Narrow River Race: Delayed Reaction

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.

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.

It was disappointing when prize money was discontinued back in 2017, but at least the champion still gets something to show off.

After all the bad press and constant hounding by paparazzi, it was only a matter of time before Tim snapped. 

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.

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.

The level of pre-race excitement was off the charts.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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 technically categorized as a "gentle breeze", but I assure you there was nothing "gentle" about the smooth caress of that placid zephyr!  

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.

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.

Just a taste of what you might expect in the other 10,549 frames...

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. 

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?

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 better note).

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.

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.

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.

Narrow River: One Man Race

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.

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.

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.

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.

As Shakespeare wrote about a remarkably similar situation, "Uneasy is the head that wears the crown."

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.

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.

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.

If you have a drone photo, you're contractually required to include a drone photo.

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. 

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Sam slipped me a ten-spot to include this photo.

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.

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). 

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 you.  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.

Nothing like that third crown to ease the head.

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 Essex River Race 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.

Narrow River Race: New Order

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.

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!

Running on a tight schedule, Wesley came directly from his town crier gig.

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. 

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.

As Tim reviews the race rules, non-partisan observer Sam monitors for inconsistencies, misconduct, and improprieties.  Look for his multi-volume report soon.

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.

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.

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!

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.  

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 he decided otherwise.  Although he appeared to have reality bolstering his argument, let's just say we agreed to disagree about our continued relationship.

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.

I had ample opportunities to hone my lurking skills.  (Photo courtesy of Jan Lupinski)

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 admitted to spending at least 4 miles on Chris' draft, while claiming 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For glory, honor, and - most importantly - that extra SSR series point.

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.

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.

Narrow River: Sweet Release of Depth

As all locals are aware, Rhode Island is the epicenter of surfski racing in New England.  As inexorable as gravity, the wee state draws in paddlers from hundreds of miles away.  Mary Beth and I took advantage of this mysterious attractive force to grab a couple of extra hours of sleep as our car autonomously made its way to the Narrow River Race, gently guided around obstacles like Boston by the deep grooves we'd previously worn in the roads leading from home to Rhode Island.  We awoke to find ourselves among the single largest fleet of skis to ever to grace this waterway.  With 28 paddlers milling about (including 4 supplemental kayakers - just in case we needed to call in some reserves), race organizers Wesley and Tim had a difficult time providing personalized course instructions.  They eventually abbreviated their spiels to a series of brisk arm gestures.  I was called for intentional grounding and high-sticking, but others didn't get off so lightly.

We'd be running a slightly abbreviated version of the race, heading upriver for 3 miles, reversing our course downriver a mile past the start, then finishing back where all the pointless back-and-forth began.  In the absence of any buoy to mark the upstream end of our spawning run, we'd be performing a rare outside turn on a rowing club dock.  Wesley told us that we should pass close enough to touch the dock, with our conscience serving as an unblinking witness to our honor.  I immediately revised my race plan such that I'd arrive at the turn alone.  My conscience is no narc, but the other paddlers... they'd sell out their children for an extra point in the race series.

While I'm sure he appreciates the instruction, I can't help but think Forrest is a little irritated at constantly being referred to by Chris as "my Padawan".

Don't get Chris started about the differences between the Braca XI and the Braca XI right next to it.

The Narrow River is best known for being so shallow that the race itself technically qualifies as a single 8 mile portage.  This year, however, the river has achieved new depths of shallowness.  Wesley and Tim briefly considered dropping the PFD requirement in favor of mandatory helmets, given that a capsize would more likely result in concussion than immersion.  If nothing else, we'd all at least be getting some solid resistance training.

I had been hearing alarming rumors about the Drago-like training program that locals Chris Quinn and Mike Florio had been putting themselves through in order to break the degenerate outsiders.  I checked on YouTube for montages of the pair hooked up to fancy electronics and snapping paddles during sprints, but got side-tracked by some funny walrus videos.  Given that Chris was regularly beating me at the end of last season and Mike was a frequent threat in 2017, the prospect of these hyper-fit guys stepping up their game had me desperately looking for a crotchety old-timer to provide the requisite motivational speech.  Unfortunately, Bill Kuklinski wasn't able to make the race.  Sorry for that, buddy.  Maybe next time you'll show up to defend yourself.

Cheerfulness like this should be reserved for Christmas and donut-time.  Pre-race?  Come on.

Seriously?

Nope.  Ugh.  Everyone is doing it wrong.

The organizers had decided to continue an experiment from late last season in which self-selecting slower paddlers would start in an initial wave some minutes before the remaining field.  I suspect the original goal of this strategy was to provide a sacrificial offering to wrathful sea gods, but in more benign conditions it also serves to provide more mid-race contact between paddlers of disparate abilities (subject to community standards, of course) and consolidate the finishers.  Wesley launched the first wave of 10 racers, who at least made it around the first bend without being devoured by Neptune's pack of sea wolves.  Truly an auspicious omen for the rest of us!

After finding individual pockets of water deep enough to float our boats, the second wave lined up for a rolling start - complete with the usual bickering and archaic race-baiting ("Why you scurrilous Irish claim-jumper!  Hie yourself back behind the line!").  Wesley counted us down and - as unanimously agreed upon beforehand by the racing subcommittee - Chris Chappell assumed command.  My start was relatively unembarrassing, but that was probably because half the field hadn't yet been in a boat this year.  At least, that was their story.  Chris Q and I matched one another for the first minute or so before I settled into third place on his starboard draft.

The first wave bravely forges ahead to face their destiny.

Even though Chris C proved himself a fair and capable leader, Chris Q apparently decided that the next generation deserved its turn.  Since I've always considered myself hep to the latest fancy of the young 'uns, I figured I'd come along for the insurrection.  About a quarter mile into the race, our youthful crew moved into the lead.  As the slightly more experienced paddler, I felt a duty to continue to hang back on the draft in a supervisory role.  Chris didn't require much tutelage, although from time to time I had remind him to slow down lest he inadvertently drop his mentor.

I had expected Mike to be vying for the lead (and also in need of unsolicited kibitzing), but he remained conspicuously absent.  A quick backward glance, however, revealed that he had also passed Chris C and was now only a half-dozen lengths behind.  Apparently he had some trouble getting clear of other boats off the line, but was now intent on rectifying that stumble.  As Chris led us through the twists of the river, I tracked Mike's progress as he methodically closed that gap.  By the time we had entered the lake-like portion of the course, he had halved his deficit.

Perhaps due to concern that I'd be mistaken for a free-loader (as opposed to a nurturing starboard presence), shortly after the river broadened I took a turn at point with Chris on a port draft.  We continued in this formation as the upstream turn-around approached.  In my mind, I had plotted out a graceful clockwise arc that would have me tangent-ing neatly alongside the dock before curving back the way we came.  It quickly became apparent, however, that I shouldn't have left my compass and protractor in the car.  I started the turn too late.  And then corrected too late.  To my credit, however, I panicked at just about the right time.  My tangent threatening to become an intersection, I leaned on the rudder and narrowly avoided ramming the dock.  Chris, who had been drafting on what became the outside of my turn, had wisely began dropping back as my collision-course trajectory became increasingly apparent, but still hit the corner of the dock bow-first.  I was not, as Mary Beth accused after the race, attempting to "rub out the competition".  However, after due consideration of maritime law and sporting regulations, I'm prepared to accept 23% of the blame for the incident due to gross navigational incompetence.

After visually verifying that Chris' boat remained sea-worthy (it suffered a divot above the waterline), we continued our way back towards the start.  It seemed that Mike had dropped back a few lengths over the past 15 minutes, but he was still close enough to qualify as "lurking".  Surprisingly, a significant tidal current was now helping us along.  As we passed the first wave paddlers, Chris continued to hang doggedly on my draft.  Based on past experience, I doubted that I'd be able to drop him with random intervals, so figured my best hope would be to grind him down with a punishing sustained pace.  Lacking the ability to manage "punishing", I settled for "mildly taxing" - paddling as hard as I could manage for the next 3 miles.  Chris refused to succumb, although I like to imagine that his heart blipped a couple of beats above resting rate.

For most of the race I had been warily watching the riverbed to make sure that it stayed safely below the water surface.  Approaching the first bridge past the start, this relative positioning threatened to reverse itself.  I was thrown temporarily off-balance as my paddle blade struck the bottom.  I flattened my stroke to avoid dredging a channel that Chris might benefit from, but he had already made his move off to my left.  We took separate lines under the bridge and over the ensuing sheen before rejoining just prior to the downstream turn-around.  Chris was now in the lead.

I stayed on the draft as we worked back upstream through the shallowest sections, daintily dabbing at the water to keep our strokes wholly liquid.  Once we hit slightly deeper water after the bridge, I knew it'd be a half-mile sprint to the finish.  I didn't like my odds starting that dash from a length behind, but I couldn't work up enough gumption to pull even in the shallows.  Sure enough, as soon as we had cleared the sandbar guarding the bridge, Chris surged ahead to increase his lead by a length.  Although I managed to stop the bleeding, I was incapable of closing the gap.  Chris finished 5 seconds ahead of me.  Mike came in a scant 20 seconds behind to complete the V14 podium sweep.  Chris C and Kurt Hatem rounded out the top 5.  On the women's side, Mary Beth looked strong, outpacing Leslie Chappell and Jean Kostelich for the win.

Kurt finishes strong with Wesley and Tim in chase.

If you didn't know any better, you might think Tim was kind of a cool guy.

Having now been beaten by Chris in four consecutive head-to-head matches, I'm realizing that my only hope is playing to my strength.  He's bested me in flatwater and rough seas, and showed superiority in both upwind and downwind conditions.  My only real hope is an endurance situation.  I just have to find a race that's so long that his commitment to his young family prevents him from actually competing.

Thanks to Wesley and Tim for throwing yet another in a long string of entertaining races.  And for convincing our post-race party venue (the Oak Hill Tavern) to drop the more serious charges.  We're back on flatwater for the Run of the Charles on Sunday, April 28.  I'm trying to convince Chris that they're trying out a new "24 hour paddle" format, but I'm not sure he's buying it.

All is vanity.

Narrow River Race: Young Guns

Although the Snow Row is technically the first race of the New England season, it's more of a novelty act than a true race - the juggling pig of the surfski world.  The real action would start with the Narrow River Race, co-chaired by Wesley and Tim.  After being pushed one day into the future by inclement weather, we'd finally all get a chance to see the world of tomorrow.  I, for one, was looking forward to exciting new wine cooler flavors.

Another race day in the northeast...

The Sunday of the race dawned, disappointingly, like any other day.  Maybe a little warmer.  Contrary to what you'd expect from its name, the trademark of the Narrow River is not its breadth, but its depth.  The river is best described as "damp" - a thin glaze of water spread sparingly over a muddy substrate.  Just enough to keep the quahogs clammy.  Locals still talk about the flood of '89, when Joey Larson's water heater gave way up there on South River Drive.  With recent dredging of the shallowest section, however, at least this year we wouldn't spend half the race trying to extract our paddle blades from the muck.

Wesley and Tim have established Rhode Island as the de facto surfski capital of New England through their tireless promotion of the sport.  They've helped build a timeworn community of like-minded competitors that share a certain... dignified maturity.  It seems, however, that we seasoned paddlers are losing our allure.  The reassuring chorus of popping shoulders and the familiar odor of Bengay is no longer enough to maintain the duo's interest.   While Wesley and Tim have drafted some age-appropriate recruits from the sailing community in Tim Hacket and Rob Myles, they've also been cruising the beaches of Narragansett Bay in search of fresher fare.  They found it.  Obsolescence will surely follow.

Bob was dispensing vitamins freely before the race.  I'm not sure whether it was the riboflavin or the niacin, but by the fifth stanza of the race, I was seeing flavors with some truly groovy textures.

Lifeguards at Narragansett Town Beach (conveniently located near the mouth of the Narrow River), Mike Florio and Christopher Quinn joined us for their first surfski race.  Veterans of the state's grueling cross-discipline Lifeguard Tournament and hard-core fitness buffs, these guys were prepared to hit the water running.  That strategy may fly when saving a life (and, come to think of it, might actually work well for this particular race), but after we pointed out that it'd be a serious breach of ski etiquette, they agreed to stick to paddling.  However, requests that Mike tone down his contagious exuberance - similarly uncouth within our circle - fell on deaf ears.  Well, technically, fell on ears with frequency acuity much closer to that of a dog than to most of ours.

At least one paddler came prepared for the future.

Tim had warned me that despite being new to the sport, Mike and Christopher had been training hard and would be immediate podium threats.  I pooh-poohed this foolishness.  Clearly he was just smitten with their youth.  I'd be concentrating on known menaces Jan Lupinski and Mike Dostal.   Like Lyme disease, Jan is a constant and potentially debilitating threat in this region.  Although I beat Mike D at last year's race, at the USCA Championships he had thrashed me, rifled my pockets, and left me for dead on the shores of the Connecticut River.  It seemed unlikely that I could beat him, but maybe if I kept it close, he'd at least return my car keys and Blockbuster card.

Taking visualization to new levels, Wesley competed without a paddle or boat.  He wouldn't have even worn a PFD, but since it was already on when he woke up, he didn't bother taking it off.

At the captains meeting, Wesley and Tim explained that we'd be running a modified course of only 8 miles.  See, guys?  This is what a disciplined whining-based protest movement can achieve.  Sure, we'd been maced a few times and Tim Hudyncia still suffers from Taser-induced incontinence, but we wore 'em down in the end.  We'd head up-river about 2.5 miles, turn on a white mooring buoy ("at least the size of a VW bug" according to Tim), run back past the start an additional 1.5 miles, turn on a set of pilings, and return to the start.  We'd start and finish struggling against the wind, the current, and the tide.  You might think there'd be some joy in the middle section, but no... that'd be crushed by the slogging bookends of toil.

After last year's debacle, the race committee instituted a zero-tolerance policy for course-cutting in 2017.  Any deviation from the sanctioned route would result in an immediate DQ.  Was it my imagination, or were the guys looking right at me when relaying this new rule?  In any event, like everyone else (right?) I turned in the signed and notarized form indicating that I fully understood the implications of the coincidentally-named "Lesher Clause".

As Tim demonstrated, the penalty for cutting the course would be both severe and apt.

It was soon time to moisten our hulls.  I counted 21 boats lining up for the start - a new record for the Narrow River.  What luck.  We'd be running the shortest course ever, with the largest number of skis!  At 0.381 miles per boat, this race would be a piece of cake.  Chris Sherwood pulled me aside and patiently explained the error in my logic.  But still!  Post-race cake!

Wesley soon counted us down to a rolling start.  Youthful experimentation with a home gene-splicing kit having left me devoid of fast-twitch muscle fibers, I'm forced to rely on second-hand momentum from nearby paddlers to ease me off the line.  By then abruptly sticking my paddle into the water, I'm able to pop the clutch on enough slow-twitch fibers to achieve self-sustaining locomotion.  A half-mile or so later, I've steamed up to cruising velocity.

I told Bruce that he wasn't going to sneak up on anyone in a white boat with a fluorescent yellow vest, but he insisted that his ninja training would protect him from detection.

Unsurprisingly, Mike D had jumped to an immediate lead, with Jan and Chris Chappell following close behind.  I gradually worked my way past Wesley, Tim H1, Tim D, Tim H2, and Bruce Deltorchio.  During this move, Mike F kept pace on my right, completely exhausting his energy stores in a valiant effort to stay with me in pursuit of the leaders.  That kid's got moxie.  A few moments later, I caught Chris.  Rather than hanging around, I figured I'd attempt to slingshot up to Jan.  That term implies a more energetic movement than I actually managed (I've lost a lot of elasticity since hitting 50), but I did ease by Chris.  Despite relying on meager fat reserves by this point (perhaps on the soles of his feet?), so did Mike F.  Apparently the guy's got grit too.

With Mike D frequently disappearing around bends in the river, I tried to focus on catching Jan.  Perhaps we could work together to cut Mike's steadily increasing lead.  A half-mile later, I settled onto his stern wash.  I figured I'd just catch my breath for, say, forty-five minutes, then graciously offer to take a turn pulling over the final couple hundred meters.  His new Nelo 560 wasn't providing the comfortable ride I had hoped for, however.  The sweet spot on the draft seemed to be a foot or so behind where you'd expect, and I'm nothing if not unadaptable.  Approaching the low bridge that precedes the widening of the river, I decided to catapult myself past Jan (a move best appreciated at 64x, as in my race video).

I expected Jan would follow, but he dropped back a few lengths as we entered the lake-y portion of the race.  Mike F, running on fumes, stayed with him.  Twenty lengths ahead, Mike D was plowing through the headwind towards the turn.  My hopes for a rough water reckoning and subsequent Dostal comeuppance were dashed.  We were going directly into meager waves - nothing significant enough to disrupt his metronomic cadence.  Mike extended his lead.  At the turn, I caught a glimpse of Jan and Mike F ten lengths behind me. The latter was evidently now drawing energy directly from some other dimension.  Or perhaps it was time to recalibrate my estimates of his ability and rescind the pooh-pooh I had rashly issued to Tim.

It became a point of pride to keep the glint of Mike D's paddle within eyeshot, but it was clear that nobody would be catching him today.  Trying to focus on technique during the downriver portion turned out to be pointless, so I instead concentrated on a growing existential panic - my generation would soon be rendered irrelevant.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but, then again, maybe today.  Despite throwing frequent glances over my shoulder (partially splayed fingers covering my eyes to temper the potential horror), I couldn't get a bead on Mike F until the downriver turn.  The graceful arc I carved around the pilings had a radius about 10 meters larger than the narrowing river could accommodate, but by caroming off a wading fisherman I managed to get headed back upstream.  The next time maybe he'll remember to wear his shin guards and helmet.

Shortly after completing the turn, I saw Mike F barreling towards me.  I had less than a minute lead with 1.5 miles of upwind slog left.  Doing some quick mental calculations, I estimated that if I could just keep my heart rate at X for the remainder of the race, I'd ensure myself of a second place finish.  X seemed more like a number you'd apply to a bumblebee than a person, but what was I saving those beats for anyway?  I pushed my way upwind back towards the finish, turning over all motor functions to my lizard brain so that I could truly savor the growing pain.  I never managed to achieve that target heart rate, but I did work up quite a nectar deficit.

Finally freed from our pogies, Mike and I made up for lost gesture time.

Mike Dostal was waiting for me at the finish line, leisurely sipping tea while checking cricket scores on his phone.  OK.  I got a little lazy there - relying on tired British stereotypes for a titter.  He was actually smoking a pipe and watching snooker.  Just about the time I had regained conscious control of my body, Mike Florio roared by mid-river.  If we hadn't flagged him down, I suspect he might have done a few more laps before calling it a day and hitting the gym.  Jan and Christopher (who had moved up a couple of spots in the home stretch) pulled in a short while later to round out the top five.  On the women's side, Mary Beth claimed the title, followed by Jen Kreamer and Leslie Chappell.

Although Mike D would try to be the first to admit that comparing our performances wouldn't really be fair since he was in an ICF boat, I'm pretty sure I could beat him to the punch.  And, in fact, I loudly inoculated myself from any expectations the instant I saw the K-1 on his car (while silently rubbing my hands together at the prospect of the extra SSR series points).  Of course, the ICF-vs-surfski speed debate is the hot-button issue of these anxious times.  But as the Wall Street Journal recently noted, "by all objective measures, proponents on both sides need to get a life."  Let's just agree that, regardless of the hydrodynamic facts, I feel marginally better about being beaten this way by Mike.  When he shows up in a 12 foot Pungo next race and still inevitably smokes me, that's going to sting a bit.

Remember when I could make a reasonable claim on this being my boat?

Disoriented by the pleasant post-race weather, we milled aimlessly about the parking lot for a while before Tim corralled everyone and pointed us towards the Oak Hill Tavern for lunch.  We were a bit short on cash, so Bruce had to lend us three bucks.  That's not really relevant to this report, but it reflects pretty poorly on Bill.  Guess that kidney donation counts for nothing with you, huh?  Thanks to Wesley and Tim for throwing another great early-season race, and to Tim H1 for providing novelty prizes.  Special congratulations to Mike F and Christopher for jaw-dropping performances after only a few months on skis.  Some advice from a completely disinterested party - might be time to ease back on the training a little.  Don't want to burn out.  Also, have you thought about trying Greenland paddles?

As seen in this "before" picture, everybody arrived at the bar fully dressed.

Upcoming area races include the 15 mile River Rat Race in Orange, MA on April 9 (this coming Sunday) and the 6 mile Run of the Charles on April 30 (the Sunday after 10 weeks from the Thursday before last President's Day).  Best of luck to those braving balmy Florida for the Shark Bite Challenge.

Narrow River: Shiny New Boats

I have a soft spot for Rhode Island, and not just because it's the chock that holds Massachusetts in place.  Our most miniscule state hosts more surfski races per capita than any other, with one competition per 23 residents.  The Rhode Island season kicked off with the Narrow River Race this past weekend.  The Narrow River, so called because of its unrelenting shallowness, is a long tidal inlet that stretches north from its mouth near the opening of Narraganset Bay.  The race is most famous for being about 20% longer than you'd like it to be.

By the end of last season I'd complained enough about lugging around 33 pound boats and decided to put my money where Greg Barton's wallet is.  I ordered up an Ultra V10 and an Ultra V10 Sport as Christmas presents to myself, but I'd have to wait until Spring to take delivery from Ed Duggan.  The day before the Narrow River Race, I received the call.  The boats were in.

New boat.  Slightly older paddler.

Like kittens greedily lapping up the Baileys thoughtfully left out for Santa, we grabbed the new boats from Ed, applied a liberal coat of protective tape, then staggered over to nearby Chebacco Lake ("Now Only Semi-Frozen!") to moisten the skis prior to actually racing in them the next morning.  In the two short hours it took for Mary Beth to set her foot plate to the correct position on the Sport, I was able to get a good feel for my lightweight machine.  Depending on which source you listen to, dropping 5 pounds off your ski's weight will either cure lupus, shave 5-10 seconds off your mile pace, or just set you back an extra $1,000 for a boat that you could stick a pencil through.  In any event, it did seem peppier than my old boat, and I felt confident that my competitors would be gracious enough to respect that perception come race time.

Allow me to nip a common misconception before it congeals into cold, hard, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-ski fact.  Within minutes of arriving at the race, everyone was referring to the V10 Sport as "Mary Beth's boat".  No.  It's my rough water boat.  In the interest of clarity, I'm going to ask that everyone please instead refer to "the boat which Mary Beth happens to be paddling today, but might well not be using in the next race".  A little unwieldy, granted, but I think we can all agree that in the end, I'll be happier.

Winter has been tough to shake this year, but something shiny up in Newfoundland must have caught its attention on Saturday, giving us a chance to sneak in a quick warm-weather race while it was distracted.  We'd start the 9.7 mile course by heading upstream for 3 miles, then return back down past the start to the mouth of the river before turning once again and returning upstream to the finish.  The field was primarily composed of Tims, Bobs, and Chrises, with the token Jerry and Matt thrown in for diversity.

Tim the Elder called us in for a captain's meeting.  Start here.  Turn there.  Pass under a bridge close to this stanchion.  No firearms.  You know the drill.  However, he neglected to give the typical we're-all-in-this-together "if someone gets in trouble, your priority is to help them" speech.  I suspect this was because the average depth of the Narrow River is about 18 inches, but I filed this omission away, just in case.  We hopped in our boats for quick warm-ups and rejoined several minutes later at the starting line.

An inordinate amount of debate about the starting procedure had the desired effect - everybody was too befuddled by the process to jump the gun.  Chris Chappell got out to a quick start in his Mohican, with Chris Laughlin pulling a close second.  Wesley, Eric Costanzo, Tim Dwyer, and I locked into various drafting positions behind the leaders.  My particular position was about 3 inches to the left of where everyone else was depositing their used paddle water, which was the only thing that saved me from drowning.

Gradually, Tim, Wesley, and Eric fell off the pace.  Invigorated by my extended baptism, I jumped from Laughlin's draft over to Chappell's, then attempted to pass the latter on the left.  He swatted away my attempt effortlessly, so I peeled back onto his wash for a few moments before giving it another try on the right.  I pulled ahead a shade, but Chris C stuck fast on my left, his bright orange nose bobbing clownishly in my peripheral vision.  After a few moments of this, I decided to squeeze out a quick interval to see how Chris would react.

A successful interval is bittersweet - a lot like when you're 14 and you finally convince your parents to let you go to sleep-away puppetry camp, only to carry around the nickname Googly-Eye Greg for all of high school.  You reap what you sow, sure, but those confounded seeds all look alike.  Having opened up a gap on Chris, my body was now stuck with my mind's rash decision.  Not wanting to let myself down, I was forced to maintain a punishing pace to keep ahead.

I've had black-tipped Epics for so long that now when I look down at my deck, I wonder who's passing me.  (Thanks to Leslie Chappell for the photo)

For years now, the so-called "Markin Rule" has established that the leader of a race is free to deviate from the established course at his sole discretion, provided that he can trick the rest of the field into lemming-like pursuit.  I therefore made the call to shorten the course by a half-mile, turning prematurely back downriver around the wrong set of buoys, while throwing nervous glances over my shoulder to make sure that Chris and Chris would follow in my wake.  They complied, although perhaps a little grudgingly for my taste.

In my defense, the right set of buoys was more a figment of Tim Dwyer's mind that an actual concrete reality, and I didn't feel comfortable paddling in those deep and stormy waters.

After making the turn downriver, both the ebbing tide and a mild breeze were in my favor.  By staying in the deepest (ahem) part of the channel (ahem), you could take advantage of a current that in places approached 2 knots.  In many other places, however, you might easily find yourself glued to the mucky bottom.  I managed to keep at least a thin film of water under my boat for most of the trip back past the starting line, then down towards the mouth of the river.

The turn near the mouth of the Narrow River is undoubtedly the toughest maneuver in the New England race repertoire.  You have to swing your ungainly boat around 180 degrees in a stiff current, then slide through the narrow gap between a flagpole and the shore.  Failure to execute this turn means you will be swept out onto the Double Beaver course, where you won't be found until August.

Certain acts are meant to be private.  Just as you don't want anyone around when you delve into that stash of Too Close For Comfort VHS tapes you've hidden in the basement, you'd prefer to negotiate this hairpin turn free from the judgement of others.  Since pulling into the lead, my sole focus had been on getting far enough ahead of the pack to avoid disgracing myself publicly at the turn-around.  I wasn't positive that I was in the clear, but I held my breath, yanked back the rudder (I may be working that thing wrong), and took the plunge.  Unless you hear otherwise from another eyewitness, everything went swimmingly.  Fine.  I mean fine.

The trip back up to the finish line was relatively uneventful.  By staying out of the main current I managed to keep my speed safely in the range between "not backwards" and "utterly demoralizing", with occasional bursts up to "pathetic".  I saw Mary Beth pulling her boat (dammit, even I'm doing it) across a sand bar, but fortunately was too fatigued to follow through on my urge to yell "Don't scratch my boat!"  Head down, I kept pushing into the tide and wind.  The finish line approached timidly, eventually succumbing to my repeated assurances that I wouldn't hurt it.  Heck, I was as afraid of it as it was of me.

I had cut more than 10 minutes off of last year's time, which is exactly why I'll be running abridged versions of all the races this season.  Next in was Chris C, followed by Eric, Chris L, and Wesley.  I hinted earlier that I may have taken a swim (I probably did not), but one of our competitors did actually test the waters.  Tim Hudyncia, in his insatiable zeal for racing, doubled back after finishing and joined Chris Sherwood and Mary Beth in their final half-mile sprint to provide coxswain-like motivation.  And then he fell in.  I don't have a joke here.  I just figured Tim would want everyone to know.

As a show of solidarity, the top 6 finishers crossed the line together.  There were no winners and losers this day.  Just 6 guys measurably faster than the other 7 paddlers.  (Thanks to Leslie Chappell for the photo)

Before the awards ceremony, Eric provided us with T-shirts from Seas It - a charity founded by Eric's sister to support cancer recovery through recreation.  While the rest of us could enjoy a day of rest on Sunday (or, at least, a day of not racing), Eric was off to compete again the next day to promote Seas It.  Ugh.  OK, already.  I'll donate.  Tim D had us do something with Chinese finger traps that I expect we'll all come to regret, Wesley announced the times, and a good chunk of us retired to the Oak Hill Tavern for a well-deserved peanut overdose.

We're back on flat water at the Run of the Charles in two weeks.