Narrow River Race: Redux

After months of intensive lobbying of race director Tim Dwyer, I managed to have last year's Narrow River Race expunged from the records.  Delayed from April to October by COVID and subsequently capped at only 10 paddlers, one can hardly tolerate such an illegitimate farce disgracing the official annals.  I felt bad that Mike Florio's first-ever surfski victory would be coincidentally voided, but the common good must prevail.  He'd probably want his inaugural gold medal to be by more decisive a margin than a mere five and a half minutes anyway.

With less stringent gathering restrictions, it looked like the 2021 run of the Narrow River Race would be fully sanctioned.  Pending suitable results, of course.  Nearly the entire field of last year's pseudo-race responded to their summons for a rematch, to be joined by a dozen other paddlers, including the first ever C-2 entry.  Even though he was quick to play the "I haven't been training much" card (adding it to the growing pile), all eyes were on Mike.  Having worked out recently with Chris Chappell, I knew he'd be a serious threat as well.  Vibrantly named newcomers Loukia Lili, Josco Catipovic, and, er, Jeff Tucker chose the Narrow River for their first surfski race.  Loukia, a national-caliber amateur triathlete, celebrated her 40th birthday by driving 5 hours on a whim to compete with us.  That kind of vigor and enthusiasm might be inspiring to some, but sent several of the more world-weary competitors to pre-race naps in their cars.

Carole graciously offered to provide sign language interpretation, but Tim's gesticulations left no room for confusion.

After years of yoga and meditation, Wesley finally achieved inner bliss just moments before the race.  Unfortunately, he lost it 3 minutes after the start.

With the post time rapidly approaching, Tim called on us to "huddle up" for the captains meeting.  He made beckoning gestures with his open arms, but the rest of us collectively decided to maintain a reasonable social distance.  Because of the pandemic, we told him.

We'd be running the standard 8 mile course.  After heading upriver for 3 miles, we'd turn at a rowing club dock, reverse our way back past the launch, turn on some pilings a mile downriver, then finish back at the start.  With temperatures in the 50s and only a light breeze, conditions were perfect.  From the shore, it was difficult to tell whether the notoriously depth-challenged river contained enough liquid for safe passage.  For a change, I couldn't see any writhing fish struggling to keep their gills immersed, so perhaps we'd be OK.

I felt kinda bad for hazing Loukia by telling her that newbies were expected to perform an interpretative dance at the captains meeting, but she really knocked it out of the park.

We hit the water.  A nucleus of fast-twitch paddlers formed on the left side of the line, to be quickly surrounded by a buzzing shell of hangers-on attracted by the prospect of getting pulled along for the ride.  I chose a neutral path to the far right - too proud to wring ill-gotten gains from the sweat of my competitors.  That's how I'm couching my tactical positioning blunder, at least.  In the soothing tones of a time-and-temperature operator, Tim counted us down to an incongruously low-key start.  After a moment of disorientation, I shook the sleep from my eyes and launched immediately into a recurring nightmare.  You know the one: Everyone else is off to a great start, you can't remember how a paddle works, and you're pants-less.  In a horrific new twist, however, the velcro on one of my pogies had also come loose, leaving it free to slide up and down my paddle with every twitchy stroke.

As expected, Mike and Chris C led the charge on the left, flanked by John Costello in a boat several notches less streamlined.  Mark Wendolowski, Chris Quinn, Tim D, and Tim Hacket followed closely behind.  My vantage point from open water to the distant right provided a welcome detachment from the crushing sense of inadequacy I usually feel when falling behind early.  It was almost as if I was floating in my boat, watching the race from far away.  Lest I were to drift even further into reverie, I forced myself to focus (with a little help from those old friends, lactic acid and panic) and join the fray.  I angled alongside Tim D, and, after exchanging some pleasantries with our host, started to work slowly up the rankings.  I moved past Chris Q (uncharacteristically shirted) and Mark (not generally a saltwater paddler, but adapting well to the brackish conditions).  By this point, Mike was out to an 8 length lead over Chris C, with John now struggling to stay on Chris' draft.

While closing the 3 length gap to John over the next couple of minutes, I marveled at his power and efficiency.  Despite taking a single stroke for every 14 of mine (give or take), he was pushing a V10 Sport at practically the same speed as my V14.  I'm just hoping that restraining order against his beam remains in place at 19".  I tried to slip by John as quietly as possible, much as you'd tip-toe past a hibernating bear.  I made it by, but wouldn't really feel comfortable with him behind me until I had put a sacrificial offering between us.

After one too many close shaves with duck hunters, Chris now errs on the side of caution.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

It took me several minutes to catch Chris.  Since he had shown me such generous hospitality in the past, I figured on settling in the unused plot immediately behind him.  I'd squat there temporarily - at least until my application for permanent residency was approved.  Maybe I'd pop alongside Chris every now and again to borrow a cup of sugar, but mostly I'd just keep quarantined in my cozy new home.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when my hunkering was interrupted by sharp pangs of conscience.  My shame threshold is pretty high, so for feelings of guilt to reach the surface requires some truly disgraceful behavior.  Apparently, I'd be expected to show some integrity.  Frankly, the better angels of our nature can be a real drag.  Reluctantly, I abandoned my newfound shelter and tried to pass Chris.

We paddled side-by-side for several minutes as the Narrow River widened into a slightly less narrow lake.  Our race-within-a-race was soon embedded within yet another race, as we found ourselves unwitting participants in a pairs sculling contest.  Given that the other racers had cleverly devised a method of applying power simultaneously on both sides via a mind-boggling lever-and-fulcrum mechanism and managed to shoehorn 2 people in each boat, I didn't like our odds.  Chris and I leveled the field a little bit by charging down-course well before the starting gun, but within seconds the sculls had erased our handicap.  Fortunately, we were gently nudged to one side by the race director's bullhorn before the rowers were able to dismount us.  Twenty-five lengths ahead, Mike showed himself impervious to those same amplified commands, but his line to our turn-around naturally diverged from their course well before any blows could be exchanged.

During the interdisciplinary excitement, I managed to start pulling away from Chris.  I reached the turning point several lengths ahead, buoyed by the (quite possibly sarcastic) cheers from the crew club supporters lining the docks to applaud their racers.  Heading back down the lake, I saw John perhaps 15 lengths behind Chris, with Mark and Chris Q back again as far.  Now working against a light wind and mild current, my speed dropped a little, but not to the extent I had feared.  Based on a few quick glimpses of Chris back over my shoulder, I seemed to be prying open the gap.

I mentioned that I had suffered a catastrophic pogie failure back at the start.  For the last 30 minutes the partially attached pogie had been flapping against my left hand, but I couldn't afford to stop and remedy the situation.  It was becoming clear, however, that the situation had ripened from an annoying distraction to a life-threatening predicament.  Because of a genetic abnormality (self-diagnosed, but nonetheless completely not made-up), my skin lacks the polyproline IIIa collagen necessary to fend off minor abrasions and irritations.  I'm a very sensitive fellow.  In the absence of any more estimable character traits, my cruel high school classmates voted me Most Likely to Chafe.  Over the years I've been referred to a succession of specialists, all of whom strongly advised that I avoid any leisure activity that involved repetitive motions while clad in neoprene.  That kind of thing wasn't really my groove anyway, so I got into paddling.  Despite applying ample space-age lubricant, I've grown accustomed to the angry abrasions that circle my waist during the paddling season.  I'm happy to endure second-degree chafing over 30% of my body to secure a podium finish, but I was pretty sure that I could now see bone where the flopping pogie had rubbed the skin off my thumb.

Off the course... nicest guy you could meet.  On the course... diabolical supervillain.  Cool costume, though. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Having put some distance on Chris, I decided to risk a quick stop to salvage enough dermis to accept a graft (donations welcome).  I figured that removing the pogie entirely would be quicker than reattaching the loose side, but I hadn't anticipated that the remaining velcro would have the cohesive strength of welded steel.  Twenty-some minutes later, I managed to detach the cursed thing and fling it disgustedly in my footwell.  My lead on Chris had been reduced to a dozen lengths, but at least I'd managed to save my fourth most cherished extremity (list available upon request).

Progress downriver continued at a reasonable pace until I approached the launch area, where the river straightens and widens into a marshy stretch.  This revealed the extent to which the winding river had been protecting us from the growing southerly breeze.  More critically, however, with an expansive floodplain to enjoy, the water abandoned the constrictions of a navigable channel and kicked back in the shallows.  Knowing the suck water was coming, I braced for the sudden deceleration, making sure both knees were slightly bent to better absorb the impact.  Physically, I suffered only a mild case of whiplash and a couple of lost fillings.  But how does one measure the toll on the spirit?

I had suddenly lost about 15% of my former speed.  My energy and morale reserves were bottoming out (which was also a constant threat to my ski), but I eventually made it to the downstream turn.  Nearby, a couple of fisherman were standing in holes they had dug in the riverbed to try out their waders.  One needlessly apologized for casting in my general vicinity.  Given that he wouldn't be able to unsee the horror of my cross-current turn, I assured him that he was more sinned against than sinning.

Even after we explained the paradox to him, Bob insisted on trying to get a shot of himself finishing.

Clad completely in unbreathable fabric, Dave had limited options for shedding excess heat.

For the final mile back to the finish, I waited in vain for some help from what was now a stiffening tailwind.  The relentless pull from the shallows was trumping any assistance from wind or current.  Not until the final quarter mile was I able to loosen the shackles enough to exceed "brisk walk" pace. Although it was impossible to measure exactly how much earlier Mike had finished due to his warping of the space-time continuum, my best guess is that he was 5 minutes or so ahead - just off the course record he had set back in the fall.  Gold at last for Mike!  Chris C finished roughly a minute behind me, with John, Chris Q, Mark, and Tim following over the next few minutes.  First-timer Loukia broke her winless streak as the first female finisher, with Mary Beth taking second.

Since our normal post-race venue wasn't open for outdoor dining, we contented ourselves with hobnobbing in the parking lot.  At least until the vice squad showed up to break up the depravity.  Thanks to Tim for hosting another fine day on the water.

In a normal year, the Run of the Charles and the Essex River Race would be next on our agendas.  Due to COVID, however, the former is being run as a virtual race, while the latter has been shifted to early October.  The vacuum left by these changes has sucked Tim's Battle of the Bay from mid-summer to mid-spring.  The race will be held on May 15 at its new (as of 2020) Goat Island home.  Register at PaddleGuru.

Narrow River Race: Open Season

Although there were no celebratory banners, brightly colored balloons, or Procol Harum tribute bands to commemorate the 10th running of the Narrow River Race, the mood among the 20 participants seemed particularly festive.  I had spent the drive down alternating between honing the delivery of my twelve hundred stanza memorial poem ("Depth Be Not Proud") and being told that if I didn't shut the hell up, so help me God, there'd truly be something to memorialize at the 11th annual race.  Ha!  Like Homer, I expect it'd take a few hundred years before anyone realized my true genius.  Unfortunately, we'll never find out who was right.  Within seconds of starting my oration, Kirk Olsen jammed a sugar-bomb donut in my mouth and thus impoverished future generations.

The good thing about the New England surfski crowd is that you can count on everyone getting the Procol Harum reference.  Heck, half the field probably saw them in concert on their first American tour.  The bad thing is that their biggest hit is an alarmingly apt description of our group, especially in March.

As part of his initiation, Ryan eats a heaping spoonful of "Narragansett Relish".  As of this writing, he hasn't yet sprouted swimmerets.

Usually the New England racing season kicks off earlier in March at the Snow Row.  This year, however, the surfskis were unceremoniously booted from that competition for violating the dress code.  Our colorful onesies drew sneers from the cotton-clad rowers, but I expect it was the unfashionable vests that ultimately got us barred.  Or perhaps our superior rough water skill and self-rescue abilities?  In any event, the joke was on them as the paddlers got dibs on the majestic soup and chowder spread.

Many of the top finishers from the 2017 race returned for an encore performance on the Narrow River, including Mike Florio, Jan Lupinski, Chris Chappell, Chris Laughlin, and Chris Quinn.  With Chris Sherwood also racing, you couldn't swing a cat without some Chris or another calling the SPCA on you.  To prevent confusion in future races, I'm recommending a strict three-Chris limit.  Some will argue that even this is more Chrises than anyone really needs, but we can always start calling one of them "Buddy" or "Old-Timer" (not saying which).  Let's instead focus on preventing another lamentable Mike or Tim bloom.  In addition to the usual crew, we were joined by newcomers Ryan Bardsley, Scott Samuel, and Jim Tomes (in a kayak).  Sorry guys - no take backsies.  You're in.  I assume someone taught you the secret signs.

Once again, nobody took up Chris' challenge to "settle this, right here, right now."

After a couple years of experimenting with alternative courses, we'd be reverting to the classic route.  More or less.  We'd head up the river for 2.75 miles, return back past the start (casting wistful glances at Kirk's box of donuts), head downstream an additional couple of miles to a turn near the mouth of the river, then finally hustle back to those donuts.  The rowing club at the northern end of the course, apparently having grown irritated at the swarms of paddlers buzzing ceaselessly around their floating markers in search of the wrong one to turn on, took their buoys and went home.  As a reprisal, the upstream turn was moved to just off the end of their launch dock.  Not exactly a horse head in their bed, but I think they got the message.

I've spent the better part of my adult life attending captain's meetings run by Wesley or Tim, but this is the first I remember that featured a hand-drawn (and colored!) map that would evoke pity from the other parents should it be posted on a kindergarten wall.  And now, thanks to my smart mouth, we'll never again know where to turn in a Rhode Island race.  Based on the number of on-the-fly course adjustments made by paddlers in the past, however, I'm really just doing my part to preserve a time-honored tradition.

Before we had too much time to contemplate the forthcoming discomfort, Wesley thoughtfully counted us down to a rolling start.  To a person, we had each taken advantage of the pre-race mingle to disparage our conditioning, provide graphic details about chronic injuries (can we all agree to avoid the word "suppurating" in the future?), and off-handedly mention that we hadn't actually paddled a boat since the Carter administration.  Jan went so far as to claim that he had only awoken from a six-month coma just that morning.  So the almost aggressive torpor of the field at the start came as no surprise.  With only modest exaggeration, Chris C and Chris L could be said to have jumped to an early lead.  The rest of us languished our way into the race, creaking and groaning as befitted our advanced stage of alleged deterioration.

After drawing the short straw, new guy Scott was suited up as our official "seal proxy" in case of a shark sighting.

A couple of minutes into the race, I started remembering the four key elements to a fluid and powerful stroke, but by centering myself mentally and using advanced breathing techniques (known colloquially as "gasping"), I was able to tamp down these intrusive thoughts and get down to flailing the water with abandon.  This effort paid off as I soon caught Chris L.  As I like to think the Romans liked to say, however, "L is less than halfway to C".  In my imagination, they could never quite figure out those crazy numbers.  Or Latin.  In any event, the other Chris (you know, the XL one) was still forging ahead with a III length lead.

A few minutes later, I had bridged the gap and was challenging Ole 100 for the lead.  Chris, I mean.  Not the Danish rapper.  After resting for a few seconds on his draft, I optimistically thought I could cruise by him with a quick interval.  Apparently being more of a glass half-empty kind of guy, however, Chris wasn't playing along.  For the next mile or so, we paddled side by side.  Only as we approached the bridge leading us into the lake-like portion of the race did I manage to break free.  I'm not sure how much the wake of the random motorboat that had been jockeying to pass us for the previous couple of minutes had to do with it, but I'll ask cousin Roger at the next family reunion.

The incoming tide had been giving us a boost in the protected river, but in the wider lake we had to push against a northerly wind.  Minutes stretched to what seemed like, I dunno, a quarter of an hour?  It was actually only 12 minutes, so you can imagine how unpleasant it was.  Despite the wind's best efforts, I arrived at the rowing dock in relatively high spirits.  Here we were nearly half-way through the race and... hold on... 2.75 divided by 9.5... Could it possibly be that after all that effort we had only completed 28.947% of the race?  I knew bringing that slide rule was a mistake.  Although I tried to enjoy the subsequent downwind paddle back to the river, I couldn't help but keep coming back to that one key question - how could we make Wesley's and Tim's grisly deaths look accidental?

Back in the river proper, I was acutely aware of the incoming tide.  A reliable staple of the Narrow River Race report has been jokes about just how shallow the river is.  I had been crafting a variant on the old one about two guys relieving themselves from a bridge (A: "Water's cold.", B: "Yeah.  Deep too.", A: "You've revealed yourself as both a liar and as someone poorly endowed.  Aaargh!  Plover!" - still working on it), but I must admit that depth was a limited factor in this year's race.  In fact, I was often able to find a sweet spot in the shallows where the eddy current was strong enough to offset the drag from the bottom.  Regardless of whether that's actually true, I plan on sticking with that retroactive justification for my line.

I know everyone - even non-paddlers - will be able to relate to this.  I'm minding my own business when an improperly velcroed pogie threatens to derail my day.  While I see now that stopping to adjust the now-dangling pogie in a composed manner might have been the wiser course of action, I went a slightly different route - tearing rabidly at the offending pogie to detach the blasted thing.  Once I had thrown the inevitable last-second brace to keep from capsizing, I placidly resumed my course.

My request that the guys make another pass for a better composition were met with surprisingly strong remarks about my parentage.

The downstream turn on the Narrow River is on a small American flag positioned inexplicably 10 feet off the sandy shore.  Getting around it gracefully in a 21 foot boat isn't really a viable option, but with an incoming tide helping to push the bow around, my ungainly maneuver only drew mild snickers from people walking on the beach.  Since I'd had them rolling in the sand in previous years, I count 2018 as a great success.

From a quick glance backwards after the first bridge heading downstream, I was aware that Chris Q was chasing me down.  I hadn't been able to summon the courage to check his progress on that endeavor, but heading back to the finish I couldn't help but notice that he was having some success.  My lead was perhaps 90 seconds, but this felt less than safe with a tough upwind paddle against the tide ahead of me.  As other paddlers flew by heading downstream, I frantically asked each how far the scourge was behind me.  A little too frantically, apparently, since nobody seemed to understand what I was spluttering.

Sometimes we tell Wesley he won just to savor his child-like glee.

I was left with no choice but to imagine the worst, which explains all the screaming as I repeatedly heard phantom splashes just behind me.  My fears probably also sparked just enough fire to keep my tired arms pumping for the remaining trip back to the start.  Chris Q, who had some fatigue issues of his own in the final stretch, came in shortly after, followed at an equal interval by Chris C.   The next three spots were hotly contested, as Chris L fought off Mike and a surging Tim.  Wesley, Jan, Kirk, and Bob Wright completed the top ten, with Mary Beth taking the women's top spot.

It's this... excuse me, I'm tearing up a little... it's this kind of thing that make all those hours of training worth it.

As per custom, after joyfully hoisting the boats on our shoulders in celebration/stowage, we retired to the Oak Hill Tavern.  We had some trouble working out the bill, so regardless of whether you were there or not, just give Mary Beth everything in your wallet the next time you see her and we should all be square.  Thanks to Tim and Wesley for a fine day on the water.

Having been appropriately chastised by the Narrow River, we now have a month to address our individual deficiencies before the Run of the Charles.  That's not a lot of time to correct a lifetime's worth of pettiness, egotism, and mispronunciation of the word "enmity", but I'm willing to give it a shot.

Narrow River Race: Seriously Soggy

In its 8 years of existence, the Narrow River Race has grown from a thinly-attended ragtag affair to Rhode Islands' preeminent shallow-water surfski competition.  Jointly hosted by Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer, hardly a paddler in New England doesn't have a hair-raising tale of adventure on this treacherous river.  I myself spent the better part of a month stranded on a mid-river sandbar a couple of years back, surviving only on quahogs and gel packs.

Rhode Island's recently unveiled tourism campaign ("You'll come for the volcanoes, hot springs, and hákarl, you'll stay because you're stuck thigh deep in the mud of our tidal rivers!") was apparently a resounding success.  A record twenty paddlers braved the elements on a rainy Saturday morning, vowing to get as sodden as necessary in an effort to beat the Narrow River.  Women paddlers were particularly well-represented, with Leslie Chappell, Jenifer Kreamer, and Carly Tillotson (on a SUP) joining habitual masochist Mary Beth.

The Narrow River is a sinuous inlet of Narragansett Bay that provides sheltered waters nearly ideal for abnormally short-legged wading birds and frugal retirees who thought stainless steel was a bit too extravagant for their knee replacements.  Amateur local historian Bob Wright assures me that in bygone days, the river was lined with repair shops configured to overhaul schooners, brigs, barques and all other manner of sailing vessels.  Unfortunately, captains preferred to send their boats to more accessible shipyards in the White Mountains.  As a result, the destitute families of the Narrow River shipwrights were forced to survive on quahogs and agar slurries.

Early April weather in this area can be unpredictable, and the conditions for this year's race may have been no exception.  Who can tell?  In any event, with temperatures in the mid 40s and drenching showers, I had half a mind to write a strongly worded complaint to Sigmundur Gunnlaugsson (and what the hell are the odds that this joke [sic] would be rendered obsolete between the time I started and finished writing this report).  Between getting outfitted in the rain before the race and de-outfitted after, everything I own is now covered in mildew.

Due to a shifting sandbar at the mouth of the river that would have necessitated a true overland journey to complete the normal course, Wesley and Tim carefully plotted out an alternative that would lengthen our early season agony to 11 miles.  It's that kind of dedication to craft that makes these two the consummate sadists.  We'd head downriver, turn around a mid-stream piling after 1.25 miles, paddle back the way we came, pass the start, continue up the winding river to where it widens into a small lake, turn on an orange buoy at the northern end of that lake, then reverse the entire process (including the downstream piling turn).  Seemed simple enough when Wesley ran us through it, but would one of the inexperienced first-timers manage to botch it up?

Wesley: Impassioned.  Bruce: Rapt.  Matt: Contemplative.  Mike: Uh... Stoned?

In attempt to gin up a little extra speed by paying for it rather than earning it (and they say we need to make America great again!), I bought a V14 late last season.  This was to be my first race on this flat-water thoroughbred, although I had put in quite a few training hours learning how to remount and practicing my crop technique.  Settling into the bucket, I adjusted my pogies, then slipped on those mitten-like hand protectors (what are those called again?).  As we warmed up, the steady rain intensified to a vigorous downpour.  What luck!  With the extra precipitation, the river might just be moist enough to keep lighter paddlers afloat.

Wesley soon corralled us into position, then counted us down to the start.  Apparently many of the other paddlers had only recently roused themselves from hibernation (and I think Kirk might have still been semi-comatose), since my habitually sluggish start seemed positively sprightly in comparison.  I figured Mike Dostal, Ben Pigott, and Chris Chappell would be out of the gate like rabid polecats, and they didn't disappoint.  Seeing no reason to get mixed up in that pack of snarling mayhem, I was content to scamper up to fourth position within the first couple hundred meters.  After a few more minutes, I was able to overtake Chris.  From a safe distance off to one side, of course.

Ben was now pulling lead, with Mike off his starboard quarter.  With an effort that left me wondering whether my insurance premiums were fully paid up, I managed to pull onto Mike's wash.  Never having raced in the V14, I had also never drafted with it.  Maybe the shallow water was exacerbating the wake turbulence, or perhaps Mike had fitted his boat with that asymmetrical vortex generator I had seen him tinkering with before the race, but I found myself bouncing around like a monkey at a Bananarama concert (still waiting on that reunion tour, ladies).  Throwing brace strokes left and right, I struggled fruitlessly to calm my steed.  It quickly became apparent that I wasn't going to remain in an upright posture if I stayed behind Mike, so I peeled off to the starboard and nestled into a side draft.

With Ben pulling us through the shallows leading into the first turn, I shouted out a few helpful navigational tips to ingratiate myself with our hard-working leader, all the while plotting my strategy to overthrow his oppressive reign (after all, he hadn't asked if we were satisfied with his speed, nor offered us any refreshments).  A quarter mile before the turn, I gave the signal to Mike.  In retrospect, I probably should have apprised him of our joint insurrection.  As it was, my call of "Sic semper tyrannis!" was met with what I can only describe as confused indifference.

The mind-blowing effort required to catch Ben and Mike reduced my head to little more than a diffuse blob.  It coalesced later, but I'm not happy with the results.

Left without a wing-man, I pulled smoothly out front... into four inches of water.  The quicksand-like bottom threatened to suck the paddle out of my grasp as I struggled to adapt my stroke to the thin layer of liquid I now found myself balanced on.  While Ben had followed me onto the same shoal, Mike had remained in navigable waters and pulled past us - his paddle decadently submerged to the throat on each stroke.

Finally freeing myself from the viscous grip of the sludge, I managed to get on the new leader's starboard draft.  As we approached the right side of the turn-around piling (marked, as Wesley had promised, with a warning for kayaks to stay safely to the left of the piling), I swung wide to negotiate the U-turn while Mike attempted a tighter pivot.  On the far side of the pilings, ours paths merged and we briefly attempted to occupy the same space at the same time.  If we remember anything from high school physics about the Pauli exclusion principle, it's that Pauli had the kick-ass first name of Wolfgang.  And perhaps something about the same-space/same-time thing being frowned upon.  Something had to give.  Rather than quibble about who had the "right of way" or the "moral high ground", let's instead concentrate on who had the "momentum".  Me.

I skidded past Mike, completed the turn, and moved into the lead.  I would never look back...

OK, so that's not even remotely true.  Mike stayed on my tail for a few minutes before I was able to put some distance between us, but he's not a paddler to turn your back on. That makes for a real awkward stroke, though, so I had to settle for throwing nervous glances over my shoulder every few moments.  Several days later, I'm still finding it hard to break that habit.

The trip upstream was notable mostly for the disorienting strength of the tidal current working against me (and, with some luck, everybody else).  How could so little water be diluting my GPS speed by so much?  On the positive side, the current tended to even out the notorious depth variations in the Narrow River - either you were in the deeper channel where the tide was your damned-if-you-do enemy, or you were in the shallows with the damned-if-you-don't suck-water instead limiting your headway.  You were being bled dry either way, but I took some comfort in the steadiness of the drip-drip-drip.

With the widening of the river at the north end of the course, the twin tormentors released their grip and I finally started to feel less anemic.  My speed increasing to a more palatable level, I plotted a course up the center of the lake and started searching for the turn buoy.  Three-quarters of the way up the pond, I began to get nervous.  There was no sign of a buoy.  What if I alone missed the turn while the rest of the field slipped stealthily back downriver behind me?  I broke into a cold sweat at the prospect of blowing my lead.  Probably.  It was difficult to tell with all the warm perspiration and cold rain.

And then... I spotted a white sphere bobbing off to the left.  We had been promised that the turn buoy would be orange and that it would be at the far end of the lake.  This particular marker was neither, but that seemed increasingly less important as a decision loomed.  I maintained my line, frantically scanning for a buoy further on that shared at least some of the properties that Wesley had described.  At last, I decided that "floating" constituted a pretty darned good match.  I veered abruptly to the left and turned on the mooring buoy.

Orange buoy.  Check.  End of lake.  Check.  Half-coalesced head.  Check.

When you're in the lead, you're usually absolved for crazy changes in course and other ill-advised maneuvers (see "Trump, Donald").  Nevertheless, I was relieved to see Mike and Ben follow in my misguided footsteps.  I'm told the entire field traced this path, although many saw the error of my way.  I had inadvertently cut a half-mile off the course, for which the race directors later sanctioned me but graciously allowed me to retain all earnings.  In an unrelated matter - Bill, I'm still waiting on your check.

With the tide now working in my favor and a rudimentary mental map of the meanderings of the channel, the trip back down the river was a blur.  Mostly because of the growing pain and fatigue.  As I passed the starting line again, I weighed my options.  If I quickly turned my boat around and hunched over in a (wholly feigned, of course) posture of extreme exhaustion - perhaps with some theatrical groaning thrown in - could I convince the next paddler that I had just finished before he came around the corner?  I did some quick calculations on my fingers (metaphorically - with those neoprene mittens on, I might as well be counting on my pogies).  No good.  I'd have a difficult time selling a winning margin of 20-some minutes.  Ruefully, I committed to actually paddling the final 2.5 miles.

Having learned my lesson the first time through, as I approached the shallows that had threatened to strand me and Ben earlier I tried a slip-and-slide approach from my childhood.  Having built up a head of steam, I threw myself headlong towards the shoal in the hopes that my boat would skim frictionlessly over the thin membrane of water.  Not an unqualified success, but at least this time I didn't end up bottom-less in the neighbor's yard.

A gray day was had by all.

I negotiated the final turn without difficulty (same place, different time - thanks, Wolfgang!) and headed for home.  Having to slog back against the tide for the final mile was a slap in the face, but at least this roused me from my weary torpor.  And restored me to my natural state of prickly irritation.  I figure if you're not blaspheming when you cross the finish line, you can't even call it racing (although when in Rhode Island, cursing Echols or Dwyer is an acceptable alternative/supplement).  Suffice it to say, I'm not expecting any divine intervention the next time I'm in a foxhole. Nor any Christmas cards from Tim or Wesley.

After finishing, I had just enough time to start shivering uncontrollably when Mike, Mike, and (I'm pretty sure) Mike pulled in to collectively take second.  A veritable host of Bens filled out the crowded podium a short while later.  The remaining members of the top ten were Chris, Bruce Deltorchio, Joe Shaw (in a K-1), Tim Hudyncia, Tim Dwyer, Matt Drayer, and Wesley.  Leslie took the women's title, with Mary Beth second and Jen opting for the abbreviated 8 mile course.  Carly swept the SUP division.

By this point, I was probably sleeping it off under the table.

Once we had exchanged our soaked paddling outfits for our dampened civilian duds, most of us headed over to the Oak Hill Tavern to work on reconstructing everyone's finish time.  I can't be sure, but I think I also might have heard someone talking about boats.

The mercifully short Run of the Charles is next on the agenda up here in New England, but best of luck to those escaping the icy grip of Spring to race at the Shark Bite Challenge on Saturday.  Bring back some glory.

Narrow River in Broad Strokes

Originally scheduled for April 4, the governors of the 10 mile Narrow River Race had granted us a stay of execution due to high winds and excessive whining about the excessive early-season length.  Having exhausted our appeals, however, it came time for our final paddle (with the exception of a sick Wesley, who exonerated himself half-way through the race).  Although the course stubbornly remained as long as ever, the three week reprieve at least supplied us with a pleasantly sunny day and a little extra time to fine-tune our pain thresholds.

Jan, Eric, and Tim - an inseparable trio I like to call the JET Pack.  What tomfoolery will they get into today?

The field was comprised of exactly the 14 paddlers that you'd expect at this race.  I proposed that we also just assign the finishing order that you'd expect and head straight to Oak Hill Tavern, but some reality-addicted sticklers insisted on empirical trials instead.  Wesley and Tim Dwyer called the skippers' meeting to order and supplied us with well-intentioned navigational tips, most of which amounted to variants of "watch out for the bottom".  We'd travel up-river 3 miles, head back down past the start to the mouth of the tidal river, and finish back at the start.  With some luck, we'd accomplish 90% of this afloat.

Via a progression of increasingly dire-sounding warnings about the impending start of the race, Wesley eventually counted us down to a rolling start.  Chris Chappell jumped out to an early lead, with Eric Costanzo in pursuit.  Jan Lupinski, leaving the gate as the favorite with better than 2-1 odds (I had twenty bucks on him myself), started conservatively on the left flank of the snarling pack.  Lacking torque at low RPMs, I eased up to race pace alongside Tim Dwyer.

Yet again, Tim lectures us on the importance of oral hygiene.

After clambering up several familiar rungs of the draft ladder, I was surprised to find myself grabbing hold of Bob Capellini's wake for a boost up to Wesley.  I figured Bob maybe knew something I didn't about an upcoming hotspot, so I ramped up my effort.  Off to my left, still well removed from the fray, I saw Jan moving like a tremendous machine towards the front.  I made a burst to pull past Wesley and hook onto Chris and Eric, with the hope that we three could hitch our wagons to Jan's runaway locomotive.

Recognizing Jan as a villain who must be fettered before he can do additional damage to our point series hopes, Eric Costanzo and I had discussed strategy before the race.  We developed a vigilante plan that was as brilliant as it was unreasonably optimistic:  Trick Chris into pulling us onto Jan's wash, discard him like an old air conditioner (after carefully draining him of environmental toxins, naturally), then work together to deliver a series of punishing intervals directly to Jan's ego.  Perhaps wanting to maintain plausible deniability, Eric didn't technically agree to any of this, but I could tell by the way his eyes glazed over during my Powerpoint presentation that he was on board.  Now we just had to execute.

All the way until mile 0.7, we were spot on plan.  As Chris settled in behind Jan, however, the unimaginable happened...  A catastrophic failure in the Eric-to-Chris latching mechanism left Eric and I to rely on our own over-taxed power plants.  I tried to stoke Eric into overdrive by shoveling derision on his fitness and stamina, but my position squarely behind him gave me no real moral leverage in this regard.  Eventually, a combination of guilt and desperation drove me to move ahead of Eric and take a turn pulling.  Jan eventually dropped Chris, but by that point the latter was at least a dozen boat lengths ahead of us.

Eric soon dropped off my starboard side, leaving me to reel in Chris on my own.  Not wanting to land him too green, I spent the next four miles patiently hauling in the big fella.  When I eventually pulled even with him, however, he still had quite a bit of fight left in him.  It took another mile or so before I could put him away - and even then, as I found afterwards, he lingered on just out of my periphery for another mile (while still keeping enough in the tank to beat off Eric in the final stretch).

I'd be remiss if I failed to address the most notorious characteristic of the Narrow River.  With the exception of a three mile up-and-back portion of the course when the river widens into a small lake, you could see the bottom sliding under your boat for vast stretches of the race.  So?  The water of Lake Tahoe (bear with me here) is so extraordinarily clear that you can often see objects on the lake bed even at depths of over 100 feet.  I can assure you, however, that were the water of the Narrow River miraculously replaced with Guinness, you'd still be able to see each and every pebble through the thin slick of delicious stout.  Also, the race would be a lot more popular.

Every few minutes, you'd hit a particularly shallow stretch of river, draining your speed and willpower in equal measures.  The first few times this happens you'll weave to and fro in search of an ever-elusive channel, but you soon realize that your energy would be better spent cursing Tim and Wesley.  Instead, you plow ahead through the morass - only changing course to avoid prospectors, imprudently discarded murder weapons, and the occasional bag of undrowned kittens.  With perseverance, you'd eventually return to water deep enough to wade in.

Chris and Eric play a medium-stakes game of cat and mouse (Photo courtesy Wesley Echols and SurfskiRacing.com).

With Chris behind me I could still see Jan far ahead, the distance reducing him to that awkward size somewhere between a mote and a speck.  Larger than a point, sure, but definitely smaller that a dot.  Not really mite-sized, but go ahead and use that as a point of reference.  Say 10% larger than a mite, but dressed in bright yellow.  In any event, I focused solely on Jan (without my glasses, I should point out, a mite-plus object is blurred to a subjective size of a diffuse splotch - but I recommend you stick with the objective reality of a mite-like Jan for your visualization purposes), letting Lupinski guide me through the twists of the Narrow River as it approached Narragansett Bay.  That's right...  I navigated by our Pole star.

I've been saving that one for years.

The final turn of the race is only marginally less notorious than the Narrow River's questionable legal status as a "navigable waterway".  Exhausted from 8 miles of racing, we're then asked to turn around a pole that's perilously close to the bank in the fastest-flowing part of the river.  I understand that the race organizers had originally wanted to place an osprey's nest on the pole so that we'd further have to fend off an enraged bird-of-prey, but the cost was prohibitive (call me next time - I got a guy).  Even knowing that it was unlikely that my eyes would be gouged out, I approached the turn with considerable trepidation.  Fortunately, I swung around the pole with no problems that you need to know about.

Mary Beth finished the way she started - mumbling something about the length of the damn race under her breath.

Although I seemed to have gained on Jan at the turn - knocking his lead to under a minute - the visions I had of hunting him down in the last couple of miles revealed themselves to be more of the "fevered" than "prescient" variety.  He steadily widened his lead in the final upstream stretch, ultimately finishing nearly 2 minutes ahead.  Behind me, a heroic battle for the final podium position was playing out as Chris successfully parried repeated attacks from a hard-charging Eric (check out Chris' video).  Bruce Deltorchio continued his strong early-season run by nudging out Tim Dwyer for 5th place.  Mary Beth remains unbeaten among women this season, but now owes Chris Sherwood a case of beer (you're a Schlitz man, right Chris?) for his untiring efforts on her behalf.

We're on my home turf next - the Essex River.  You may want to wear your goggles.  Remember... I got a guy.