Gorge Downwind Champs: Running Wild

Usually when I write a race report, I find myself having to... let's say "embroider"... the story to keep it interesting.  After all, it's mostly the same 25 people finishing in roughly the same order.  Sure, you never know exactly what kind of wackiness you'll get from Jan or exactly how curmudgeonly Bill will be on a given day, but the people and events are life-sized.  At the Gorge, everything is already larger-than-life.  You get passed on a run by Oscar Chalupsky.  Greg Barton has dinner at your house.  Sean Rice asks you if your eczema has cleared up.  The events and conditions don't need exaggeration.  Nor does my incompetence.  So in a seismic change from my normal style - here's the unvarnished tale.

Mary Beth and I arrived in Oregon the Wednesday before race week to check out some sights prior to settling in Hood River.  At the Portland airport we were issued a complimentary Cannabis Dispensary Starter Kit and told that we could stake a claim anywhere except within 50 meters of an existing establishment.  We eventually found a single viable location deep within a patch of old growth forest, but before we could get things up and running, uh, a sasquatch ate our stash.  We contented ourselves with a whirlwind tour of the stunning Oregon coast, followed by a trip inland to Ashland, Crater Lake, and Bend.  In the 95 degree heat of a still Sunday afternoon, we finally pulled into Hood River.

It wasn't all fun and games at the Gorge.

After a desperate search through a rapidly decreasing inventory, Tim Dwyer had secured a rental house for us back in November.  We'd be joined by fellow Northeast paddlers Matt Drayer and Bob Capellini, along with Tim's daughter Gaelyn and Bob's wife Linda.  Perched on a hill with a wonderful view of the Columbia River, this was to be our base of operations for the week.  Naturally, we stockpiled it with just enough rations to get us through the end of the year.  Or so I thought until I learned that Tim treats every breakfast as if it's his last meal before heading into a 10 day juice cleanse.

On Sunday evening the river was so menacingly flat that Matt was convinced that this whole operation was some vast practical joke on him.  Addicted to downwind, but fated to live in a region where he must wait for storms to create suitable conditions for out-and-back paddles, Matt's trip to the Gorge was nothing less than a religious pilgrimage.  The incense didn't bother me that much, but I could have done without the 4 a.m. wind invocation chants.  While Matt's devotions may have had a positive influence on the conditions, surely their impact was dwarfed by whatever depraved ritual a wild-eyed Carter Johnson performed upon seeing his reflection in the mirror surface of the Columbia.  Assuming it was a single-blade paddler, I think we double-bladers can agree that their involuntary midnight sacrifice was a small price to pay.

Without a flashier presentation, I'm just not sure that TIM Talks are going to take off.  Also, nobody really wants to hear a half-hour lecture on the benefits of organic peanut butter.

We awoke Monday to a moderate breeze, with a promising forecast for later in the week.  Mary Beth shuttled Matt and I down to race headquarters at Hood River's Waterfront Park.  We quickly registered and went to find Epic's Kenny Howell, who was handling our boat rentals.  Fortunately for us, all you have to do to conjure up Kenny is to say his name three times.  He'll actually materialize after the first two, but will be facing the wrong way so you'll still need to get his attention.  Throughout the week, whenever I'd need something - weed guard, pipe tape, extra paddle, ham sandwich - Kenny would magically appear to help out.

Once we had gotten our boats (a V10 Sport for me), we headed for the shuttles that would take us 7.5 miles upwind to Viento State Park.  With more than 700 registered paddlers (split pretty evenly between skis and outriggers), this year's race would be over 50% larger than the 2017 race.  Coming into the week, I had some concerns about how well all the logistics would scale - particularly with the shuttles.  But by the end I was impressed by how smoothly things ran.  The pairing of a bus-with-trailer and an SUV-with-trailer meant that you spent more time than you'd like waiting on the bus for both trailers to be filled, but my biggest complaint about the shuttles was that I seldom rode one without an ama in my ear.

Arriving at Viento, we hurriedly launched to start our first run.  In typical east coast conditions Matt and I are pretty evenly matched, but I can usually edge him out.  Within the first few minutes of hitting the Columbia, it was obvious that we weren't in Massachusetts anymore.  I'd spend the rest of the week trying unsuccessfully to keep up with Matt.  I'm most comfortable when I can settle into an undisturbed paddling tempo (cadence: allegro, pace: andante).  Just wind me up and set me in the tub.  Reading waves?  Conserving energy?  Syncopating rhythm to take advantage of runners?  It's like trying to teach jazz to a metronome.  Ooh!  Can that be my new nickname?  Thor "The Metronome" Firebolt.  While I was at it, I went ahead and made some other improvements.  Actually, forget the nickname.  Let's just go with Thor Firebolt.

Matt and I debut our revolutionary new tandem design. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

In any event, I had some difficulty adapting to downwind conditions.  As the old adage goes, "If you can't catch surf effectively in the Gorge, you probably shouldn't be writing a surfski blog.  Greg."  That hurts my feelings a bit, but it's true.  Even when the wind was howling, the waves were neat and manageable - perfect for those of us with limited experience in bigger conditions.  But not quite perfect enough for me to keep up with Matt.

Over the course of the first day, we ran into the other paddlers from our region.  Three of our housemates from last year - Jim Hoffman, Timmy Shields, and Mark Ceconi - were staying together again.  Tim and I had been unanimously voted out for reasons that definitely didn't involve "appalling personal hygiene" and "inappropriately provocative lounge-wear".  The other Nor'easters were Max Yasochka, Olga Sydorenko (who took many outstanding photos, some of which I've used here), and Jan Lupinski (along with Renata, their two sons, and that little dog too - Tito, but close enough).  Although they were forced to relocate to Hawaii some years back, we also claim Borys Markin and Beata Cseke as part of our cold-weather clan.  After spending a week paddling, dining, and swapping embarrassing stories with these folks, they're probably about as close as I'll ever get to having a real family.  Sorry, Mom and Dad.  Maybe next time you'll think twice about not naming me Thor.

By the end of the third day of paddling, my stability was completely shot.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

As the week progressed, the winds ramped up.  On Tuesday, Mary Beth got her first real taste of downwind, doing a run in the back of a V8 Double with Australian Ryan Paroz.  She later characterized the experience as "better than any trip we've ever taken together".  That also hurts my feelings a bit.  And makes me wonder if Toledo is the right spot for our next big vacation.  On Wednesday, we arrived at Waterfront Park to find that several vendor tents had blown into the boat racks overnight.  Surely a challenge from the wind gods.  It was becoming increasingly difficult for the seasoned Gorge veterans to dismiss the conditions as "3 out of 10" without them noticing us rolling our eyes.  With Thursday's forecast indicating sustained winds of 30+ mph, Carter made the call to run the race then.  Conditions would probably be a hyperbole or two shy of "nuclear", but they looked to be well within the reach of "life-altering".

While our training runs from Viento Park spanned the final 7.5 miles of the course, for the race we'd be launching 6 miles further upwind at Home Valley Park in Washington.  Car-pooling along the north bank of the Columbia to the start, we watched the field of whitecaps with growing anticipation.  And perhaps a smattering of apprehension.  At Home Valley we checked-in at registration and located our boats.  I took advantage of the subsequent lull to Kenny, Kenny, Kenny up a new weed-guard.

Future paleontologists will likely divide our current geological epoch into slightly more manageable sub-eras spanned by Carter's captains meetings.  This is fitting since during the course of this edition's marathon meeting, I watched with fascination as several paddlers were gradually covered with sediment and fossilized.  Others would have gladly thrown themselves in tar pits to end their suffering had that option been available.  And, as Carter continually reminded us while seasons rushed by in a dizzying blur, this particular era would end with 90% of us extinct.  Only those with apocalypse-proof remounts would be spared.

Refusing to acknowledge his error, Bob kept insisting on ordering an Egg McMuffin.

With dire warnings that wouldn't have seemed out of place in the Book of Revelations ("Lo, boats will taketh wing as falcons and sail through the air!") still ringing in our ears, we retired to the staging area to await our fate.  The starting procedure would be very different from last year's confused scheme.  Rather than putting everyone in the water and sending them off in successive waves, each group would launch and start prior to the next wave getting on the river.  The relatively small contingent of SUPs would kick things off with a beach start.  They would be followed by all women and double paddlers, then by men's skis, and finally by men's outriggers.  Each wave would work their way into an upwind-pointing holding pattern, turn around after a two-minute warning to jockey into starting position, and then take off on a long blast from an air-horn accompanied by the dropping of a large flag.

Like the gopher, the Greg's primary defense mechanism is to quickly burrow itself into a hidey-hole.

Soon enough it was our turn to launch.  With nearly 200 men's skis slowly threading down the main trail to the beach, I had some bonus time to ponder my race strategy.  Last year I had cravenly opted for a conservative flat-water route, but the winds had conveniently eliminated that choice.  On a shuttle the previous day, Sean Rice had told a bunch of us that the smart play was to stay near the left shore until approaching Viento Park, then cut over to hug the other shore until forced to move out a bit to avoid the shallows near Wells Island.  So that was settled.  If Sean had instead insisted that the best strategy was to dress in Hammer pants, lie backwards in the bucket, and raise your legs in the air, you can bet that I'd have been on the phone with MC himself (we go back) for an express delivery the second after getting off that shuttle.  As it was, I waited until I finished my run before calling in the order.  Just in case.

Tim was showing clear signs of phantom phone syndrome.

Despite our combined efforts, we just couldn't get Big Jim to broach.

Once on the water, I lumbered upwind to await the turn-around signal.  Keeping clear of a couple hundred other boats attempting to hold position in rough and blustery conditions was challenging, so I moved to the downstream end of the pack.  There I could concentrate on worrying about missing the start and on keeping my tethered hat from blowing off and kite-boarding me downwind.  I eventually noticed people turning upriver and joined them in paddling easy back towards the start.  I didn't hear the starting horn, but the suddenly whirling blades up ahead were a pretty clear indication when it was time to take off.

Perhaps the most charitable description anyone would give of my downwind paddling style is "frenetic".  There's a lot of furious commotion with little visible effect.  I was in prime form at the start of the race, attacking each wave with rabid (but toothless) vigor.  Once I had exhausted my supply of adrenalin, I started recruiting other hormones to maintain the required frenzy.  Only when all my glands (and supplemental syringes) had run dry did I settle in to a more controlled rhythm.  By this time I had side-swiped one other ski (sorry, SEL guy), narrowly avoided several other collisions, and accumulated an impressive spittle beard.

With slightly more self-control, I could focus on the depressing fact that I was getting picked off by paddlers who had started behind me.  We would engage in see-saw battles that would inevitably totter in the other guy's favor after a few minutes.  I did manage to pass a handful of slower boats, although not all of those had upright paddlers.

I seldom wear my glasses when paddling, but I had opted for enhanced sight on this day in hopes of observing the lines that the leaders were taking.  Having neglected to also tape binoculars to my face, this worked for about the first 3 minutes of the race.  A couple of miles from the start, the water drops speckling my lens were giving me a terminal case of bee vision.  I needed to remove the glasses before the urge to pollinate overwhelmed me.  Not wanting to lose my $28.60 spectacles (Zenni.com - "When style, quality, and optical accuracy just aren't that important!"), my goal was to tuck them safely into a PFD pocket.  But get this.  Without stopping!  OK, maybe this objective wasn't exactly the Manhattan Project, but for pity's sake, there was a zipper involved!  Once I had rehearsed the procedure mentally a few dozen times, I waited for the perfect wave, started singing the Mission Impossible theme, and initiated the Clear Eyes Maneuver.  I'm inappropriately proud to announce that I didn't miss a stroke during the execution of this pathetically simple task.  To this very day, I still wear those rusty-hinged glasses.

The boost in confidence I got from this didn't take me very far.  While my race plan had me staying left for the first six miles, the wind and waves kept nudging me towards an alternative - crack down the middle.  I was able to catch some decent runs, but became very familiar with that sinking feeling you get when you realize that you're, yet again, paddling uphill.  Even though I would eventually finish mid-pack (ish), as boats got spread out it became increasingly difficult to convince myself I wasn't in the rearguard - there were a lot of boats way up ahead, but not many around.  Outriggers from the last starting wave started to pass me.

In the approach to Viento Park, conditions deteriorated significantly.  Not only did most of the big runs evaporate, there was more general slop-and-chop than we'd encountered earlier.  This probably worked to my advantage, as I could maintain a more consistent cadence and got a reprieve from the verbal abuse I had been piling on myself.  By the time Viento rolled around, I had made the transition to the right shore and the waves were starting to jack up again.

Probably because these were the friendliest big conditions of the week, I started to link together some joyful rides.  Don't fret though - I didn't forget to throw in some epic broaches, wallows, and expletives to maintain narrative consistency.  During a particularly satisfying run, I looked over to find a fellow paddler cruising on the same wave.  Having seen nobody I recognized since the start, I did a literal GoPro-captured double-take when I realized it was Tim.  This was simultaneously my best and worst moment of the race.  How incredible to be carving down the face of the same wave 10 miles into the Gorge with one of my best paddling buddies!  And how terrible that there was a good chance that I'd be beaten by the rat bastard.

Huh.  Kind of looks like I know what I'm doing.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The next five minutes were my best of the race as I caught run after run to pull cleanly away from Tim.  Alas, I pushed a little too hard trying to get diagonally over a wave and instead went laterally over the side of my ski.  Apparently unaware that I had left him safely in the dust, Tim swooped by me just about the time my head resurfaced.  A frame-by-frame analysis of the video footage shows that my friend, housemate, and frequent target of blog gibes spared not a single glance in my direction as he sped past not more than six feet away.  That he had such confidence in my remounting competence... it just brings tears to my eyes.  The awkward manner in which I clambered back onto the ski (teetering on the edge of back-into-the-water oblivion for some seconds before settling into the bucket) might have caused him to question his faith, but if you require proof (or disproof by contradiction)... it's not faith.

This must be some different guy.

Once I had regained control of my ski, I was naturally eager to chase down Tim to discuss the finer points of this theological quandary.  Picking up where I had left off before the break, I was able to put some nice runs together.  Whereas before my progress with respect to Tim had been purely illusory, this time I could see that I was catching him.  This perhaps had more to do with my line closer to the right shore than any paddling ability, but let's not quibble.  When our paths converged, I found myself ahead by several lengths.  And floating beside my boat.  The GoPro footage again reveals Tim's unwavering faith in my abilities.

And this could be just about anyone...

I got my butt back in the bucket easily enough, but an ill-timed attempt to swing my legs into the boat caused me to tumble off on the downwind side.  As the ski blew over me it delivered a punitive bonk to the head, while also managing to wrap my leg leash tightly around both legs.  Remembering that Houdini had almost died attempting this escape, I had a momentary tinge of panic.  It took me a few moments to figure out how to keep the boat close enough to ease the leash tension while also holding the paddle and maintaining a free hand to untangle my legs.  Several awkward contortions were involved, but I'm happy to say that I got out of the predicament without needing to dislocate any joints or regurgitate a file (although, in retrospect, that might have been an easier way to expunge it).  Seeing me floundering around with feet occasionally emerging from the water and an insufficiently tightened PFD floating up over my head, a concerned Cory Lancaster - a fellow New Englander transplanted to the west coast some years ago - stopped to check on my welfare.  Fortunately, in the time it took him to load a flare into his gun (he's old school, Cory), I managed to get back on my ski and convince him that no rescue was required.  Of course, just to cover all bases, I borrowed the gun.  Worst case, maybe I could blast Tim out of the water.

It would ultimately turn out that I had lost sight of Tim during my swim.  I just didn't know it at the time.  Removing my glasses earlier was now paying dividends.  I managed to find a steady stream of blurry surrogates to pursue.  I'd see Tim up ahead and chase him until it turned out to be someone else who had passed me while I was out of commission, a woman from an earlier start wave, or - in one embarrassing instance - a remarkably Tim-shaped buoy.  Just about the time I had finally homed in the genuine Tim (probably), I drew even with Max and Michael Alexeev.  Based on our last few head-to-heads back home, I had assumed that Max wouldn't be a factor in the New England race-within-a-race here.  And at the previous year's Downwind race, I had beaten Michael by more than ten minutes.  But both these guys had attended the Mocke Downwind Camp over the winter.  Evidently those Millers Runs investments were paying big dividends in the Gorge.

Kenny's hat serves its purpose, distracting Jan just enough to seal the victory.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The turbo boost of motivation provided by wanting to beat Max and Michael propelled me on my desperate dash to also catch Tim in the waning moments of the race.  Surely if I just sacrificed a couple of years worth of heartbeats in a five minute span, that'd do the trick.  When it became clear that this deal wouldn't cut it, I sweetened the pot by shutting down inessential organs.  What has my gall bladder ever done for me?  I was just about to double-down by committing to a lifetime of dialysis and a lung transplant when I found myself at the finish beach.  I dismounted from my ski and made a desperate lunge to tackle Tim, but given that he was a good 15 meters ahead of me, the net result of this maneuver was to send me falling face-first into knee-deep water.  I scrambled to my feet and staggered past the finish line with the drunken grace of the Star Wars Kid.

My time was 1:53:02.  Tim had finished 8 seconds ahead of me, Max and Michael just 20 seconds behind.  Unsurprisingly, Jan had by far the best time from the current Northeast contingent at 1:42:25, with Jim finishing second at 1:48:33 and Matt third at 1:50:18 (with the best New England time).  Transplant Borys absolutely crushed his race, finishing as the 14th male at 1:30:51, while Beata took the 8th female spot at 1:49:15.  For some context, the overall winner, Kenny Rice, finished in an unbelievable 1:21:32.

Dawid just couldn't seem to get enough of my remount stories. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)

After spending a few hours excitedly comparing race notes and helping Gaelyn explain the electoral college to a bewildered Dawid Mocke, we got cleaned up and headed out for a celebratory dinner.  What started out as a low-key affair involving just the housemates ended up (through a series of "if you're not doing anything, we're at X" texts) morphed into a raucous party of our entire past-and-present regional contingent (well, minus Cory, but I silently toasted him).  Mojitos flowed generously.  Jan did whatever it is that Jan does to be so entertaining.  Something related to the accent, maybe?  Jim had us rolling with his account of attempting to forcibly rescue an uncooperative capsized racer furiously making the not-quite-universal pat-on-the-head signal for "I'm OK".  I believe the swimmer eventually had to file a restraining order.  Everyone was in high spirits.  In short, it was the perfect ending for a most memorable week.

Except, of course, it was only Thursday.  In the interest of wrapping things up while there are still some words left, however, let's just leave things at our happy party.  Many thanks to Carter and the dozens of volunteers who made the Gorge Downwind a great success.

Timmy is everywhere these days.

Casco Bay Challenge: Downwinded

Despite the gorgeous scenery, free boat shuttle, generous post-race gear drawing, and a reasonable chance at 16 miles of downwind paddling, the Casco Bay Challenge has inexplicably drawn fewer than 10 ski paddlers over each of the last three years.  I'd like to think that has nothing to do with the guaranteed presence of Chris Sherwood and myself (proud competitors at each of the 6 instances), but to be safe I've recommended that Eric stop advertising our appearance so prominently in all future promotional materials.

As we've done for the last few years, Chris, Mary Beth, and I car-pooled up together.  Chris' wife, Patty - apparently having lost some kind of high-stakes bet - accompanied us as the designated driver.  Pulling into the drop-off area for Willard Beach in South Portland in high spirits, my heart abruptly sank as I saw the distinctive van of a paddler who was supposed to be racing in Michigan that day.

Attendance at our Epic demo session in the parking lot of the Danvers' Stop & Shop was disappointing. 

It's difficult to say when I first started feeling nauseous in the presence of Jan.  Just as some people develop new allergies as they grow older, I'm now suffering from an acute case of late-onset Lupinski-intolerance.  If I know beforehand that Jan will be attending a race, I can take preventive measures to mitigate the queasiness, anxiety, and hives associated with paddling against someone who is definitely going to push me to my limit.  But when he shows up without pre-registering (which, let's be honest, is a good 85% of the time), the trauma of being unexpectedly exposed to such a potent competitor can send me into anaphylactic shock.  Given the added twist-of-the-knife misdirection of registering for a different race, I'm beginning to suspect that Jan is taking advantage of this weakness.  Fortunately my car-mates were able to resuscitate me before irreversible ego damage occurred.

I thought that Jan should have concentrated his pre-race questions on navigational landmarks rather than on Maine restaurant recommendations, but since he ended up with both the win and a killer lobster roll, who am I to judge?

Fellow surfskiers Matt Drayer, Hank Thorburn, Dave Grody, and Dale Hartt joined us on the beach.  We'd be supplemented by a contingent ten outriggers, many of whom were Washington Canoe Club members who'd taken the long overland trek from DC to join us.  Now that I think of it, there were a couple of SUPs at the start too.  Man, those guys!  Wonder whatever happened to them...

The course starts at Willard Beach and ends 16.8 miles across Casco Bay at the Mere Point Boat Launch.  It's a tricky navigational feat, but after a few years you either get weeded out, or you get the hang of it.  Having once again succumbed to the latest technology craze, Eric would be accompanying us across the bay in a paddle-less water buggy (on generous loan from Hank).  Over the sputtering of this contraption's god-offending propulsion mechanism, he counted us down to a water start.  I got off the line reasonably well and soon found myself trading advice on stroke techniques with Dale.  He insisted the catch should be on the far side of my boat, while I was adamant that it should be in his footwell.  We eventually just settled it like gentlemen - whacking each other's paddles for a few strokes and calling it a draw.

Matt had jumped to an initial lead some distance to my right, but by a half mile into the race I had pulled ahead.  Great!  This thing was in the bag.  How hard could it be to just hold on for the next 16 miles?  I had spotted Jan a few lengths back.  I usually do a poor job of keeping track of competitors behind me - in part because I always risk rotating around an unintended axis when I turn to check on other paddlers, and in part because of my fragile psyche.  But on this day, I managed to chart Jan's progress with heartbreaking precision.  Over the next few miles, as the downwind conditions improved, he methodically closed the gap.  Once we had cleared the seaward protection of Peaks Island, the added chop accelerated Jan's inevitable move into the lead.

At roughly the five mile point, I reluctantly handed over the baton.  For the next fifteen minutes, I managed to keep in contact with Jan.  Experts disagree on the exact definition of "in contact", but there's a general consensus that when you finally mutter "Screw this!", resign yourself to never catching your target, and start tabulating extenuating circumstances to explain why you weren't able - you have definitely "lost contact".  I hadn't slept very well the preceding night and my addiction to pre-race turkey sandwiches wasn't doing me any favors.  Maybe also weeds?  Having officially lost contact, morale was pretty low in the boat.  Fortunately, there was only an hour and a half left in the race.

Jan's lead appeared to stabilize at 30 or 40 boat lengths.  I suspect the gap was limited by (a) the extra distance he covered meandering among the islands and (b) his need to keep me in clear visual range for periodic course correction.  At some point, Eric pulled alongside in his motorized abomination to snap some daguerreotypes and provide words of discouragement.  Truth be told, I couldn't hear most of what he shouted to me so I had to rely on an unsteady combination of lip reading and subconscious interpretation bias.  I'm pretty sure I got "Jan is spanking you today, huh?" and "Matt's really closing on you fast!" right, but I'm less confident about "Collapsible monkeys eat ripe pears."  That may indeed be true, but it hardly seemed relevant.  Once he had completed his long exposures and finished conveying his important messages, Eric moved off to check on other paddlers.

With a few miles to go, Mere Point itself eventually resolved itself from the indistinguishable neighboring islands.  As we moved into the lee of Goose Island and Harpswell Point, the sea started to smooth out.  And, to my horror, I started to close the gap on Jan.  This was typical Lupinski behavior.  He wasn't content to just beat me, he had to crack me.  Between his less-than-linear navigation and slackening pace, he opened up the merest hint of a possibility that I might catch him.  Just a few moments earlier I had been content to coast in for second place (or third if Matt had the good manners to cruise past me in a definitive manner).  Now I'd have to subject myself to another 20 minutes of suffering in a futile effort just to get to the point where I could then be out-sprinted in the stretch.

Given that this is the happiest Mary Beth has looked in years, you gotta wonder about her overall quality of life.

And that's exactly what happened.  I managed to close to within 15 seconds of Jan, but he never needed to escalate his effort to take the win.  Matt scooted in soon after to claim the final podium spot.  Mary Beth took the women's gold.  Luke Rhodes repeated as OC-1 champion, with Marc Lessard and Michael Fairchild claiming the OC-2 crown.  After restorative food and drink, Eric awarded medals (as always, a nifty new design) and all competitors received great swag from a drawing.  All in the shade provided by the awning of Jan's van.  He may be toxic, but he's not such a bad guy.

My next race is out in Oregon at the Gorge Downwind Champs, where I'll be competing with Matt, Timmy Shields, and Tim Dwyer in the coveted New England Division race (which, much like pee-wee hockey, everyone else finds utterly adorable to watch).  For those remaining in the east, the imposing 20 miles of the Blackburn Challenge awaits.  Good luck to all!

Ride the Bull: Tidal Race

Like many New England paddlers, I awoke this past Saturday with an inexorable compulsion.  A mysterious beckoning against which there could be no resistance.  In a trance-like state of compliance, Mary Beth and I loaded a couple of skis on the car and started our migration south.  Navigating by the invisible lines of the Earth's magnetic field, with the occasional assist (seems there's a anomalous vortex just outside of Providence) from Google Maps and an indignant gas station attendant ("Does this look like 2004 to you, sir?"), we finally emerged from our stupor to find ourselves at Fort Wetherill Park for the 6th episode of Ride the Bull.

John and Wesley marvel at the future magnificence of this picture.  (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)

In addition to the regular cast of susceptible locals, the call of Rhode Island was strong enough to summon Guy Gilliland clear from Hawaii.  Last seen wandering around Essex in 2016 looking fruitlessly for a true ocean race, Guy was anxious to immerse himself in the healing waters of the Atlantic.  Figuratively, one assumes - the thermal shock might well kill him.

Guy wasn't the only notable exotic paddler.  John Hair was bitten by the RTB bug back in 2016.  He pulled through, but has since had to make the yearly drive from Rochester (NY) for his booster shot.  The last time we met, John and I had duked it out for silver in the fog of Nahant Bay, so I knew I'd have to keep a close eye on him.  New recruit Kurt Hatem joined us for his first surfski race, liberating himself from the FSK class to impress in a V10.  We may need to send him back in undercover to extract Roger Gocking.

As has become his pre-race tradition, Ed breaks a paddle over his head to psyche himself up.  Needless to say, this practice has taken its toll. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)

I had concerns about Andrius Zinkevichus, racing for the first time this season.  Based on recent Facebook posts from his Brača-sponsored tour of Europe, he was obviously getting in some quality flatwater training.  However, it was the outlandish green Team Lithuania unitard that he wore to the race that really had me worried.  You don't risk merciless Kermit-on-steroid taunts unless you're pretty confident you can hop on your boat and paddle your opponents into submission.  The bulging muscles - they probably also help limit the ridicule (at least until some anonymous coward gets back to the safety of his or her computer).  I just hoped that rough water would keep the Grinch from stealing the win.

The nine mile course would essentially be the same as last year's, with some minor simplifications to accommodate the fact that, collectively, we're not all that bright.  From the start in West Cove, we'd proceed to Mackerel Cove, rounding a mooring buoy just beyond the rock we usually turn on (tough luck, rookies).  After heading out of the cove to the next turn at buoy G7, we'd skim downwind (ish) past the House on the Rock to buoy G11 before returning to the mouth of West Cove.  This we would then repeat.  As a final kicker leg, we'd head from West Cove directly to G7, returning to finish in our launch bay.  If Tim and Wesley can just manage to hold a steady course for a couple dozen more years, we may just get it memorized.

Given the virtual certainty of uncomfortable conditions somewhere along the route - they don't call it Lounge on the Sofa (although I would absolutely attend that race) - I opted for the V10 Sport instead of the V10.  I made this decision back at home, but John had to make a game-time call between the same choices, having brought a brace of Epics.  He went with the V10.  Fortune favors the bold.  From personal experience, I'd say it's also a favorite of Calamity, Comedy, and Comeuppance.

"Safety first, guys!  Then hygiene.  Let's run a clean race.  [chuckles] And finally, if you have time, spiritual enlightenment." (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)

After a refreshingly brief captain's meeting which mostly consisted of Wesley repeating the mandatory PFD rule while looking pointedly at Chris Quinn (who was doubtless wondering where the hell Lupinski was when you needed him), we launched our fleet of 19 boats. With theatrical cries of "Hold the line!  Hold the line!" (worked for me - I was getting goosebumps), Wesley counted us down to a slow rolling start.  Rounding the rock at the mouth of West Cove, the early lead was captured by John, Andrius, and Wesley.  Guy, Chris, Tim and I formed the next echelon, after shaking free of a hard-charging Timmy Shields.  After a few minutes, Wesley fell off the pace and I managed to catch the lead drafting pair.  John and I wrestled for the lead for a moment before I pulled a couple of boat lengths clear.

I often have hubristic visions of greatness early in the race.  By the time we reached the first turn in Mackerel Cove, I figured that most of the field would have dropped out and headed back to their cars - too demoralized by my dominance to carry on.  Rounding the turn, I scanned the cove anxiously to confirm my suspicions.  Not sure if I overestimated my ability or underestimated everyone else's demoralization threshold, but it turns out that being back a half-dozen boat lengths doesn't really send anyone home crying.  In addition to John (still only a few seconds back), Andrius, Chris, Wesley, Tim, Guy, and Kurt were hot on the chase.  The wily fellows had turned the tables on me, as I now fought off my own wave of disheartenment.  This was going to hurt.

Heading out past Kettle Bottom Rock on the way to the turn on G7, conditions got a little beamy.  For the first time, I was happy to be in my Sport.  And John wasn't happy to not be in his Sport.  Or, perhaps, he wasn't not sad to be in his non-Sport.  In any event, he first thoughtfully dropped back several lengths so I wouldn't be alarmed by his wailing, then dropped himself into the drink.  Chris, probably thinking this was some kind of drill, followed suit.  Having only a second-generation V12 to choose from, however, he had to content himself with not being non-unhappy, period.  Both guys were quickly back on board and in pursuit, but I had a little more cushion to work with.

Is it just me, or has Timmy been about 30% more chipper than usual?  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The run back past Fort Wetherill towards the House on the Rock was enjoyable, with some usable waves heading in the right general direction.  When I got past the rock off of Bull Point, however, the conditions took an unfriendly turn.  A tidal race had pitched itself in the stretch from the point to G11, converting this area into a broken seascape of standing waves, rife with unpredictable currents and swirling eddies.  Superimposed on this was the added texture of wakes from a healthy stream of motorboats cutting unnecessarily close to the channel marker.

At first I tried to read the water, attempting to catch some rides, or at least to avoid the most turbulent sections.  But it was an indecipherable babble.  From the tone, however, I could tell it was hostile.  I quickly abandoned technique and activated survival mode.  You'd get a small head of steam going, only to find yourself stalled on a standing wave, abruptly turned in an unhelpful direction (with upside down being a distinct directional possibility), or translated laterally by an invisible hand.  Doubtless it would be excellent practice to put in an hour or two paddling in such mayhem, but I was hoping to spend somewhat less time there during the race.  Eventually I made it to the buoy, only to have to repeat the dangerous traverse going the other way.  Comparing notes after the race, it seems that nobody was able to find a peaceful path through the turmoil.

Did anyone else notice a rainbow-colored splotch in the sky during the second lap?  At the time, I figured that I was probably just suffering a wee bout of stroke.  In Google-aided retrospect, however, it may have been cloud iridescence.  Brain malfunction or atmospheric phenomenon - regardless, it was kinda cool.

I spent most of the loop back to Mackerel Cove and G7 devising a better strategy for negotiating the tidal race on my second visit.  At the turns I could see that the Green Monster had separated himself from the rest of the pursuit team and was less than a minute back.  Apparently the Nelo 550 was the right boat for him.  All too soon I found myself once again in the bewildering waters off Bull Point.

The last 20 minutes of scheming had failed to produce an attack plan more sophisticated than "stay upright and continent".  As luck would have it, though, enough water was sloshing through my bucket that I could concentrate solely on the former.  By maintaining a vice-like grip on the paddle and taking the occasional tentative stroke, I slowly dragged myself to G11.  Any leg drive or hip rotation was purely the accidental result of spasmodic attempts to maintain my balance.  My rounding of the buoy was so sluggish and so tight that, had I the proper tools, I could have scraped off the rust and slapped on a new coat of marine paint.  The trip back to Bull Point was slightly less arduous, but for a moment it appeared that my weaving cross-current path was destined to intersect with Guy's similar meanderings from the other direction.

With other concerns occupying me, I hadn't got a good read on how close the competition was at the turn.  Heading out to the final run around G7, I passed Mary Beth going the opposite direction on her second lap.  She relayed some back-handed good news - "Despite your slouch and that atrocious stroke, you have a 30 length lead."  I'm a pretty unreliable narrator, so there was no need to take the criticism to heart.  But that also meant I had to question MB's estimate of my lead.  I decided that it was prudent to start my final sprint immediately.  That lasted a full 15 seconds, after which I transitioned smoothly from "sprint" to "wheeze", where I remained for the last mile of the race.

Strong finishes by Chris and John.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Shortly after I finished, Andrius coasted in, looking disquietingly jolly after such a tough race.  I'm not sure I want to live in a world where this is what he can do after a few weeks of training strictly on flatwater.  Yeah... probably I still do.  But check back after he beats me in our next race.  Chris nabbed the final podium spot, with John in talkative tight pursuit.  Tim took fifth.  Kurt was awarded the "Uh-oh, this guy is going to be trouble" award after finishing sixth in his first ski race.  Watching him pull in, I couldn't help but be struck by the uncanny similarities to my first race.  Capsizing an S1-R fifty meters from the L2L finish to derisive gales of laughter from shore... Eerie.  Mary Beth took the women's crown.

We had ridden the bucking Bull, but once again failed to break the sucker.  Fortunately, nearly all the injuries sustained were superficial - even for those four pour souls unceremoniously ejected from the course.  Ever optimistic, we'll be back next year to again make questionable boat decisions.

Andrius is just a purple Cadillac shy of being a late 70's pimp.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

There are two races coming up on June 30.  In the Casco Bay Challenge, you'll paddle (endlessly, if you're not careful) among the beautiful isles of Maine as you cross the 17 miles from South Portland to Merepoint.  It has the potential to be the longest US downwind race outside of Hawaii, but will the weather cooperate?  For those who remain quarantined in Rhode Island with an infectious case of surfski fever, why not check out the Narragansett Bay Regatta?  If you're old enough to remember the Jamestown Counter Revolution in those multiple years when it wasn't (in Jamestown... or a revolution), you'll be familiar with the course.

Sakonnet River Race: Hot Streak

Unless you wanted to spend the entire month of August in Rhode Island making up for missed credits, attending the Sakonnet River Race was a must to keep on pace to make quota.  Now in its 11th year, this Echols-branded event always attracts a rowdy band of paddlers anxious to throw off the shackles of flatwater and mix it up... in a partially-protected ocean inlet.  You don't want to jump in over your head.

I car-pooled down to the race with newcomer Ryan Bardsley.  I'd previously made the trip with fellow old hands Bruce Deltorchio and Bill Kuklinski.  Although I tried to steer this year's drive-time conversation to Metamucil, hip replacement, and DNRs, Ryan kept bringing us back around to concerns of the younger generation.  Touch-tone phones.  Corduroy.  Mumenshanz.  Man, did I feel ancient.  I don't yet know Ryan well enough to feel comfortable gently mocking him the way I might Bill (as a random example).  So let's just say he has some surprising views on on human-goat hybridization.

Wesley's insistence on maintaining a "minimum safe distance" seemed odd until we got a whiff of one another after the race.

A win at the Sakonnet has proven... elusive.  For the past six years I've finished in second place - beaten by a veritable Who's Who of non-me paddlers.  Dostal, Lishchuk, Lupinski, Markin, and Costa.  Not a single one of those me.  Over the years I've called in a bunch of favors to have the champions transferred out of the area, enrolled in college, infected with the hantavirus, etc.  But someone else always seems to step up.  And, of course, Jan is cockroach-like in his tendency to appear, alive and kicking, despite having a polonium-laced serum injected into his thorax.  This might be my year, however.  Since Jan had just returned from his stint as nauseous race commentator on Borys' chase boat at the Molokai, with any luck he'd still be reeling from jet lag, sea-sickness, and acute radiation poisoning.

I had some grave concerns about Chris Quinn.  It's always the guys that are quiet, even-keeled, and ridiculously fit that give you problems.  My only solace was that he'd be in a second-gen V12 rather than his habitual V14 - perhaps a slight disadvantage given the baby-butt sea conditions.  And there was Matt Drayer, who has been religiously following a before-work training schedule that has him making his daily devotion before monks have even hit their snooze buttons for the first time.  Chris Chappell has also been doing hard time on the water this year, and with flat conditions might just try to break out on the Sakonnet.

I may have discovered the source of the navigational problems we seem to face at every race...

With the possibility of thunderstorms moving through later in the day, Wesley took the precaution of modifying the course to keep us in a more contained area closer to McCorrie Point.  That way the authorities could more easily skim us collectively from the surface like dynamited fish.  Instead of heading to the mouth of the bay, we'd head south 3.5 miles to Black Point, return 3.1 miles back in the direction of the start, return down to Black Point, then finish up back on the beach.  To break up the typical Where's Waldo monotony of turning on a specific mooring buoy within a field of indistinguishable alternatives, the northern turn would be on a lone moored motorboat.  I was tempted to dart out before the race and cut his fuel line to prevent a mid-race escape, but figured the resulting sea of flames might make it just as difficult to find the turn.

The day promised to be hot and humid.  When you find yourself in a cold-water/greenhouse-air situation, it's always challenging to choose the right apparel.  We told Ryan that paddling in a scuba suit under these conditions was overkill, but he just winked and adjusted his regulator.  The rest of us were still shedding clothes as we boarded our craft for the start.

By implicit mutual consent, the field eased off the line with Jenga-worthy deliberation and cautiousness.  With little wind and growing mugginess, there was a legitimate danger of total collapse if you charged pell-mell out of the gate on your 13.2 mile trek.  By encouraging drafting, the glassy water further helped hold the field together.  I had a typical mid-pack start, but at least the collegial spirit of the field helped allay my usual apprehensions about my languor.  Jan and Chris C took the early lead, but remained within hailing distance should we need to recall them.  A minute into the race, Matt sprinted by me and headed out to join the scouting party.  His ease in overtaking me was a tad worrisome, but I figured he'd burn through his youthful zest pretty quickly.

I'm starting to suspect that Olga is sweet on Max.  In any event, I've discovered the sure-fire way to feature in her photos is to stick close to him. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Over the next few minutes I overtook a drafting clump of pursuers, gradually slipping past Wesley, Max Yasochka, Tim Dwyer, Chris Laughlin, and Chris Q.  Unfortunately, I wasn't able to make a clean escape.  I got a little too close and ended up with a Quinn stuck on my port draft.  A fading Chris C angled over and latched onto the other side.  Jan and Matt were working independently four or five lengths ahead on different lines.

I tried various maneuvers and intervals to shake off my drafters.  Chris C fell for a head feint to the right and dropped off, but Chris Q remained a thorn at my side.  Finally, I managed a short sprint that brushed him back to my stern wake.  From there it was a simple matter of bursting a few superfluous blood vessels in my head and neck to drop Chris completely.  I was hoping for a "blown out of the airlock" kind of separation, but had to settle for a gentler "lost grip on the module hatch" departure.  As Chris drifted lazily back, I concentrated on catching Matt, who seemed to be on the more direct line to Black Point.

A few minutes into the race, Matt had a four boat lead on me.  I had since been whittling that down. It took me twenty minutes to cover the 100 foot gap - a whopping closing speed of 0.05 mph.  A garden snail can't even manage 0.03 mph, so I think you'll agree I was putting the hammer down.  By the time I slid onto Matt's draft at around mile 3, Jan had fallen back a few lengths, where he was joined by Chris in the chase.

Typical show-off Canadians. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Approaching Black Point, I started to get nervous about identifying the proper turning buoy.  I wouldn't exactly say that I had tuned out during the captains meeting, but I did keep picking up an NPR program on silkworms (nature's tailors!).  Matt and I began a discussion on the relative merits of the various choices, finally settling on a spiffy white-and-blue job 150 meters ahead.  We were feeling pretty good about this decision when indistinct shouts from behind cracked our veneer of confidence.  The four lead boats stopped paddling to assess the situation, ultimately deciding to follow our hearts rather than the incoherent ravings of some lunatic.  Turns out it was Wesley, frantically directing us to the buoy we were in fact heading for (although from his angle, he couldn't tell that).  So following the ravings would have gotten us to the same place.

I rounded the buoy just ahead of Matt, with Jan and Chris perhaps another 4 lengths back.  There was still a lot of confused yammering going on, but a lot of that may have been me chastising myself for making such a wide, lazy turn.  We'd spend the next few miles heading back into the wind.  Although later in the day we'd get slapped around by its aggressive bluster, at this point the gentle caress of the breeze soothed our blistered skin.  Or, in Ryan's case, cooled the gooey contents of his wetsuit back to a mostly-solid state.

The 3 mile trip back to the upwind turn-around was relatively uneventful once I'd retroactively edited out all of the terror-filled glances over my shoulder to see who would soon be overtaking me.  I'd installed a Geiger counter app on my phone prior to the race, so at least I'd have some warning if Jan was sneaking up on me.  I never saw anyone distinctly (because, remember, I didn't look) and the headwind helpfully swept away any scent of impending doom, so (to the syncopated clicks of intermittent cosmic rays) I began to think perhaps I would finally break my runner-up hex.  The subsequent downwind leg back to Black Point scorched away that hope, along with all others.

I had about a 35 second lead over Matt at the upwind turn (which, remarkably, was still attached and afloat).  Chris lagged behind him by a few lengths, with Jan a half-dozen more back.  With the wind now surgically tuned to match my exact speed, I could finally appreciate the full swelter of the day.  Despite shedding a half-dozen pounds in my cockpit sauna, I felt increasingly leaden as the miles to the next turn trickled by.  My target pace was slipping so often that I was forced to switch over to target deceleration.  Some quick calculations (and they say you never use calculus in real life...) indicated that I'd actually be going backwards by the time I reached Black Point.  I must have integrated incorrectly, though, because I actually had some residual velocity as we approached the turn.

Blinded by sweat and tears, heat blasted, and mentally exhausted from all the math, I was finally about to round the buoy when... again with the yelling from behind.  Given that he was only a few lengths behind at this point, Matt could have used his inside voice, but he must have sensed that my befuddled mind was only capable of responding to intense stimuli.  The fact that I was now paddling canoe-style and yelling out "hut" on side changes probably tipped him off that I needed some hand-holding.  In any event, he managed to redirect me to the correct buoy.

I was still in the lead, but watched Matt and Chris take the turn together - now only 20 seconds back.  Given my depleted state, I was done for.  Noting that Jan had dropped off the pursuit, I dreamed that I might salvage a third place finish from the charred wreckage.  Amazingly, however, it turns out that everyone else was also suffering on that past leg.  And that my seemingly debilitating fatigue was as much mental as physical.  It took only a few minutes of wind-in-the-face therapy to reinvigorate my hopes for a win.

While Chris prepared a hasty exit to avoid the press throng, I graciously stuck around to provide an hour-long Q&A session (mostly A, now that I think of it) with my deck camera.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

My upwind execution was sloppy, but the glee of being freed from the downwind kiln powered me back towards McCorrie Point.  About halfway home, I noticed one of the two chase boats back about a dozen lengths on an inside line.  He didn't seem to be gaining, which allowed me to concentrate 100% of my anxiety on the guy I couldn't see.  I hate that guy.  With a mile to go, a mischievous squall descended on the Sakonnet.  With an almost perfectly head-on wind, however, negotiating this final obstacle was more annoying than challenging.

I reached the line a half-minute ahead of Chris, with Matt taking third shortly after that.  Jan and Tim completed the top 5, with Leslie Chappell paddling away with the women's title.  After rehydrating (I'd forgotten my IV saline drip so I had to do things the old-fashioned way - guzzling seawater), we headed up the road to the Echols' house for the after-party.  Once you fought your way through the crowd of surfski pilgrims genuflecting towards The Garage, it was a pretty good spread.  Many thanks to Wesley and Betsy for a great day.  And a special thanks to guest lecturer Jan, who gave a sobering scared-straight presentation on the perils of the Molokai.  Or, at least, the perils of being on a chase boat there.

You know the angel/devil that pops up to provide advice in cartoons?  Apparently that's a real thing.  Minus the costumes.

Due to popular demand, we're all booked for a reunion tour in Rhode Island on June 16th for Ride the Bull.  Poring over navigational charts, tide tables, and unholy grimoires, Wesley and Tim are already hard at work summoning the latest incarnation of the cruelest course in New England.  Please preregister at PaddleGuru.

Essex River Race: Hard Luck

It's not often that you can step out your front door directly into a top-tier ski race, but with an assist from Mary Beth (who needs to work on her fireman's carry, truth be told), that's exactly what I enjoy each year at the Essex River Race.  For the second year, the race was being hosted by the Riversbend Restaurant at the Essex Marina rather than at its ancestral home at the Shipbuilding Museum and public launch.  Fond memories of scrambling for parking, dodging traffic, and replanking my ski persist, but apparently the future is all about convenience and composite fibers.  Can't wait to see what they do with the remake of Pinocchio.

Despite the venue change, we'd still be running the traditional 5.75 mile lollipop course - heading out the Essex River, rounding Cross Island, and returning back up the river.  With high tide occurring just before the start and a light breeze out of the east, times would likely be fast.  I expected Chris Chappell and Jan Lupinski to be near the pointy end of the 23 ski pack from the get-go, but hoped that I might finish at the apex.  Glancing warily at the overcast sky, we wondered if the rain would hold off until we were soggily eating our pizza and burgers at the after-party.

There were significant polarity issues prior to the start.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

At last year's race, I had missed the start while in a deep discussion with Tim Dwyer about the epidemic of tardiness in the younger generation.  The year before that, I fell out of my boat 10 seconds before the gun while trying to turn on my GPS.  While most racers aspire to a fast start on the Essex, my bar is set at "uninteresting".  I'm sure everyone was anxious to see what kind of exuberant pre-race shenanigans I would be up to in 2018.  Not me.  I started my GPS on shore, dropped Tim as a friend (Facebook and otherwise), and double-checked that I wasn't wearing any flammable clothing.  Even with such extraordinary precautions, I wasn't optimistic.

Fortunately, within-tolerance longitudinal alignment was achieved prior to the gun.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

I positioned myself on the right side of the line so that my inevitable fiasco would take out as few other paddlers as possible.  My anxiety grew as the starter counted us down, but at "Go!" I found myself inexplicably upright, holding a paddle, and not choking on a nectarine pit.  Success!  In fairness, I did suddenly realize that the paddle wasn't the one I had actually intended to use, but that seems like quibbling.  I even thought I got off the line relatively quickly.  That is, until after the race when Tim asked me why I missed the start this year.  Ouch.  I knew there was a reason I unfriended that guy.

Chris was off the line with characteristic flair, seizing the early lead but unable to keep a pesky Jan from hanging off his port draft.  Francisco Urena had an excellent start as well, trailing the two leaders by a length or so but easily separating himself from the rest of the pack.  I worked my way by Wesley and a rejuvenated Timmy Shields, catching up to Tim and Hank Thorburn a few moments later.  Francisco, having consumed an hour's worth of calories in the first two minutes of the race, had throttled back to a more reasonable burn rate, but his still-glowing paddle blades were emitting clouds of hissing steam each time they hit the water.  I managed to slide by with only minor scalding.  Three or four lengths ahead, Jan and Chris continued to lead the charge through the winding estuary.

That's me on the far right.  Probably not my best early showing, but like they say: Any start you can walk away from is a good one.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

With Jan pulling Chris around successive bends, I settled into an uncomfortable chase position.  I wasn't losing ground, but neither was I getting any younger.  Mindful of last year's Hudyncia-on rowboat collision, I warily followed the leaders as they negotiated through the field of oncoming behemoths finishing from their earlier heats.  Roughly a mile into the race, I finally managed to snag a seat on Chris' stern wake.  As anyone familiar with his linebacker physique will tell you, that's the First Class of drafting positions.  And I'm talking Emirates, not Delta.  All of your cares evaporate.  I had finished the fois gras and was just about to order my complimentary foot massage, when sudden turbulence forced me to bail out from my cushy post.

At low tide, the Essex River consists of a sinuous navigable channel.  You follow the river, you're necessarily following the channel.  At high tide, the river consists of a sinuous navigable channel cruelly concealed within a featureless expanse of semi-navigable flats and soul-sucking shallows.  Cutting a corner too tightly (spoiler - that's foreshadowing), Jan had led us into one of the latter.  I saw the first thin stems of grass emerging from the water just before my paddle started striking the muddy bottom.  Thanks to Archimedes displacement principle, Chris found himself in an even stickier situation.  I was therefore able to take advantage of the situation to sneak by, carefully matching Chris oath for oath in an attempt to disguise my glee at this unexpected windfall.

With proper cropping, the inescapable loneliness of man becomes apparent.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Jan had managed to break free while this was transpiring.  By the time we were back in deep water, he was three lengths ahead.  Chris had dropped back slightly, but since he was taking a different line towards Conomo Point, it was difficult to tell just how much I had been able to pull away from him.  As we approached the gap separating Cross Island from the point, a modest headwind picked up, which thoughtlessly slid over to our beams once we turned up the east side of the island.  The resulting side chop could be measured in inches, but I feared it would be enough to throw me off what little game I had on my V14.  Doing 95% of your training on a tiny wind-protected lake may not be the smartest surfski practice, but it's the only way I know.  So it came as a pleasant shock that I was able to maintain pace with Jan along this unsteady stretch.

I took stock of the situation as we neared the halfway point of the race.  Once we rounded the northeast corner of Cross, we'd enjoy a brief downwind section before rounding into the lee of the island and heading back up the estuary.  We'd perhaps receive a little boost from the wind along parts of that return trip, but the ebbing tide would be giving some push-back.  Jan would probably open up his lead a bit on the short downwind run, but I figured I'd have a good chance of passing him during the grind to the finish.  In speaking with him afterwards, he sincerely doubted that latter proposition.  Apparently we both could benefit from some humility lessons.

We never got to discover which of us had the goods to back up his bluster.  As I mentioned above, I'm no stranger to race-day mishaps.  Jan, however, is in a league that most of us can only have nightmares about.  Leaking boats, malfunctioning rudders, magnetic anomalies throwing off his internal compass... I'd provide a complete list of misfortunes, but I don't want to incur data overage charges for those of you reading on mobile devices.  Jan is undoubtedly snake-bit, but occasionally you wonder if his spirit animal isn't one of those two-headed vipers you might see at a carnival - there's always the distinct possibility of a self-inflicted fanging.

After repeated harsh empirical lessons, it'll eventually come as no surprise to paddlers that a point of land is often accompanied by a rocky shelf extending outwards some distance underwater.  On the other hand, it is a bit surprising that this would be true of the low-lying muddy northeast point of Cross Island.  Back to the first hand, we've all raced here before and seen the rudder-destroying rocks around this point.  But throwing it over one last time to the second hand, at high tide it wouldn't be unreasonable to expect these obstacles to be several feet under water.  Jan, perhaps juggling these conflicting factors in a reasoned cost-benefit analysis or perhaps just letting race-time adrenaline pull him along, cut within a boat's length of the point.

Probably the only reason Jan wasn't thrown clear of the wreck was that his sacrificial hull gradually scraped off most of his speed before his rudder finally smashed into the rock.  When I close my eyes, I can still hear the crunch of carbon fiber, the piteous wails, and - barely discernible over the other sounds of devastation - the licking of chops.  Blood was in the water.  Although I hadn't planned on cutting the point quite as close as Jan, I was far enough back that I could use his example to adjust my course further out.  Even so, I was forced to hold my breath and grimace while watching various rocks slide just beneath my rudder.

It initially appeared that Jan might have miraculously escaped his grounding with just superficial damage.  He freed himself and continued paddling.  A few moments into the downwind section, however, it became clear that he had serious mechanical issues (coincidentally, the exact thing he says about me when analyzing my stroke).  Steering compromised by a bent rudder shaft, Jan was forced to pull over to the island to attempt field repairs.  During this time, Chris and Tim moved into second and third positions.

I had no idea how long Jan would be side-lined, so I maintained an appropriately high-level of anxiety that he'd be appearing again any moment.  I tapped into this fear, along with bursts of short-term incentive provided by picking off boats from slower classes, to push through for the win.  In an impressive recovery, Jan straightened his rudder shaft enough to restore steering and chased down first Tim, and then Chris to take silver.  Chris finished third less than 10 seconds later, with Tim an equal distance behind him. Wesley took the fifth spot.  In the SS20+ class, Bill Kuklinski was the repeat winner, with Ken Cooper and Dave Grody sharing the podium.  Paddling what I believe to be the first double ski ever raced at the Essex, Gary Williams and Robin Francis established impressive precedence.

This poor sap has no idea he's about to be swept off his board as Leslie and Mary Beth fly by in their battle for glory.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Despite the isolated drama in the men's race, the real excitement of the day was in the women's ski competition.  After having to be physically separated several times in the parking lot before the race, noted hot-heads Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell were hungry to get back in the buckets after their knock-down, drag-out fight on the Charles River a few weeks previous.  Leslie had emerged victorious in that bout, so Mary Beth was anxious for on-the-water payback (once I had talked her out of a shiv-related payback, of course).  They exchanged leads several times during the race, but Leslie nosed out MB by inches at the line.  First-time ski racer Jean Kostelich took third.  As Chris joked afterwards, "If Leslie had been in a 540 rather than a 550, it would have been a tie!"  And as Mary Beth similarly, er, joked, "If you had just let me stab her in the eye, things would have been different!"  It'll certainly be fun to see how this rivalry evolves over the season.

Scientists are still baffled by the "rafting" behavior of paddlers, but pray to God that it doesn't have anything to do with reproduction.

Everyone seemed in high spirits as we recapped our races (with appropriate sound effects and embellishments) while overlooking the estuary.  Despite the fact that Bill and his band weren't providing post-race entertainment this year, I shouted requests at him every few minutes, and slipped a fiver in his g-string at the end of the festivities.  Some traditions will never die.  After the awards (and do we really need separate classes for each individual feather angle/paddle length combination?) a select crew - consisting mostly of those who, as children, frequently found themselves eagerly climbing into unmarked vans - helped Mary Beth carry me back to our place for additional race analysis and supplemental alcohol.  As always, thanks to Chris Sherwood for serving as the beer sommelier for the occasion.

For those of you tired of short races in protected water, have I got a deal for you!  We'll be reconvening on June 2nd at Sakonnet River Race down in Rhode Island.  It's 12.5 miles in some of New England's most inscrutable conditions (could be calm, could be not).  You must preregister at PaddleGuru.  And for those interested in joining the most prestigious Tuesday night racing forum in the greater Beverly area of Massachusetts, the 14th season of the Salem League is starting up on May 22.  For 15 consecutive weeks, you'll be developing your skill set under Bill K's curmudgeonly tutelage.  Don't forget tip money!

Run of the Charles: Holding On

The Run of the Charles offers the perfect early-season opportunity to get your feet wet without too much risk of the rest of you following.  With water temperatures still in the 40s, I'd decided to bump my first accidental dousing to May.  Still not sure if I'll go with "fiddling with the bailer" or "trying to remove crab from the bucket" though.  Those of us familiar with the 6 mile race would be paddling the 5 mile down-and-back course while trying to forget that someone - apparently out of pure malice - had tacked a 1 mile up-and-back course onto the end.  We dutifully taught the newbies the mnemonic our forebearers had drilled into us to remember the bridges we'd be passing under: "Eliot, Harvard, John Weeks, Western, and Cambridge, you idiots."

Tim and Jen made some compelling arguments for switching over to SUPs, but in the end, most of us decided to stick with our 401k plans.

Although attendance was down slightly from 2017's record-setting field, 25 skis would be running the race.  With the two champions from the past three years absent - Jesse Lishchuk and Jan Lupinski - there was a lot of pressure on Chris Laughlin and me to maintain alphabetic consistency.  Unlike Chris, however, Jebediah Lesher here was willing to get his name legally changed just prior to the race to get tradition fully on his side.  I expected noted iconoclasts Chris Chappell, Chris Quinn, and Craig Impens would be hell-bent on defying custom.

Wesley's ability to identify a surfski's serial number using only the sound made by a sharp rap on the deck never ceases to amaze. 

Despite the occasional canoe from the 19 mile race cursing headlong through packs of inattentive 6 milers warming up, we managed to line up without any major incidents for our 1:03 start.  After three minutes of silence in remembrance of the missing dragon boats, we were sent on our way.  The course starts with a gentle left turn, so many of the faster racers group to that side of the line.  I stayed well right.  I was willing to give up a length or two in the hopes of getting through the first minute of the race with all my teeth.  Seemed likely that I'd need them for gritting during the final 5 miles of pain.

As expected, Chris C bounced to an immediate lead, with Chris L glued to his stern.  Craig has an atypical combination of explosive starting speed and grind-you-down long-distance consistency.  I hoped that in this short race the latter wouldn't be a factor, but the former was on full display as he started way right on the line, sprinted diagonally across the leading edge and latched onto Chris C and Chris L.  By the time the rest of the field was up to speed, this trio was a solid three lengths ahead of everyone else.  As I worked my way up to the chase pair of Wesley and Tim Dwyer, this lead doubled.  I've evolved over the years from a tortoise to, say, a porcupine or groundhog, but I hoped the adage would still be legally binding.

The starting gun provoked something of a panic.

For reasons not entirely clear, race officials in a rowing launch plowed ahead of us as a kind of pace boat.  I've seen these craft advertised as "wakeless".  This is true, but only if you're rounding to the nearest foot.  The launch outpaced the leaders approaching the first bridge, with the resulting absence of wake splitting the group.  Impens veered to head under the rightmost arch of the bridge with some help from the non-wake, while Chappell and Laughlin elected for a central span.  Captivated by his zig-zag style over the opening half-mile, I followed Craig.

At the reunion a moment later, Craig was out in front of Chris C by a couple of lengths, with the Lves (as some of us had started calling ourselves) back as far again.  Chris C quickly made up his gap, settling only momentarily on Craig's side wash before throwing down a blazing interval to pull cleanly free.  A minute later, I made my own watered-down version of this move, with considerably fewer flames as a result (as seen in Craig's video).

It took me another couple of minutes to pull alongside the leader.  We settled into a wary truce for the next five minutes.  Naturally, I was suspicious of Chris.  Having lured us most of us into buying Brača paddles (I chose the economically named "Brača XI Van Dusen '92" - a fine local vintage with a full body and a crisp finish), it could only be a matter of time before his motives became clear.  A cunningly planned time-delayed deterioration of the blade cement was my best guess, but who knows exactly what nefarious sabotage might await us?  Perhaps something related to that weird accent over the c?  Also, to those of you not already waiting for the hammer to fall, visit FastPaddler.com for all your paddling needs!

Due to the protected nature of the course, I was paddling my flatwater boat.  The adjective is not so much a description as it is a prerequisite.  When I'm paddling my V14, I insist that any deviation from a perfectly smooth water surface be best measured in ångströms (holy cow, it's diacritic day here at Full Tilt).  If the perturbation is all the way up at "hair's breadth"... well, that's trouble.  So when the aforementioned launch swerved across our bows, the mighty ripple of its unwake threatened to upset the détente that Chris and I had established.

Fortunately, Chris was also in his flatwater boat.  And, while it's theoretically possible to paddle the V14 in rough water (there's video proof!), I'm not sure the same can be said for the Mohican.  Despite a disconcerting wobble, I was able to use the brief flatwater disruption to break away from Chris.  Going into the turn (beyond which the launch was now anchored, its crew doubled over in hysterical laughter), I had a tenuous lead of a length and a half.  As I gradually pointed my nose back upstream - you don't want to rush these things - I saw Chris Q in dangerous pursuit, with Craig, Chris L, and Tim not far behind.

Fortunately, the camera adds 10 lengths.

Although the paddle back to the start was superficially uneventful, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed.  The occasional sing-song taunt of "We're gaining on youuuuu!" from behind failed to ease my anxiety.  As I passed under each of the twenty-six bridges on the upstream leg, I made a point of throwing a wild-eyed over-the-shoulder glance to alert my pursuers to my growing panic.  I'm sure they could already smell the fear, but why not take every opportunity to further inflame their blood lust?  During one of these precarious peeks backwards, I managed to determine that Chris Q had passed Chris C and was now perhaps a dozen lengths behind.

Finally reaching the upstream turn (taken luxuriously wide, of course), I marshaled my strength for a final whimper to the finish.  If there's one thing I've learned about Chris Q over the past year, it's that everyone thinks he's a nice guy.  Quiet.  Polite.  Respectful of those a dog or two's life older.  I'm here to tell you that he would have passed me without compunction had he his druthers.  As fate would have it, however, his lack of time for actual training left him a couple short.  At that day's druther exchange, that translated to 35 seconds.  Apparently Chris C has managed to carve out adequate time on the water, on the other hand, as he took an easy third shortly after.  This was the same podium order as at last month's Narrow River race, but the 4 minute spread down south had now shrunk to under a minute - a worrying trend, to say the least.

Maybe if I had told Mary Beth about the things I had overheard Leslie saying about her before the race, the results would have been different.

Craig and Chris L filled out the extended podium.  On the women's side, Leslie Chappell and Mary Beth stayed together for the whole race, until Leslie nosed out Ryan Bardsley in the final sprint for the win.  Not exactly sure how he got in there.  Francisco Urena and Matt Beaton, paddling together for the first time, took the doubles crown.  In the 19 mile race, Ed Duggan was the first ski across the line.

Of course, the ski racers don't show up at the Run of the Charles for anything as mundane as the thrill of the competition or the camaraderie of their fellow paddlers.  Heck, those are the reason that Rhode Island was invented.  No, the ROTC marks the start (and finish, sadly) of the Capellini pulled pork season.  As we gathered greedily around the precious pot of manna, memories of past years flooded back.  The piquant sharpness of the pork in 2014... The playfully spongy buns of 2017...  And, of course, the Despair of 2016, when Bob and Linda were detained at the NY border for exporting seasoned meat without a license.  Needless to say, the seized pork mysteriously disappeared from the evidence room prior to trial.

A surprising number of participants at this year's race had never seen a camera before.

In our next installment, we'll be discussing the pros and cons of the Essex River Race.  With Tim Hudyncia sitting this one out, it's anyone's guess as to which lucky paddler will get decapitated by a rowboat this year.  As stipulated by the "within five minutes of the venue" clause of the Surfskis United charter, all competitors are invited back to our home after the awards to share grossly exaggerated accounts of their races over beers and snacks.