Chattajack 31: Togetherness

Given enough photos, there was bound to be one that made us look good.  See other great race pics from Deb.S Action Photo.

When Mary Beth told me back in May that she wanted to paddle the Chattajack 31, my initial reaction was "Great!  I can reciprocate the dedicated support she provided me in last year's race." Fortunately, before that thought had sufficient time to bubble through my brain and rashly express itself verbally, I had already gotten Jan Lupinski to sign a single-race contract to paddle with me in a double.  We had never paddled together, neither of us owned a tandem ski, and we have fundamentally different paddling styles, but this was obviously a smarter move than schlepping all the way down to Tennessee just to watch someone else paddle.  Probably for the best that I don't have kids, right?

Once we were committed to the Chattajack, it was just a matter of trudging through an entire season (of nearly 20 races) while maintaining at least a modicum of motivation for a late-October competition.  By August I had burned through 80% of my gumption (I expect at about the halfway point of this report, you'll have pretty much the same feeling).  But Mary Beth was just hitting her stride come mid-summer.

A few years back, four-time Chattajack champion Erik Borgnes published a side-splitting satirical piece purporting to be a detailed training plan for this race.  Widely regarded as a masterpiece of absurd exaggeration and whimsy, it contains such comic gems as a five hour paddle, fully half of which consists of brutal 0.9 miles on, 0.1 miles off intervals.  With zero calorie intake!  Unfortunately, not everyone was in on the joke.

Mary Beth, as evidenced by her stone-faced demeanor while editing my race reports (not to mention the pathological eye-rolling in response to my comic antics around the house), was born without a detectable sense of humor.  As such, she failed to recognize that Erik's treatise was a parody.  Perversely, she adopted his ridiculous program as her gospel.  A religious adherence to the Word of Erik meant that by September, MB would head out for her weekly long paddle at 6am on Monday and wouldn't return until late afternoon on Thursday.  For weeks at a time, she'd eat nothing but pistachios and mustard.  She wore only corduroy and slept in a homemade sensory-deprivation tank.
Amen.

The TV in our hotel wasn't working, so we passed Friday evening the old-fashioned way.

We brought clothing and equipment for pretty much any contingency, but perhaps could have left the crampons at home.

By comparison, my Chattajack training was feeble.  Taking inspiration from the proverb about not needing to run faster than the bear, I carefully tracked Jan's fitness level throughout the season.  Blessedly, a flurry of late season travel kept him from hitting the water as often as he otherwise might.  I adjusted my sessions accordingly, aiming for that sweet spot where I was 5% better conditioned than my paddling partner.  I'd occasionally see Mary Beth out on the water, her corduroy paddling outfit zsh-zsh-zsh'ing away in swishing condemnation of my lackadaisical approach to training.

During the summer, Jan had unilaterally resolved the most significant hurdle to us paddling together by purchasing a ski equipped for such a shared endeavor - a Carbonology Blast.  It seemed wise to actually put in some bucket time together before the race.  However, paying particular attention to the adage that familiarity breeds contempt, we decided that a single hour-long session would be more than sufficient.  We met at a neutral location on the Connecticut River.  As was apt, Jan took the pole position.

Our paddle wasn't utterly disheartening, but it was clear that I had a lot to learn about paddling clean-up in a double.  My natural race cadence is around 104 strokes per minute, while Jan's is under 90 spm.  Furthermore, while Jan has a metronomic left-pause-right-pause cadence, I rush my right stroke, leading to an asymmetric left-right-pause-left-right-pause pattern.  As a result, I had a pronounced tendency to get ahead of Jan, particularly on the right side.  But how hard could it be to suppress millions of strokes worth of muscle memory for the four hour duration of the race?  I had a more pressing concern to worry about.

Even on the narrowest of skis, I'm an inveterate knuckle-whacker.  At some point during an early-season training session, I'll eventually strike the gunnel of my ski hard enough to tear the skin off the knuckles of my ring fingers.  These open wounds then persist for the remainder of the season, such that I'd embark on each subsequent paddle dreading the unavoidable, excruciating pain that the next careless mis-stroke would bring.  As you may already know, in 1591 Pope Innocent IX explicitly banned knuckle-whacking as an acceptable interrogation method of the Inquisition.  Not only were the torturers complaining that it was too cruel, they found the heretics would inevitably just double-down on their blasphemies between sobs.  Although the Blast is a narrow double, from the rear seat it felt like I was wearing a barrel.  By the end of our short paddle, I'm pretty sure I could see bone.  Fortunately, I had taped the gunnels beforehand, so there wasn't any permanent discoloration from the blood.

After spending 45 minutes trying to get the SUPs to spell out "Chattajack" marching band style in the background, I finally gave up and just took the damn picture.

I figured if you ended up needing the PFD all that badly, you probably should have been wearing it in the first place.

Arriving in Chattanooga the day before the race, we were confronted with a heavy rain that lasted through the night.  By the morning, it had tapered off to a gentle mist - just enough moisture to make it impossible to tape anything to your boat.  Temperatures would be in the 60s.  Presenting a virtually unanimous front, 97% of climatologists agree that dressing appropriately for the Chattajack is infeasible, regardless of the forecast.  I was originally going to go with a  short-sleeve top only, but Mary Beth convinced me to add some shorts to my ensemble before the cops could arrive.

There were more than 100 surfskis racing, including 20 doubles (although, disappointingly, no others in the men's Tandem Surfski class).  Nate Humberston was clearly the man to get beaten by, and an impressive roster of paddlers accepted the challenge.  My choice to repeat as silver medalist was Flavio Costa, who had been electrifying at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race 6 weeks earlier.  Flavio would be joined by fellow top-five L2L competitors Vadim Lawrence and Chris Norman.  Relative to that race, Vadim would probably benefit from the flatter conditions and longer course.  Chris was a bit of a wildcard, but paddled the L2L with ever-increasing vigor.  Nobody was worried in the least about Ryan Petersen, mostly because he had apparently popped into existence just moments before the race started.  That's a little unfair.  Ryan had made a trial appearance in our plane of reality at the 2017 USCA Nationals in Dubuque, finishing a close second behind legend Mike Herbert before blinking back into the void.

The deceptively named Kayak class, which would start 30 minutes before the Surfski class, was in truth composed mostly of lowercase surfskis.  I assume that Epic must have included a free Chattajack registration with every V8 Pro sold in the US, because they were all there, joined by a healthy collection of wider entry-level skis.  There was no consensus on best-in-class, with Justin Schaay, Terry Smith, Morgan House, John Wellens, and Bruce Poacher each featuring as the betting favorite at various points.

 Remember when Jan and I were inseparable?  We got over that.

Jan and I watched the first wave start, then launched from the floating docks.  As we made our way upstream to join the second wave throng, I was feeling pretty optimistic.  I wasn't expecting a walk in the park, but certainly it'd be better than last year's swim in the maelstrom.  There's not much that needs to be said about the course.  You snake your way 31 miles down the river, mostly staying near the center to take advantage of the current.  Other than some weeds and suck-water near the shores, and some hapless SUPs mid-river, there are no real hazards.  We turned downstream to await the start from a conservative position outside of the bulk of surfskis and outriggers.  With the on-water bagpipes in full lament, the gun sounded to start our long ramble.

I always start slow, but it's not generally because I want to.  Perhaps figuring that gradual acceleration would promote synchronization, Jan eased us into the race so gently that it took us several minutes to catch up to a branch that happened to be floating by at the gun.  The Queen Mary departing her jetty into busy harbor traffic would seem spry in comparison.  If I provide petty criticisms of my skipper here, it's only so that my later incompetence stands out the more in contrast.  With that in mind... Jan told me 15 seconds before the start that our initial stroke would be on the right, then proceeded to do the opposite.

Our measured tempo slowly increased over the first few minutes until we reached a comfortable cruising pace.  There were about 20 boats ahead of us at this point - single and double skis plus a few tandem outriggers - but it was obvious that we would soon overtake most of these rabbits.  By mile 1.5, we had slipped by all but the first four skis.  Nate and Flavio appeared to be exchanging pulls in the lead, with an unknown paddler keeping pace several lengths behind (the semi-mythical Ryan, as it turned out), and Vadim back another dozen lengths or so.  Thanks to occasional bursts of stroke harmony, we were slowly reeling them all in.

I knew that Jan wouldn't lead our craft by quiet example.  As he explained before the race, if a drill sergeant molly-coddled his inept recruits, they'd later be coming home from war, hopelessly intermingled, in a single pulp-filled body bag.  I'm paraphrasing, because Jan went into a shocking level of graphic detail, but you get the picture (as did I, thanks to a set of disturbing illustrations that accompanied his presentation).  On the water, I was subjected to a stream of verbal rebukes, with varying degrees of vehemence.  I should note that while a few of these were delivered with noticeable impatience and frustration, Jan remained remarkably polite with his wayward pupil.  Nevertheless, you can only hear the directives "Together!" and "Relax!" so many times without starting to take umbrage - no matter how warranted the remarks.

My only hope was that Jan would eventually realize the futility of his coaching, enter into a despondent funk, and let me single-handedly destroy our double rhythm in peace.  It took longer than I anticipated, but we eventually got there.  At this earlier point, however, he was in full disciplinary mode.  Over one stretch of the river, Jan's instruction regarding my timing was so unrelenting that, looking around, I noticed that all the paddlers within earshot had unconsciously fallen into perfect synchrony with him.  That momentary diversion of attention on my part was, of course, sufficient to throw our boat into near-catastrophic arrhythmia.

At mile 3 we picked off Vadim, who would later demonstrate his fitness and fortitude by passing Flavio and moving to within 30 seconds of "Ryan".  We moved adjacent to the three leaders in the next few minutes, but stalled there in our progress.  Having caught up with the slowest SUPs from the first wave, we fell back a half-dozen lengths while navigating through those meandering craft.  The densest concentration of paddleboards coincided with the narrowest part of the river, which made for some excitingly close encounters.  As a passenger in my vessel, I was able to watch with detached curiosity to see if we'd collide - like it was happening to someone else.  Based on his angry mutterings up front, Jan seemed a little more, uh, personally engaged.

Just shy of an hour into the race, we noticed that Nate had managed to shed Flavio.  The three leaders were running near the left bank at that point, while we were on a more fortuitous line in stronger current.  After miles of unproductive pursuit, we now swiftly moved past both Ryan and Flavio.  Only Nate separated us from my quest for the fastest time of the day.  I say "my quest" because Jan seemed to be more of the "just happy to participate" mindset before the race.  But perhaps being so close to glory would ignite his competitive fire.

Like a couple of hard-nosed thugs tailing the prosecution's key witness in the hopes of offing him in some secluded byway, Jan and I tracked stealthily behind Nate at a comfortable stalking distance for miles.  I was the rash loud-mouth - "Come on Loop-man, let's ice this rat!" and "We got him!  We got him!  Pull the trigger!"  Jan was the oh-so-cool voice of reason - "Gregory, what the hell are you talking about?"  No imagination, that guy.  Despite our furtiveness, Nate told us afterward he was well aware that we were skulking abaft (peculiar verbiage, I agree, but that's how he talks).  In any event, I spent several happy miles imagining that the combined vigor of two challengers would soon overwhelm that of the lone paddler ahead.

I can't say for sure if the deciding factor was Nate's superior skill and athleticism, or the deleterious effect that changing conditions had on my tandem paddling competence, but once he started to pull away at mile 13, any fanciful delusions of offing him to take the top overall spot were immediately dispelled.  Nate would end up finishing 8 minutes ahead of us, shattering the singles' course record and beating his closest in-class competitor by nearly a quarter of an hour.

The night before the race, participants received a safety advisory email warning us of windy conditions in the low teens, with gusts of 35 mph.  The wind had been negligible in the morning, but according to the forecast, 90 minutes after our start the shock wave of the impending front would reach us and we'd be blown clear of the river.  It wasn't quite as dramatic as that, but rounding a curve at mile 13, the conditions rapidly changed.  We'd paddled the first part of the race in glassy water, but now we were bucking a blustering headwind.  And (as Jan helpfully pointed out) most of that bucking was coming from back seat asynchrony.  The marginally rougher conditions were enough to further degrade my internal timing mechanism.

After three and a half miles of gusty winds, we rounded another bend and abruptly found ourselves back in placid conditions.  I'd like to say we took full advantage of this magical deliverance to return to semi-competent form, but the damage had been done.  Our best days were behind us, with only a gradual decline into chaos and incivility ahead.  Jan's frustration at my inability to match his tempo, combined with my frustration at his inability to drop the obviously fruitless verbal guidance ultimately led to some regrettable sharp words.  By me only, I'm embarrassed to admit.  Despite being by far the less aggrieved party.  It's proper that complaints should only be directed up the chain of command, so I'll assume that Jan only held his tongue to avoid punching down.

Despite our difficulties, we had passed the halfway point of the race in well under 2 hours.  For most of the journey thus far we had benefited from a robust current, with our average speed in the mid 8 mph range.  As we got further from the outflow of Chickamauga Dam, however, we progressively lost that boost.  A long stretch of shallows further compromised our speed.  So it was with great relief that at mile 24, we came around yet another bend to find a helpful breeze at our back.  The wind-funneling effects of the Tennessee River gorge are inscrutable, but usually in the sense of "In sweet Jesus' name, how can we be heading upwind again?"  To suddenly find the wind working in our favor - that was a truly unexpected bounty.  Except...

We soon found ourselves in legitimate downwind conditions.  With rideable waves.  That sounds great, in theory.  In practice, the next five miles were the most vexing of our race.  With zero experience together in a relatively narrow tandem, stability was a factor.  We weren't in danger of going over, but there were enough wobbles, corrective strokes, and outright braces to compromise our forward power.  Much worse, however, was the impact the downwind conditions had on our rhythm.  By necessity, Jan was varying his stroke timing and rate in response to individual waves.  My natural impulse was to do the same, as if I were in a single.  Despite knowing intellectually that I should focus solely on mirroring Jan's stroke, I kept subconsciously reading the conditions for myself and anticipating the strokes.  The result was disastrous.  By the end, I was ecstatic if I was at least anticipating on the correct side of the boat.  Not only were we missing rides, the boat was jolting back and forth like a furious rodeo bull.  And the clown in the back seat was just enraging him further.

What should have been the fastest part of the course was, for us, the slowest.  Thankfully, with a few miles to go we rounded a left bend and the wind tapered off.  We were back in mostly flat conditions.  The downwind fracas had apparently broken Jan's spirit, because he suffered through the last stretch in silent judgment of my inadequacy.  In the other half of the boat, I was feeling jubilant - partly because in a few minutes we'd have successfully completed the race, but mostly because I knew that I'd never have to paddle a double again.  In one final indignity to Jan, I let that jubilation drive my stroke during the timed sprint at the end, ensuring that the enduring image of our race together would be that of two single paddlers, surprised to find themselves somehow in the same boat (as seen here).

Mary Beth finished with gusto.  Or perhaps it was brio.  One of the Os, anyway.

We finished in 4:01:37 as the second fastest boat of the day.  That sounds pretty good, unless you happen to know that last year's best tandem time was 3:48:25 - and that was with less favorable conditions.  I feel that Jan and I probably do have a better Chattajack in us.  Where, by mutual consent, it will remain forever nascent.  Nate won the Surfski class with a time of 3:53:53, with Ryan and Vadim filling out the podium.  In the battle of the V8 Pros within the Kayak class, Justin won handily in 4:22:38, followed by Terry and Morgan.  The women's Kayak podium contained Julieta Gismodi, Kim Schulte, and Julie Mitravich.

After last year's race I dissolved into a quivering blob, incapable of speech or deliberate movement for the next half-hour.  I felt much better this year.  Refreshed after a quick shave, haircut, and pedicure in Jan's well-outfitted van, I made my way to the finish dock to await Mary Beth's arrival. When I saw her round the Hales Bar Power House just a few moments after I had joined the other spectators (a half-hour sooner than she had expected), I was thankful I hadn't opted for the Lupinski Deluxe Spa Package.  Someone's gotta tell Borgnes his lunatic training plan actually works!  Mary Beth finished at 4:58:35, second in women's Surfski (and 15th overall in the class).  Sara Jordan had taken the crown some minutes earlier with a powerful showing, while Holly Hall claimed third less than a minute behind MB.

We told everyone that we had plenty of goodies in the van, but only Flavio took the bait.  Say... what ever happened to that guy?

I'm proud to say that I remain friends with Jan to this day.  I thank him for showing me the ropes, and for resisting the urge to wrap them tightly around my neck.  Thanks also to Renata for providing transportation support.  And to the dozens of Chattajack volunteers who make the race possible.  But most of all, thanks to Mary Beth.  Not for being an incredible training partner, calming influence, and all-around boon to my life (although maybe someday I'll get around to expressing my gratitude for those things), but rather for suggesting just before we launched that I lengthen my paddle to preserve my knuckles.  The race was whack free!

You can view scads of race photos from Deb.S and Rick White.

Chattajack 31: Living by the Sword

Paddling 31 miles down the Tennessee River isn't everyone's dream, but veterans of the Chattajack 31 are relentless in trying to convince you that it should be.  The camaraderie of shared suffering!  The pre-dawn muster!  The fully-trained medical staff!  How could I resist their rabid proselytizing?  I registered in early May, not realizing that I'd then spend the better part of the next six months training for the race.  Probably should have consulted the calendar first.  Having now completed the Chattajack, I must join the chorus of advocates.  However, I might choose to highlight different factors - the clockwork organization, the fascinating people (probably at least half of the 600+ paddlers), the beautiful course, etc.  Despite being in only its 7th year, it's a can't-miss classic.

Fair warning.  An epic race deserves an epic report.  Since that was clearly out of reach, I settled for the poor man's version - an interminable report.  Remember about the shared suffering.  If you haven't finished by the 8 hour cut-off, officials will yank you out of the article.

We set off for Chattanooga on the Wednesday before the race, whiling away much of our 18-hour drive playing roadkill bingo.  Unfortunately, somehow I ended up with a card from the Australian edition.  Not only did I have to play with the antipodean sheet upside down, precious few wallabies and cassowaries had been careless enough to end their lives on the shoulder of the interstate.  With Mary Beth gleefully chalking up squares with groundhogs, porcupines, and prairie dogs (we may not have taken the most direct route), I was - as MB kept smirkingly reminding me - in serious danger of being skunked.  Finally, somewhere around the Tennessee border I recognized the tattered remains of a spotted quoll.  Rather unsportingly, I think, MB chose to use one of her discretionary challenges. Subsequent DNA analysis proved inconclusive - mainly because the lab insisted that it couldn't test a "ratty old sweater".  Amateurs.

Through a series of complicated transfers usually reserved for laundering mob money or smuggling endangered amphibians into the US, we'd be delivering a Think Uno from Massachusetts to Tennessee for mid-westerner Greg Greene.  Greg is my college roommate's wife's sister's husband's brother, so we're practically family.  He lives in Wisconsin, so we don't get together often enough to reminisce about the one person in the middle of that connective stream who we both actually know.  We managed to get the boat to Greg without mishap, although he should probably check the footwell for dwarf splayfoot salamanders.

This year she just watched, but I predict next year she'll listen too.

We pulled into Chattanooga Thursday afternoon.  Never having paddled an inland waterway south of the 40th parallel, I hit the river to recalibrate my boat.  Some WD-40 and a few well-placed hammer blows later, I was ready to get cleaned up and hit the town.  We met up with our Northeast friends, Jean Kostelich and partner Alex, for dinner, where we saw some appropriately gruesome pre-Halloween pictures of the remains of a V8 Pro that had flown off their rack on the way down.  That's something you can't unsee.  Undeterred, they simply returned home, picked up a replacement boat, and completed the trek to Tennessee.  Jean is my new hero.  Afterwards, we headed to the Chattanooga Brewing Company for a shindig hosted by convivial locals Ted "Theo" "No, Ted!" Burnell and wife Cindy.  Ted was kind enough to provide a plethora of valuable racing tips and course notes, nearly all of which evaporated with my first stroke on Saturday.  Next year, tattoos.

What are the odds that I'd come to Ted's costume party as him, and he as me?

With three previous Chattajack wins under his belt, including a record-setting sub-4 hour time last year, Erik Borgnes was the hands-on favorite to leave the younger members of the surfski field wondering when they too could finally be 53.  I, for one, look forward to my domination in 2020.  Some months before the race, Erik had expressed interest in recruiting an elite cadre of paddlers to work together as the lead pack.  I'd always wanted to be part of a cadre.  If he was willing to relax the "elite" requirement, I was in.  We haggled over a substitute qualifier, eventually settling on a non-committal "scrappy".  When Flavio Costa's name appeared on the registration list, I was worried that Erik might eject me from the cadre and revert to his original, uncompromised vision.  Fortunately, he seemed committed to an egalitarian approach - if you could hang with the group, you were sufficiently scrappy.  Based on their results from 2017, I thought perhaps Scott Cummins, Murray Hunkin, or Terry Smith might become de facto cadre members.

I was particularly looking forward to dueling with Flavio.  The last time we competed head-to-head, we were practically both in diapers (in my case, an unfortunate side-effect of an ill-advised visit to the all-you-can-eat shellfish buffet at a Sizzler).  I doubted I could keep with him in a shorter ocean race, but hoped that the long flatwater distance might allow me to grind him down.

Perhaps the most interesting race of the day would be between the power tandems of Matt Skeels & Neil Fleming, Nate Humberston & Bruce Poacher, and Morgan House & Stanton Collins.  Paddling V10 Doubles, it seemed a lock that at least one of these boats would break Nate & Bruce's all-around course record of 3:53:54, set in an Epic 18X Double.  To add a little spice to their battle, they'd be competing for overall honors against an OC-6 stacked with legendary talent.

The staging area the afternoon before the race.  Later on, we'd celebrate Chattajack Eve here - singing traditional paddler shanties and eating Moon Pies.

The race starts at the Market Street Bridge in downtown Chattanooga and winds 32 miles down the Tennessee River to finish at Hales Bar Marina in Nickajack Lake.  Hence Chattajack 31.  Perhaps market research revealed that using the actual distance would frighten off too many competitors?  Using that same line of reasoning, I suggest that they instead advertise the straight-line start-to-finish distance of 13 miles - maybe skimping on details of the 12.7 miles of portage.

Book-ended by the Chickamauga and Nickajack dams, the river current is determined solely by the sadistic whims of the Tennessee Valley Authority (ostensibly with some token concern for power generation and water level remediation).  The day prior to the race, the TVA provided a tantalizing preview of what might be.  Watching SUPs inch upstream against a terrific flow (after which, presumably, they'd mate and die), between chuckles I estimated the current at 1.5 knots.  That astonishing degree of assistance would surely... What's that?  We'll have a quarter of that on race day?  And a head wind?  And somehow the fundamental physical properties of water will be changed so that it's stickier?  Oh TVA, you old rascal.

They're fellow New Englanders, but somehow everyone in Chattanooga seemed to know Team Ide.  The Electron and the Sphinx.  That's the title of the upcoming Netflix series about their antics.

Women's champion Pam Boteler before the race.  I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure she has a kite-boarding rig hooked up in her footwell.

Having stowed our boats in the riverside staging area the night before, there was considerably less pre-race rigmarole than you'd expect for a race with nearly 500 watercraft.  Paddlers quietly outfitted their boats and selves for the upcoming expedition.  The temperature hovered around 50 with a moderate breeze from the west.  The first wave of paddleboards, kayaks, and canoes got off without a hitch (but with a ceremonial bagpiper) and it was time for the skis and OCs to get on the water.

I opted to start somewhat to the right of river center, away from the 140-boat throng that would doubtless be clamoring to swamp me in their initial zeal.  As a result, I got off the gently drifting line cleanly at the gun and managed to keep clear of virtually all traffic through the opening minutes.  As I settled into my pace, I surveyed the field.  It was easy to identify Flavio, leading all solo craft in his vibrant pink Nelo, but the rest of the cast ahead remained indistinguishable.  I was relieved to find that after the first mile, all of the OCs (with the exception of the Star-Studded Six) were safely behind me - I was worried that I might be tangling with multi-person outriggers for the whole race.  Eventually I was able to spot Erik's all-white ski in third position, chasing a blue ski with an all-Murray core.

I was already exhausted by the time the first wave finished passing the staging area.

The only other ski ahead of me was Scott, whom I'd never met but recognized from photos I had chanced to see... pinned prominently on the "Hit Wall" of our den (in the "Scott?  William?" column).  I introduced myself from alongside after catching him, neglecting to mention that I had an unhealthy obsession with finishing ahead of him.  We paddled together for a few minutes in pursuit of Erik, until I managed to open a small gap.  I eventually reached Erik (who, if I'm not mistaken, tapped his watch impatiently to indicate his frustration at my lollygagging) and Murray.  The latter relinquished his pull and I took point to track down Flavio and absorb him into the cadre.

I suspect that Flavio was already kicking back just waiting for the gang to show up, but it still took me a mile to close the gap.  When we finally merged, I eased off and slid back into the rear of our fresh diamond formation.  Despite now sitting in the lap of luxury, however, I had difficulty adapting to the easy life.  If there were a wash-riding licensing board, they'd have revoked my draft card long ago.  I can muddle through a simple single-boat stern draft, but in any other configuration the appropriate combination of position, rhythm, and stability eludes me.  I'm doubtless still getting significant benefit, but drafting too often seems like more of a chore than a respite.  Fortunately, Murray resigned from our diamond after a mile or so, meaning that my blessed turn to pull would come that much more frequently.

More than 300 boats had started in the heat before us, with the vast majority of those being SUPs.  We'd be passing virtually all of those paddlers at some point - a fact that more than one race veteran reminded me of with a shell-shocked glaze in his eyes.  Not only would we have to plot a course through the semi-random meanderings of the more inexperienced stand-up paddlers, we'd suffer through a never-ending barrage of congratulations and encouragement.  Couldn't these people see I was in no condition to acknowledge or reciprocate their heart-warming support?  I occasionally issued an appreciative grunt between wheezes, but mostly just hoped that Erik and Flavio's good-natured banter would compensate for my apparent surliness.  As to the navigation challenges, I take pride in never once yelling "Try a straight line, blockhead!"  Mostly because of the wheezing, but still...

Relinquishing the pull to one of my cohorts.

About 7 miles into the race, I finished a stint pulling and decided to power up with a gel.  I had taped a virtual magazine along my gunnel for rapid-fire access.  Although I had been drilling with just such a set-up, the unexpected discontinuation of PowerBar Gels meant that I'd be working with untested ammunition during the race.  It's a controversial stance, but I'm of the opinion that an energy gel should have at least a vaguely gel-like consistency.  I discovered that Clif Shots are at least an order of magnitude more viscous than any self-respecting gel should be.  More of an energy spackle, really.  In any event, in trying to squeeze the dry paste into my maw, I fell behind the leaders by a few costly lengths.

For whatever reason, I spent the next 3 miles trying to claw my way back to Erik and Flavio.  Yes, we know that my sprint speed is only 3% faster than my cruising speed.  And sure, we're aware that even the mild turbulence kicked up by a couple of skis 15 meters ahead can compromise my questionable V14 stability.  OK, it's also clear that a wild-eyed panic never helped anyone's stroke.  But the specific reason for my drawn-out return to the fold is unclear.  One unfortunate byproduct of my dilly-dallying was that as we passed the first spectator viewpoint at Suck Creek Boat Ramp, Mary Beth had to witness my desperate "little brother tries to keep up" act.  I could hear the mixture of disappointment and pity in her cheers.

Given my recent struggle, I wasn't optimistic about my ability to stay with the leaders once I had caught them.  But over the next few miles, I became more comfortable on the side draft and felt strong on my pulls.  Flavio no longer felt compelled to talk me through relaxation exercises.  The miles started to flow by.  Perhaps I really did belong up front with these guys!  Having watched us pass the Raccoon Mountain and Sullivan's Landing viewpoints in crisp formation, MB later reported that my sudden display of competence made her question the fundamentals of her world-view.

I had been scrupulously watching my GPS speed as we traded pulls, mostly so that when I was out front I wouldn't disgrace our clan.  With varying headwinds and tailcurrents, we spent the majority of our time in the 7.7 to 8.2 mph range.  If you're more accustomed to metric units, be a pal and just multiply by 2 to get the kph values.  For the most part, we had been trading off 10 minute pulls.  Metric folk, that's roughly 18 demiquavers.  Around mile 24, however, Flavio had a short pull at sub-average speed (1.54 tick-tocks at 85 uph).  My heart leaped.  Was this the first symptom of terminal fatigue?  We were bucking a stiff breeze in the shallower waters on the inside of a long bend, so it was impossible to make a definitive prognosis.

It's taken more than 50 years and thousands of photos, but I finally found a shot in which I don't look like a doofus.

I took the next pull.  Evidence continued to mount, as Flavio appeared to struggle on my port wash, ultimately falling back to a stern draft.  I thought perhaps he was merely trying to duck out of the wind, but as my shift up front ended and Erik slid into the lead, he told me that he thought Flavio was "done".  Glancing back, I finally noticed that the pink Nelo had dropped back a couple of lengths.  If Erik and I could keep working together, it felt like maybe we could cement the top two spots.  The fundamental flaw with this strategy, however, was that Erik had probably cemented the top spot just by showing up in Chattanooga.  His motivation for keeping me seemed pretty weak.

As he started our reduced cadre's pull, Erik repeatedly tried to relay some message to me.  I had difficulty hearing over the wind, paddle splashes, and moaning.  All I caught distinctly was "I can drop you anytime I want", delivered in an icy monotone.  I suppose it's possible that he was actually talking about our new strategy and I was just picking up the subtext, but he sure nailed the menacing intonation.

Despite the implied threat (slash indelible truth), I stuck with Erik until it was my turn at the front.  Finishing up my shift at around mile 26, I was starting to feel a little anemic.  I warned Erik that I was going to grab a spackle (weird look) and he graciously slowed to let me recharge.  With this tacit acknowledgement that we'd continue paddling together for at least another pull or two, I could practically feel the weight of the silver medal around my neck.  Sure, Flavio was a much better sprinter and a more accomplished rough water paddler, but I'd be finishing out the remaining miles on flat water with at least some portion on Erik's draft.  How could I not beat him?

And that's how my glorious Chattajack 26 ended - a well-earned second place finish just seconds behind Erik.

The ensuing Chattajack 5, however, started with an embarrassing debacle and went south from there.

While energetically trying to coax a Clif Shot out of its protective pouch, I lost my balance and tumbled off the ski.  Typically in this situation (and there have been enough similar instances to establish statistically reliable trends), I'd let loose with a string of obscenities so foul that they'd leave an expanding oily slick on the surface of the water.  To punctuate the sudden (I was tempted to use "unexpected", but see previous parenthetical) turn of events, I decided to concentrate my rage and frustration into a single mighty expletive, potent enough that seismic tsunami warnings were triggered off the Pacific coast.  Awkwardly scrambling aboard my treacherous craft, I watched as Erik moved on without me, perhaps with a lone tear running down his cheek.

By the time I got back to paddling, I was a dozen lengths back, with Flavio doubtless smelling blood in the water.  It quickly became apparent that catching Eric would be difficult - he had evidently taken my capsize as a signal to make his push for the finish.  More concerning, however, was the degenerating conditions.  We had encountered spells of irritating headwinds accompanied by some minor chop, but as the river turned west and widened into Nickajack Lake, some quirk of topography funneled a gale our direction.  Within a few minutes of paddling, it seemed as if an entirely different course had been spliced into our race, replete with short-period two-foot waves jacked up by the wind-against-current clash.

My pace slowed dramatically as I struggled to stay upright in a boat that had never seen conditions a quarter as hectic.  Erik had long ago pulled far enough ahead that he changed from being an aspirational target to a receding rebuke to my prowess.  As he moved further to river right, he mercifully disappeared from view in the maelstrom (cut me some slack on the embellishment - I'm about to take another swim).  Now topping out at 6 mph, I was just starting to build up a stomach-churning anxiety about getting passed by Flavio when I toppled over.  Never having imagined I'd be paddling my V14 in anything other than serene conditions, my rough water remount practice had been limited to a handful of nightmares of the "forgot about the geometry mid-term" variety.  And those had not gone well - I kept sliding off on tangents.  In real-life, however, I vaulted side-saddle into the bucket, teetered precariously there for a half-hour, then slid my legs in and restarted the upwind slog.  I was cold, demoralized, and "sitting on my hydration tube" (despite the misleading quotes, not a euphemism).  During the excitement, Flavio had passed me in spirited fashion - rocketing by along the left shore so adroitly that I was saved the bother of drumming up any reckless hope of catching him.

I managed to keep within 30 degrees of vertical through the next ten minutes of paddling, although collapse seemed imminent several times.  With two miles left, the rollicking surface of the river flattened again.  The accumulated miles and rough water had taken their toll on my strength, balance, and willpower, however.  I wasn't quite bonking, but I was definitely bonk-adjacent.  My race was over, but I still needed to finish the sucker.  It seemed like each stroke was slightly more difficult than the one before, my arms getting progressively heavier.  The final turn at the old dam building provided just enough of a morale boost to propel me through the last couple hundred meters.  I even managed a smile-adjacent grimace when Mary Beth confirmed that I had held on for a third place finish.

When Hollywood finally get around to making a movie in which an intrepid surfski paddler must rescue a bunch of orphans from the flooded ruins of a post-apocalyptic Manhattan (only to discover, tragically, that they're flesh-eating mutant orphans), they could do a lot worse than Erik.

Flavio, on the other hand, may be more suited to a rom-com in which a carefree paddler must rescue a misguided SUP lass from a life of single-bladed toil (only to discover, tragi-comically, that she's only a recreational paddler)(and also his sister)(and, in a post-credits twist, a zombie).

Erik had pulled in (yet again) as the first solo competitor 6 minutes earlier, with Flavio finishing 1:15 ahead of me.  Scott and Murray took the 4th and 5th spots.  In the women's race, Pam Boteler easily grabbed gold in one of her few surfski races this season.  Matt & Neil edged out Nate & Bruce for the tandem surfski crown, both shattering the course record, with the lead OC-6 just a few seconds behind the latter.  Click for the overall results or the division results.  Congrats to all finishers of this rewarding race.

After weathering a brief breakdown onshore (thanks to MB and Flavio for preventing me from going into the light) and getting my core temperature back into the 90s, my subconscious got busy revising memories of the last five miles to make them more palatable.  Within an hour of finishing, I had convinced myself that the race was wholly enjoyable and was eager to sign up for 2019.  The festive tent celebration that evening did nothing to dissuade me.  There were free donuts, for Pete's sake!  Let's end the report, and the season, on that happy note.