04-13T13:15:00.001-04:002022-04-13T16:13:24.827-04:00Narrow River: One Man Race<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLC0q3XVXmc-gJ96dtksefO0lcrfg8sHiPQchbMxvF3_ZMmkS5i3d4qTRGU3fNrUQ9A0kcjD4I35YHTxBQSgB7mnUSZhwMmBPBMETk9ln_3dnLgugz1M4QtSBeLBNbmk1ArCaKAjkk4Gq7GB9OABbRTRJE3_7q-7mGcpzYMkhcpcwhf9sN1ZsfgIM/s1600/nrr07.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="1600" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoLC0q3XVXmc-gJ96dtksefO0lcrfg8sHiPQchbMxvF3_ZMmkS5i3d4qTRGU3fNrUQ9A0kcjD4I35YHTxBQSgB7mnUSZhwMmBPBMETk9ln_3dnLgugz1M4QtSBeLBNbmk1ArCaKAjkk4Gq7GB9OABbRTRJE3_7q-7mGcpzYMkhcpcwhf9sN1ZsfgIM/w640-h446/nrr07.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The Narrow River Race is essentially the Groundhog Day of the New England paddling season. And not just in the sense that its recurrence triggers an existential crisis of feeling trapped in an endless cycle of meaningless behavior. But also because your performance at this race is a harbinger of things to come. Limp past the finish and you're likely to spend the next six weeks in your burrow, eating tubers and grubs. Power majestically through the race, however, and you'll be able to enjoy those delicacies right out in the sunlight. Where the farmer can get a clear shot at you. Whew. I see we're starting out dark this year.</p><p>Under race director Tim Dwyer's watchful gaze (that is, once I rapped on his car window to wake him up), 20 racers assembled in North Kingstown for the 14th instance of the NRR. I've told him repeatedly that he'd get even better attendance if he watered-down the race tagline ("The suckiest suck-water around!"), but he's a staunch believer of truth in advertising. Drawn by the extravagant prize money and novelty of pumping their own gas, a full quarter of the field made the trip from the wilds of New Jersey. John Costello arrived with a bandaged hand and the charred tatters of Rob Jehn's remaining clothes were still smoking, but they'll get the hang of it by the end of the season. They were joined by Melinda Schlehlein, defending women's champion Loukia Lili, and newcomer Anthony Colasurdo.</p><p>Local favorite Mike Florio was attempting a three-peat at the Narrow River, having demoralized the field so thoroughly with his 5+ minute win margins in 2021 and 2022 that officials instituted a mercy rule to prevent further humiliation. Should Mike's lead ever exceed 200 boat lengths, the rest of the field would be forced to sell their skis and take up a new hobby. This past fall, Rob got the better of Mike at the Essex River (Replacement) Race, so anticipation of the rematch was palpable. The parking lot resembled the floor of the Chicago commodities exchange as paddlers excitedly fought to place their bets with the bookies. One of those two would surely win. The best I could hope for would be to feature in the final tier of the trifecta. Given the field, however, finishing outside the octofecta was a distinct possibility.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsAHzApFCaIEjxwIJUbYpJ5FM9j0O_WaWPjkUNlkMcb8gRCoanoJ8cYmkIETimVCrjiYAoKb_1NwEYoLId5DMJKouMBzqrIe0ptT8bbeuVjpsj5p0l0RpVlwo3sBZdvkg5-i2d4Vy66Eg1GI30xBxresAXqe7-BeNUyVJlv0w8EQC8mBnIbQa3_jd/s1600/nrr03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1600" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsAHzApFCaIEjxwIJUbYpJ5FM9j0O_WaWPjkUNlkMcb8gRCoanoJ8cYmkIETimVCrjiYAoKb_1NwEYoLId5DMJKouMBzqrIe0ptT8bbeuVjpsj5p0l0RpVlwo3sBZdvkg5-i2d4Vy66Eg1GI30xBxresAXqe7-BeNUyVJlv0w8EQC8mBnIbQa3_jd/w640-h450/nrr03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're all feeling the years. Tim used to be able to hit that high C in "I Will Always Love You" with no problem, but now he needs to strap on the Depends before trying.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9SPf9rnsRbVZ0V9kWEd_voDe2llNt_yj6SBvCp51hxAl5yPbz026EkL3qn3an6xdd2WiwUb2c-S5CjZfrLGRCl6iKf_69F6EcoKQ8dxvm-3OMyIHgam2J1NoRtnjt6DcyR2izhvcLmgxUE_oVNP6QX8GkW0xefPHP-bbJAykNkSThmc_egCsmbe2/s1600/nrr04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1139" data-original-width="1600" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9SPf9rnsRbVZ0V9kWEd_voDe2llNt_yj6SBvCp51hxAl5yPbz026EkL3qn3an6xdd2WiwUb2c-S5CjZfrLGRCl6iKf_69F6EcoKQ8dxvm-3OMyIHgam2J1NoRtnjt6DcyR2izhvcLmgxUE_oVNP6QX8GkW0xefPHP-bbJAykNkSThmc_egCsmbe2/w640-h456/nrr04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As Shakespeare wrote about a remarkably similar situation, "Uneasy is the head that wears the crown."</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The women's field looked to be a battle between Loukia and former Narrow River champs, Leslie Chappell and Mary Beth. Based on her Facebook posts, Loukia apparently spent the off-season paddling through extreme conditions and sleeping in a hypoxic tent tuned to simulate the oxygen-poor atmosphere of Mars. I can't speak for Leslie, but Mary Beth's winter regimen leaned more towards electric blankets and eating peanut butter out of the jar. Just as exacting a program, in its way, but perhaps not quite as beneficial to paddling fitness or coronary health. As a handicap, Loukia consented to paddle her K-1 while the other contenders were on more stable skis.</p><p>Although my own on-the-water training has been less than rigorous this spring, I had figured the "30 Days to a Better You" motivational tapes I had recently started would more than compensate for any physical shortcomings. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have waited until Providence to begin listening. As we pulled into the parking lot and shut down the car, I was just learning that the key was "leveraging mind over matt...". Maybe mattresses? I was already feeling pretty nappy after getting up at 5, so that made a lot of sense.</p><p>There was some concern that Tim would unilaterally revert the course to its former 10 mile infamy, but after shaking down a few paddlers who looked particularly anemic, he committed to maintaining the somewhat more forgiving 8 mile joyride of recent years. This would encompass a 3 mile upriver jaunt, followed by a luxurious 4 mile downriver excursion past the start, capped by a delightful mile-long junket back upriver to the start. The temperature was around 50 with a 10 mph breeze blowing from the south. Despite being tidal, scientists have somehow found it impossible to nail down the ebbs and floods of the Narrow River. As such, the race-time tide was listed as having a 65% chance of receding.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSasS1IxAyoM2exWGFLw_ops7f9-0KlKOuBaYvAZ0wZChdEbYItASc3uPrm3fczcIVp84PNsfL33daAMT5C5kGEe-sDcoxk4-9HsEm2r1SUD0_3f67CtAe0xkWAfHIWoh0aSLsS8-4DL_YSNa6f7ZRsxszqHg7kdN8zK-eFAl9e25J_7YkzGFWsEj/s1600/nrr01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="1600" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSasS1IxAyoM2exWGFLw_ops7f9-0KlKOuBaYvAZ0wZChdEbYItASc3uPrm3fczcIVp84PNsfL33daAMT5C5kGEe-sDcoxk4-9HsEm2r1SUD0_3f67CtAe0xkWAfHIWoh0aSLsS8-4DL_YSNa6f7ZRsxszqHg7kdN8zK-eFAl9e25J_7YkzGFWsEj/w640-h342/nrr01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you have a drone photo, you're contractually required to include a drone photo.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>What I would imagine was a brief captain's meeting underscored the need for me to pay more attention to these kinds of things. The start was soon upon us. Always striving to become the best me I can be, I hit play on my Walkman as Tim counted us down to the gun. "...er." So... no nap, I guess. That threw off my game plan since I had been settling in for a good opening doze. By the time I roused myself, I had fallen behind Mike, Chris Chappell, Rob, John, Tim, Anthony, Wesley Echols, Sam Duffield and a few other paddlers who weren't even attending. Egad! Since resisting the urge to panic never actually works, I succumbed whole-heartedly. Bugging out my eyes and gibbering half-formed cuss words, I flailed away with abandon. </p><p></p><p>Chris and Mike had led the charge off the line, with Rob and Anthony not far behind. Within the initial quarter mile, order emerged from chaos as the heated frenzy of the start cooled. Mike was pulling away from the field, with a dotted line of paddlers in hapless pursuit - Rob, Anthony, Chris, me, Tim, John... With an all-out effort I'd characterize as "unseemly" (mostly because of the weeping), I managed to slip by Chris and latch a death grip onto Anthony's stern. I read that once a Gila monster bites down on its prey, even cutting off its head won't cause its jaws to release. That was my drafting goal, although I've been known to faint after nicking my neck shaving, so that level of devotion might exceed my tenacity.</p><p>Leading up to the race, Anthony had been the focus of the latest scuttlebutt (it's been going around - try a few doses of amoxicillin and a hydrating ointment). Although he had been perfectly content as a collegiate track athlete and prone paddleboarder, some damned fool had suggested he try a surfski. That was sometime around last Tuesday. Now here we all were, facing the indignity of getting beaten by yet another New Jersey paddler. In a ski apparently built during the Nixon administration. He had certainly gone out fast, but did he also have the fortitude to pull me around the course?</p><p>After a mile or so of drafting, I took a slightly different line around a bend and ended up alongside Anthony, with Rob several lengths ahead. As the Narrow River widened to a narrow lake a few minutes later, I started to separate from Anthony. Yet another flash in the pan, apparently. A fool's golden boy, much like Mike and Rob before him. And as with his predecessors, I expect I'll never need to adjust that assessment.</p>
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<p>Reaching the end of the upriver leg, Mike enjoyed a two minute lead. Rob was a half-dozen lengths ahead of me and Anthony roughly the same distance behind. Chris was next in pursuit, but had fallen back by more than a minute. We were now beating back against a modest breeze - not nearly strong enough to shake an enraged fist at, but as every paddler knows, even a slight headwind is sufficient to drain the color from life. Making our way back down the now-drab lake, Rob maintained his lead over me, but repeated glances behind revealed that I wasn't holding my end up of the status quo. Despite my iron-clad assumption about his endurance, Anthony had taken up the slack and was reeling me in. Which explains why it felt like I was paddling in honey.</p><p>I figured a bow would pierce my periphery at any moment, but his overtaking velocity was so extreme that Anthony himself burst unexpectedly into my central vision, appearing bodily from nowhere. I half expected him to throw his arms wide, shouting "Ta-da!!!" as his cape flowed theatrically around him. Once the shock of his sudden materialization wore off, I got down to plotting my endgame strategy. With Anthony now openly practicing black magic, my only hope at getting on the podium would be to ingratiate myself as a dark acolyte. I dutifully stationed myself on his starboard draft, where I was subjected to a bone-chilling baptism of wind-driven paddle splash. After several minutes of this occult initiation, I took the hint. He was looking for more of a mindless disciple than a right-hand man. I dutifully dropped to the appropriate position of subservience at his stern.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyfU6RjHrfjBbmBvlTVThqFFjuPsD-eB1Y8C9WbiEvX58xwzfKqL4xDhvZxAoOU2xOZvHHUgCAokgxEOc8jimS-4zHejHJ512MbCPslsHrqNOt6hTr2FT5ZhEY0jHsCi5w89iZzEvGT4DhMGjnuQEFTIvgyWr9TK5MrfkO-zdnMiAIgcrkVjELnruo/s1600/nrr06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1111" data-original-width="1600" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyfU6RjHrfjBbmBvlTVThqFFjuPsD-eB1Y8C9WbiEvX58xwzfKqL4xDhvZxAoOU2xOZvHHUgCAokgxEOc8jimS-4zHejHJ512MbCPslsHrqNOt6hTr2FT5ZhEY0jHsCi5w89iZzEvGT4DhMGjnuQEFTIvgyWr9TK5MrfkO-zdnMiAIgcrkVjELnruo/w640-h444/nrr06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sam slipped me a ten-spot to include this photo.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As I had hoped, Anthony continued powering downriver after pulling ahead of me, gradually narrowing the gap to Rob. Perhaps a mile after joining forces (in a partnership of equals, some might say), we finally caught Rob. For the next mile and a half, the three of us snaked along in linear draft formation, with me at the tail. With two strapping fellows furrowing a veritable drafting trough and blocking most of the headwind, I basically could have stopped paddling. Or so you'd have thought. In reality, my heart rate barely dropped in this stretch. Rob was setting a brutal pace. That didn't bode well for the time when our reluctant camaraderie inevitably reverted to enmity.</p><p>With less than 2 miles left in the race, our group began to splinter. Anthony fell off Rob's draft. I pulled alongside the former in an attempt to pass. We hung together for a few poignant moments, and then I started to move ahead. Although Anthony would probably attribute his fade to some combination of leg cramps and fatigue, I suspect a different reason... Over the hour or so we'd spent paddling together, he had come to view me as something of a mentor. Under my tutelage Anthony had blossomed. Also, maybe I reminded him a little of his father. Or his father's older brother. In any event, as a sign of esteem, Anthony was offering me one last chance at silver-clad glory (Tim's kind of a cheapskate). </p><p>Which I completely botched. I caught Rob a minute or two later, but was unable to stick on his draft. Approaching the turn to the final upriver leg, I hoped to be able to carve a graceful arc that would erase his three length lead. Unfortunately, any turn that spectators would describe generously as "lumbering" is unlikely to be effective. Rob's maneuver wasn't exactly a pirouette either, but it was sufficient to stay ahead. Efforts to overtake him in the final mile were rebuffed with scoffing laughter, although when he told me afterwards that he "really didn't want to get beat by you", he had the courtesy not to scornfully emphasize <i>you</i>. Mike had re-established Narrow River dominance by finishing in 1:03:40 - more than four minutes ahead of any of us Betas. Anthony notched an impressive 4th place finish in his 1st race, with Chris taking 5th. In the women's race, Leslie held the lead past the first turn, but Loukia tracked her down and eked out a repeat victory in a thrilling sprint finish. Mary Beth took third place.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeWh-aFjLYLfGb8LmNU7L1nqZCIkvqo5Ms_ZhywCbpSRjsxh2iTd7siUFoEv-EqYOL6J4vHoG_fyLaj7amCc7F2YbP0hZUhYqmxomUSikLrMrj3qlowNzhlYwjqUYuNGBf_ar3S8ywWB7S4ctRH34pGfivaTAvhU11jWUSVKp6fo7x7MWSY2sBR7u/s1600/nrr08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTeWh-aFjLYLfGb8LmNU7L1nqZCIkvqo5Ms_ZhywCbpSRjsxh2iTd7siUFoEv-EqYOL6J4vHoG_fyLaj7amCc7F2YbP0hZUhYqmxomUSikLrMrj3qlowNzhlYwjqUYuNGBf_ar3S8ywWB7S4ctRH34pGfivaTAvhU11jWUSVKp6fo7x7MWSY2sBR7u/w640-h426/nrr08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing like that third crown to ease the head.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Everything in moderation. You got a taste of brine in the Narrow River, but before you dive headlong into the ocean proper, you need to acclimate yourself to slightly higher salinity and less protected conditions. Where better than the salt marshes of Essex? After a couple of years on sabbatical, the <a href="https://www.capeannrowingclub.com/race-information-essex-river">Essex River Race</a> returns on May 14. You'll come for the scenery and fellowship, you'll stay because, once again, you badly mistimed the tides and were arrested after being discovered wandering the mud flats without a clamming permit.</p><p><br /></p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-79377400358185010972021-10-07T20:09:00.000-04:002021-10-07T20:09:53.379-04:00Essex River (Replacement) Race: Meandering<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dFtNIVk0TbY/YV9hWf5LYRI/AAAAAAAAmfY/ExBvYIuow_cHajixr4ax5y21Cb2hJ-UmwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1200/err-cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dFtNIVk0TbY/YV9hWf5LYRI/AAAAAAAAmfY/ExBvYIuow_cHajixr4ax5y21Cb2hJ-UmwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h320/err-cover.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />The Essex River Race was an early casualty of pandemic restrictions in 2020, and was originally rescheduled this year from its traditional spring date to early October. When the Cape Ann Rowing Club subsequently decided to cancel the race, I had no choice but to step up and volunteer Bill Kuklinski to step up and ask his friend Tom Lawler to propose a surfski-only replacement race to the Town of Essex. The town approved, although they stipulated that both shenanigans and tom-foolery be kept to a bare minimum. I congratulated myself for a job well done, only to discover that due to some woeful misunderstanding, I was now "in charge" of the event. Fortunately, by constantly referring to it as an <i>informal </i><span>race, I was able to get by with slipshod preparations.</span><p></p><p>On paper, the 5.8 mile course is straightforward - you travel out the Essex River to where it widens into a broad estuary, proceed around Cross Island, and return back up the river. Between sand bars, clam-rich mud flats, and homogenous expanses of marsh grass, however, most paddlers will spend the race second-guessing their navigational decisions - more often than not with good reason. Living 5 minutes from Essex, I'm pretty familiar with the river. And with finding myself suddenly run aground, inexplicably a hundred meters in all directions from navigable water. In preparation for this year's race, I performed a comprehensive survey of the estuary. We're talking reconnaissance paddles, drone overflights, side-scan sonar mappings, sedimentation modeling, etc. I was going into the race armed with the two most powerful weapons of all: knowledge and the delusional belief that this knowledge could somehow compensate for my other deficiencies.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WKgQNWG1hmU/YV9dacCjvOI/AAAAAAAAme8/dVxo4TJwHHg4bfLdkeMbEz3_bzEppgyxgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1370" data-original-width="1600" height="548" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WKgQNWG1hmU/YV9dacCjvOI/AAAAAAAAme8/dVxo4TJwHHg4bfLdkeMbEz3_bzEppgyxgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h548/err06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While Chris got the memo with the event details, Hank came prepared for an après-ski party while John was just hoping to find something to burgle.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UBrI7M3mSf0/YV9bGpqofxI/AAAAAAAAmeU/zd6O-790Q-Is5t4uZLf0IqfEnh-6l_wKQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UBrI7M3mSf0/YV9bGpqofxI/AAAAAAAAmeU/zd6O-790Q-Is5t4uZLf0IqfEnh-6l_wKQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/err04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having suffered many such indignities in the past, Tim is giddy at the turnabout potential of a traditional caption mocking the race coordinator at the captains' meeting. I'm pretty sure he doesn't understand how this works.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>There was a disquieting buzz in air that I eventually tracked down to the growing excitement over the first ever matchup between Rob Jehn and Mike Florio. When we last saw Mike he was peeling out of the parking lot of the Narrow River Race while the rest of us were still reacting to the start gun. Rob, of course, has amassed a gaudy collection of victories this season in his relentless quest to drain the joy out of my life. We had expected that local Janda Ricci-Munn, fresh off his record-setting solo performance at the Josh Billings run-paddle-bike triathlon, would also contend for the crown. Unfortunately, he was unable to make the race due to a freak calendar malfunction. Standouts on the women's side were Leslie Chappell and first-time New England racer Frances Hiscox. Frances specializes in endurance paddling, having completed the California 100 and Missouri River 340 (and soon the Suwannee River 230), so the ER6 would be the equivalent of a marathoner walking from her car to the start line.</p><p>In keeping with my slapdash approach to organization, I held a cursory captains' meeting which consisted mostly of mumbling the names of past UN Secretaries General as filler. With the 10am start approaching, we launched our boats and lined up for the starter's call. Chris Chappell positioned himself appropriately for the initial left turn and got out to the early lead, with Rob just off his starboard side. Mike and Jerry Madore followed in a second mini-wave, with me, Tim, and Hank Thorburn as forward-thinking third-wave excursionists. I had sworn to go all-in at the start in an effort to get on the draft of Rob or Mike, but apparently nowadays even the most heart-felt pledges aren't worth the notarized, legally binding forms they're printed on. Rather than kill myself catching the leaders, I limited myself to some superficial maiming and adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Perhaps sometime within the next few years there wouldn't be such fierce competition.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1RyVjjESSg/YV9d6QDroUI/AAAAAAAAmfI/eamGSYqf-8Yz7hflajJk1h0-CW65dgoZACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g1RyVjjESSg/YV9d6QDroUI/AAAAAAAAmfI/eamGSYqf-8Yz7hflajJk1h0-CW65dgoZACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h360/err02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I figured a few love taps might fix the GoPro glitch that's been causing it to record such awful technique. No dice.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bRNx4E3t1sk/YV9cLYwGTtI/AAAAAAAAmec/bCr1nnIG4kcAzXqZUqT1cHlYqUWF9GkWgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bRNx4E3t1sk/YV9cLYwGTtI/AAAAAAAAmec/bCr1nnIG4kcAzXqZUqT1cHlYqUWF9GkWgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/err07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happens every time. You're just chillin' on the water with your buds...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-do2iFLBkch8/YV9cW_FFAfI/AAAAAAAAmeg/6M_2YSncMD4TCjMkyQDFwVqtsXzJ5gCCQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="1600" height="420" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-do2iFLBkch8/YV9cW_FFAfI/AAAAAAAAmeg/6M_2YSncMD4TCjMkyQDFwVqtsXzJ5gCCQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h420/err08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and all of a sudden a race breaks out.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Rob slipped by Chris on the first straightaway, while Mike and I also freed ourselves from our wave-mates to move into the 2nd and 3rd positions at the next bend. I lunged for Mike's draft, but due to a gross miscalculation in how far he was already ahead, ended up grasping at open water 3 lengths behind him. Rob enjoyed a similar lead over Mike at the time. My only hope was to play to my home field advantage. My mind racing through bathymetric charts, tidal flow diagrams, and old Family Circus comics, I plotted the optimal route to within 4 lateral inches. While the leaders took a conservative central line, I cut inside berm-like islands, wove crazily (in the fox sense, mind you) from shore to shore, and laughed uncontrollably at Billy's hilarious malapropisms. It perhaps goes without saying that Rob and Mike continued to separate.</p><p>Even the sure-fire ace that I had up my sleeve - staying well to the right while approaching Conomo Point to avoid the speed-killing sand bar of the more direct route - failed to have much impact. Leaving the narrow strait between the point and Cross Island, Rob was was about 15 lengths ahead of me, with Mike a length or two behind him. It would take a staggering navigational faux pas up ahead for me to have any hope.</p><p>What I've been referring to as Cross Island is cartographically 3 tree-covered islands (Cross, Corn, and Dilly) connected by low-lying wetlands. To get a tide high enough to actually make the inter-island area navigable, however, the moon would have to be knocked into a perilously tight orbit. Perhaps the map makers were just future-proofing against melting ice caps. Lacking the patience to wait for either cataclysm, Rob and Mike decided to attempt what might be deemed a "liquid portage" between the islands. Before reaching the end of the super-island, they cut left into a meandering channel. I could barely contain my glee at the thought of them wandering aimlessly in the marshland while I claimed the race title and then rooted through their cars for loose change and candy. Rob and Mike? No, haven't seen them. Tootsie roll? All I had to do was keep my trap shut and let nature take its course.</p><p>Unfortunately, I wasn't confident that the paddlers behind me wouldn't witness such silent treachery. I reluctantly called out to alert them to their mistake. Rob and Mike quickly corrected course, having sacrificed perhaps 10 lengths to me. I thereafter adopted the roll of the elderly nanny trying to corral a pair of rambunctious toddlers. Since I couldn't keep up with them, the best I could manage was shouting directions and telling them to stop putting every little bit of flotsam in their mouths.</p>
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<p>The visibility of your mistakes is one of the perils of bursting triumphant onto the scene, resplendent in full glory. The more sensible approach is to build up a solid foundation layer of bloopers and gaffes while paddling in mid-pack obscurity. When the better paddlers inevitably age out, get injured, adopt a new hobby, or move to Hawaii - you then use your journeyman status to back into a few victories before the next wave of athletes reminds you of your true station in life. It's true, however, that when you have a considerable advantage in fitness and skill, you can afford a blunder or two without suffering serious consequences to your final race position.</p><p>To wit. Rounding the northeast point of Cross Island [sic], Rob gave more than ample berth to the rocks I had warned about at the captains' meeting (somewhere between U Thant and Boutros Boutros-Ghali), then did the same for the northwest point. However, he then continued out away from the island rather than keeping to the shore. Mike took the more traditional line. Thinking that perhaps Rob was heading out to deeper water to avoid the sandy shallows I had mentioned to him before the race, I held off on yelling out a corrective warning. By the time it became clear he was freestyling an entirely different course, he was either out of earshot or self-destructively bullheaded. Apparently he had fixated his tracking mechanism on a different cluster of houses than the one I had described as a landmark during the meeting.</p><p>I assumed that once Rob saw Mike and I paddling a couple hundred meters to his port, he would surely adjust his course. And yet he continued to veer further to the right. When I asked him about this after the race, Rob said that he figured Mike was only marginally more familiar with the course than he himself, and thus paid him little heed. "But what about me?" I asked. Time slowed to a viscous crawl as I realized the humiliating enormity of my mistake. I had lobbed Rob a softball which he could hardly fail to hammer into the bleachers. And yet... he merely poked a blooper just over the shortstop's reach. "I couldn't see you." That was all! Was it Rob's generosity of spirit or his lack of killer instinct that kept him from adding the <i>coup de grâce</i>? "I didn't have my binoculars handy" or "Ever since the exorcism I can't spin my head around that far" or "[long pause] Who are you, again?" In any event, I appreciate Rob letting me slink away with my dignity tattered, but at least intact enough to still cover my shriveled ego.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z74aw2tPNWg/YV9cwkgrd9I/AAAAAAAAmes/nqJkaLTh_4Yldv-FGwiqDlk2QFudsdeYACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err09.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="1600" height="438" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z74aw2tPNWg/YV9cwkgrd9I/AAAAAAAAmes/nqJkaLTh_4Yldv-FGwiqDlk2QFudsdeYACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h438/err09.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Despite enjoying only a 14 second lead over Mike at the finish, diva Rob absolutely refused to share the frame.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oHQTR8KTROI/YV9c58Z6rCI/AAAAAAAAmew/0hkzNSTDSLsSlZUFrbFGPDQzu64inJVzwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oHQTR8KTROI/YV9c58Z6rCI/AAAAAAAAmew/0hkzNSTDSLsSlZUFrbFGPDQzu64inJVzwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/err10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So let's also give the Rhode Island Ripsaw a shot of his own.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eb1VSalmwbU/YV9hpBYhS5I/AAAAAAAAmfg/HIbhxaNHZdctGbTwnTc_aikj7DxUDu1LwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="1600" height="450" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eb1VSalmwbU/YV9hpBYhS5I/AAAAAAAAmfg/HIbhxaNHZdctGbTwnTc_aikj7DxUDu1LwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h450/err14.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bruce got such a good deal on fluorescent decals that he's actually affixed them <i>inside </i>the hull as well.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><p>When Rob did eventually come to the conclusion that he was on the wrong path, I could hear him ratchet up his determination - even from my distant listening post. His deviant behavior had temporarily cost him the lead, but he was resolved to integrate himself back into respectable society. Rob sliced a diagonal line to Mike, chewing away the gap at a thrilling rate. Within a few moments of the course adjustment, the two were paddling side-by-side at the lead. Seeing this gripping battle unfolding ahead of me, I made an adjustment of my own - abandoning my futile goal of catching these guys in favor of keeping close enough to them to see who would emerge victorious. Just as futile an ambition, as it turns out, but at least it kept me paddling.</p><p>That was useful, because a group of competitors had formed a raiding party behind my back. Unwilling to sacrifice the esprit de corps they'd fostered as part of the Stone Dam Six at the previous race, Tim and Kirk Olsen recruited a new band of brothers for the Essex River. Chris, John Mathieu, and Jerry joined the ensemble. These 5 paddlers would finish within a minute of each other, with numerous lead changes along the way. As at the Great Stone Dam Classic, Tim succeeded in breaking free in the final stretch, putting 30 seconds on Chris. Kirk, John, and Jerry finished next in short order. This cooperative-competitive grouping has proved so popular that in the face of record demand, Tim and Kirk have announced an invitation-only policy for subsequent races. Kickbacks aren't strictly <i>required</i>, but it never hurts to grease the Keels of Progress (as the guys now call themselves).</p><p>From my vantage point, it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell whether Rob or Mike was in the lead. This was mostly because there was usually at least one curve of the river blocking my view, but even when I caught the rare glimpse of the pair slipping around the next far-off corner, they were too speck-like to disambiguate. But it was Rob who pulled ahead as the finish neared, ultimately finishing at 47:00 even to Mike's 47:14. I came in a couple of minutes later, trying to exude a "Yeah, you guys dropped me about a mile back, so I just dogged it in after that" vibe. For the third time, Leslie claimed the Essex women's title, with Frances taking second. There were no doubles in the race, but in recognition of his long-time dedication to the race, let's say Bill Kuklinski <i>would </i>have won. If only he hadn't have been DQ'ed for lacking a partner! A rookie error from the least rookie-like guy not out there.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3pARN4ignwE/YV9dMaSIg7I/AAAAAAAAme4/4IPIWNUI8gUOsUTDtNJEYgsMIlDmz34gACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/err15.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3pARN4ignwE/YV9dMaSIg7I/AAAAAAAAme4/4IPIWNUI8gUOsUTDtNJEYgsMIlDmz34gACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/err15.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In a tender moment of reconciliation, Tim and I finally let bygone be bygones.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Thanks to Mary Beth for acting as photographer, timekeeper, and health care proxy.</p><p>You blinked and summer was over. You didn't do half the things you planned, and the other half was a sorry mess. Before you blink again and find the racing season also over, why not make one last effort at finding fulfillment for 2021? Skip on over to Wesley Echol's Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 16. Register at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/PlumBeachLighthouseRace2021">PaddleGuru</a>.</p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-77055242177462747002021-09-16T14:08:00.002-04:002021-09-16T18:51:15.346-04:00Great Stone Dam Classic: Startled by a Turkey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EUo8b9_Ansk/YUNpUFxOqdI/AAAAAAAAmEg/XxqPLh0Xy54nVXxIzrLk8RUFHzOh5gHDgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc02.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1149" data-original-width="1600" height="460" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EUo8b9_Ansk/YUNpUFxOqdI/AAAAAAAAmEg/XxqPLh0Xy54nVXxIzrLk8RUFHzOh5gHDgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h460/gsdc02.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>When they named the Great Stone Dam Classic 10+ years ago, co-chairs Francisco Urena and Shawn Burke were taking a risk on the initial and final words. Great <i>and </i>Classic. OK, it's named after the Great Stone Dam on the Merrimack River. And, yeah, "classic" is sometimes used as a synonym for "race". Put both those words in the same name, though, and you're setting yourself up for false advertising lawsuits. And yet Francisco and Shawn have batted away claim after claim. They've got the best legal team a community-based non-profit can afford standing behind them, sure, but their defense has been that both adjectives are objectively true. Hosted at the Abe Bashara Boathouse by the fantastic <a href="http://www.boatingprogram.com/">Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program</a>, nobody wants to miss the GSDC.</p><p>We can argue about the "best" paddling race in New England until our throats are raw and one of us finally loses consciousness from blood loss, but the debate is closed on the best <i>value </i>in a race. The entertainment-per-dollar ratio of the GSDC leaves all other competitions wanting (notwithstanding the divide by zero error of some). This helps to explains why even surfskiers who usually eschew flatwater races make a pilgrimage to the Merrimack.</p><p>The course consists of two upstream loops totaling 8.2 miles. Starting from the boathouse dock, paddlers progress 3.25 miles to round Pine Island, then return to a "No Wake" buoy just before the dock to start the shorter second loop. Racers must then round inflatable buoys placed just off the opposing shores before returning to finish at the dock. I've argued that a never-ending series of increasingly smaller loops should be added to the GSDC, but the race directors claim that their insurance only covers races of finite length. So much for my vision of the Death Spiral.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dd-Gdun6-4g/YUNutmCD3eI/AAAAAAAAmFA/s00LafErr2Mp3SH_J0e56iTa-DnwxQJdQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc14.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dd-Gdun6-4g/YUNutmCD3eI/AAAAAAAAmFA/s00LafErr2Mp3SH_J0e56iTa-DnwxQJdQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/gsdc14.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My only hope was that Rob would get confused and accidentally select a SUP.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The race boasted a strong field of 30 surfskis. Rob Jehn risked being decertified by the New Jersey Paddling Commission by attending his 6th New England race this season. I'm not admitting to being a sore loser, but he might want to ask elsewhere for sponsors on his amnesty application should he try to emigrate. Although he had to be the favorite, Rob would at least have some competition. Dave Thomas of Stellar brought along a professional hitman from the West Coast and outfitted him in an SEA - The Assassin. Ben Lawry is one of the most respected kayak instructors in the country, who - despite being younger than me - has somehow managed to train the last three generations of American paddlers. Go ahead - ask your grandparents who honed their forward stroke. Of course, technical proficiency doesn't necessarily translate to speed. I was pretty sure that Ben would hold his own, though.</p><div><p>Local Janda Ricci-Munn would be the wild card. Despite having taken his ski out for perhaps a half-dozen training sessions in 2021 and having a modest paddling resume, I wasn't betting against him. Michelangelo said that the sculpture was already complete within the marble - he just had to chisel away the superfluous material. Via his training for a fall triathlon, Janda has similarly chipped away everything from himself that's not an elite athlete. He's lean and hungry. Janda's sheer level of fitness makes him a threat in almost <i>any </i>sport - he just missed a spot on the Olympic table tennis team and placed 5th in the Kentucky Derby! Could our David tackle the New Jersey Goliath?</p><p>That was too cutesy, right? MB warned me that the whole Michelangelo arc was going to backfire, but I just couldn't help myself. If you never reach for the stars, how are you going to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? Uh-oh. She's now threatening to move out unless I remove all this. It's a steep price to pay, but I'm prepared to ride this metaphor to hell.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B_lVBfirCbQ/YUNkMz8pK9I/AAAAAAAAmDw/FZ53TnKlbsEKsmphzWgoEkv-wVSK9FuIQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc13.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="1600" height="472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B_lVBfirCbQ/YUNkMz8pK9I/AAAAAAAAmDw/FZ53TnKlbsEKsmphzWgoEkv-wVSK9FuIQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h472/gsdc13.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As shown here, Janda and I were virtually inseparable during the race.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Back at the 2016 running of the race, my GoPro was dropped into the Merrimack by a petulant local paddler whom may have been poked once too often in this blog. He's always claimed that it was "semi-accidental", but the truth is still inscribed in 0s and 1s, waiting to be dredged from the river when they finally get around to straightening out the Merrimack. I thought that Burger Kingski - to choose a random alias wholly unrelated to his real name - had finally gotten past all the innocent gibes (<i>and </i>the malicious slander), but when I went to snap my GoPro onto my boat, I discovered that the connector had been sabotaged. Had I failed to notice the issue before the race... there goes $34.99 into the river (yeah, I learned my lesson about investing in top-of-the-line equipment). Fortunately, Rob Michalec was able to hook me up with a replacement. Based on the quantity of spare parts he had on hand, I suspect he spends a lot of time lurking on the fringes of adventure races, surreptitiously whispering "Pssst. Need an L joint?" to competitors. For me, at least, the first one was free.</p><p>Racers hit the water as the 11am start approached. Like a pair of drum majors leading our parade, the lone double ski manned by Bruce Deltorchio and Ed Duggan comprised the first wave. They refused to wear the fuzzy tall hats we all chipped in on, but their start was festive nevertheless. All single kayaks were to take off in the second wave, one minute later. I jockeyed for the worst possible starting position, but was distraught to find myself towards the more favorable shore when the gun went off. Thank goodness I at least managed to remain a half-dozen boat lengths behind the line.</p><p>Rob and Francisco - separated laterally by a few boats - vaulted out to the early lead. I'm pretty sure an 87-year old Francisco will expire from over-exertion 15 seconds after the start of the GSDC, content in the knowledge that the entire remainder of the field will have to dodge his now derelict surfski. Over the next few moments, Rob started to pull free along the right shore, with Ben and Janda chasing. I took this opportunity to survey the remainder of the field from stern to stem, finally working my way past Francisco to move into 4th position on Janda's draft. Somewhere along the way, I picked up Jon Greer.</p><p>With Rob and Ben still continuing along the shore, Janda, Jon, and I started our cut towards the opposite bank in preparation for the upcoming curve in the river. At the time, I thought we were making a bold move, but my backward facing camera later revealed that others had broken much earlier to the left. The various lines didn't appear to make much difference, however - there were no changes in the order. I pulled even with Janda during the crossing, who let me lead the way upstream along the left shore. Jon dropped off the pace shortly after. </p><p>With Janda in tow, we chased Rob and Ben up the left shore. I'm using "tow" figuratively here, because from what I could tell from cursory glances, Janda didn't seem exactly to be on my draft, but in some kind of no-man's-land off to one side. And even though I was seeing him for only a fraction of a second in my periphery, his hazy blob somehow conveyed a sense of quiet ease. I was beginning to fear that Janda might have a lot of power in reserve.</p>
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<p>At this point, I suspect that some of you may be wondering when the damn turkey is going to make an appearance so that you can satisfy your curiosity and then bail out. I empathize.</p><p>Rounding Pine Island required once again crossing the main current of the Merrimack. It was Rob's turn to break early, while Ben stuck stubbornly to the left shore. Janda and I chose a middle path, but Ben's late ferry across the channel was probably the right play. It's too early in Rob's career to pigeonhole him as a habitual course deviator, but preliminary scouting reports <i>have </i>flagged him as a flight risk. So when it appeared that Rob might try to bolt upriver to Lowell rather than turning downstream at the end of the island, we felt justified in shouting out a warning. Whether heeding our alert or curbing his wanderlust of his own volition, he made a wide turn to head back towards the start. Ben's deft maneuvering had perhaps cut a few seconds into Rob's lead, but the latter was clearly still in the driver's seat. Janda moved past me halfway down Pine Island. I jumped on his side draft as our pace quickened - the combined force of current, wind, and Janda's competitiveness now all on our side.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bCOeK2NB36I/YUNnvtw75wI/AAAAAAAAmEQ/Df6JZyoyihIxZ_hBITfVnuM2MsPZm9c6wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1019" data-original-width="1600" height="408" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bCOeK2NB36I/YUNnvtw75wI/AAAAAAAAmEQ/Df6JZyoyihIxZ_hBITfVnuM2MsPZm9c6wCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h408/gsdc07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kirk's always been more of a wave guy than a ripple guy.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w707e6g4ou0/YUNl1QHGK_I/AAAAAAAAmEI/HUnbiTnY6j8s95_7zH4LnUsnDhyMlkG_gCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w707e6g4ou0/YUNl1QHGK_I/AAAAAAAAmEI/HUnbiTnY6j8s95_7zH4LnUsnDhyMlkG_gCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/gsdc05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Open water paddlers talk about catching a "paddle down" ride on a wave, but Rob managed a much rarer "paddle down" ride on Hank's draft.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>When you're struggling to hold on a draft, there are some things you don't want to hear from the lead boat. For example, "OK, I'm done with my gel break." Or "Huh. Hadn't realized that I was using a canoe paddle." However, I can now tell you definitively what's at the very top of the list: "I'm going to throw in some suicide intervals." Having never heard that term before, I didn't know <i>exactly </i>what it meant, but those two words together didn't exactly evoke rainbows and puppies. I was still leafing through the index of "Fitness Training for Dummies" when the first surge of acceleration hit. I was pulled along unwittingly on Janda's side draft for the first few seconds before realizing that if I didn't tap into my rainy day fund, I'd be unable to keep paying the exorbitant fees my body was racking up. After a few moments of eternity, I heard my cohort say "Another one". I hadn't even realized that the first interval was over - perhaps not surprising given that I could no longer read my GPS speed through the tears. Through an aggressive program of deficit spending, I was able to stick with Janda, although I dropped from side to stern draft. I was so deep in oxygen debt that in preparation for the next "Another one", I hallucinated a sympathetic bystander with a leather strap saying "Here. Bite down on this." It didn't help. When the next interval rolled around, the pain was too much. I tapped out.</p><p>I had suspected from the beginning that Janda had unilaterally roped me into a suicide pact, but he ultimately didn't hold up his end of the bargain. I was dead and buried, but he was very much alive. He would continue his masochistic intervals, although I suspect having deprived him of the sadistic component, it was no longer quite so satisfying. Although he decreased the advantage held by Rob and Ben, the three would end up in the same order established within the first minute of the race, with scarcely more than a minute separating the podium finishers.</p><p>Thanks in part to the turbo boost provided by drafting Janda, with nearly half the race still left I felt secure in my 4th place position. Upon finishing the first loop and starting upstream again for the second, I got my first glimpse of the drama that was unfolding amongst the 5th to 10th place paddlers. Even with conditions conducive to drafting, we very seldom see more than 2 or 3 paddlers together at a late stage in the race - there aren't usually enough competitors to end up with a large group with comparable abilities. But with less than 2 miles left on the Merrimack, here were Tim Dwyer, John Redos, Kirk Olsen, Wesley Echols, Tim Hacket, and Jon Greer within 30 seconds of one another. These paddlers, who have since taken to calling themselves the Stone Dam Six, were together for virtually the entire race.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-avbvg8zoxyE/YUNkhsqCjPI/AAAAAAAAmD4/vQjeCdUuKOgYy1AMEV_SinwJuNL-nneRQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-avbvg8zoxyE/YUNkhsqCjPI/AAAAAAAAmD4/vQjeCdUuKOgYy1AMEV_SinwJuNL-nneRQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/gsdc04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Much like Bigfoot, photos of the actual Stone Dam Six tend to be blurry and of questionable veracity.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>For the complete story of the Stone Dam Six, you'll have to read the forthcoming 3 volume history, which advance reviews have called "sorta like Little Women, but with guys and paddles" and "completely unnecessary". They've also penned a Manifesto, but that's mostly just Flat Earth theories and gluten-free recipes. Here's the gist of the SDS race. After Jon's brief stint accompanying Janda and me, he was absorbed into the collective. He stayed in the lead around Pine Island to the Route 93 bridge, after which Tim D took command of the fleet. John soon joined him in the lead, despite paddling a V9 amongst much faster boats. The formation of the Six stayed fairly constant for the remainder of the first loop, with Kirk, Wesley, Tim H, and Jon following the leaders. After a navigational blunder at the start of the second loop, however, the SDS descended into chaos. Leads changed. Tempers flared. Shivs were drawn. When the spray had finally settled, Tim D emerged victorious, followed by Kirk, Tim H, John, Wesley, and Jon. <i>Vive le Six</i>!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c3eQl4XZzck/YUNkoP3heuI/AAAAAAAAmD8/BEoRpyhzL78oePT2xDM9rw8YXIAriz9uQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1090" data-original-width="1600" height="436" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c3eQl4XZzck/YUNkoP3heuI/AAAAAAAAmD8/BEoRpyhzL78oePT2xDM9rw8YXIAriz9uQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h436/gsdc08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JoAnn and Andrea duked it out in the closest finish of the day.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2r9PzSkxmI/YUNpshk_VNI/AAAAAAAAmEo/ATpmShkAgYgq8DcV0ZJfj60KVK9oxRcDQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1154" data-original-width="1600" height="462" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y2r9PzSkxmI/YUNpshk_VNI/AAAAAAAAmEo/ATpmShkAgYgq8DcV0ZJfj60KVK9oxRcDQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h462/gsdc06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I keep seeing photos of people smiling during a race, but the best I can hope for is a look somewhere between "grim determination" and "severe intestinal discomfort".</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As noted above, the <i>actual </i>winners of the men's competition were Rob, Ben, and Janda. The women's race came down to a finish line sprint between Andrea Vogl (in a K1 trainer) and JoAnn Hanowski (in a ski), with Andrea just nosing out the victory. Leslie Chappell took the 3rd overall spot, with Loukia Lili taking 4th (as the 3rd ski). Bruce & Ed swept the tandem podium, and then stood alone on the spotless top step.</p><p>As we've come to expect from the GSDC, a veritable army of enthusiastic volunteers (Thanks all!) ensured that everything ran smoothly, including the post-race festivities. Unsurprisingly, the air was abuzz with the thrilling exploits of the Stone Dam Six. The buzz was coming exclusively from their own mouths, but they made sure to circulate for maximum narrative penetration. I'm sure the rest of us will continue hearing about it ad nauseam, but take heart - after a year or two, the fog of time will enable all of us to proudly claim we were one of the Six. Start prepping your wondrous tales of derring-do!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xBPyzHCxwvE/YUNjiieUDVI/AAAAAAAAmDg/pwoqr7mewDAPghQTWEu39Z2MMEz2Nb_PgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1247" data-original-width="1600" height="498" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xBPyzHCxwvE/YUNjiieUDVI/AAAAAAAAmDg/pwoqr7mewDAPghQTWEu39Z2MMEz2Nb_PgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h498/gsdc10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Stone Dam Six, prior to you Photoshopping yourself in.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iRBnQSz3P8E/YUNq4MZAKHI/AAAAAAAAmEw/z6P88uIjKRcln0l0_C_n4PCNyHIhXV1QwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/gsdc12.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iRBnQSz3P8E/YUNq4MZAKHI/AAAAAAAAmEw/z6P88uIjKRcln0l0_C_n4PCNyHIhXV1QwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/gsdc12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Months ago I confidently predicted that I'd beat Rob at the GSDC. I might want to remember this photo before opening my big mouth next time.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The <a href="https://www.capeannrowingclub.com/race-information-essex-river">Essex River Race</a> has just been cancelled, but locals assure me that there will be a substitute race on October 2 somewhere in the vicinity - perhaps even on the same course. We'll be broadcasting the latest news on UHF channel 31 ("Surfski Tonight", every other Tuesday, 2am), but if you can't find your antenna, maybe just check on social media. For those looking further into the future, there's the <a href="https://www.senecamonster.com/">Seneca Monster</a> on October 10 in central NY (which last year featured a crackerjack match-up between Matt Skeels, Ed Joy, and Jim Mallory) and the <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/PlumBeachLighthouseRace2021">Plum Beach Lighthouse Race</a> on October 16 in Narragansett Bay (which last year featured a humiliatingly lopsided match-up between Nate Humberston and myself).</p><p>Oh yeah. Almost forgot.</p><p>We keep some of our boats in our basement, which has a walkout sliding glass door. After arriving home, I went downstairs to unlock that door. You have to pay attention down there, or you risk taking a surfski bow to the face or a Concept2 rower to the foot. I'm halfway to the door when I finally look in its direction, only to be confronted by a terrible dark horror topped with a violent streak of red, peering directly in at me from 6 feet away. As anyone with an acute sense of self-preservation would, lacking anyone to instinctively push forward as a sacrifice, I let out a mighty defensive scream while jolting myself backwards so violently that my brain was left hovering several feet in front of me. I'd have a splitting headache for the next hour, but at least I showed MB that with a little help from some double-glazed glass, I'm up to the task of defending us from marauding turkeys.</p></div>Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-60955866872911159992021-08-12T06:17:00.003-04:002022-07-20T13:00:37.468-04:00Blackburn Challenge: Mixed Blessings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DQPFexea9XM/YRTyyglsTVI/AAAAAAAAlzg/I5a8TUC_9bwXvrqekO0EblYjW3S75gu6gCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bb04.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="1600" height="454" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DQPFexea9XM/YRTyyglsTVI/AAAAAAAAlzg/I5a8TUC_9bwXvrqekO0EblYjW3S75gu6gCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h454/bb04.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>While the Olympic athletes of the world held their collective breath to see if they'd be allowed to compete in Tokyo this year, Northeast paddlers similarly awaited news of the Blackburn Challenge. Of course, there was one critical difference: In our case, half the field was praying for <i>deliverance </i>from the three-hour sufferfest. The City of Gloucester was understandably hesitant to permit a large race on her shores, especially given the degree of virus uncertainty at the time of initial planning. The Cape Ann Rowing Club, on the other hand, was eager to resuscitate a 30-some year tradition of grim torment. Through a series of extended negotiations - I'm imagining something on par with that of a nuclear arms reduction treaty, both in terms of scope and significance - Gloucester and CARC reached an agreement. The compromise involved a raft of new restrictions: fewer participants, no first-time racers, no official timing, no after-party, no rafts, etc. And then, in a last-minute twist, the race was rescheduled from mid July to early August. Despite all of this, the call of the Blackburn proved irresistible.</p><p>The 19.5 mile course is easy to describe. You paddle out the Annisquam River (actually a tidal estuary), then follow the coast of Cape Ann all the way around into Gloucester Harbor, finishing at the wooden structure known as the Greasy Pole. You'll pass 5 lighthouses and innumerable miles (don't let the 19.5 fool you) of scenic shoreline, but you'll probably be in a head-down semi-conscious state of exhaustion for most of that trip, so try to pay particular attention to the first half-hour. One of the fascinating features of the Blackburn is how the conditions vary as you progress around Cape Ann. You get a little bit of everything: against the tide; against the wind and tide; against the homicidal boaters and wind and tide. On this day, we'd be defending ourselves against a particularly virulent strain of tide. On the positive side, the southeast wind would only be in the 7-10 knot range and the Boater Danger Rating wasn't expected to exceed Orange ("Seek immediate cover").</p><p>The late change of date and the added restrictions gave the field more of a local feel than usual. It was a farm-to-table kind of event, stocked primarily with home-grown New England talent, but peppered with a few zesty competitors shipped in fresh from NJ and NY. Chief among these, of course, was Rob Jehn. Within a very short span, Rob has established himself as the alpha open-water paddler of the Northeast. Sure, he might in turn bow to an international-caliber athlete like Sean Brennan, but you can't criticize the leader of the wolf pack just because he succumbs to a grizzly. It's apples and demi-gods. Other imports included John Costello and John Hair, who had both driven me hard at the Toms River Race a couple of weeks ago. However, I figured my fiercest competition would come from a paddler born-and-bred not 5 miles from the starting line - Matt Drayer. Beating Rob would be an "out-and-out fluke". Beating Matt would fall somewhere between "in a blue moon" and "when pigs fly". In the doubles field, out-of-towners Erin and Alan Lamb would face off against locals (and first-time tandem paddlers) Ryan Bardsley and Bernie Romanowski.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhocN3MZVME/YRTvNHTO_XI/AAAAAAAAlzQ/EpdSdgVBeWswmFgQiDoAg_0ui1-ufaRbQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bb08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhocN3MZVME/YRTvNHTO_XI/AAAAAAAAlzQ/EpdSdgVBeWswmFgQiDoAg_0ui1-ufaRbQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/bb08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In these pre-race moments of quiet anticipation, it's impossible to imagine that just a few hours in the future, you'll be speculating on how much you can sell all your boats for.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Mr. Drayer and I have faced off in our Tuesday night league in Salem Sound a dozen times a season for the past 9 years, so we're now on a first-name basis. Despite technically being his sensei (The League has some fascinating traditions), Matt's been breathing down my neck that entire time. Which more and more often has involved a special apparatus of tubes and bellows that redirect his exhalations backwards. Over the last couple of months, however, Matt has evolved to a new level. He's started calling <i>me "</i>Grasshopper". Fortunately, that means I'm no longer in his crosshairs. He's out for bigger prey. If I could be the remora to his shark, maybe I could slip by him unnoticed while he was picking Rob's splintered boat from his teeth. To the extent that I had a strategy, it was to glue myself on Matt's stern, hoping that he could in turn keep a firm grip on Rob.</p><p>Wesley Echols had coordinated a mass start for the surfski field, after which we'd time ourselves. We arranged ourselves in the customary Blackburn fashion, and Wesley counted us down to the start. Earlier in the week, I had spent a half-hour on a pond in my ICF boat, joyfully pretending that I was in an Olympics 200m K1 sprint. No matter how many times I tried, I was still finishing several seconds behind the slowest heat finisher in Tokyo (a dynamic young lady paddling for Algeria). But perhaps this practice had honed my starting skills, because I leapt off the line smartly and was jockeying for a choice position behind Matt and Rob within the first 30 seconds.</p><p>John H apparently had the same goal. He had the line on Matt's stern, but I was a quarter boat length ahead. If we were walking together on the sidewalk and I suddenly shoved John into traffic, I probably wouldn't be getting any more Christmas cards from him. What some sticklers might consider manslaughter in everyday life, in racing seems pardonable. Acceptable, even. In fact, let's go with inevitable. Which is how John found himself on the outside, looking in. Or rather, on the starboard side, looking over. I was now safely ensconced behind Matt. John told me after the race that I was probably his "best friend in the whole world" (he'd had a few IPAs), so all was apparently forgiven.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EVHDNBHLack/YRTq1h1wjEI/AAAAAAAAly4/EaXVWVh79C049M5fdgwzy-xu0pUSG4NyACNcBGAsYHQ/s960/bb12.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EVHDNBHLack/YRTq1h1wjEI/AAAAAAAAly4/EaXVWVh79C049M5fdgwzy-xu0pUSG4NyACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/bb12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intrigued by what he saw in the background of this pre-race selfie, John zoomed in and took another for blackmail purposes. (photo courtesy of John Hair).</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7UIYoj1pbtE/YRTrCfu1yzI/AAAAAAAAly8/1wzTkjvBCEEdWykZuWn7ROuy0QfZw35ZQCNcBGAsYHQ/s604/bb09.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="459" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7UIYoj1pbtE/YRTrCfu1yzI/AAAAAAAAly8/1wzTkjvBCEEdWykZuWn7ROuy0QfZw35ZQCNcBGAsYHQ/w304-h400/bb09.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes I suspect that I'm not quite as cool as I think I am. (photo courtesy of John Hair)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>With John H, John C, and the two doubles fanned out behind, Rob led us up the Annisquam against a rapidly increasing tidal current. I had hoped that Matt and I could use our local knowledge of the winding Annisquam to sneak by Rob, but it's a little tough to be furtive in fluorescent clothing on a narrow waterway. Particularly when the opposing general has enough excess power and stamina that he can afford to stop, turn-around, stand up in his ski, and survey the battlefield. Early on I attempted a few surprise attacks from the flanks, but Rob quickly identified and neutralized the threat. Although Matt was initially smack on Rob's stern, he soon fell back a couple of lengths before locking in at that position. I remained tight on Matt's draft. In this configuration, we began to separate from the rest of the field. I had little sense of what was happening behind our lead group (other than being utterly convinced that they would reappear beside me at any moment), but from GoPro footage and first-hand accounts, I gather that the two doubles, John H, and John C formed the primary chase pack, with a secondary pack composed of Tim Dwyer, Tim Hacket, and Nate Day. Rob led the field out of the river and started down the coast towards Halibut Point. Mercifully, once we cleared Annisquam Light, we had a respite from the tide.</p><p>About 5 miles into the race, let's say that my conscience finally got the better of me. I had remained affixed to Matt's stern for 97% of this time. And drafting his side wake for the other 3%. With only 15 miles to go, it seemed a virtual certainty that I could maintain this position until passing him in a final sprint. Matt had trained too hard to be beaten in such an underhanded way. Don't put too much credence in those naysayers that claim that "by definition" you can't actually exceed your maximum heart rate. I had been doing just that for the last 30 seconds - would another 2 hours kill me? So I did the noble thing. Like Jack slipping silently off that door in the North Atlantic, sacrificing himself so that Rose could survive, I slid off of Matt's stern. There was a little more strangled gasping than you'd like for a nice clean simile, but I think we can agree that the eerie physical similarities between me and a young DiCaprio more than compensate for that deficiency. </p><p>Rob was gradually widening his lead on Matt, and now the latter on me. Reaching Halibut Point after about an hour of paddling, I suspected that someone was playing a trick on me. Where were the confused waves that prowled these environs even on the calmest days? The wailing of the damned, dashed on the rocks? The lucrative bounty of salvageable flotsam? Instead of all this, the surface of the ocean became increasingly smooth as I rounded the point and progressed into Sandy Bay. Unaccountably, given the winds from the opposite direction, a continuous series of glassy waves arose - modest in size, but significant enough to gently nudge me towards Straitsmouth Gap. Despite the nurturing sea, I was having trouble finding motivation - the continuing advance of Rob and Matt ahead was sapping my resolve. Until...</p><p>In their double, Ryan & Bernie were akin to newborn giraffes. When you first see them, they're just a pile of uncoordinated knees and necks, covered in foul-smelling goo. But mere moments later, in defiance of all logic, they're wobbling to an upright posture. And then almost immediately they're taking their first tentative strokes. There's a brief period of playful exuberance as they experiment with their newfound balance and agility. And finally, having mastered locomotion and with precocious poise, they sail by me in Sandy Bay with a loping gait. I felt privileged to have witnessed this accelerated life cycle, and also more than a little pissed off that these long-limbed bastards were passing me. Fortunately, I was able to channel that anger into a spirited (but futile) attempt to keep pace with the duo. At least they had put enough air in my sails to whisk me from the mental doldrums.</p>
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<p>Reaching the halfway point at Straitsmouth Gap, we started to clear the lee of Cape Ann. Within a span of fifty feet, the formerly glossy surface of the sea was replaced by choppy nubbles. Making our way around the rocky headlands over the next couple of miles, the southwest wind, the tide, and refracted waves colluded to throw paddlers off their rhythm, and in a few instances, their boats. The culmination of the aquatic malevolence occurred while passing between Lands End and Milk Island, where I alarmed myself by pausing to have a gel. Had I not narrowly averted a capsize from this foolhardy move, I'd likely still be untangling myself from a viper's nest of hydration tubes and bungee cords. As it happened, however, I survived the misjudgment and wobbled through the last of confused waters to reach more predictable (but still unfriendly) conditions.</p><p>I continued to track Ryan & Bernie via the former's fluorescent yellow PFD and Matt via his vibrant orange torso (it's a genetic thing). They were plying an outer line, presumably trying to escape any coastal currents. Their approach seemed so extreme, however, that I eventually began to wonder if they were trying to reach international waters - perhaps to restock whatever pharmaceutical aids were propelling them. I couldn't take any cues from Rob's line, since his more muted ensemble (and huge lead) rendered him invisible. This was just as well, since a post-race analysis of his GPS track revealed that he had been engaging in "evasive maneuvers" to throw off pursuers. He finished without being torpedoed, but logged almost a quarter mile more total distance than direct-line competitors.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R8ECkY9Rc80/YRTzY7elOHI/AAAAAAAAlzo/9VF10VyMToYgcDq-ul_bQNqo1cRHgHjCgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/bb03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R8ECkY9Rc80/YRTzY7elOHI/AAAAAAAAlzo/9VF10VyMToYgcDq-ul_bQNqo1cRHgHjCgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h360/bb03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rob Jehn: The man, the myth, the posable action figure (coming soon!). (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Finding the occasional erratic wave heading diagonally shoreward, I decided to take an inner line that would have me making landfall much earlier than Matt. My hope was that by hugging the coast I could both avoid the tide and perhaps find some rides from refracted waves. The long open water crossing from Milk Island to the Back Shore had some of the earmark elements of a slog - wind and tide against you, choppy conditions, destination never getting closer - but the gods of mischief didn't seem to have their hearts in it. I watched from afar as Ryan & Bernie passed Matt and receded over the horizon. Amazingly, I seemed to be gaining on the latter as I finally approached landfall. Perhaps he had hit a wall? </p><p>Sure enough, I eventually pulled even with Matt. As I chatted with him about the race and the latest developments in the Scottish independence movement (<i>Alba gu brà th!</i>), I came to the gradual realization that my conversation partner was not Matt, but some other person entirely. In fact, this shameless imposter wasn't even in a surfski! Apparently, my target acquisition software had errantly swapped one distant orange-shirted racer for another during the past half-hour. Should the algorithm have picked up on the fact that the new target was <i>rowing </i>rather than paddling? Probably, but given the general state of oxygen deprivation within the CPU, serious system faults were to be expected. Scanning the zones far ahead, I reacquired Matt (Omega 23, Sector F) and nonchalantly sidled past non-Matt. <i>Mar sin leat</i>, old friend.</p><p>I soon had the opportunity to beta test my coast-hugging strategy within a highly realistic environment. I could almost feel the crash of the waves on the rocks and taste the salt spray. I <i>was </i>able to find some decent rides on refracted waves, but I also had to contend with stretches of disorderly churn and make some sudden course corrections to avoid rock-bearing holes that yawned opened in front of me. All in all, I'd characterize the experiment as a wash. When I reached the breakwater protecting the harbor, Matt maintained a half Dog Bar lead. I was tempted to continue close to the quarried rocks, but fear of being snagged by a camouflaged fisherman kept me a cast away.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gJBACFSUy5k/YRTwuu0ISUI/AAAAAAAAlzY/FPPByD3PkQgK0jCBz_PJn_W4qUhyYxOJQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2016/bb05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gJBACFSUy5k/YRTwuu0ISUI/AAAAAAAAlzY/FPPByD3PkQgK0jCBz_PJn_W4qUhyYxOJQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h360/bb05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For a small extra fee, racers were provided with an emotional support animal at the finish. Unfortunately, nobody seems to have gotten a picture of me and my llama. (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Finally entering Gloucester Harbor, I now had the pleasure of feeling the wind at my back, with attendant waves heading in my general direction - roughly 30 degrees to starboard of the straight line to the finish. The prudent paddler would partake of a few brief rides at a sitting before primly correcting his course, engraving a delicate zig-zag course on the water. Imagine, if you will, you're a young debutante at an elegant garden party, urged by your genteel hostess to have another macaron. You demur. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly..." Next thing you know, security is roughly escorting you off the grounds as you struggle to choke down the dozen treats you've jammed into your pie-hole. You barely have time to appreciate the fact that the ornamental pond boasts actual live flamingos before you find yourself wildly off-course to the right, in danger of crashing into Ten Pound Island. Fortunately, I don't think anybody heard my cry of "You can keep your wreteched sweets!" as I sheepishly corrected my line, vowing to never again fall prey to the siren song of wayward waves.</p>I could make out Matt a quarter mile ahead, paddling towards the finish with something less than fevered zeal. Like me, he appeared to have accepted his lot in life (or at least the race) and was now resigned to grinding through the remainder of the workday. Rob completed the course in 2:50:15, while Matt and I clocked in at 2:55:31 and 2:58:05, respectively. In the ongoing battle to decide who gets to keep the name, John H again clipped John C late in the race. Down 0-3 this season, Costello should probably start fishing around for a new moniker. I'd suggest something unique like Ezekiel or Ha'penny to decrease the chance that he'll have to refile all that paperwork again in 2022. Tim D similarly moved by Tim H and Nate in the final leg of the race. Hackett is also in a big hole at 1-4, but since "Hack" is a pretty cool nickname, he may just opt to go with that. Mary Beth claimed her second Blackburn crown in the woman's field, making her that much more difficult to live with. The double of Ryan & Bernie came tantalizing close to catching Rob, finishing slightly over 2 minutes behind for the second fastest overall time of the day. The Lambs took the silver spot for doubles, just missing the 3:00 mark for the fifth best time. Only 4 boats broke that goal, making this one of the slowest Blackburns in the last 20 years - the relentless tidal currents and choppy conditions exacted their toll.<div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--dSq2M_WVV8/YRTtWoTh3GI/AAAAAAAAlzI/6qf7osdM1K0DScl4MtHi7Yt8IxZXJnhiQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2016/bb02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--dSq2M_WVV8/YRTtWoTh3GI/AAAAAAAAlzI/6qf7osdM1K0DScl4MtHi7Yt8IxZXJnhiQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h360/bb02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The podium. In an effort to make Matt look more exhausted than me, I had just told him that I had lost a contact. (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Thanks to the many CARC volunteers, with special gratitude to Chris Chappell, who recorded impressively official unofficial times for the entire field. And congrats to the North Shore locals, who helmed 3 of the fastest 4 boats of the day. Maybe if there's an asteroid strike or supervolcano eruption between now and the next Blackburn, we can put one of our own on the top step!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>
</div>Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-58196127317894603562021-07-30T12:53:00.003-04:002021-08-04T18:32:32.746-04:00Toms River Paddle Race: Express Lane<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3L8J5ktKnk/YQQuMYmWKeI/AAAAAAAAlv4/poi53EbSGFcykYJFONKfXTyDkfJ0O_tywCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr11.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m3L8J5ktKnk/YQQuMYmWKeI/AAAAAAAAlv4/poi53EbSGFcykYJFONKfXTyDkfJ0O_tywCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/trr11.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(photo courtesy of Mike Goodman)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Given the rich trove of surfski races within two hours of my home, I've been loath to venture outside of my regional comfort zone. Sure, there have been the odd trips to alien waters, but these events have been "National" in character - The Gorge, Chattajack 31, US Surfski Championships, etc. That is to say, big enough that a lousy relative performance would be lost in the noise. Given the continuing influx of paddlers willing to make the arduous trek to New England from exotic locales, however, I felt obligated to reciprocate. New Jersey's Toms River Paddle Race seemed like the natural choice. Recently reinvigorated by director Melinda Edward (Schlehlein), this open water race promised the most impressive field of surfski paddlers in any East Coast competition this year.</p><p>The race portion of Toms River is mostly a broad tidal estuary that opens into Barnegat Bay. Our out-and-back course would start near Mathis Plaza in the town of Toms River and take us 3.5 miles to where Dixon Creek enters the bay, turning on a inflatable marker to head back home. Although the course starts and ends in relatively protected waters, conditions can get increasingly challenging as the estuary opens up and weekend boat traffic increases.</p><p>There's no rational explanation for why New Jersey is churning out so many top tier paddlers, although perhaps a desire to avoid the ever-present traffic explains their attraction to the sea. Local surfskiers include Sean Brennan, Rob Jehn, Craig Impens, and Eric Costanzo, to name a few. As if this wasn't a potent enough brew, they spiked the punch by enticing Ukrainian flatwater standout Andrii Monastyrskyi to resettle in the Garden State. All of these paddlers were registered, although Craig and Eric would be sharing a boat. After heated debate, they settled on using a double. In a beautiful coincidence of timing, two outstanding Florida-based paddlers also happened to be in New Jersey. Nate Humberston is one of the fastest all-around American paddlers, having represented the US at the World Championships. Flavio Costa is best known (to me, at least) as someone who <i>once </i>was someone I could occasionally beat. He might have been injured, though.</p><p>Based on past results, the buzz was around the Sean vs Nate vs Andrii contest. I was guessing that Flavio, Rob, and the Eric-Craig double would be tight on their tails. Given Rob's recent ascendency to the Next Level, I figured I'd spend most of my race tangling with the Triple-J threat - John Costello (another local), John Hair, and Jan Lupinski. I've generally gotten the better of the Johns in the past, but the gap has been steadily closing as I get older and they auction off the dwindling remnants of their souls. With all his recent travel, I didn't know how fit Jan would be. He was recently disqualified from the Ocean Racing World Championships in the Canary Islands when stodgy officials determined that his cutting-edge boat-free technique violated pretty much all of the ICF rules. Undeterred, he's currently petitioning to add a "surf bobbing" class to next year's race. Formidable tandem paddlers Erin and Alan Lamb also figured to compete in our tier.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DdWckoqKwzA/YQQjCVn9nxI/AAAAAAAAlvQ/yhaaowFCqIw6pqvpq-oU6QSv56N-SnVOACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="1600" height="440" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DdWckoqKwzA/YQQjCVn9nxI/AAAAAAAAlvQ/yhaaowFCqIw6pqvpq-oU6QSv56N-SnVOACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h440/trr08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roughly 40% the surfskis were disqualified due to illegal "cantilevered flotation attachments". Just as well, though, since those competitors also coincidentally forgot half their paddles.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OYP-mdh8WhY/YQQkL_F10aI/AAAAAAAAlvY/Xrr8niGNeIIwUS5lWnw9oxDKkUzEOPwIgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr09.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OYP-mdh8WhY/YQQkL_F10aI/AAAAAAAAlvY/Xrr8niGNeIIwUS5lWnw9oxDKkUzEOPwIgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/trr09.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It started out with smiles and playful taunts. It ended up with us bailing Nate and Flavio out of the pokey.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Those of us not confident enough to paddle their fastest boat in all conditions often suffer from crippling anxiety about which surfski to bring for the conditions. Several forecasts were indicating 15 to 20 knot cross-winds, with substantially stronger gusts. Playing it safe, I brought my V10 Sport. In retrospect, I perhaps shouldn't have paid quite so much attention to the notoriously unreliable posts on the social networking app Tweather.</p><p>A few years back I started working on my own app that would tell which boat you should choose for a race. I quickly became bogged down in simulating the myriad interactions between different boat, paddler, and condition parameters - tide, wind, hull shape, stroke rate, water salinity, cholesterol levels, etc. To simplify matters, I transitioned to a multivariant temporal loop approach - you'd simultaneously race each of your boats in a different timeline, and "then" choose the best result. As a bonus, you'd get really adept at winning lotteries. Things looked quite promising, but it turns out that even the most powerful cellphones lack tachyon dynamometers and fall just shy of being able to provide the 1.21 gigawatts necessary to contort the fabric of space-time. Plus if more than one competitor used the app, there was a 30% chance that the universe would implode.</p><p>I eventually settled on a more practical app that tells you which boat you <i>should have chosen</i> for a race. Just before the start of the event, you enter 12 carefully chosen parameters. The app then randomly selects one of the boats you left at home. If you upgrade to the Pro version, it'll also loudly announce "You brought the wrong boat!" Kinda wish now that I would've used the original prototype to decide if this whole tangent was worth it. In any event, the app was undeniably correct this day. The more extreme winds never materialized, meaning that the I brought much more stability than needed. As it turned out, however, this poor boat choice had zero impact on my finish placement.</p><p>On the Friday prior to the race, Melinda had hosted a professional Zoom-based captain's meeting that resembled a Ted Talk more than an improvised PTA meeting - the vibe I'm more accustomed to. So on race day we were able to proceed directly to the launch, where we underwent a brief screening for the required safety equipment. The screener told me that the hard hat and fire extinguisher weren't strictly necessary, but clearly he wasn't familiar with my track record.</p><p>John H and I decided that lining up to the right would give us a shorter path to the first gentle bend of the river. Almost everyone seemed to have a different opinion, but we pride ourselves as rebels who will stick to a hastily-contrived doctrine even if that means sacrificing valuable drafting opportunities. A whistle soon signaled the start. Andrii established an immediate lead, with Nate, Sean, and Flavio on his draft. Eric-Craig and Rob were close on their heels. After holding fast to a right-wing ideology for a solid 30 seconds, John and I abandoned our dogma and united with the leftists, joining them in a rousing chorus of <i>L'Internationale</i>. John C was heroically pulling at the front of our collective, with Jan, the Lambs, John H, and myself on various drafts. You might at first assume that we would rotate leaders in the spirit of contribution to our shared struggle, but... from each according to their ability, to each according to their need. The drafters judged that John C had the ability and we the need.</p><p><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XBd0o5vveoQ" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p><p></p><p>Alas, our cohesion couldn't last forever. John H and Jan had second thoughts about their commitment to the cause and veered off to pursue independent paths. John C and I eventually had some ideological differences about the party line and similarly formed our own factions. I kept the Lambs in the brokered settlement, but soon realized that they were wolves in sheep's clothing. If I let them hang on too long, Erin and Alan would doubtless turn on me. I made several unsuccessful attempts to shake them before finally breaking free. I was now paddling roughly abreast of John C, who was 20 meters or so closer to shore. I could see John H slightly off the pace, maybe 50 meters further out than me.</p><p>By this point, the leaders had broken into two groups. Nate, Sean, and Andrii were at the front, with Flavio, Rob, and Eric/Craig now in pursuit. However, when Andrii veered off-course on a passing boat wake, Nate and Sean wasted no time in dropping their aw-shucks, please-and-thank-you, why-no-I'm-<i>not</i>-a-dead-eyed-killer off-water facades. Smelling the blood in the water, they thrashed forward with a merciless series of shared intervals, leaving behind the bloated carcass of Andrii awash in a trail of no-longer-needed hyphens (minus a few the ne'er-do-wells hung onto). I don't know if the light chop and boat wakes were getting to him, or if he just decided to relinquish his powers to see what it was like to live as a mortal, but Andrii slowed dramatically and was passed by the second group.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gbGolm0_0Bs/YQQpqLyQyQI/AAAAAAAAlvo/Y2PLZ_LYFuIXhK77K2ER01CKDQH40xs0wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="1600" height="440" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gbGolm0_0Bs/YQQpqLyQyQI/AAAAAAAAlvo/Y2PLZ_LYFuIXhK77K2ER01CKDQH40xs0wCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h440/trr01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just before the halfway point Nate and Sean had finally managed to drop the jet ski. (photo courtesy of Mike Goodman)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A half mile before reaching Long Point, where we'd angle north for a half-mile of downwind, I merged with John C. After catching my breath on his stern draft for what I'd estimate to be no more than 15 seconds, I pulled alongside. I figured our brief downwind would be my best chance to break free. We caught Andrii (by all appearances paddling at about 10% capacity) just as we reached the point. The lighter-than-expected wind wasn't exactly providing rip-roaring rides, but I managed to convince myself that I was milking each wave, leaving John wallowing in my spray. Empirical evidence had convinced him otherwise, however. Seeing John less than a half-dozen boat lengths at the turn, I was reluctantly forced to concede the point.</p><p>The return trip started mostly into the wind, swinging to a port quarter wind once we rounded Long Point. With an incoming tide, it made sense to make for the channel. I glanced back occasionally, using local John C's relative position as a gauge for my line. I appeared to be prying open a little space between us, but I could also see John H, the Lambs, and Andrii in pursuit. Apparently a pretty good battle was brewing amongst them until a large yacht wake tipped the balance. And John C. Despite a fast remount, the others took advantage of his upheaval to move ahead.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9U4fxuUge38/YQQs3kUsXMI/AAAAAAAAlvw/y3sxbkHvu0spy4NbKo8qsZNqrZzxDE1cwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1095" data-original-width="1600" height="438" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9U4fxuUge38/YQQs3kUsXMI/AAAAAAAAlvw/y3sxbkHvu0spy4NbKo8qsZNqrZzxDE1cwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h438/trr10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sean and Nate enjoy that magical bonding time between finishing a hard-fought battle with a worthy competitor and once again being forced to rub elbows with the huddled masses. (photo courtesy of Mariano Elrick)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As I made continued my way up Toms River, naturally I was periodically monitoring my pursuers. I could no longer see Rob, Flavio, and Eric-Craig up ahead, a fact I attributed to the winding estuary, despite the galling lack of any actual curves. With just under a mile left, I judged that Andrii (in his recognizable red boat) was well over a minute behind - more than enough margin to secure my current 5th place position among the singles. At seven-eighths of a mile, I figured he was perhaps a minute back. At three-quarters of a mile, I started to panic. By this point, I was really regretting that bloated carcass metaphor I had so blithely concocted earlier. Apparently he took some umbrage. Every hysterical glance over my shoulder revealed that Andrii had somehow jumped another half-dozen lengths closer. It was like leafing through one of those animated flip books, but with 90% of the pages torn out. And a lot more menace than whimsy. Fortunately, before Andrii had the chance to reach maximum warp, the finish line intervened to save me.</p><p>Nate and Sean had both blistered through the course in less than 55 minutes, with Nate taking the crown by about 20 seconds. In the 8 minutes longer it took me to finish, they had managed to once again camouflage their genuine natures beneath hail-fellow-well-met veneers, greeting me with their customary terrestrial bonhomie. Of course, Flavio (3rd) and Rob (4th) had also completed the course well before me, posting times just under 57 minutes in the closest finish of the race. Given that a couple of months ago I had been a mere half-minute behind Rob at the longer Sakonnet Race, the 5 <i>extra </i>minutes he put on me in NJ has left my faith in a benevolent deity shaken. The women's race had an exciting finish, with Steph Schell and Mary Beth battling the entire course before Steph seized the lead for good. Loukia Lili rounded out the podium. The double of Craig & Eric battled with the singles of Flavio & Rob for much of the race, finishing about 15 seconds behind (5th overall). Erin & Alan had a strong race as the second double (8th overall), finishing just ahead of John H and John C.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DzGNW_ql1ls/YQQoYN_gMYI/AAAAAAAAlvg/0CKoCFuH1IUikFACMqd1SNDmTPmXKOiYACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1600" height="468" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DzGNW_ql1ls/YQQoYN_gMYI/AAAAAAAAlvg/0CKoCFuH1IUikFACMqd1SNDmTPmXKOiYACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h468/trr05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paddler X asked that he not be identified. His dominating sprint performance, distinctive accent, and Ukrainian name really gives him away though.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SddMHf8ucrw/YQQf3P5KXuI/AAAAAAAAlu0/LYnu6t6nu0IlNs9ndW_CpYMp5E_EabsDQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1222" data-original-width="1600" height="488" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SddMHf8ucrw/YQQf3P5KXuI/AAAAAAAAlu0/LYnu6t6nu0IlNs9ndW_CpYMp5E_EabsDQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h488/trr04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John was getting restless after the race, so we gave him an arts & crafts project to keep him occupied.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uN0jI7wdZIs/YQQfu4-6MPI/AAAAAAAAluw/8jzlIcdN4jIuBKrz0IabFX9nUsJXmgoiwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr05.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><p>The day wasn't quite over. Melinda had appended a knock-out sprint tournament to the race. Sean and John C prepared the brackets and set up a 100 meter course in the protected canal adjacent to Huddy Park. I found myself paired against Andrii in the first round of the sprints, swapping my V10 Sport for a Stellar SEA generously loaned to me by Dave Thomas. Given that Andrii had recently put up a top five time at the 200m US Olympic team trials (as a guest international competitor), my only hope was that he would break a tie rod and crash into the canal embankment. Sure enough, Andrii's starting strokes seemed more like a Special Attack from a fighting videogame (Windmill of Death? Whirring Doom?) than anything an actual human could muster. After accelerating through the first 25 meters he shut it down and popped his drag chute. I had anticipated a fair fight, but hadn't taken into account my ingrained deviousness. As he all-but-coasted toward the finish, I burst a few blood vessels trying catch him by surprise. Of course, this didn't work, but if you only saw the last 10 meters of the race, it looked sorta close. As expected, Andrii went on to win the tournament, with Alan (now in a K-1) making short work of his opponents before succumbing to the inevitable. On the women's side, Steph and Mary Beth repeated their 1-2 finish.</p><p>The Toms River Race promised to be the most exciting of the season, and it delivered with a great field and a series of crackerjack head-to-head matches. Many thanks to Melinda and her crew for ushering the race into an exciting new era. She promises that next year she'll apply her considerable logistics acumen to taming the metro-area congestion. For a more fact-based account of the race, check out Melinda's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/mel.edward/posts/1613979932139488">report</a>.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v7FlETpK3tY/YQQgYNPD9jI/AAAAAAAAlvA/Yt4kXaAyIncwDDPMXQwTxByPG1vzJJ61wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1227" data-original-width="1600" height="490" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-v7FlETpK3tY/YQQgYNPD9jI/AAAAAAAAlvA/Yt4kXaAyIncwDDPMXQwTxByPG1vzJJ61wCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h490/trr06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She was too polite to say anything, but Melinda was disappointed that everybody else ignored the "casual elegance" dress code.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YcVqozzvJAw/YQQhbvoIfLI/AAAAAAAAlvI/83DOL9fiCAc0-3JZdRVTEpxD3gep7YuHACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/trr07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="1600" height="546" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YcVqozzvJAw/YQQhbvoIfLI/AAAAAAAAlvI/83DOL9fiCAc0-3JZdRVTEpxD3gep7YuHACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h546/trr07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steph, Mary Beth, and Loukia were gracious enough to pose for a podium picture. The prima donna men demanded an appearance fee and 30% of any downstream revenues. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Next up is the <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/43rdAnnualNewEnglandMarathonPaddlesportChampionships">New England Marathon Paddlesport Championships</a> in Hinsdale, NH on Sunday, August 1. This is a 12 mile flatwater jaunt on the Connecticut River. And, of course, the weekend after that is the <a href="https://www.capeannrowingclub.com/race-information-blackburn-challenge">Blackburn Challenge</a>. Although there won't be any official timing this year, Wesley Echols is organizing an informal time-yourself start at 8:00am for all surfskiers (see <a href="https://www.facebook.com/wesley.echols/posts/10226520487100218">here</a> for details).</p>
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Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-17424529600618638642021-06-10T13:07:00.003-04:002021-06-10T13:08:40.618-04:00Sakonnet Surfski Race: Head Start<div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EAq7DsHc85Q/YMIyUtmVkMI/AAAAAAAAlRQ/k7_r7xUokuUKM6wzAXTIQNmD-fMAEn6PQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/srr02.jpg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EAq7DsHc85Q/YMIyUtmVkMI/AAAAAAAAlRQ/k7_r7xUokuUKM6wzAXTIQNmD-fMAEn6PQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/srr02.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The newly rechristened Sakonnet Surfski Race is the prescribed venue for New England paddlers to ease into the open water season. It's much like the fable in which a frog won't notice he's being boiled alive if you <i>slowly </i>raise the temperature. The Sakonnet is a skinny bay that might be called a "loch" or "fjord" in another land, or a "river" in the deranged mind of some 17th century cartographer. In any event, the shore's never too far away. And if the wind is from the south, like it was for the 14th running of Wesley Echol's classic race, in a worst-case scenario you'll eventually wash up on a sandy beach, complete with several seaside dining options. Which is nice for the EMTs.</div><div><br /></div><div>We'd be running a slightly modified version of the 2020 course. From Island Park Beach, we'd chug 4.5 miles south to Sandy Point, where we'd turn 90 degrees counterclockwise around a mooring buoy, pointing us towards a red nun further away from shore. Reaching this buoy, we'd turn another 90 degrees and head back to the start. With a southerly breeze stiffening over the course of the race, we'd pay our dues during the first leg. For those wise enough to set aside some reserve funds for the second half, the all-you-can-eat downwind buffet would be open. The rest would be given a complimentary packet of oyster crackers and left to fend for themselves.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ROWCpAxP8E4/YMIyT3hANgI/AAAAAAAAlRE/IUZ1QCy9TaQTnHUhjxJrg1jfJdJxcVV3wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/srr-08.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1600" height="430" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ROWCpAxP8E4/YMIyT3hANgI/AAAAAAAAlRE/IUZ1QCy9TaQTnHUhjxJrg1jfJdJxcVV3wCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h430/srr-08.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's taken John years of trial and error to get just the right amount of tequila in his "margarition" (TM) system.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qnL9B6oJL_Y/YMIyT6ajfrI/AAAAAAAAlRI/fPq8jASEyZI6z0u19W44cQV0FZosOeksgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/srr-10.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1215" data-original-width="1600" height="486" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qnL9B6oJL_Y/YMIyT6ajfrI/AAAAAAAAlRI/fPq8jASEyZI6z0u19W44cQV0FZosOeksgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h486/srr-10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We didn't want Rob to feel bad, so we all told him it could happen to anyone.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7S-1lSlHcQ/YMJGsnEPoYI/AAAAAAAAlSk/pz8I33ddXdcH-7TvYo3r7CnPrXRWfgkLgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/srr01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1363" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-c7S-1lSlHcQ/YMJGsnEPoYI/AAAAAAAAlSk/pz8I33ddXdcH-7TvYo3r7CnPrXRWfgkLgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/srr01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When they arrived, the cops told us that someone had reported that "some creep was hanging out taking pictures". They let me listen to the 911 call at the station. Not cool, MB.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>The field was popping with talent. Despite the Sakonnet not being a loop course, standout NJ paddler Sean Brennan might well lap the field. People think of Sean as enigmatic and brooding, so they're always surprised to find that he's <i>actually </i>mysterious and meditative. Plus kinda goofy. Since fellow Garden Stater Rob Jehn developed an unfortunate taste for New England glory, we've been unable to keep the pest away. It's like if Brood X crawled out of the ground every 3 weeks. The Three Johns (Hair, Costello, and Redos) brought their show (mostly puppetry, but also some mime work) on the road from Points West. Local contenders included South African Gary Shaw (paradoxically), Matt Drayer, and Tim Dwyer, among others. I expected we'd have a particularly dynamic race in which downwind specialists might zoom by less adept surfers who had made the mistake of getting to the red nun first. With scores of Miller's Runs under his belt, Gary would be a huge threat on the downwind leg, regardless of how much of a head start he might spot me. From past experience, I knew that I couldn't ignore Matt or Tim either.<div><br /></div><div>Wesley walked us through the course at the captains meeting, stopping only when the water got over his head. We'd have to figure it out ourselves past that point. The 23 boat field soon lined up off the beach - faster paddlers stacked to the right - and was counted down to the start. Sean roadrunnered off the line, leaving the rest of us in a cloud of mist. I got out to one of my better starts, but was still unable to match Rob's initial sprint. Gary managed to grab onto Rob's draft, but dropped off after a short while. Unsurprisingly, John C, Chris Chappell, and Matt were also in the mix. I was feeling strong, however, and managed to transition into 3rd position within the first couple minutes. The field quickly began to string out as we pushed upwind.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5IPgp4sd3OY/YMI3ttKnzzI/AAAAAAAAlSc/fLtyXjHKCToo8KYhYrjuwvsSGKGn4GhFgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/srr12.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1227" data-original-width="1600" height="490" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5IPgp4sd3OY/YMI3ttKnzzI/AAAAAAAAlSc/fLtyXjHKCToo8KYhYrjuwvsSGKGn4GhFgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h490/srr12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is why you should never talk politics at the captains meeting. For every Kirk and Jeff on your side, there's an Andy and John left seething.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6xJWzAKyuLU/YMIyXwEntQI/AAAAAAAAlR4/sY0DVLcIqPwr_5tWqe1f3gvYiZLUU6eXQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/srr13.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="1600" height="484" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6xJWzAKyuLU/YMIyXwEntQI/AAAAAAAAlR4/sY0DVLcIqPwr_5tWqe1f3gvYiZLUU6eXQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h484/srr13.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last anyone saw of Sean.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>Occasionally in a movie or TV show featuring a genius protagonist in dire straits, their problem-solving thought process will be dynamically superimposed on the screen - the complex series of glowing equations and diagrams needed to calculate, say, the trajectory of a thrice-ricocheted bullet into the forehead of Inspector Blanchard (don't feel bad, he was a double agent). I had that kind of deal going as I tried to figure out whether it made sense to pull shoreward to tuck into the lee of McCorrie Point. Except that my illegible computations were done in crayon, relied almost exclusively upon astrology, and included a pretty good drawing of a doggie. My conclusions were muddled, but at least I now knew that it was an inauspicious day to start a new business venture. Lacking any <i>navigational </i>insights, I decided the safest bet would be to average the straight line and shore-hugging paths. Only in this way could I definitively eliminate the advantages of either.</div><div><br /></div><div>It seems that roughly half the field followed the path of compromise, while the more stalwart paddlers (including both Sean and Rob) blasted straight from the start towards Sandy Point. The general consensus among the faint-hearted was that while we may have been shielded from some waves, low-lying McCorrie Point did little to protect us from the headwind. Once we had passed McCorrie, however, the westward curve of the shore afforded us more shelter (particularly from waves) on the way to the turn at Sandy Point. Maybe.</div><div><br /></div><div>As forecast, the wind was gradually increasing its intensity. My GPS was dutifully recording the meteorological slow front as it passed through, dropping from 7 mph at the start to 5.5 mph (let's say) with a mile left to the turn. I pulled up my mental whiteboard again to calculate if I'd actually be going backwards before reaching Sandy Point, but got sidetracked adding a doghouse for Mr. Flappers. By this time, Sean was no longer visible. Presumably he had completed his transition to pure energy. Rob was clearly ahead of me, but the extent of his 15 boat length lead wasn't apparent until we converged for the turn. I glanced back as I turned away from the shore, but didn't see anyone. There were doubtless paddlers not too far behind me, but I didn't have the stomach to look too closely.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H5Peyd1KG-Q/YMIyVKzkCpI/AAAAAAAAlRY/GhDmbpzEVM0NpR0JSy-SGsEJUGVhgA_xQCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/srr03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1347" data-original-width="2048" height="420" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H5Peyd1KG-Q/YMIyVKzkCpI/AAAAAAAAlRY/GhDmbpzEVM0NpR0JSy-SGsEJUGVhgA_xQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h420/srr03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No special comment. It's just nice to see a full field of paddlers again. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>Wesley had assured us that after we turned 90 degrees clockwise at Sandy Point, we'd be pointed directly at the red nun that marked our next turn. "You can't miss it" - his exact words, I believe. You know how when a scientist is trying to convey how incredibly powerful the Hubble telescope is, they'll say something like "If it were in San Francisco, it could read the year on a penny in Philadelphia". With de-orbiting costs what they are, seems like it'd be more cost-effective to just call up the guy holding the coin in Philly and ask him the year. In any event, you see where I'm going with this. The buoy was eminently miss-able, even if you happened to have a 2.4 meter parabolic primary mirror mounted on your boat (make sure you opt for the high volume ski - those things are heavier than you'd think).</div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't know if Rob had spotted the buoy or not, but he seemed to be paddling in a direction other than 90 degrees around the turn. I never seem to have a protractor handy when needed, so I'll just estimate his angle more in the vicinity of 45 degrees. Using Rob's heading as a cue, I adjusted my search grid. After several unsuccessful scans, I finally spotted a tiny red dot that I'd characterize as "way the hell out" in the middle of the bay. In Wesley's defense, he had said that the buoy was 0.3 miles from the turn, but how am I supposed to know exactly how miniscule a small navigational buoy would appear from more than a quarter mile away? I mean <i>other </i>than the 15 years of ocean paddling experience. Plus it was actually <i>0.4</i> miles.</div><div><br /></div><div>After paddling directly upwind for the last 45 minutes, it took a few minutes to adjust to the quartering conditions we had to traverse to reach the turn buoy. The waves looked promising for the downwind leg, however, so I didn't begrudge being tossed around a little. I reached the turn still 15 lengths behind Rob. This time I was able to spot 3 or 4 pursuers a couple minutes back. Although I couldn't positively identify the individual paddlers, the ominous Terminator drumbeat was echoing in my head. Gary's eyes were likely starting to glow at the prospect of hunting me down. Wouldn't be surprised if Matt and Tim D weren't also feeling the blood lust.</div><div><br /></div>
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<div><div>For the first mile or so, the downwind runs were excellent. I figured as long as I didn't miss a single runner and consistently linked each launching wave into at least a dozen more, I stood a fair chance (say 12%) of managing a podium finish. Rob and I again took different lines - his ludicrously far to the left (from my perspective) and mine ludicrously far to the right (from his and my GPS track's perspective). We quickly diverged to the degree that it became impossible to gauge relative progress. Not having any reliable data on our relative downwind competence, I instinctively figured my superior skills were allowing me to catch and pass Rob. This relieved me of some of the Gary-induced anxiety, since I'd still claim bronze even if overtaken by the South African menace.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we progressed deeper into the bay, some combination of changes related to wind, tides, seabed topology, and Venus (it's in retrograde, after all) conspired to degrade the downwind conditions. There were still plenty of rideable waves, but they lacked punch. Although disappointing at the time, this probably played to my advantage. Of course, I hadn't actually been working the conditions any better than Rob. But, according to eye witness accounts from Matt and John H, Gary had been putting on a downwind clinic. After the turn at the nun, he had quickly passed them, working diagonal lines to wring every ounce of potential from the waves. But with the smaller conditions limiting the liquid energy available, and Gary feeling a little underconditioned himself, his comeback effort fell short.</div><div><br /></div><div>With a mile to go, I reassessed my situation vis-a-vis Rob. In good conscience, I could no longer maintain the delusion that I was catching him. "Limit the damage" became my new mantra. Not the most aspirational of mantras, perhaps, but given how drained I was feeling, I think I deserve some credit for not just going with "Screw it". Rob finished 25 seconds ahead - damage that would have otherwise been 2 or 3 seconds less limited. Sean had won the race, of course, but had the grace not to remind us that he was finishing while Rob and I were still in diapers. Gary claimed the 4th position, but the highlight of the race came shortly after - Matt and John H surfing to the line on the same wave, with Matt nosing in just ahead. A few moments later, Tim D. managed to get nearly his entire head in before John C and Tim Hacket. Mary Beth claimed the women's title, in part due to her almost pathological adherence to navigational guidelines.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cO3cPwYD8rU/YMIyVCCxJDI/AAAAAAAAlRU/zTJhMuMjpf4oHhf8Cxoae7Qok9iB3EVfwCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/srr04.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cO3cPwYD8rU/YMIyVCCxJDI/AAAAAAAAlRU/zTJhMuMjpf4oHhf8Cxoae7Qok9iB3EVfwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/srr04.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe just a little less booze next time, John. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-46RZQgz_CFU/YMIy0oE_p-I/AAAAAAAAlSU/PKjQ_PdHZ1omTaImpF65t-hbQv2MSjbGgCNcBGAsYHQ/s2048/srr07.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-46RZQgz_CFU/YMIy0oE_p-I/AAAAAAAAlSU/PKjQ_PdHZ1omTaImpF65t-hbQv2MSjbGgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/srr07.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Given that Leslie wasn't even in the race, she finished surprisingly well. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The post-race debrief continued on the beach for quite some time before migrating to Flo's Drive In, just a short walk away. I must have had one too many stuffed quahogs, because I found myself trash-talking Rob. Despite the fact that he's beaten me 5 of the 6 times we've raced, I made the assertion that under certain conditions (flat water, him in V12, me in V14) that I'd "wipe the course with him". When making such an outrageous claim, it's a good idea to ensure that it can never actually be authenticated. Unfortunately, the exact conditions of the challenge will be satisfied when we meet in September at the Great Stone Dam Classic. Oops. Yet another in a long series of mollusk-induced blunders. Doubtless, Rob will spend his summer training for this meeting. I, on the other hand, will spend my summer crawling through the underbrush in an attempt to contract Lyme disease.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to Wesley for an extremely satisfying race. Having tuned our ocean skills at the Sakonnet, we're now ready to be thrown into the atonal waters of the Ride the Bull race on June 26th. The race is free, but you must preregister at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/RidetheBull2021">PaddleGuru</a>.</div>
</div><br />Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-3027558581201887862021-05-20T16:13:00.003-04:002021-05-20T20:02:00.391-04:00Battle of the Bay: Fine Line<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<p>You might think that a race held in a gated community situated on a semi-private island within the genteel city of Newport would attract only the finest breed of paddlers - athletes with refined tastes, ivy league degrees, and the highest standards of personal hygiene. But maybe by chance you'd overhear at a polo tournament or yacht christening that Tim Dwyer was hosting the event in question. And then, of course, you'd rush home to safeguard your valuables before the hoi polloi invaded. For the second year, Tim would be running the Battle of the Bay from his home on Goat Island in the mouth of Newport Harbor. Although the race is usually held in July, the postponement of the Essex River Race left a hole in the surfski season too big for an opportunistic race director to ignore.</p>
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Wary of the cold ocean temperatures and unpredictable May weather, Tim had
originally planned a conservative course that would keep us mostly within
Newport Harbor. With nearly no wind and temperatures approaching 70,
however, he made the race-day decision to revert to the triangular course
from 2020. We'd start at the southern end of Goat Island, head out to
buoy R12, return to the northern end of Goat Island, and follow the
harbor-side coast of the island back to the start. Two laps would
total just shy of 6 miles.
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As befitted the boutique nature of a Newport race, the field was small but
eclectic. In addition to a smattering of locals and regulars, Rob Jehn
and Megan Pfeiffer made the long trek from New Jersey, flatwater specialist
Mark Wendolowski decided to see what all the salt water fuss was about, Gary
Shaw joined us from South Africa (not <i>just </i>for the race - he also was
dabbling as an engineer on a sailing yacht while in the area), and fellow
swan-attack victim Jeff Tucker (with chipped gel coat to prove
it). My principal concern was Rob, who had beaten me a few weeks
before on the Quaboag River. He'd be in a V12 rather than his
customary V10, but it didn't look like the conditions would make him regret
that decision. Based on his country of origin, I had concerns about
Gary as well, but he assured me that he was out of shape. Which is
exactly what the lion tells the gullible springbok at the watering hole.
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2hDCMJhVaek/YKWmm9Qd9HI/AAAAAAAAlJg/zOdzFKo9aqwuHxZF13MMZFV1TFTBn5StACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/botb04.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1251" data-original-width="1600" height="500" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2hDCMJhVaek/YKWmm9Qd9HI/AAAAAAAAlJg/zOdzFKo9aqwuHxZF13MMZFV1TFTBn5StACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h500/botb04.JPG" width="640" /></a>
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<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even on the water, we're slaves to our screens. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)
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<p>
After a captain's meeting that focused primarily on the rich naval history
of Newport ("So, in summary, watch out for unexploded torpedoes!"), we
launched a modest fleet to prepare for our brand of maritime skirmish.
Making a rare concession to tactical thinking (or, if you want to quibble,
common sense), I positioned myself near Rob for the start. Taking the
next logical step, I was quietly lashing my boat to his when Tim's countdown
rudely interrupted my efforts. Rob's start was solid, but I was able
to stay close enough to get the benefit of his draft. Just to our
right, Gary also got off the line well. The remainder of the lead group
consisted of Tim D, Mark, Wesley, and Tim Hackett.
</p>
<p>
Within the first 30 seconds, my tenuous link to Rob started to fray.
To legally preserve my privileged position in the general vicinity of his
stern draft, I loudly called out "Dibs!" Apparently this sacrosanct
protocol doesn't carry quite the same weight in South Africa as it does
here, because Gary scarcely hesitated before sliding into my rightful
drafting slot. The nerve! [My live-in editor, who wasn't at the
race and has never even met Gary, somehow intuited that this might be a case
of unwarranted indignation. Under enhanced interrogation, I cracked
and revealed that I had fallen back an honest boat length before Gary's
move. Still... Dibs!]
</p>
<p>
I debated between Gary's port and stern drafts, ultimately letting my
flagging speed settle the argument in favor of the latter. In
retrospect, this mistake cost me the race. That's what I like so much
about retrospect - it need not align with reality to any significant
degree. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there were elves, unicorns,
and affordable healthcare in retrospect. Here's how my particular
alternative history would have played out. On Gary's side draft (with
a better view of the situation), I immediately detect when he starts to fall
off of Rob. A short half boat length surge is sufficient to secure a
spot just behind Rob. I implausibly stick with him in this position
for the next 5.5 miles. You might think in my manufactured vision that
I'd then sprint by Rob at the finish, but it turns out that's not within
even my fictional abilities. No, I'd only win after aggressively
ramming his stern and forcing him into a piling. So, perhaps better
that things played out as they did.
</p>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oygx99MU9BU/YKWo71bxFMI/AAAAAAAAlJw/Ioivfm2xMH8BfG_qgxSzGzYPRXI4ZbJZACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/botb05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1032" data-original-width="1600" height="412" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oygx99MU9BU/YKWo71bxFMI/AAAAAAAAlJw/Ioivfm2xMH8BfG_qgxSzGzYPRXI4ZbJZACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h412/botb05.jpg" width="640" /></a>
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<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I like to poke fun at Tim, but the truth is that he's the kind of guy that you want around when things get rough. That is, the kind of guy that really puts a premium on visibility. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)
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<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8xFe4ERR_OE/YKac1bCfhSI/AAAAAAAAlKg/CufLBQpKWVw6S1hXf6_fYJrgnxutzDt_wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/botb06.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8xFe4ERR_OE/YKac1bCfhSI/AAAAAAAAlKg/CufLBQpKWVw6S1hXf6_fYJrgnxutzDt_wCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/botb06.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm <i>just </i>out of the frame. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Although Gary stayed with Rob for a couple of minutes, he eventually was
unable to maintain the leader's pace. I pulled around him and made what at that
time felt like an all-out effort to catch Rob. Given that I've lived
to write the tale, however, in retrospect it seems I could have put a little
more heart into it. That particular timeline has me suffering a stroke
at mile 4 and being air-lifted to the only available in-network provider,
just outside Dayton. Interestingly, though, the pilot was an elf.</p>
<p>
Despite my best (?) efforts, Rob remained out of reach. At this
point he could have put the nail in my coffin by pulling further ahead into
uncatchable territory. Instead, the sadist elected to prolong my death
throes (coincidentally, the exact term a dumbfounded Sean Rice once used to
describe my stroke) through a fiendish combination of offsetting
ploys. First, he dialed his velocity to approximately 2% greater than
mine. Then to counteract nearly all the gains this should have
garnered, Rob charted the kind of erratic lines seldom seen outside of a Jackson Pollock
painting. Given that this was a point-to-point course with highly
visible landmarks and no consequential current or wind effects, you'd be
amazed at how many times I had to restrain myself from shouting out course
adjustments to the leader. Fortunately, my innate sense of
underhandedness made it relatively easy to keep my trap shut in the face of
Rob's questionable route decisions. Against my better judgement,
however, after the race I gave him a crash course in Euclidean
geometry. You know... how the shortest path between two points is a
semi-circle - not the milder arcs he had been experimenting with.
</p>
<div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NVP-izeqbZ4" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe>
</div>
<p>So Rob would steadily pull away on each of the triangular legs, only to
sacrifice much of that effort when we converged at the next vertex. My
hopes of catching him would wane and wax accordingly. The net effect,
however, was that Rob's lead grew incrementally. Any hopes that V12
instability would trip him up were dashed by a dearth of boat traffic, as
well as by his deft handling of those wakes we did encounter. My
spirits waxed gibbous one final time at the second turn at R12, but quickly
descended again into shadow as Rob's unconventional line back towards Goat
Island actually reaped dividends. On that course he was better able to
leverage the long swell from a massive cargo ship that had entered Narragansett Bay
some minutes earlier. With a little over a mile remaining, I
reluctantly transitioned from the pursuit phase of the race to the
face-saving "minimize the damage" phase.</p>
<p>
Rob finished 42 seconds ahead of me - safely within the not-at-all-arbitrary
45 second threshold that I decided would allow me to look him in the eyes
afterwards. I'm disregarding the 30 or so seconds he probably could have added to that gap with better navigation, of course. Gary pulled in a few moments later to claim the final
podium spot. Megan took the women's crown in her inaugural New England
race. Will Bomar was the SUP champion. Afterwards, we all
enjoyed the fine day, with marvelous panoramic views of the growing activity
in the bay. Thanks to Tim for having us over.
</p>
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<td style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vt2LbnCGnjM/YKWotv7ccLI/AAAAAAAAlJs/yOxotqDKrHMgDhu7OSl1gaSKiT86xsi9wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/botb03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="1600" height="410" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vt2LbnCGnjM/YKWotv7ccLI/AAAAAAAAlJs/yOxotqDKrHMgDhu7OSl1gaSKiT86xsi9wCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h410/botb03.jpg" width="640" /></a>
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<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bonhomie is what keeps me coming back. Goes great on a cracker with a dash of paprika. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9aNVnrZnmYM/YKWlunoKpGI/AAAAAAAAlI8/utJYCijgQtkcU4dC3BtIvfs7hYd6aCJrACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/botb01.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9aNVnrZnmYM/YKWlunoKpGI/AAAAAAAAlI8/utJYCijgQtkcU4dC3BtIvfs7hYd6aCJrACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h426/botb01.JPG" width="640" /></a>
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<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">
Safety first. Despite the fact that the field was accounted for
and on dry land, Dave remained suited up in case one of us
needed rescue. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)
</td>
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<p>
Next up is the Sakonnet Surfski Race on June 5. After years of legal
wrangling and ugly court battles, Wesley finally accepted a plea bargain,
conceding that the former name ("Sakonnet River Race") comprised "grossly
misleading nomenclature" that "willfully distorted the true nature of the
venue". To wit... it ain't a river. Sadly, my broader case
against the cartographers of the world remains unresolved. Register at
<a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/SakonnetSurfskiRace2021">PaddleGuru</a>.</p>
</div>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-43458699996715663452021-04-16T11:08:00.001-04:002021-04-16T11:08:18.485-04:00Narrow River Race: Redux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BIE1QWqK9xQ/YHjR3B5eVpI/AAAAAAAAlCA/8nTksSHO590SPaO_zu6r-JJGCyZKxz0sgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1076" data-original-width="1600" height="430" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BIE1QWqK9xQ/YHjR3B5eVpI/AAAAAAAAlCA/8nTksSHO590SPaO_zu6r-JJGCyZKxz0sgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h430/nrr08.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>After months of intensive lobbying of race director Tim Dwyer, I managed to have last year's Narrow River Race expunged from the records. Delayed from April to October by COVID and subsequently capped at only 10 paddlers, one can hardly tolerate such an illegitimate farce disgracing the official annals. I felt bad that Mike Florio's first-ever surfski victory would be coincidentally voided, but the common good must prevail. He'd probably want his inaugural gold medal to be by more decisive a margin than a mere five and a half minutes anyway.</p><p>With less stringent gathering restrictions, it looked like the 2021 run of the Narrow River Race would be fully sanctioned. Pending suitable results, of course. Nearly the entire field of last year's pseudo-race responded to their summons for a rematch, to be joined by a dozen other paddlers, including the first ever C-2 entry. Even though he was quick to play the "I haven't been training much" card (adding it to the growing pile), all eyes were on Mike. Having worked out recently with Chris Chappell, I knew he'd be a serious threat as well. Vibrantly named newcomers Loukia Lili, Josco Catipovic, and, er, Jeff Tucker chose the Narrow River for their first surfski race. Loukia, a national-caliber amateur triathlete, celebrated her 40th birthday by driving 5 hours on a whim to compete with us. That kind of vigor and enthusiasm might be inspiring to some, but sent several of the more world-weary competitors to pre-race naps in their cars.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j7lD8IDhI88/YHmiJjZi0YI/AAAAAAAAlCc/h2fuyBCRcxU9VV-x3XTmzTOZ_JxkcyH8wCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-j7lD8IDhI88/YHmiJjZi0YI/AAAAAAAAlCc/h2fuyBCRcxU9VV-x3XTmzTOZ_JxkcyH8wCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/nrr10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carole graciously offered to provide sign language interpretation, but Tim's gesticulations left no room for confusion.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-85xVbiip6dI/YHjRwGOJz1I/AAAAAAAAlB8/en7ocN4bvg0t3smwqiWky7lledLfJavrgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-85xVbiip6dI/YHjRwGOJz1I/AAAAAAAAlB8/en7ocN4bvg0t3smwqiWky7lledLfJavrgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/nrr06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After years of yoga and meditation, Wesley finally achieved inner bliss just moments before the race. Unfortunately, he lost it 3 minutes after the start.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>With the post time rapidly approaching, Tim called on us to "huddle up" for the captains meeting. He made beckoning gestures with his open arms, but the rest of us collectively decided to maintain a reasonable social distance. Because of the pandemic, we told him.</p><p>We'd be running the standard 8 mile course. After heading upriver for 3 miles, we'd turn at a rowing club dock, reverse our way back past the launch, turn on some pilings a mile downriver, then finish back at the start. With temperatures in the 50s and only a light breeze, conditions were perfect. From the shore, it was difficult to tell whether the notoriously depth-challenged river contained enough liquid for safe passage. For a change, I couldn't see any writhing fish struggling to keep their gills immersed, so perhaps we'd be OK.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DDGMRtM7ANI/YHjRuM3nB1I/AAAAAAAAlB4/s4rR6wwbxcsJ6sMBRYtPHq7ziWCTIoLxgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1225" data-original-width="1600" height="490" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DDGMRtM7ANI/YHjRuM3nB1I/AAAAAAAAlB4/s4rR6wwbxcsJ6sMBRYtPHq7ziWCTIoLxgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h490/nrr05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I felt kinda bad for hazing Loukia by telling her that newbies were expected to perform an interpretative dance at the captains meeting, but she really knocked it out of the park.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>We hit the water. A nucleus of fast-twitch paddlers formed on the left side of the line, to be quickly surrounded by a buzzing shell of hangers-on attracted by the prospect of getting pulled along for the ride. I chose a neutral path to the far right - too proud to wring ill-gotten gains from the sweat of my competitors. That's how I'm couching my tactical positioning blunder, at least. In the soothing tones of a time-and-temperature operator, Tim counted us down to an incongruously low-key start. After a moment of disorientation, I shook the sleep from my eyes and launched immediately into a recurring nightmare. You know the one: Everyone else is off to a great start, you can't remember how a paddle works, and you're pants-less. In a horrific new twist, however, the velcro on one of my pogies had also come loose, leaving it free to slide up and down my paddle with every twitchy stroke.</p><p>As expected, Mike and Chris C led the charge on the left, flanked by John Costello in a boat several notches less streamlined. Mark Wendolowski, Chris Quinn, Tim D, and Tim Hacket followed closely behind. My vantage point from open water to the distant right provided a welcome detachment from the crushing sense of inadequacy I usually feel when falling behind early. It was almost as if I was floating in my boat, watching the race from far away. Lest I were to drift even further into reverie, I forced myself to focus (with a little help from those old friends, lactic acid and panic) and join the fray. I angled alongside Tim D, and, after exchanging some pleasantries with our host, started to work slowly up the rankings. I moved past Chris Q (uncharacteristically shirted) and Mark (not generally a saltwater paddler, but adapting well to the brackish conditions). By this point, Mike was out to an 8 length lead over Chris C, with John now struggling to stay on Chris' draft.</p><p>While closing the 3 length gap to John over the next couple of minutes, I marveled at his power and efficiency. Despite taking a single stroke for every 14 of mine (give or take), he was pushing a V10 Sport at practically the same speed as my V14. I'm just hoping that restraining order against his beam remains in place at 19". I tried to slip by John as quietly as possible, much as you'd tip-toe past a hibernating bear. I made it by, but wouldn't really feel comfortable with him behind me until I had put a sacrificial offering between us.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MRHIklqUHBQ/YHmgiN-hLuI/AAAAAAAAlCM/kXWZ-z1tjYcXedxAChrq8nydlXmfnC0aACNcBGAsYHQ/s640/nrr02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MRHIklqUHBQ/YHmgiN-hLuI/AAAAAAAAlCM/kXWZ-z1tjYcXedxAChrq8nydlXmfnC0aACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/nrr02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After one too many close shaves with duck hunters, Chris now errs on the side of caution. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>It took me several minutes to catch Chris. Since he had shown me such generous hospitality in the past, I figured on settling in the unused plot immediately behind him. I'd squat there temporarily - at least until my application for permanent residency was approved. Maybe I'd pop alongside Chris every now and again to borrow a cup of sugar, but mostly I'd just keep quarantined in my cozy new home. You can imagine my surprise, then, when my hunkering was interrupted by sharp pangs of conscience. My shame threshold is pretty high, so for feelings of guilt to reach the surface requires some truly disgraceful behavior. Apparently, I'd be expected to show some integrity. Frankly, the better angels of our nature can be a real drag. Reluctantly, I abandoned my newfound shelter and tried to pass Chris.<p></p><p>We paddled side-by-side for several minutes as the Narrow River widened into a slightly less narrow lake. Our race-within-a-race was soon embedded within yet another race, as we found ourselves unwitting participants in a pairs sculling contest. Given that the other racers had cleverly devised a method of applying power simultaneously on both sides via a mind-boggling lever-and-fulcrum mechanism <i>and </i>managed to shoehorn 2 people in each boat, I didn't like our odds. Chris and I leveled the field a little bit by charging down-course well before the starting gun, but within seconds the sculls had erased our handicap. Fortunately, we were gently nudged to one side by the race director's bullhorn before the rowers were able to dismount us. Twenty-five lengths ahead, Mike showed himself impervious to those same amplified commands, but his line to our turn-around naturally diverged from their course well before any blows could be exchanged.</p>
<div style="margin: 20px 0px; text-align: center;">
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bQshJBAB34c" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><p>During the interdisciplinary excitement, I managed to start pulling away from Chris. I reached the turning point several lengths ahead, buoyed by the (quite possibly sarcastic) cheers from the crew club supporters lining the docks to applaud their racers. Heading back down the lake, I saw John perhaps 15 lengths behind Chris, with Mark and Chris Q back again as far. Now working against a light wind and mild current, my speed dropped a little, but not to the extent I had feared. Based on a few quick glimpses of Chris back over my shoulder, I seemed to be prying open the gap.</p><p>I mentioned that I had suffered a catastrophic pogie failure back at the start. For the last 30 minutes the partially attached pogie had been flapping against my left hand, but I couldn't afford to stop and remedy the situation. It was becoming clear, however, that the situation had ripened from an annoying distraction to a life-threatening predicament. Because of a genetic abnormality (self-diagnosed, but nonetheless completely not made-up), my skin lacks the polyproline IIIa collagen necessary to fend off minor abrasions and irritations. I'm a very sensitive fellow. In the absence of any more estimable character traits, my cruel high school classmates voted me Most Likely to Chafe. Over the years I've been referred to a succession of specialists, all of whom strongly advised that I avoid any leisure activity that involved repetitive motions while clad in neoprene. That kind of thing wasn't really my groove anyway, so I got into paddling. Despite applying ample space-age lubricant, I've grown accustomed to the angry abrasions that circle my waist during the paddling season. I'm happy to endure second-degree chafing over 30% of my body to secure a podium finish, but I was pretty sure that I could now see bone where the flopping pogie had rubbed the skin off my thumb.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k0Eb5TF92YI/YHjQPDbxELI/AAAAAAAAlBI/GFsDVoNKVggVfW37BhzypLk5kEul7YyZACNcBGAsYHQ/s640/nrr01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k0Eb5TF92YI/YHjQPDbxELI/AAAAAAAAlBI/GFsDVoNKVggVfW37BhzypLk5kEul7YyZACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/nrr01.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Off the course... nicest guy you could meet. On the course... diabolical supervillain. Cool costume, though. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Having put some distance on Chris, I decided to risk a quick stop to salvage enough dermis to accept a graft (donations welcome). I figured that removing the pogie entirely would be quicker than reattaching the loose side, but I hadn't anticipated that the remaining velcro would have the cohesive strength of welded steel. Twenty-some minutes later, I managed to detach the cursed thing and fling it disgustedly in my footwell. My lead on Chris had been reduced to a dozen lengths, but at least I'd managed to save my fourth most cherished extremity (list available upon request).</p><p>Progress downriver continued at a reasonable pace until I approached the launch area, where the river straightens and widens into a marshy stretch. This revealed the extent to which the winding river had been protecting us from the growing southerly breeze. More critically, however, with an expansive floodplain to enjoy, the water abandoned the constrictions of a navigable channel and kicked back in the shallows. Knowing the suck water was coming, I braced for the sudden deceleration, making sure both knees were slightly bent to better absorb the impact. Physically, I suffered only a mild case of whiplash and a couple of lost fillings. But how does one measure the toll on the spirit?</p><p>I had suddenly lost about 15% of my former speed. My energy and morale reserves were bottoming out (which was also a constant threat to my ski), but I eventually made it to the downstream turn. Nearby, a couple of fisherman were standing in holes they had dug in the riverbed to try out their waders. One needlessly apologized for casting in my general vicinity. Given that he wouldn't be able to unsee the horror of my cross-current turn, I assured him that he was more sinned against than sinning.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0J0EaPZcO4o/YHmlbvyOwXI/AAAAAAAAlCs/eyMEC_VuMvILCcHutQuP41BqIZAkfsHFACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0J0EaPZcO4o/YHmlbvyOwXI/AAAAAAAAlCs/eyMEC_VuMvILCcHutQuP41BqIZAkfsHFACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h428/nrr12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even after we explained the paradox to him, Bob insisted on trying to get a shot of himself finishing.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m5ATcQcN84U/YHmjMFe-IoI/AAAAAAAAlCk/vGJ5rpJT-n41YXBUNY38VTZ8lbySzzQFwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="429" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m5ATcQcN84U/YHmjMFe-IoI/AAAAAAAAlCk/vGJ5rpJT-n41YXBUNY38VTZ8lbySzzQFwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h429/nrr11.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clad completely in unbreathable fabric, Dave had limited options for shedding excess heat.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>For the final mile back to the finish, I waited in vain for some help from what was now a stiffening tailwind. The relentless pull from the shallows was trumping any assistance from wind or current. Not until the final quarter mile was I able to loosen the shackles enough to exceed "brisk walk" pace. Although it was impossible to measure exactly how much earlier Mike had finished due to his warping of the space-time continuum, my best guess is that he was 5 minutes or so ahead - just off the course record he had set back in the fall. Gold at last for Mike! Chris C finished roughly a minute behind me, with John, Chris Q, Mark, and Tim following over the next few minutes. First-timer Loukia broke her winless streak as the first female finisher, with Mary Beth taking second.</p><p>Since our normal post-race venue wasn't open for outdoor dining, we contented ourselves with hobnobbing in the parking lot. At least until the vice squad showed up to break up the depravity. Thanks to Tim for hosting another fine day on the water.</p><p>In a normal year, the <a href="https://www.crwa.org/run-of-the-charles.html">Run of the Charles</a> and the <a href="https://www.capeannrowingclub.com/race-information-essex-river">Essex River Race</a> would be next on our agendas. Due to COVID, however, the former is being run as a virtual race, while the latter has been shifted to early October. The vacuum left by these changes has sucked Tim's <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/BattleoftheBay2021">Battle of the Bay</a> from mid-summer to mid-spring. The race will be held on May 15 at its new (as of 2020) Goat Island home. Register at PaddleGuru.</p></div>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-64959606989955885382020-11-09T09:11:00.002-05:002023-04-10T00:43:05.160-04:00Narrow River Race: New Order<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZupLqrYPcZ4/X6bWs1N2YEI/AAAAAAAAkTM/GsVJf_H08pUPey4kYvUZtBtP8ApiqIvTgCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr07.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1146" data-original-width="1600" height="458" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZupLqrYPcZ4/X6bWs1N2YEI/AAAAAAAAkTM/GsVJf_H08pUPey4kYvUZtBtP8ApiqIvTgCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h458/nrr07.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>The Narrow River Race typically serves as a gentle introduction to the New England racing season - a controlled opportunity for us to get our feet wet. Indeed, the winding tidal estuary is so shallow that it'd be impossible to get any other part of your body wet without lying down and rolling in it. But as if in fulfillment of some arcane prophecy ("That which was first shall be last..."), this year's race was mystically displaced from early April to Halloween. I suspect that co-directors Tim and Wesley are responsible, but for liability reasons, they deny all involvement.</p>
<p>On the eve of the race, Rhode Island's governor slashed the state's outdoor gathering threshold from 15 to 10 - mostly in response to complaints about rowdy surfski gangs ("fetid hooligans" in the press release) terrorizing local boaters. Wesley scrambled to cull the field, deftly finding volunteers willing to sit this one out in lieu of "future considerations". The more canny ex-participants, realizing they had some leverage, managed to extract more concrete guarantees. So we can expect (for example) to see Dave Thomas pipping Tim at the line to take bronze in next year's Ride the Bull. Congrats on that podium finish, Dave!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iHWBC9scidE/X6bOjbCcf0I/AAAAAAAAkSk/fEivyD98Z98-rtg43CdTKYH76tWi54N-ACNcBGAsYHQ/s1842/nrr03.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1842" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iHWBC9scidE/X6bOjbCcf0I/AAAAAAAAkSk/fEivyD98Z98-rtg43CdTKYH76tWi54N-ACNcBGAsYHQ/w556-h640/nrr03.jpg" width="556" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Running on a tight schedule, Wesley came directly from his town crier gig.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>As an aging competitor, I must rely more upon wits than vigor to have any hope of restoring the vibrant hues of my faded glory. Quibblers will point out that - at best - I peaked at mauve. Even so, to certain species of bees I was dazzling to behold! In any event, a key strength these days is a network of informants who keep me apprised of the latest paddling scuttlebutt. Since late spring, alarming reports about Mike Florio's training had been flowing in from my snitches, filled with adjectives like "hell-bent", "maniacal", and "chiseled". Results from virtual races during the summer revealed that his work ethic was paying handsome dividends. Although we've had quite a few close races, I've always managed to finish ahead of Mike. Like any self-respecting coward, I naturally prayed that I'd be able to avoid in-person confrontations this season. Mike could beat me from here to next Thursday in theory, but nobody will remember hypotheticals when they're poring through results 100 years from now. </p><p>With all the shoulder season flatwater races cancelled, it looked like I might slip through the year without losing to Mike - open water isn't exactly his kryptonite, but when he wants to temporarily feel like a human, that's where he heads. The announcement that the Narrow River Race would be rescheduled for October therefore came as quite a blow. Fortunately, it came early enough for me to ramp up my training. Each day I would stretch Mike's imagined victory gap a littler further, thereby gradually extending my tolerance for obsolescence. With any luck, this enhanced flexibility would prevent my ego from snapping on race day.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UHQ_Omk7Iy8/X6bPFUpLaRI/AAAAAAAAkSs/RX6cc7h6QUY3nRUBHc0t92hXHeh9fUP6ACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr02.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1180" data-original-width="1600" height="472" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UHQ_Omk7Iy8/X6bPFUpLaRI/AAAAAAAAkSs/RX6cc7h6QUY3nRUBHc0t92hXHeh9fUP6ACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h472/nrr02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As Tim reviews the race rules, non-partisan observer Sam monitors for inconsistencies, misconduct, and improprieties. Look for his multi-volume report soon.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The 8 mile course was familiar. We'd head up the Narrow River for 3 miles, reverse back down a mile past the launch, then turn and finish back at the start. The downstream turn would be around a buoy, but the upstream turn would be at a rowing club dock. With a particularly high tide, most of the course would remain moist enough to qualify as liquid. Although we had received 6 inches of snow the previous day at home north of Boston, we'd be racing under sunny Rhode Island skies with temperatures in the 40s.</p><p>After a cursory captain's meeting ("Everyone cool? Cool."), we hit the water and warmed up. My only real chance at beating Mike was to latch onto his wash and hope he snapped a rudder cable just before the finish. I hoped to use Chris Chappell's typical explosive start to launch myself into Mike's orbit. I'd hitch a ride with Chris until this first stage ran out of propellant, then switch neatly over to Mike as he rocketed by. Wesley counted our intimate group down to the start and we were off. Before I managed to finish my first stroke, Chris had already thrown cold water on my ambitious drafting plans. I had neglected to observe the clearly marked "Blast Zone" demarcations and thus found myself immersed in Chris' waste-water torrent. Sputtering under this chilly dose of disdain, I watched helplessly as my booster pulled away without me. On the far left of the line, Mike had also got out to a strong start. I briefly jockeyed with Wesley and Jerry Madore before breaking free to pursue the leaders.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-skcQD5LxlFI/X6bR7tv9_oI/AAAAAAAAkS4/vIHJm1gXi7wDmGFvklpwxuZraGMPkl2oACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr06.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1191" data-original-width="1600" height="477" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-skcQD5LxlFI/X6bR7tv9_oI/AAAAAAAAkS4/vIHJm1gXi7wDmGFvklpwxuZraGMPkl2oACNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h477/nrr06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike enjoys a last moment of his innate pre-race humility, knowing he must soon adopt the haughty arrogance we expect from a dominant champion. Don't let us down, Mike!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>It looked like Chris might grab onto Mike as their paths converged, but years of lifeguarding had left the latter with a permanent sheen of glistening sunscreen - the guy is as slippery as a greased eel. Chris lunged at his wash, but came up empty handed. I needed to generate a revised action plan. I can usually think quickly on my feet, but that seemed inadvisable in the V14. The best I could come up with from the safety of the bucket was to catch Chris and then work together to reel in the rapidly receding upstart. It took a half mile to accomplish the first part of the strategy, the effort of which made me abandon the second part as a foolish fantasy. Mike had already left the stratosphere. I settled in behind Chris as we wended our way upstream. </p><p>Entering the lake-like section of the course where the Narrow River isn't, I finally pulled even with Chris and prepared to drop him. We'd had a good thing - perhaps a bit one-sided, sure - but it was time to move on. I planned on letting him down easy - you know, "It's not you, it's me." and "I need some time off to work on myself." I didn't have the guts (or balance) to look him in the face while I delivered my spiel, but I said my piece and ramped up the effort. Although he didn't reply vocally, Chris' actions categorically stated that no, we were going to remain joined at the gunnel until <i>he </i>decided otherwise. Although he appeared to have reality bolstering his argument, let's just say we agreed to disagree about our continued relationship.</p><p>Last year I miscalculated my arcing approach, botching the turn so badly that a drafting Chris Q nearly went down in the Narrow River annals as its first-ever maritime disaster. Quinn was too polite to remind me of my role in the near-catastrophe before the race, but at the starting line I couldn't help but notice the crude repair of the divot in his V12's bow - a silent rebuke to my incompetence. Wary that a repeat performance - even with a different Chris - might lead to a post-race censure and/or beating, I made sure to adopt a different approach trajectory from this year's draft companion. The result was that Chris and I spirographed radically different loops by the dock. My radius setting was miscalibrated, however, which put me back several lengths once we were both pointing back downstream. I saw Chris Q and Tim dueling it out heading towards the turn, perhaps two minutes behind us.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sSktkyd-Vfc/X6bSrcbrTdI/AAAAAAAAkTA/qnQIQ2BMt5gq8jdD6cvybpyaocMDvZcrwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1200/nrr05.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="867" data-original-width="1200" height="462" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sSktkyd-Vfc/X6bSrcbrTdI/AAAAAAAAkTA/qnQIQ2BMt5gq8jdD6cvybpyaocMDvZcrwCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h462/nrr05.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had ample opportunities to hone my lurking skills. (Photo courtesy of Jan Lupinski)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I caught back up to Chris about halfway down the lake, settling in on his side wash after an anemic attempt to muscle past him. I'd spend the next 3 miles yo-yoing between side and rear drafts, spiced with a couple brief periods of panic falling off the back. Readers with a delicate sense of justice (and smell) may be picking up the distinct scent of weasel emerging from the page. Combining the upriver and downriver legs, I've <i>admitted </i>to spending at least 4 miles on Chris' draft, while <i>claiming </i>I pulled him for a mile. But given an allegiance to the truth generously categorized as "casual", it's probably safe to assume that even these values were fudged to make me look less parasitic. In my defense, I made a couple of disingenuous efforts to take a turn in the lead - in much the same way a post-dinner Thanksgiving guest might offer to help with the dishes while lowering himself into the recliner, unbuttoning his pants, and strapping on a sleep mask. Perhaps sensing my need for a nap, Chris graciously declined my proposals.</p><p>As the end of race drew close, my conscience started to kick in. Did I really want to be the bloodsucker who drafts off some unwitting host for the whole race and then darts ahead in the final 100 meters? I plumbed the depths of my soul for an answer. Fortunately, the oily waters therein were as shallow as the Narrow River, so I quickly found the response. Wasn't even fully submerged. Yes! I definitely wanted to be that guy! Lesher. Leecher. I was born for it! There was only one problem. I lack the fast-twitch power to execute such a gloriously underhanded plan. Even fatigued from all the heavy lifting he'd been doing, Chris would swat away any last-second challenge I could muster. I'd have to settle for the (marginally) less ethically dubious approach of making my move with a mile or so left.</p>
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<p>The downriver turn seemed the ideal place to repay Chris' magnanimity with treachery. I hadn't inspired confidence in my turning ability at the upriver turn, which perhaps lulled my competitor into a false sense of security approaching the buoy. Chris went slightly too deep on the turn, allowing me to carve a path inside of him and seize the lead. Lest you get some romantic NASCAR vision of this maneuver, what it really looked like was two blokes of advanced years, balanced precariously on 20 foot boats crosswise to the current, desperately flailing on one side to get their noses pointed upstream while keeping their bodies pointed above stream. Since I emerged first from this exercise, I guess Tom Cruise will get to play me in the movie.</p><p>After our comical phase of blunders (groan through the pain), I held perhaps a three boat lead on Chris. After being ferried along for so much of the race, you might imagine that I'd have a virtually untapped store of energy to propel me through the final mile. But the truth is that even while drafting, I had been hurting. In the final stretch, I tried to concentrate on form to compensate for waning strength and stamina, but I think most of my rotation came from craning around to see if Chris was gaining. Despite a dreadful case of noodle arms, I seemed to be maintaining my lead. Presumably Chris was suffering too, and with better justification.</p><p>I must have blacked out for a while, because my next memory is gnawing on a banana next to my car with Chris congratulating me - sarcastically, I imagine - for a race well run. We agreed that without spurring one another on, Mike would have had an even more dominating performance. As it was, he finished more than 5 and a half minutes ahead of us, covering the 7.98 miles of the course in 1:01:12. That's an average of 7.82 mph - on a roundtrip course that includes shallow suck-water, fickle currents, and two 180 degree turns. For perspective, that breaks Borys Markin's Narrow River record for pace. We better keep an eye on this fledgling. Or at least on the blur we suspect may be him.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oxSg0Z780J0/X6bN-kI-CQI/AAAAAAAAkSc/vYAAmNvKb5M0OND1QqW-urP2CF9s2duqQCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/nrr04.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1249" data-original-width="1600" height="500" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oxSg0Z780J0/X6bN-kI-CQI/AAAAAAAAkSc/vYAAmNvKb5M0OND1QqW-urP2CF9s2duqQCNcBGAsYHQ/w640-h500/nrr04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For glory, honor, and - most importantly - that extra SSR series point.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Mary Beth and Igor Yeremeev gave us the best finish of the season. Although Igor appeared to have their head-to-head race locked up with less than a mile to go, he unwisely chose the optional portage route, setting up a quarter-mile drag race to the line. On the shore, I crouched to get a water-level view of the finish as other spectators cheered on the duo. I'm proud to say that I didn't let my deep affection for Igor cloud my judgment - Mary Beth literally inched out the victory, taking the women's crown in the process.</p><p>Well, that's it for the 2020 season. My deepest thanks to Wesley and Tim, without whom the last race of 2019 would have been it for the 2020 season. With any luck, we'll see everyone for the second match of the Narrow River double-header in April.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-64916197009912631172020-09-23T17:39:00.001-04:002020-09-23T18:09:01.117-04:00Sakonnet Race: A Turn for the Worse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've had enough. I'm tired of constantly explaining that the Sakonnet
River Race takes place in the ocean. One year I had T-shirts printed up
that said "The Sakonnet River Isn't", but this might have been too subtle -
people kept spinning me around by my shoulders to read the rest on the
back. Taking a page from forward-thinking sportswriters (and now the
organization itself) who took to referring to the NFL franchise as the
"Washington Football Team", I'll henceforth be conscientiously omitting the
offensive R-word nickname from references to the Sakonnet Race. It
strikes me that by creating a goofy analogy to a serious social issue, I might
myself be guilty of gross insensitivity. Better hold off on that new
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Since its 2008 inception, the Sakonnet Race has started at McCorrie
Point. Plagued by inconsiderate out-of-town visitors to that beach,
locals successfully petitioned the municipality to limit parking to residents
only starting this year. Wesley was among the group wanting to limit
access to his back yard launch - I'm guessing he was getting tired of the
horde of fishermen taking bets on whether they could snag his boat as he
paddled by. By shutting down the beach to non-residents, however, he had
successfully hoisted himself (and the race) with his own petard. He's
been experimenting with exotic new safety leash systems this season, so I
can't say I'm that surprised at this mishap. At least until he can get a
waiver for the rule he himself had championed (wait... where have I heard that
recently?), we'll be running an alternative course for the race.
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For 2020, the start would be from Island Park Beach, located at the north end
of the bay. We'd proceed 4.6 miles out of the bay along its western
shore, casting wistful glances at McCorrie Point roughly 3 miles into the trip
(with the fishermen likely casting lead right back). We'd then turn on a
"No Wake" buoy near Sandy Point and head back to the start. With a
steady 15 mph wind from the north, the initial downwind leg would pass in a
flash, while the return trip would, by my watch, still be underway now.
We'd actually covered the same water in two weather-adjusted previous Sakonnet
races, but by starting at McCorrie rather than at an endpoint, the upwind slog
was split into two more manageable segments separated by a long downwind
leg. This year there was no installment plan - the bill would have to be
paid in one lump sum.
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Responses to Wesley's captain's meeting ran the gamut from nausea to
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Dave chose to be in my photo rather than Gavin's, but clearly had some
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At the end of August, some higher-up in the Meteorology Department had
"accidentally" flipped his calendar directly to October to get to that
adorable photo of otters having a tea party (to be fair, September's road-kill
possum tableau <i>was </i>a real downer). As a result, after
strapping the boats on the car we had to swing by the emergency room so that I
could have a couple of frost-bitten fingers amputated. Don't worry - it
wasn't the best ones. The Doctor (if that was even his real name)
expressed some doubt that 42 degrees was sufficient to do lasting tissue
damage, but I told him to shut up and keep sawing.
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By the time we reached Island Park Beach, the temperature had increased enough
that I could finally move again, although most of that movement was confined
to uncontrollable shivering. Jim Hoffman asked if I wanted to borrow
some warmer clothes, but he was unable to discern if I was shaking no or
nodding yes. When he graciously repeated the offer after the race, I got
wise and blinked once for yes. As we all know, Jim was inadvertently
dropped into a vat of Human Growth Hormone as an infant, after which a
well-meaning lab technician popped him into the gamma-wave chamber to dry him
off. That's why he has to buy all his clothes from Linebackers-R-Us and
can melt titanium with his thoughts (oddly enough, <i>only </i>titanium - so
unless you have an artificial hip, you're probably safe). I was grateful
for the loaner fleece, but had to keep the hood up over my head to prevent my
shoulders from sliding through the neck hole.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
With Rhode Island restricting outdoor gatherings to 15 people, we had a cozier
than normal crew for the Sakonnet Race. In addition to a nice sampling of
regulars from Greater New England, we had a delightful smattering of
irregulars from regions beyond - John Costello (NJ), Melinda Schlehlein (NJ),
and John Redos (PA). Given that conditions would vary so much during the
race, it was tough to handicap the field. I had a particular respect for
Tim Dwyer, though. He's had a solid season, sure, but more importantly,
he's consistently exhibited an almost pathological lack of concern for
paddlers in distress - a critical component to success when you're in a race
in which some poor sap is likely to be floundering beside my, er, his
boat. For months after the 2018 Gorge Downwind Champs, I'd awake
screaming "Tim! For Pity's sake, don't leave me, Tim!"
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Color-coordinated. Fashion-forward. Bad-ass.
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<td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">None of the above.</td>
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Once Wesley had gathered us around and sworn us in as deputies (I assume - I
was fiddling with my hydration system during the meeting), we hit the water
and lined up for the start. I would have put my money on Chris Chappell
to jump out to an early lead, but even at very generous odds, nobody is taking
that bet anymore. Tim and Wesley had fine starts in direct pursuit of
Chris, with John moving swiftly from the right of the line. I had a
decent enough start to merit some back-handed compliments from the field as I
pulled even with the leaders. As I recall, something vaguely like "Tim,
will you check me for weeds? Because there's no other way Listless
Lesher could have already caught me." Now that I see it verbatim in
writing, seems more like a fore-handed insult. In any event, I showed
those guys by inching forward at an almost imperceptible rate.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
As we moved further from the lee of the shore, the conditions gradually
transitioned from flat to rideable waves. To reach that state of
downwind maturity, however, you had to make it through that awkward adolescent
period where you bumble through waves that somehow aren't big enough to push
you along, but are substantial enough to be difficult to get over. At
1.75 miles, my GPS track show an almost instantaneous increase of a half mile
an hour in speed as the waves finally fleshed out. They'd continue to
evolve for the remaining trip to the turn-around, although based on post-race
reports from my competitors, I may have stunted their development by taking an
inside line that needlessly limited nourishment from both wind and tide.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
Even though Wesley had thoughtfully sent us photos of the turn-around buoy
taken from Sandy Point beach, I had trouble locating the scamp from the
water. My inside line had left me unexpectedly shoreward of the
buoy. I was just preparing myself for a peek-a-boo search through a
small field of moored boats when I spotted the marker 100 meters off my port
quarter. I wheeled my V10 through a graceless arc towards the turn,
noting with some alarm that the beam traversal was quite lively. The
first half of the race had left me giddy with glee, but the incoming waves
quickly slapped the grin off of my face. Just a moment after I had
managed to turn back fully into the wind and round the buoy, an exuberant Tim
came sailing by on the last run of his downwind leg. Despite having only
been thrust into an epoch of unrelenting toil about 20 seconds ago, I was
already pining for that bygone era of untroubled surfing joy.
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The first half-mile back towards the start was a sobering exercise in growing
dread. Having perhaps put a little too much gusto into the previous 35
minutes, I was now getting man-handled by the conditions. My majestic
plunges while running with the waves had been replaced by a series of
semi-controlled flops over an endless series of jagged crests. Another
4.5 miles of this would be intolerable. For the first time ever, I felt like
my damnable GPS had taken pity on me and was
actually <i>exaggerating </i>my speed to boost my spirits. A
nice gesture, sure, but may I suggest picking a number larger than 4.4 next
time? Fortunately, as I moved more into the lee of McCorrie Point, the
violent see-sawing abated enough that I could break the mystical 5 mph
barrier.
</div>
<div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
I was initially concerned that Tim's superior rough water abilities would
allow him to close the meager gap that I had established in the downwind
leg, but as conditions flattened into more of an upwind grind, my baseless
(wait... what?) confidence that I'd persevere grew. Just about the
time I had reached "cocksure" levels of arrogance, I happened to glance
shoreward. If it hadn't been for the neon yellow stickers on Tim's
deck, I never would have spotted his shadowy, slinking profile. But
there he was, dead even on an inside line. I responded to this
horrific discovery with characteristic aplomb, limiting myself to only two
or three shrill shrieks of panicked terror and resisting the powerful urge
to activate my emergency locator beacon. Of course, I had no such
control over my involuntary physiological response to the shock. I
won't get into details, but let's just say that had I been a sea cucumber, I
definitely would have regurgitated my intestines.
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Following (as it were) a deep-rooted tradition, Melinda wandered
significantly off course to establish her pedigree as a true-blue
surfski racer.<br />
</td>
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Once I had composed myself and cleaned out my bucket, I took stock of the
situation. Tim had made up perhaps 30 seconds in the last 25 minutes,
with at least that much time again left in the race. My guess was that
at least some of his edge over me was related to his inside line - he was
probably getting some modest relief from the wind and tide. But
eventually he'd have to abandon this protection and angle out to the more
central finish. With my more direct outer line, I reasoned that if I
could just keep even with him until he started his cut away from shore, that
extra paddling distance would be my cushion of victory. I soon
wondered if I'd have enough of a buffer to afford a quick swim.
Keeping tabs on Tim by frequently scanning the shoreline over my left
shoulder wasn't helping my stability any.
</div>
<div><br /></div>
<div>
My sophisticated strategy (that is, paddling in a straight line toward the
finish) appeared to be working. Tim didn't seem to be moving ahead of
me appreciably. With a half-mile left in the race, I abandoned my
surveillance routine, put my head down, and dashed pell-mell for the
finish. My GPS had returned to its habitual deviousness by this point,
preposterously insisting that my final sprint topped out at 6.2 mph. I
scarcely had time to mute its mocking laughter (am I ever sorry I opted for
the Motivation Package) before Tim rolled in behind me - only 30 seconds
back. A hard-charging John took third less than a minute later.
Wesley and Jim rounded out the top five. In the women's race, Mary
Beth took the gold, Jean the silver, and Melinda the bronze (and a special
commendation for scouting out previously unexplored regions of the
Sakonnet). Everyone agreed that although the downwind portion of the
race was great fun, we're still gonna get Wesley some day for that grueling
upwind slog. Sleep with one eye open and your PFD on, buddy.
</div>
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The closing ceremonies were quite moving.<br />
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We're nearing the end of our abbreviated ocean season. The last
open-water competition is the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 17.
Register early at
<a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/PlumBeachLighthouseRace2020"
>PaddleGuru</a
> to assure yourself a spot. And don't forget to bring your Rhode
Island Ski Season punch card - four races and your social distance requirement
will be reduced from six feet to five feet! That may not sound like much
of an improvement, but at least it puts your enemies within hockey stick
distance.
</div>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-69895306860744276882020-08-14T09:57:00.002-04:002020-08-14T09:57:39.075-04:00Jamestown Double Beaver: Overjoyed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-riUaD_1vylA/XzaKSVBmgJI/AAAAAAAAjnU/WCnlNr8M5hMXY2hgJu2EJiKzQadGUM2wACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/jdb01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1077" data-original-width="1600" height="430" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-riUaD_1vylA/XzaKSVBmgJI/AAAAAAAAjnU/WCnlNr8M5hMXY2hgJu2EJiKzQadGUM2wACNcBGAsYHQ/s640/jdb01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The Jamestown Double Beaver is the longest-running surfski race in New England, with several competitors from the 2013 event still trying to get back to shore. For the 13th consecutive year, race organizer Tim Dwyer scrambled to the top of Beavertail Lighthouse, raised a conch to his lips, and issued the mighty blast that call forth paddlers from across the land. I told him just to use Facebook, but you know Tim - not the best guy with technology.<br />
<br />
Although the field was intimate (at 10 paddlers), it felt top-heavy. Looking to parlay his Ride the Bull humiliation (of everyone else) into a deeper annihilation of the locals' self-confidence, Ed Joy was back in town. Jan Lupinski was making his first appearance of the season, although commuting bi-weekly to Portugal has really interfered with his training schedule. We'd also be joined by recent NJ immigrant Andrii Monastyrskyi. It's been over five years since we put in our application for an international-caliber Ukrainian sprinter to replace Borys Markin, but our patience finally paid off. Given that our region is considered a paddling backwater by Eastern Europeans, I was afraid they might send us a dilapidated old hand-me-down, but based on his youth and carved-from-marble torso, I think we got the real deal. The only question was how quickly he could adapt to ocean paddling.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wHYwYKztduE/XzaKS_ASrnI/AAAAAAAAjng/hQz72dKjTeEyX9FgvUizJf3tfhdUVOE8gCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/jdb04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1106" data-original-width="1600" height="442" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wHYwYKztduE/XzaKS_ASrnI/AAAAAAAAjng/hQz72dKjTeEyX9FgvUizJf3tfhdUVOE8gCNcBGAsYHQ/s640/jdb04.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim insisted on continuing to refer to us a "throng", but eventually conceded that he get could get by without his megaphone.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We'd paddle the semi-standard course. Starting from the Conanicut Yacht Club dock, we'd proceed across Jamestown Harbor to the House on the Rock, then round Bull Point and head across open water to the Beavertail Point bell buoy. Observant racers will note the tell-tale scrapes in the buoy paint where paddlers from tempestuous past years desperately tried to claw their way onto the heaving structure after abandoning their shattered skis. With only a light zephyr forecast for this year, however, we expected that the majority of the field would be able to retrace their 5 mile path back to the Yacht Club, fingernails intact.<br />
<br />
Since we have a vested interest in being seen on the water, we're seldom accused of dressing inconspicuously. Some have argued that this just makes us easier targets for boaters, but at least it also facilitates recovery of the bodies. At this race, Wesley pretty much guaranteed that he'd never be "presumed lost". He was debuting his experimental Dazzler<span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 15.4px;">â„¢</span> high-visibility ensemble - orange boat, fluorescent yellow shirt/hat combo, and blazing orange PFD. Those of us who accidentally looked directly at him are still haunted by Echols after-images when we close our eyes. He may have gone too far, though - the Coast Guard repeatedly swarmed him mid-race in response to "flare fired" reports over VHF.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0kD6vhT_yuc/XzaKSd6Q_PI/AAAAAAAAjnc/3pSlS1CHrDoG9b7rA3DClMfgT6GZk0C0ACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/jdb03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1047" data-original-width="1600" height="418" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0kD6vhT_yuc/XzaKSd6Q_PI/AAAAAAAAjnc/3pSlS1CHrDoG9b7rA3DClMfgT6GZk0C0ACNcBGAsYHQ/s640/jdb03.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luckily, I still had the camera filter I bought for that solar eclipse a few years back.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once we had assembled off the dock, Tim gave us a one minute warning, impatiently shaved off a few seconds, and sent us on our way. We got off to a typical Jamestown start - weaving through moored boats while discovering (inevitably at the last moment) that about a quarter of those boats aren't actually moored, but are instead slowly prowling the harbor in search of kayaks to yell at while shaking their fists menacingly. Ed and Andrii took an immediate lead, with Tim, Jan, Wesley and me in the second wave. As I was trying to pass him, Tim stuck stubbornly on my side wash. After several attempts, I finally managed to dislodge the pesky barnacle, but knew from the last couple of races that I'd need to keep careful track of the ol' crustacean.<br />
<br />
Ed was pulling Andrii across the harbor several lengths ahead, both paddling with frustratingly calm and measured cadences. With decidedly less composure, I windmilled desperately in an attempt to join the leaders. In retrospect, it's hard to believe I couldn't have dug just a <i>little </i>deeper to close the gap, but after the race I found a hastily scribbled note in my PFD pocket that read "Dear Future Self. Bite me." So maybe I had already bottomed out. In any event, I managed to make it to the House on the Rock without falling any further back. Unhappy with the status quo, I decided to mix things up... by gradually letting the leaders slip away. By the time we cleared the headlands of Fort Wetherill, I was perhaps a dozen boat lengths behind the lead pair.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--AB_Njdz3Co/XzaKScCnsuI/AAAAAAAAjnY/x_X21bwPOOAMKBpr1L6y2be5H3gUO8eCACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/jdb02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1145" data-original-width="1600" height="458" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--AB_Njdz3Co/XzaKScCnsuI/AAAAAAAAjnY/x_X21bwPOOAMKBpr1L6y2be5H3gUO8eCACNcBGAsYHQ/s640/jdb02.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The key to his success? Before each race, Ed always practices being alone out front.</td></tr>
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Despite the ravings of the malicious pranksters who convinced me otherwise before buying my Cinco, the difference in stability between an ICF sprint boat and an elite-level ski is dramatic. Equivalent to the difference between balancing on an elite-level ski and, say, a La-Z-Boy recliner. As we've seen in the past, however, the unpredictable ocean is the great leveler. It abhors a high center of mass. I have fond memories of flatwater stalwarts like Jan and Mike Dostal bobbing beside their boats in these very waters before getting their ski legs. Andrii's ocean experience can be counted in days, and here he was braving the wake-chopped waters in a V14 - by many accounts, the highest numbered Epic ski available. And also quite tippy. I had hoped that instability would counterbalance his natural abilities. As we moved into less protected waters, however, I realized this was a pipe dream. At times I noticed a certain tentativeness, but Andrii never seemed in danger of toppling.<br />
<br />
While Ed and Andrii took an inside line towards Beavertail Light, I hoped to find more favorable conditions on an outside line. As experienced open-water racers will attest, the more lateral distance there is between you and your competitors, the smaller their lead appears. Having few scruples, I figured I could exploit this trick of perspective to catch (nay, overtake!) Ed and Andrii. Sure enough, the gap between us evaporated as I continued to angle out further and further into the mouth of Narragansett Bay. I briefly considered moving so far out that they'd completely disappear from view, but some scruple residue prevented me from blinking them out of existence. Unfortunately, geometry required that we converge again to round the buoy. The pair angled out, I angled in, and my imaginary membership in the lead pack was revoked.<br />
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I had noticed before the race that Andrii was sportingly handicapping himself by using a surf rudder without a weed guard. Not only would this deadly combination slow him down, but like a machete-wielding guide in the jungle, he'd also clear the vegetation for those of us following in his path. If he also took out a few vipers or blood-thirsty monkeys in the process, so much the better. During my off-shore passage to the turn, I had noticed Andrii swerving suddenly to avoid islands of floating weeds and making frequent rudder-clearing stops when his evasive maneuvers came too late. This seemed to play a role in Ed breaking free around mile 3, and certainly was a key factor in my catching Andrii a mile later. I managed to hang in his general vicinity until we reached the buoy, but perhaps by retracing his defoliated steps, he seemed to have much better luck with weeds on the return trip. I understand that the rules committee is designing Andrii a pair of rake-like outriggers to even the field for his next race.<br />
<br />
Despite training almost exclusively on a mill pond in central New York this season, Ed has no peers when it comes to milking every drop of momentum out of the conditions. Sometimes I could swear he leaves a pool of lulled water in his wake, drained of its motive force. Combine this wave-reading ability with a level of fitness, stamina, and power that none of the other over-40s can match... well, that's what earned him the affectionate (but unwieldy) nickname of "Oh For Chrissake, Ed's Made the 5 Hour Drive Again". For most of us, there wasn't much to work with on an unnaturally calm day in Narragansett Bay. But Ed somehow found devious ways to keep his bow pointing down. He had an honest lead at the halfway point, but on the return leg he really exploited his foul necromancy.<br />
<br />
Seeing Tim and Jan after taking the turn, I estimated that they were around two minutes behind. I focused on keeping Andrii close enough that I could delude myself into thinking I was still <i>pursuing </i>him, as opposed to just <i>following </i>him. There was no serious hope of catching up, but perhaps this self-deception could keep me motivated enough to stay ahead of <i>my </i>pursuers. The delusion became increasingly difficult to maintain as Andrii progressed through the familiar blotch-splotch-chip-fleck-speck-dot-mote evolutionary sequence until inevitably disappearing altogether. When I finally reached the House on the Rock, even the memory of him was nothing but a fuzzy tickle. Of course, by this time all traces of... uh... that other guy... you'd know him... anyway, all traces of him had long-since faded from my brain. I was racing for gold! I put my head down, chose an arbitrary route through the impossible-to-gauge tidal eddies of Jamestown Harbor, and headed home.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMnOKNHsSlc/XzaKTG3qJtI/AAAAAAAAjno/YE-FpQ9HI6Y1SZIEHXImh2zlPwDVGwWoACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/jdb06.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="885" data-original-width="1600" height="354" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMnOKNHsSlc/XzaKTG3qJtI/AAAAAAAAjno/YE-FpQ9HI6Y1SZIEHXImh2zlPwDVGwWoACNcBGAsYHQ/s640/jdb06.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whaddya know? Tim was right. We <i>are </i>a throng.</td></tr>
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I saw a couple of random guys in skis paddling lazily away from the finish line as I approached for the win. Tim pulled in a few minutes after me for silver, with globe-trotting Jan taking bronze some moments later. Mary Beth was the women's champ. When I arrived back at the launch, I was flabbergasted to discover that my victory was being challenged. After the on-site hypnotist walked me through the repressed memories of ego-crushing emotional abuse by Ed and Andrii, however, I had little choice but to gracefully concede (while looking down, muttering under my breath, and kicking petulantly at the dirt - naturally). Ed had finished about a minute ahead of me, with Andrii close behind him. So that settles tha... OK, OK, you quack! Get that pocket watch away from me. Ed finished <i>six </i>minutes ahead of me, with Andrii two minutes behind him. Some experiences are are better left buried.<br />
<br />
Thanks to Tim for keeping the Double Beaver tradition going. Northeast paddlers have over a month retool their training plan before Wesley's Sakonnet River Race on September 19. Register at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/SakonnetRiverRace2020Rescheduled">PaddleGuru</a>.</div>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-41731765920509352582020-07-31T11:17:00.001-04:002020-07-31T11:58:10.604-04:00Battle of the Bay: The Other Half<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A key component of Rhode Island's virus mitigation plan has been restricting surfski races to one per month. The legislature was thrilled that in addition to drastically reducing COVID transmission, this mandate has resulted in improved water quality, 70% fewer stabbings, and the virtual eradication of chlamydia. For July, Tim Dwyer was cleared to run the Battle of the Bay. Traditionally, this race is held in conjunction with instructional sessions by a Rice brother. The opportunity to race against an international champion has always been a drawing carb (I beg of you, don't judge me by my worst pun). For the first time ever, we'd have to soldier on without a top tier athlete. In fact, we'd forego the first six or seven tiers.<br />
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Since the last Battle of the Bay, Tim had inexplicably passed the rigorous screening required to live within the private community on Goat Island - just a stone's throw from downtown Newport. As could be read in the distrustful eyes of the other inhabitants, however, his acceptance among them was provisional at best. Lest any undesirable associates of Tim slip into the compound, racers were subjected to extraordinary security measures at the front gate. I couldn't argue with the logic behind the background check or extensive blood work, but was the hernia test really necessary? I'm pretty sure that itself a COVID transmission vector. Fortunately, the guard gave me a clean bill of health, stamped our papers, and ushered us into the inner sanctum.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim's all-garlic diet is tailor-made for social distancing.</td></tr>
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A solid crew of a dozen or so paddlers assembled at the gazebo on the southern tip of the island. I think. I've been practicing extreme social distancing and forgot my glasses, so from 60 feet away it was difficult to make out individuals. I spent a good twenty minutes talking with Jan Lupinski before realizing he was actually a fire hydrant. Jan had registered for the last two races, but "got up too late" to make either. Ever the softy, in actuality he probably just didn't have the stomach to bear my sobbing lamentations from behind him. I expected my toughest competition would come from Tim and Kurt Hatem. Tim had finished barely a half minute behind me at our only other race this season. And as race chairman, he might well wield his absolute authority to assess arbitrary time penalties, capriciously DQ paddlers, or have rivals keel-hauled. I wasn't sure of Kurt's fitness level, at least until he paddled nonchalantly into the venue from some undisclosed location over the horizon. If nothing else, his mind game was impeccable.<br />
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We'd be paddling a two-lap triangular course totaling 6.1 miles. This would be the sixth new course in the 7 year history of the race - sixth-and-a-half if you count Jan's free-form route improvisation from 2016 (taking Newport's rich jazz history to heart, evidently). From the southern tip of Goat Island, we'd head northwest to bell buoy R12, where we'd turn east and head to the northern tip of Goat Island, finishing the lap by passing through the GI Tract (as the inner harbor is called, or at least, should be). With a light breeze forecast, the only significant waves we'd likely see would be from boats. Of course, given Narragansett maritime traffic, that's like telling someone there's no need to worry about killer bees... what with all the murder hornets around. We'd also need some luck to avoid those swarms of sailboats that spontaneously appear in flash mob regattas.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before every race Mary Beth and I like to get advice from our magic katydid, Cletus.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We told Tim that there was no need to set up accommodations for out-of-town paddlers, but he insisted that cashing in his 401k and selling a kidney was "no problem at all".</td></tr>
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After a brief captain's meeting, we assembled on the water, and Tim counted us down to an orderly start.<br />
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Like an airline pilot prepping for take-off, I go through a pre-race equipment checklist before throttling up. I can hear what you're thinking: "Then how come you always neglect to disengage the brakes first?" Funny. The brakes are off, smart ass, but you don't just drop the clutch on a finely calibrated transmission like this. Anyway, the list. Paddle at 214.5 cm and feathered to 60 degrees? Check. Footplate locked in place? Check. Pogies installed? Check (hmm... might need to make some seasonal list adjustments). Hydration system properly secured and positioned? Hold on, let me... 3 ... just ... 2 ... put ... 1 ... uh-oh ... Go! I'm not a big in-race drinker (which perhaps explains why the paramedics always have so much trouble finding a uncollapsed vein for the intravenous saline drip afterwards), but I like to take a few slugs before getting started. If the water tube isn't readily available during the race, that's acceptable. Not acceptable - a loose tube draped over my upper arm where every stroke sends it flying through a jaunty arc. Although it would occasionally settle into a semi-stable position over my shoulder, the flapping tube was a repeated source of irritation. It does liven up my GoPro video a little, I'll admit.</div>
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I got off to a good start, managing to keep Tim, Wesley, and Kurt abeam - as long as we stretch the definition to include even the minutest degree of overlap. Plus maybe a few feet of gimme. By halfway through the first leg, I had pulled into a tenuous lead. As expected, there was a fair amount of boat chop in the Bay. Occasionally a wake would line up in the direction you were heading, but roughly 90% of those potential rides would be contaminated by suspiciously coincidental counter-wakes. I don't yet have enough concrete evidence to bring a class action suit against the power boaters of Rhode Island, but all the signs point to vast conspiracy to piss me off. Huh. Now that I think about it, there seem to be an abundance of such malicious players in my life.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As a good will gesture, I like to position my hydration tube so that anyone passing can take a quick sip.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave and his boat were well-primed for the race. I can't wait to see the finished paint job.</td></tr>
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I reached the first turn at clanging R12 several lengths ahead of Tim, followed in turn by Wesley, Kurt, and Forrest Horton. I was pleasantly surprised to find a nice wave train heading my way back towards Goat Island, but quickly revised that opinion after discovering that I was being whisked along at all of 4 mph. The fickle tide (someone should really try to nail down a schedule) had established a field of standing waves between the buoy and nearby Rose Island. After a few moments of comical teetering, I managed to wallow myself out the other side and continue on back towards Newport.<br />
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Plunging into the north end of the GI Tract, I threw enough of a glance back to see that Tim and Kurt were in pursuit. Not right on my tail, but close enough to qualify as nettlesome. With the modest breeze now blocked by Goat Island, I realized just how warm the day was growing. I couldn't wait to be expelled out the bottom end of the Tract back into the open Bay. Starting the second lap, I was surprised at how much choppier it had gotten in the half-hour since the start. Apparently once word of a paddle race got out, the locals wasted no time in mobilizing every craft in the motor pool.<br />
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The course was liberally spattered with moored and docked mega-yachts. Despite his status as a recent immigrant to Newport, I assumed that Tim had applied his unique charms to provide us with access to these mobile comfort stations during the race. A few palms greased, some tactical flattery, and perhaps a dash of casual blackmail and <i>voila </i>- we've got a half-dozen convenient sites to grab Gatorade, replenish our caviar stocks, and set up offshore account (to hide our race earnings). There must have been some kind of misunderstanding, however, because when I tried to clamber onto the dive platform of one of the floating palaces for a quick pedicure, I was repeatedly beaten back by two nattily attired goons wielding riding crops. When I saw one of them grabbing for a polo mallet, I decided I could live with unkempt feet. Based on the fresh bouquet of orchids festooning Wesley's boat and Mary Beth's newly exfoliated skin after the race, it seems that other racers had better luck.<br />
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By the way, if Tim tries that greased palm trick with you, don't fall for it. He's just trying to throw off your stroke.<br />
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At the second turn on R12, I saw that Kurt had broken away from Tim and was perhaps a minute or so behind. Since our last visit, the tide had doubled down on the standing wave field. I staggered drunkenly through without losing a man, but the harrowing experience compelled me to add a "Not suitable for younger viewers" tag to my YouTube video. The remainder of the race was relatively uneventful, although by the end the pervasive smell of cooked flesh was making me ravenous. I finished about a minute and a half ahead of Kurt, with Tim seizing the final podium step 30 seconds later. Mary Beth took the women's crown (and sixth overall), with Robin Francis finishing second.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While Tim and Wesley laugh it up, Forrest quietly plots his revenge. (Photo courtesy of Igor Yeremeev)</td></tr>
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The new course was judged a worthy addition to the growing Battle of the Bay anthology, although that may just be the relaxing after-race bay-side gazebo-hang talking. Many thanks to Tim for welcoming us to his exclusive enclave.<br />
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Through some odd tidal anomaly, you'll find that if you launch your ski anywhere in northeast coastal waters, within a week it'll be sucked into Narragansett Bay. Since you'll be in Rhode Island anyway, why not race the Jamestown Double Beaver on August 8? Please preregister at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/JamestownDoubleBeaver2020">PaddleGuru</a> so that Tim knows how many personalized race bonnets to make. With the cancellation of the Nahant Bay Cup, this is the last ocean race in New England until late-September. With that in mind, Jan would appreciate it if everyone would give him a 3:30 a.m. wake-up call on the 8th.<br />
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Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-16488156316579457462020-06-26T16:35:00.001-04:002020-06-27T06:40:19.576-04:00Ride the Bull: Back At It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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While the rest of us have been comfortably lounging in our homes with nary a care, Wesley and Tim have been busy worrying about how to salvage the lucrative Rhode Island racing circuit without killing off their best customers. A plan to quarantine all paddlers at Wesley's house for the entire season was scrapped when we realized that youngster Sam Duffield would probably make us all listen to music made sometime after 1987. After some tense negotiations with the paddlers' union, an agreement was reached on an abbreviated five-race season with some minor schedule adjustments. Of course, appropriate social distancing protocols would also be in place, including a temporary ban on snuff and chaw. Looking on the bright side... we'll save a small fortune on spittoon rentals.<br />
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Usually by the time the Ride the Bull race rolls around, we've had a chance to gradually build up a tolerance for open-water ocean conditions. Starting with true flatwater venues (Narrow River and Run of the Charles), we progress through a slightly more temperamental estuary course (Essex River), and complete the acclimation process on a protected saltwater inlet (Sakonnet "River" - damn the name). All of these preliminary races were cancelled. Without our standard regimen of rough-water inoculations, we'd be thrown directly into the deep end without a net. Uh-oh. Similarly, without my warm-up race reports, there was no opportunity to work out the kinks in my metaphors.<br />
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The forecast was for excellent swimming weather. At race time, the wind would be around 15 mph from the SSW. Every motorized watercraft within a hundred mile radius had been requisitioned and duly scheduled for wake generation duty. The settings on the rocky shoreline were dialed up for maximum wave reflectivity. In 2019, Governor Raimondo mercifully stepped in to move the race further into Narragansett Bay, citing the cruel and unusual punishment that would be inflicted upon the field should the race be held in its normal region (the so-called "Carnage Zone"). Given my limited rough-water experience this season, I prayed in vain for a comparable last-minute pardon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John came prepared for almost any eventuality. It's just a shame he didn't have a chance to break out his beekeeping suit.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anxiety levels were a little lower than I anticipated. We ultimately had to poke several people awake with extended paddle jabs.</td></tr>
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Given the dearth of racing opportunities, RTB lured in an impressive set of paddlers from well outside New England. Ed Joy and John Hair drove in from Central New York, Eric Costanzo and Rob Jehn narrowly escaped from New Jersey, and Rick Carter pulled a trailer of boats up from South Carolina. This group was supplemented by a scruffy crew of suspicious locals, warily eyeing the exotic headdresses and gaudy pantaloons of the interlopers. Doubtless we were all thinking of the enigmatic prophecy that I had intoned a few minutes earlier while in a trance-like state: "Those bastards are going to take all our hardware."<br />
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As the paddlers trickled into the parking lot (understandably, we all wanted to avoid the virus-laden surfaces of the port-a-johns), some semblance of normalcy was restored to our quarantined lives. Our unpracticed social-distanced greetings were occasionally stilted and embarrassing (apparently wrapping your head and torso in a space blanket, dousing yourself with bleach, and chest bumping your buddies hasn't yet caught on), but everyone was excited to reconnect after the unnaturally extended off-season. Dr. Costanzo, straight from the front-lines of intensive COVID care was positively giddy at the prospect of socializing in a wholesome outdoors setting. Perhaps less so about being chased around the parking lot by a blind, silver-shrouded idiot.<br />
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Once the congregants had all arrived, Wesley convoked the captain's meeting and led us in a solemn prayer. Actually, he mainly just droned on about the race while <i>I</i> got in touch with my spiritual side - making binding contracts with various deities, saints, djinns, fiends, and saboteurs. Every one of them a charlatan, as it turns out. Just as well. I already had six or seven reverse mortgages out on my soul. The current RTB course has been tweaked to perfection over the past several years through a sadistic process of trial-and-terror. Starting from West Cove, we make our way upwind to Mackerel Cove, round a mooring buoy several hundred meters into that bay, and head out to channel buoy G7. From there we head less-than-more downwind past the House on the Rock to buoy G11, then back past West Cove for a second lap of the same course. As a final slap in the face, we then slog through a bonus leg directly back to G7, rounding that to finish back in our launch bay.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The course map does a pretty good job of weeding out color-blind paddlers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even after Wesley's detailed instructions, there was a fair amount of confusion about where exactly to go.</td></tr>
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While awaiting the start, I weighed my chances against the competition. Ed would undoubtedly thrive in the breezy conditions, having cut his teeth paddling in Hawaii. He didn't actually move to the Aloha State until middle age, by which time he already had realized considerable success in New England (as attested to by his 4 Blackburn titles). So I supposed it was more of a sharpening than a cutting. Rob and I had traded head-to-head wins in the Blackburn and L2L last year, but an unusual reverse anonymous tip from Craig Impens on Facebook alerted me that <i>somebody </i>was putting up gaudy training stats. Under intense grilling, Rob cracked and revealed that he could have been somebody. John has been participating in the same virtual race series as I have, putting up comparable times but in a slower boat. Jim Hoffman was always a threat in rough water, although social distancing had eliminated one of his key assets - the spine-cracking bear hug that he greets his rivals with. Chris Quinn wasn't actually present, but his last-minute appearance was as inevitable as his shirtlessness.<br />
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Anticipation grew to a frenzied peak as Wesley counted us down to the first start of the season. And then it waned as he was forced to scrub the launch at T-minus 15 seconds to accommodate Quinn and a couple of other stragglers. I took the opportunity to redistribute some combustible gases prior to the clock reset. Shortly thereafter we were streaking out of West Cove. I started to the left to avoid being squeezed against the rocky island at the entrance to the cove, which gave me an excellent view of the two-thirds of the field ahead of me at that turn. Smelling the podium from the get-go, Ed, Rob, and John seized immediate control of the race. Within the first quarter-mile, the radiant elites had already separated themselves from the squalid underclass (their term for us, I'm betting). Eric led that chase group, with Chris Q, Tim, Wesley, Jim, and me in active pursuit. By the time we had reached the entrance to Mackerel Cove, I had dropped the others and pulled within a couple lengths of Eric and Chris. Based on the gap the leaders had on us in the first ten minutes, it seemed like we were already racing for 4th.<br />
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I made the right turn into Mackerel Cove a little more exciting than was strictly necessary by cutting inside of Eric and Chris. With quartering port waves pushing me towards the rocks and reflected slop compromising my ability to navigate a straight line, I meandered drunkenly in the confused waters, narrowly skirting several outcroppings. As we subsequently headed towards the turn buoy in calmer conditions, a surprise appearance by Tim's bow alerted me that he hadn't been quite as dropped as the previous paragraph indicated. The four of us made the turn within a couple of lengths of one another and headed out towards G7 on a beam run.<br />
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Within the first few minutes of the race, I had assumed a paddling posture best described as a "defensive crouch". Back hunched. Head down. Shoulders forward. Hands never more than a foot from the torso. I recently watched Ivan Lawler's excellent six-part YouTube series on paddling techniques and off-water exercises. Ivan conveyed an overwhelming amount of information. But if you remember just one thing from those two hours of instruction... well, that's one more that I can now recall. Maybe something about dots lining up on your shirt? Oh, yeah! Also, don't wear socks. So the take-home message was mostly sartorial advice. Despite some fogginess on the content, I'm <i>positive </i>that Ivan said nothing about the critical role of the defensive crouch. I'm assuming this is because he's concentrating on flat-water paddling, where the danger level rarely exceeds "aggressive otter". In big conditions, however, the crouch puts you that much closer to your safe space - the fetal position. If things get too hairy, you just armadillo up and wait for the coyote to tire itself out. In this metaphor, the coyote is the entire atmospheric-oceanic system, so be sure to bring plenty of snacks.<br />
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Although I was ready to spring out of action at the first sign of danger, I still managed to maintain a reasonable pace during this leg. I reached the G7 turn ahead of our gang of four. I was looking forward to the run to the final turn of the first lap, but knew that I'd have to work hard to stay ahead of the skilled downwind paddlers just a couple of lengths back. Sure enough, it wasn't long before I watched Eric pull even (OK, maybe <i>slightly </i>ahead) on an inside line. Just a moment later, however, I watched him tumble into the sea - an uncharacteristic gaffe for such an accomplished rough-water paddler. Given that Eric hasn't had much opportunity to train - what with literally putting his own life at risk to help hundreds of seriously ill COVID patients - maybe I'll give him a pass on being a bit rusty. It's a shame, because I was lining up a pretty good joke at Medicine Boy's expense.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's right, Doc - smirk it up while you can. You got your one free pass. Next race there's gonna be a punchline with your name attached.</td></tr>
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I quickly calculated the absolute minimum amount of concern I needed to demonstrate for Eric's safety. He hadn't immediately sunk out of view, was clearly conscious, and both Tim and Chris had slowed up right behind him. Right. So... two concerned looks over the shoulder, five missed strokes, and a slightly guilty expression - that oughta cover it! I was back on my way, no worse for Eric's wear. Incidentally, he ultimately finished the race, so apparently his remount was a success.<br />
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The area adjacent to the House on the Rock is renowned for its wacky tidal currents, imposing standing waves, and boat-swallowing vortexes. I entered this area with some degree of trepidation and involuntary clenching, but was surprised to find the conditions quite manageable. Pleasant, even. I was able to get a good read on the leaders starting back upwind, still holding together and now perhaps 90 seconds ahead. Finishing my own turn on G11, I estimated that my lead over Chris and Tim was now halfway between marginal and tenuous.<br />
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I struggled during the long trip back to Mackerel Cove. I didn't feel so much "unstable" in the conditions as I did "uncoordinated". Given the peerless grace I generally evince these days, it's probably difficult for recent acquaintances to believe that I went through an awkward phase in my youth. I was gawky and bumbling, with a real knack for accidental pratfalls (that is, falls) and spontaneous injuries. For a brief span - not much more than a half-century, tops - I was a master of self-imposed physical humiliation. Ever since whacking myself in the head with a strap buckle the morning of the race, I had figured those days of gangly ineptitude were long behind me. But here I was struggling to put together three recognizable strokes in a row. The worst part is that it wasn't <i>that </i>rough - several other RTB and Double Beaver races had more challenging conditions.<br />
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Despite my bungling, I reached the entrance to Mackerel Cove ahead of Chris and Tim. Having learned my lesson during the first lap (that lesson being: "It's possible, by sheer happenstance, that you will survive taking hare-brained risks"), I proceeded to again cut the corner amidst jacked-up waves and find myself dangerously close to the rocks. I made it through. Now that I'm 2-for-2, I can safely substitute "probable" for "possible" in my lesson plan. I made the buoy turn and headed back out to G7. Conditions seemed to have worsened since my last visit to this leg. Near the mouth of the cove, I swamped my boat and narrowly avoided inversion.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I found myself in similar situations a few too many times for comfort.</td></tr>
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At this point, you're doubtless wondering how Hall of Fame pitcher Satchel Paige might be relevant to my race. Thanks for asking. If Paige hadn't been denied access to the Majors until 1948 (when he was 42), we wouldn't have to spend half of each captain's meeting arguing about whether the best league pitcher of the 1930s was Mel Harder, Red Ruffing, or Lon Warneke. Paige knew a thing or two about aging gracefully - pitching into his fifties - and blessed us with six keys to keeping young in his autobiography. The most famous of these is "Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you." This is particularly pertinent to surfski racing in sloppy conditions, where a glance over my shoulder inevitably results in competitors gaining on a now-swimming me. Another apt rule is "Avoid fried meats, which angry up the blood." It was only after I got off the schnitzel that I started to see podium finishes. For this race, however, I concentrated on Satchel's third key to longevity - "Keep the juices flowing by jangling around gently as you move." I don't know what went wrong. I was jangling all over the place, but watching the leaders pull further ahead, I couldn't shake the feeling of being over the hill. A close review of my GoPro video afterwards revealed the problem. I don't know if you'd categorize it as floundering or flailing, but my crazy marionette moves sure as heck weren't jangling.<br />
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The half-mile (with liberal rounding) trip to G7 took a couple of hours. My reward for this toil was a whack-a-mole downwind leg in which I managed to miss 95% of the available rides. Ahead, the leaders had achieved moteness. At the G11 turn, Chris was perhaps a dozen lengths back, with Tim about the same behind him. I felt fairly confident about being able to hold them off, but I wasn't looking forward to it.<br />
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On the upwind leg of the first couple of laps, there were some clandestine waves travelling against the prevailing runners. They were lightly encrypted, but the system administrator neglected to change the default password so it was easy enough to break the code and find some modest reprieves during the headwind slog. Unfortunately, there must have been a North Korean hacker scare prior to the final leg back to G7, because any countervailing waves were now protected with some kind of flux-inverted quantum encryption. On the off-chance that the admin had left some kind of back door password, I tried every expletive permutation I could think of. No dice. Fatigued and dispirited by the relentless grind through lumpy seas, my ragged stroke degraded further. At random intervals I would tentatively pluck the water with a paddle blade, like a kitten lazily batting at a ball of yarn (but with considerably less power). My Garmin was technically still indicating a positive velocity, but "zero" also fell within the GPS margin of error.<br />
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Despite my worst efforts, I managed to reach G7. My attempt to round the buoy was flattened out considerably as I misjudged the approach and was nearly side-swiped into the can by a broaching wave. I briefly considered vaulting out of the cockpit, clambering up onto the green platform, and there napping away the rest of the afternoon. Catching a glimpse of Chris and Tim just a few lengths back, however, I abandoned my dream and recommitted myself to limping home ahead of those heel nippers. It's a bell buoy anyway. I'd have never gotten any decent shut-eye.<br />
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The waves on the final leg lined up pretty cleanly with our destination, so I actually experienced a few instances of joy in my final moments. I had held onto 4th place. Ed convincingly took the crown, finishing two-and-a-half minutes ahead of Rob, with John less than thirty seconds further back. I was [redacted] minutes behind John. It was a tough race. I clocked at least six capsizes (including a rare triple by one paddler), but nobody got in any real trouble. There were three DNFs, although all of them seemed to be of the "screw this noise" variety, rather than an inability to complete the course. All in all, a bracing day on the Bull.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There were more racers, but we were careful to comply with Rhode Island's strict 12 person per photo coronavirus restriction.</td></tr>
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Thanks to Wesley and Tim for getting us out of our houses and back onto (or into) the water. Next up is Eric McNett's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Casco-Bay-Challenge-1499568733605937/">Casco Bay Challenge</a> on July 4th. There's no pre-registration this year - just find a shady looking shirtless guy on Willard Beach, slip him a wad of bills, and he'll set you up. A week later (July 11th), why not return to Rhode Island for Wesley's Sakonnet River Race? Register at <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/SakonnetRiverRace2020">PaddleGuru</a>. Note that the race will start at Island Park Beach rather than at McCorrie Point.</div>
Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7784116068042141975.post-53652515659541648642020-05-19T13:15:00.001-04:002020-05-19T13:17:43.077-04:00Virtual Racing: Dry Run<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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With the cancellation of all the early season races, there's been a grassroots campaign for a virtual race report. It's been subtle and almost entirely unvoiced, but I can't resist this clandestine groundswell of support. Who amongst us hasn't pondered over the philosophical puzzle about The Sound of One Man Clamoring? I'm no Zen master (any longer), but I can provide you with the answer to this riddle (which is why those close-minded Buddhist bastards kicked me out - like magicians, we're not supposed to give away our mystery-of-the-universe secrets). It sounds exactly like the bing of a text from my Uncle John, wondering whether I had thought about writing a quarantine blog entry rather than peppering him with pyramid scheme opportunities and conspiracy theory emails. I realize that some of you might consider this a pretty low bar for a clamor, but that's exactly why the monks passed you over in all sixteen rounds of their biennial reincarnation draft. And also because you look terrible in orange. In any event, how can I begrudge my loyal fan?<br />
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I realize now that there may be some confusion about a "virtual" race report. For those hoping that you could knock off early and just <i>imagine </i>how exciting the report might be, I have some bad news. First, blog technology simply hasn't yet advanced that far. You'll have to slog through the old-fashioned way. Second, you're aiming way too high with that "exciting" expectation. Dial that back about 85%. Third, it's a "virtual race" report.<br />
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In the absence of in-person racing, several paddling organizations are hosting time trials in which you run a course of a given length (starting and finishing at the same location) and then submit GPS data to substantiate your time. I've participated in the weekly <a href="https://www.newburykayak.com/experiment">Social Distance 6</a> (sponsored by Newbury Canoe and Kayak) and the one-time <a href="https://paddleguru.com/races/BreakoutVirtualPaddlesportRace">Breakout Virtual Paddlesport Race</a> (sponsored by NECKRA). These are both 6 mile races. To the extent that I inadvertently hew to the facts in this report, I'll be referring to the Breakout race. I've been doing the other trials in my ICF boat rather than the V14, and I'm just not stable enough in the former to safely write about it.<br />
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In my past reporting, I haven't been squeamish about naming names when it comes to embarrassing foibles. In fact, tossing a Kuklinski or a Dwyer under the bus every so often has become something of a signature move. Nobody gets hurt, and I know I'll always be able to hear the creaking and wheezing well before the aggrieved parties get within retribution distance. Given the delicacy of my current living situation and the intensely personal nature of this report, however, I've decided to use pseudonyms to protect the anonymity of the characters. In particular, I'll refer to my housemate as Embeth and our pet as Benedict. One or both of these may actually be fictional or composite characters. I'll probably stick to convention and mostly refer to myself (or ourselves) using pronouns, but if forced unexpectedly into third-person, his/her/its/their pseudonym will be Dennis. Don't read too much into the names.<br />
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We're healthy, don't have to worry about food or shelter, and in anticipation of some day being trapped 24/7 with them, made the wise decision to forego children (and also, just to be sure, got old enough that if some unexpectedly did show up, they'd no longer be minors and we could legally turn them away). So it's callous and tacky to complain about my privileged lockdown experience. In that spirit, let's get started!<br />
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Since Embeth's retirement last year, we've grown accustomed to spending 95% of our time together in the house. So you'd think a few more minutes a day wouldn't put much stress on our relationship. However, we've been operating within extremely tight tolerances. It's like that pile of old plutonium chunks you keep piled in the back of your closet. They're sub-critical in their current configuration, but one day you forget and carelessly toss your beryllium bowling ball in there and BLAMMO! Embeth goes nuclear. I've begun to surreptitiously bury all the knives and scissors around our property, but I have to start preparing for gorier scenarios. While watching TV the other day (12" B&W with rabbit ears - we're prepping for when things <i>really </i>go south), Embeth innocently asked where we kept the circular saw. "Just in case." Might be time to dig some unmarked graves for the power tools also. I don't see what I can do about the nearly endless variety of household objects that could be used for fatal bludgeoning, however.<br />
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Several weeks ago, we hit the end of Netflix. We'd been greedily lapping up the dregs from those hard-to-reach sub-genres for the last few weeks, but I had to draw the line once we got to "Car 54, Where Are You?" episodes and Pia Zadora movies (I've been advised by my editor to keep my joke references hip and topical). Since then, there's been a lot of drinking and reminiscing about that one time when we went to the Yarn Barn.<br />
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I've been hearing a lot about Zoom meetings to alleviate social isolation - virtual happy hours, game nights, extended family dinners, etc. I must have accidentally signed up on the video Do Not Call Registry, however, because my screens have been devoid of other humans. The Registry must also affect outgoing calls since my parents don't seem to have received any of my Zoom invitations. In the face of this deprivation of outside contact, I'm afraid Embeth is cracking up. She's taken to locking herself in the spare bedroom with her iPad and a bottle of wine for hours at a time, where I hear muffled sounds of gaiety as the poor thing carries on imaginary conversations with herself. I've reacted in a more rational manner, spending most mornings entering random Zoom meeting IDs and passwords in the hopes of video bombing a live one. Thus far I've managed only one success - I was able to crash a third grade geography lesson in Kokomo. Although the authorities ultimately accepted my explanation and decided not to press charges, I learned a valuable lesson: If you forget to get dressed before starting a game of Zoom roulette, don't call attention to it with a "south of the border" joke. And probably stay out of Indiana for a while.<br />
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Another unanticipated side-effect of the quarantine is that Benedict the Pet has realized that I am not only superfluous, but flat-out vexing. Never mind that I'm the one that feeds and cleans up after the ingrate. If his claws need trimming, who dons the padded armor and wields the bolt-cutters? That's right, me. When his feathers lose their luster, is it Embeth who licks them back to an iridescent shine? No, that's me too. And God knows, those musk glands don't milk themselves. Now that Embeth is available around-the-clock for cuddling, however, I'm as uninteresting to Benedict as his recently sloughed-off carapace. I was utterly ignored by the Judas I had personally delivered from the egg sac. The real knife (spike, technically) in the back came just three days ago, though, when I received official notice from the Massachusetts Probate & Family Court accepting Benedict's <i>Petition for Partial Emancipation</i>. The physical wounds will heal - well, probably not the missing fingers - but this betrayal's going to linger.<br />
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Now that we've established my fragile mental state, let's start moving towards the water. I get the impression that most participants aren't taking the virtual races too seriously. They're casually showing up at the beach, paddling out and back 3 miles, and submitting whatever the hell time they happen to clock. I wouldn't be surprised if they were whistling a jaunty tune during the trial. Phooey. Aren't these races supposed to be about doing everything possible to unfairly stack the odds in your favor? While the chumps are out having fun in their boats, I'm combing through maps searching for the best flatwater venue within 300 miles, checking barometric pressure every 20 minutes, and shaving my arms to minimize drag. To save weight, I've pealed the Epic labels from my ski and cut the handle off my toothbrush. A Beaufort wind classification of "calm" is one "dead" qualifier short of being placid enough for me to run a time trial. In short, I did everything but falsify my GPS records to game the system. The $30 I paid for that useless Garmin Hacker Toolkit was a complete waste.<br />
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Much as keeping current with the latest virus news, eating healthily, and bathing, my motivation for training has taken a significant hit. Without the incentive of racing, most of my paddles have degenerated into the on-water equivalent of a morning constitutional. Load the CamelBak with coffee, take a brisk loop or two around the lake, and then its back home for a well-deserved lie-down. Intervals? Long slow paddles? 30/30s? Nope. We're all in this together. No need to raise the mean of our shared suffering.<br />
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OK, I'll admit to some scattered <a href="https://www.verywellfit.com/what-is-fartlek-training-2911954">Fartleks</a>, but those were mostly involuntary.<br />
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The announcement of the first virtual race didn't exactly light a fire under my ass (thank God), but it cornered my ego in a dark alley, slapped it around a little, and threatened lead-boot humiliation unless I paid off those outstanding fitness debts. My pride can take a hint, but spelling it out in 1s and 0s on a web page always helps to underscore the intimation. Reluctantly, I dialed up the training intensity in the hopes of saving face at post time. Not having a solid conditioning base to work from, those post-paddle lie-downs suddenly transformed into full-blown comas. Through the marvel/curse of Garmin Connect, I was able to cross-reference my progress against the previous decade's worth of work-outs. Happily, my vision blurred with tears before the full scope of the ongoing 2020 disaster could be revealed.<br />
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On the day of the trial, I faced a significant hurdle before I even left the house. In an attempt to out-Wesley Wesley, last year I'd taken to putting on my PFD prior to the short drive to our local lake. This minimizes the time from parking to launching, while simultaneously cementing my reputation as the neighborhood eccentric (a foundation I had carefully started pouring years ago with some unorthodox - and quite frankly, unsanitary - gardening practices). Unfortunately, my Vaikobi vest zips up the front. Not having worn actual pants for the past month and a half, I spent several minutes looking for the PFD drawstring before realizing I'd have to dust off my atrophied zipper skills. As you'd expect, I pinched my tongue a few times before working out the kinks in my rusty technique, but eventually was safely ensconced in my fluorescent cocoon. After the time trial, I'd probably be too fatigued to figure out how to reverse the process, but figured that Embeth could cut me free.<br />
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I can't say for sure that the PFD saved my life on the subsequent drive, but there's no doubt that my head stayed above water.<br />
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The lockdown has reshaped the recreational profile of our lake. The rowing teams that usually train in the early mornings and evenings are gone, presumably after attempts at manning multi-person boats with skeleton crews got the Pirates of the Caribbean copyright lawyers involved. Although we generally get along, I must say that it's more peaceful on the water without the incessant ponderous beat of the drums and the occasional panic-inducing cries of "Ramming speed!" Unfortunately, the rowers neglected to take along their yappy little pest of a mascot, who patrols the docks and adjacent shores like Cerberus, noisily warding off visitors from his hellish little bay.<br />
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Of course, you can only defy the natural order of things to a certain point. The law of Conservation of Watercraft remains in effect. What we've lost in rowers, we've made up for by a bloom of <i>Homo </i><i>cabelas - </i>more commonly known as the North American kayak fishermen. These gentle critters are at least as scared of us as we are of them. And with ample reason. With their muted color palette, low profile, and quiet demeanor, they quite literally blend into the background. Combine their accidental camouflage with the blinkered intensity of a frenzied interval, you have the perfect recipe for me terrorizing the poor souls. I live in fear of the inevitable lawsuit when one of them fails to dive clear in time.<br />
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A sidebar. Like most people, I imagine, the greatest moments of joy in my life have stemmed from entering a preposterously specific question into Google and getting an exact result. I'm talking queries so detailed that you can't even come up with a reasonable set of search terms, so you literally just type out the entire question. Every year on February 27, for example, our household celebrates the time I Googled "How long would it take two bowling balls one meter apart in space to collide from gravity?" and was whisked off to a page with almost that exact title. Just under 10.5 hours, you'll be excited to know. The problem is, you can't yet reliably count on such gems. For every winner, there are dozens of disappointments like "Who is the actor that looks just like a jowly Jason Bateman but with a larger forehead and maybe his last name starts with an R?" or "So... animals that aren't birds but have beaks. What's the deal?" My point is, you can't build a joyful life around lucky hits on obscure Google searches.<br />
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Fitness paddling, however, provides me with almost daily bursts of euphoria. It's not about a transcendent connection to the water. Nor entering that flow where each stroke propels you along an almost pre-ordained glide. And it's not even about that tingly feeling you get from your spandex shorts when you forget your underwear again. No. It's more primal than any of those. As you've probably deduced by now, I'm referring to the smug satisfaction that comes from launching and retrieving your surfski - from car to water, and vice versa - in roughly one-hundredth of the time it takes any other boater to get on and off the water. I've trained myself to pull into the lot and start paddling in one continuous motion. I didn't buy Goodboy V-bars to safely transport my boats. I got them solely for rapid deployment. If I can leave one shore-side sea kayaker (strapping down a spare paddle) in open-mouthed stupor, one fisherman (sorting tackle) wondering what the hell just happened, one pleasure boater (trying to get his boat centered on the trailer for the twelfth time) grinding his teeth in envy... Well, that's what it's all about, isn't it?<br />
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Sitting on the water prior to the start, I found it difficult to build up the level of pre-race anxiety to which I've grown accustomed. Keeping in mind the maxim that you shouldn't change anything on race day, I considered running home and gulping down some rancid meat smothered generously with a laxative gravy. At least that way I could approximate my typical belly-state. With darkness threatening to cut my trial short, however, I decided to gut it out as is. I did manage a few reassuring dry heaves of anticipation, at least.<br />
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The Hamilton-Wenham Gun Club is situated quite close to our lake, so I didn't have to wait long for the blast of the starter musket (those guys are old school). Fully engaging my core, I made a powerful lunge forward. Abdomen and shoulder muscles burning from the effort, I just barely managed to stretch enough ahead to start my foredeck-mounted GPS. Time to get paddling! With a series of dainty strokes, I eased into the race. Although I've requisitioned a lake with a simpler geometry, the one I'm currently stuck with is amoeba-shaped. Meticulously following the curves of each pseudopod would yield a turn-heavy 4.5 mile loop. I've therefore designed a friendlier two-lap 3 mile course that maximizes straightaways.<br />
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In virtual races, most people make the mistake of shooting for the best time. Mistake. Through trial and error (and spreadsheets), I've discovered that there's an inverse relationship between average speed and finish time. The implications are staggering. I haven't worked out the exact math (or grammar) yet, but in layman's terms: "Faster are better time". This insight has unshackled me from the tyranny of the clock. No more seeing 34:21 on the GPS and wondering if I can just hold it there until I'm finished. It's now simply a matter of maintaining a target speed. Even if you slip off the pace, you're almost guaranteed to end up with a time after the 6 miles are up.<br />
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Not counting yappy dogs, there are three primary time trial enemies: fatigue, wind, and wakes. As the ancient Sumerians already knew, there's nothing to be done about the first. We're each bestowed our daily allotment of vital humors, and once those are exhausted we fall limp until the sun god Utu refills our reservoirs at daybreak. Sure, you could sacrifice your charred foreskin to all-powerful Enlil in the hopes of getting an extra half <i>mina</i> of juice, but you've only got so many penises to burn. Maybe even none. And in all probability, mischievous Ishtar would swoop down, make some hurtful wisecracks about your still-smoking manhood, and steal off with that hard-won supplemental humor. Embarrassing. So for all practical purposes, fatigue is an immutable constant.<br />
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That brings us to wind. Surprisingly, also immutable. Around 80% of your trial will be into a stiff breeze. In theory, you could also appeal to a higher power for becalming as well, but the cost of influencing an intrinsic natural element like wind is going to be much higher than just a modest burnt offering. Unless you have a pool of virgins on hand (with signed and notarized consent forms, of course), let's stick to secular work-arounds. We've been hearing a lot about letting science drive our decisions. To the vexation of phrenologists and astrologists everywhere, it turns out that meteorology does <i>technically </i>qualify as a science. I've read that a modern five-day forecast is as accurate as the one-day forecast from 1980, so at the very least meteorologists have an excellent PR firm. I'll concede that their predictions are occasionally better-than-chance. When it comes to forecasting the wind at our lake, however, they might as well be throwing darts at my head. I nevertheless continue to heed their prophecies when scheduling workouts, despite being deep into "shame on me" territory.<br />
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Finally, we have wakes. Of course, there may also be wind-driven waves, but in that case the savvy time trialer knows to curse the parent, not the child. Later in the season, we'll have to contend with the wakes of water skiers and their hillbilly cousins, tubers. At least those boaters have a clear purpose. At this time of year, though, it's just a grab-bag of morons, each of whom needs to rapidly get from A to B for some inscrutable reason. And in the absence of a known motive for their journey, I'm forced by Occam's razor to ascribe the most likely one: They're just trying to piss me off. You might argue that they're probably applying the same argument to the idiot paddler always putting himself directly in the path between A and B, but allow me to correct the error in your logic. They're barely smart enough to drive a powerboat let alone carry on abstract reasoning such as this. I've found it best to keep all of this to myself because, even though they're not very bright, it turns out they have extraordinary hearing.<br />
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I can tell I'm out of practice. My pacing is way off. I've barely started writing about the actual race and the "wrap it up" light is already flashing red. Before the band starts up and they cut off my keyboard feed, I hope I'll have time to convey the full excitement of the virtual race.<br />
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I paddled alone for six miles.<br />
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Whew. Just under the wire. Thanks everyone!<br />
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Greg Lesherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04035865725055938002noreply@blogger.com0