Narrow River II: Stuck in a Groove

It was inevitable that Tim Dwyer would exploit the name recognition of his lucrative spring-time Narrow River Race enterprise by launching a fall version.  With a lock on both ends of the season, he would wield almost unfathomable power over the New England surfski community.  Although the first couple of fall celebrations carried the bitter taste of crass commercialization, Tim announced that starting with the 2023 race, all proceeds would be donated to the Elderly Paddlers' Support Association.  A savvy PR move, although I have yet to receive my cut from EPSA.

A healthy crew of 23 competitors showed up in Kingston, Rhode Island to find the Narrow River bulging at the seams - the victim of a powerful spring tide.  Nobody could remember seeing the water levels this high.  Less experienced paddlers were excited that they wouldn't have to deal with the notorious shallows of the waterway, but I knew better.  The high water would tempt us to plot courses impossible at normal levels - cutting corners and passing over shoals instead of around.  The mischievous river had given us some slack, with confidence that we'd tighten the noose around our own necks.

Just when you think everyone has forgotten they're being filmed...

Tim concluded the captains meeting with a brief pep talk to rile us up.  I'm not entirely confident that he knows what "grabbing a bull by the horns" means though.

Over the years, my fuddy-duddy buddy Bill Kuklinski has been a favorite target for playful digs and harmless gibes.  His recent attempts to inoculate himself from this "actionable harassment" (as his attorney's cease-and-desist letter recently called it) have included partnering in a tandem with Mary Beth, who, as my soulmate (and, incidentally, editor), enjoys blanket immunity to even the gentlest mockery.  Nice try, buddy, but even MB's aura of invincibility can't protect you.  To avoid ferrying Bill down to the race from his burrow near our home, we told him that our rear seats were still damp from a recent Simonizing, leaving Kirk Olsen to Tesla him to Rhode Island.  Kirk reports that Bill was generally well-behaved in the state-of-the-art vehicle, but kept repeatedly exclaiming "What will they think of next?!?"  In reference to the passenger-side floormat, of course.

I wouldn't say there was a favorite to win, because that implies at least a modicum of uncertainty about the outcome.  Mike Florio was there to win a 6th consecutive race on his home course.  The rest of us attended to witness and then spread his gospel.  I hoped to stand on his righthand side afterwards, but to merit this exalted position I'd have to fend off worthy congregants like Chris Chappell and Jerry Madore.  In the women's competition, Loukia Lila (in an ICF boat) would be up against Leslie Chappell.  Mary Beth & Bill would be facing Patty White & Chris Sherwood in the doubles' race.  In addition to the kayakers, we had 5 outriggers, a couple of SUPs, an ocean rowing shell, and a hulking Banks Dory (that weighed nearly as much as all of the other boats combined).

Chris doesn't use his broad-reaching authority as Chief Compliance Officer often, but even Mr. SurfskiRacing.com himself isn't exempt from random banishment.

A side note.  People have asked if I've tried getting ChatGPT to help write race reports.  I did some research and found that "generative AI has a tendency to produce distorted versions of the truth embedded in whimsical near-gibberish, assuming that it's not 'hallucinating' outright confabulations."  Uh-oh.  That's pretty much my thing.  Rather than being cast into the dustbin of history, I've decided to take the fight to the Cloud.  If AI can do what I can, the inverse must be true.  I'm therefore boning up on "limericks about racquetball in the style of Dr. Seuss" and "recipes that use basil, bok choy, and bear kidneys".  Be on the lookout for GregChat 1.0 - just in time for the holiday season.

I've gotten slightly better on my race starts, but guess I better work on writing about them, because darned if we're not already a minute into the affair.  We join the race with me just slipping on to Mike's stern draft after weathering the early sprints of Chris, Jerry, Tim, and Loukia.  Or is it just slipping off of Mike's draft?  We'd need a high-speed camera and a team of philosophers to solve that metaphysical conundrum.  Let's just say it was all part of a single continuous motion.  Jerry lasted hundreds of times longer on my draft, but I managed to drop him after another 30 seconds or so.

I made a game of seeing how long I could remain on Mike's successive wakes.  I first did some calculations to gauge my expectations.  I've found that an immediate stern draft is worth about 0.15 mph of effort for me.  Let's say that when you fall back to the next wake, you're getting 2/3 as much help as on the preceding wake.  So 0.10 mph for the second wake, 0.067 for the third wake, etc.  Given that I couldn't stay on his first wake for very long, I'd say that Mike was natively about 0.25 mph faster than me.  So if I were getting no help from the wake, he'd be putting an extra boat length between us every 54.5 seconds.  On the first wake, it'd take him 136.4 seconds.  On the second, 90.9 seconds.  Using this line of reasoning, I was able to calculate that I'd finish roughly 1,273.6 feet behind Mike.  I'll admit that my in-the-moment computations were slightly fuzzier than this - more along the lines of "I'm losing ground mighty fast!", but the fact that I ultimately finished 17 inches closer than estimated means that I actually exceeded my true potential.

At the upstream turn, I was on Mike's 16th wake (reveling in that 0.00022 mph boost, baby!) - roughly 30 seconds back.  Chris was somewhat more than that behind me (felt like maybe the 27th wake), with Jerry just behind and Tim in stones-throw pursuit.  I continued a backward wake progression, until the wind mercifully disturbed the water enough to erase any visual indication of my reversal.  Although the outgoing tide was now providing some help, I eventually found the thigh-deep suck-water necessary to offset that advantage.  Passing under the final downstream bridge, Mike enjoyed a 1.5 minute lead.

Another side note.  When they stopped at a gas station to grab some coffee on the way down, Kirk said that he returned with the drinks to find Bill trying to stretch the gas pump hose across the parking lot to the Tesla.  It'd be funny, instead of sad, if Bill hadn't just recently retired from a tech job.  Vacuum tube design, if I'm not mistaken.

Around 11:30, local powerboat enthusiasts finally conceded that the summer-like weather was not in fact a prank designed to lure them out into the open, only to be subjected to a sudden sleet-ridden squall.  Scrambling to their vehicles like reverse storm-chasers, they raced to area boat launches for the year's last opportunity to satisfy their paddler kill quota.  Since the Narrow River races are held in early spring and late fall (the "crotch side" of the so-called "shoulder seasons"), we're used to having the waterway to ourselves.  On this day, however, more than one paddler (I assume) found themselves screaming obscenities at malevolent boaters.  "Florio, you #$@!% idiot!  I paid you to take out @#$!%& Florio!"... and the like.  Despite my best efforts, Mike continued far ahead as we neared the final turn.

Don't worry.  We made Kirk go back and clean up all the paddle slicks he left.

When you're watching artfully filmed fly-fishing, as in A River Runs Through It, it's impossible not to gaze in mesmerized wonder at the graceful, undulating arc of the line reflecting the sun as the master fishermen lasso their prey.  That's how it works, right?  In any event, it turns out the whole spectacle is not so enthralling from the water-level perspective of the trout.  Approaching the downstream turn, I entered a gauntlet of wader-clad assassins.  Only a perfectly triangulated course between them would protect me from their gossamer snares.  I watched Mike emerge unscathed from the trial-by-angler, his iridescent, mottled skin glistening as we crossed paths.  I similarly managed to thread the needle, although the barbed laughter that accompanied my clumsy 180 degree turn did hurt my feelings.

I spent the final mile back to the finish pondering the enigma that has troubled mariners since early man first climbed aboard the floating carcass of a dead whale and started paddling it: If the downstream current is X, how can the upstream current be 2X?  I know... for idiots tooling around on boats of rotting blubber, they were surprisingly advanced in symbolic mathematics.  Mike must have received some kind of special dispensation on this leg, since he was obviously in more of a 1.5X situation.  He finished 2 minutes ahead of me at 1:06:05, with Jerry coming in 3.5 minutes later to claim bronze.  Mary Beth & Bill had a strong showing to take the double's crown at 1:12:36.  Loukia was the women's champion in 1:17:02.

You wouldn't know it to look at them, but these kids are celebrating their 12th Narrow River Race together.  Not in the same boat, mind you.  That'd be a one-and-done situation followed by a bitter custody battle over the Subaru.

It's been a kind of lousy surfski season, with paradoxically more cancellations than there were scheduled races.  But rather than letting things end on a high note with a spectacular fall day on the Narrow River (thanks, Tim!), Kuklinski has to have the last word.  The Bridges of Essex County (named with a finger on the fading pulse of Boomers) will close out the racing calendar on Sunday, November 5, in Danvers, Massachusetts.  Bill can't promise 30 degree temperatures, a bone-chilling rain, or gale-force winds, but he'll do his best to make this 6 mile flatwater paddle a fitting close to the season.  Please preregister at PaddleGuru.

Blackburn Challenge: Slow Motion

The champ.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

I was excited when the Blackburn Challenge organizers announced an web-based competition to provide a pithy slogan for the race.  They were probably expecting something upbeat like "Twenty miles of liquid fun!" or "Take a magical tour of Cape Ann."  That was a miscalculation.  As we're now all aware due to the high-profile copyright lawsuit by the producers of Rocky IV, the new official slogan is "I must break you."  Odd choice to personify the race that way, but somehow apt.  I personally preferred "Nope", but admittedly that had infringement issues of its own.  Despite the ominous new tagline, competitors didn't seem dissuaded.

In the spirit of race namesake Howard Blackburn (who famously ate his crewmate before starting his epic winter row to safety, just to bask undiluted in solo glory), Mary Beth and I invited fellow competitors Tim Dwyer and Rob Jehn to stay with us before the race.  This proved to be an error in judgement on everyone's part, as we all spent the night sleepless in the candlelight, daggers at the ready.

Last year, Rob Jehn and Craig Impens battled for the entire race, with Craig getting the edge in the final sprint.  I sensed that Rob hadn't quite negotiated the five stages of grief over this devastating loss, mostly because he kept denying that he had even participated in 2022.  When confronted with photographic evidence from the finish line, he just muttered something about doppelgangers while jabbing Craig's face with a handy dagger.  C'mon, dude.  That was my phone.  In any event, Rob was looking forward to repeating his dominant performance from the last time he had raced the course, back in 2021.  He'd be joined by inveterate Canadians Jack Van Dorp and Brian Heath, who made their annual summer migration to Gloucester in hopes of claiming their own podium spots.

This one photo of the North Shore crew deserves an entire blog post of its own.

Local ne'er-do-well and perennial nemesis, Matt Drayer, would mercifully be out of my category, paddling a V10 Double with beloved native Dan Brooks.  They'd be facing off against Team Lamb (Erin & Alan, who have repeatedly rejected my preferred moniker, The Dylambic Duo) in their own class, and Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer in an SS20+ tandem.  Other notable paddlers included the legendary Dana Gaines, who hit platinum membership way back at his 15th Blackburn and has since accrued so many multiplied miles that he'd technically be completing his 244th iteration this year.  Doubles "partner" Phil Warner was assigned to do the actual paddling, as well as serving complimentary lobster and champagne at Straitsmouth.

Before the race, I heard someone offering simple, practical advice for navigation once exiting the Annisquam - "Keep the land to your left".  Oops.  He must have misspoken.  "Port." I helpfully corrected.  Assuming the recipients of this wisdom averaged 40 miles a day, brought a few extra energy gels, and carried a change of underwear, we could expect to see them at the finish of the 2025 Blackburn.  I felt bad for the suckers who didn't bring enough cash to cover the Panama Canal transit fee, though.  Of course, the quicker circumnavigation - keeping Cape Ann to your starboard - would entail only 20 miles of paddling, although in some years that extra underwear might nevertheless come in handy. 

I lined up next to Rob, Jack, and Brian.  Or rather, amongst them.  With my less-than-explosive start, I should have known that I would soon find myself squeezed between these guys, desperately looking for a unclaimed patch of water large enough to plant a paddle blade.  After a couple of solid plants on Jack's boat threatened to cause an international incident, I relented and ceded the disputed territory of Rob's starboard draft to Jack.  I slipped onto Rob's stern, with Brian likewise behind Jack.

Rob managed to free himself of parasites within a couple minutes, opening up a half-dozen boat length gap that would persist for most of the trip out the Annisquam.  As we progressed, the strength of the incoming tide grew, knocking a knot off our speeds even when tucked out of the worst of the current.  I managed to get around Jack, who I now pulled in pursuit of Rob.  Brian stayed on the train for a mile or so, but eventually tumbled off.

I enjoy the Hokey Pokey as much as the next guy, but I'm not sure it was a particularly effective as a group warm-up drill.

Despite not having kayaked there until I was 37, my formative years were spent paddling the Annisquam. Having been practically whelped on the marshy estuary, I've been able to use a few navigational sleights-of-hand to my advantage in past Blackburns - including some feats that left Rob blinking in disbelief that his 10 length lead had been magically cut to 8 and a half.  From such harsh instruction, he's since learned to frequently check back with me, adjusting his behavior accordingly.  Little did he realize that my greatest trick had been in planning all along for just such an adaptation.

Each time that Rob started to crane back, I'd adopt a crazy new "strategy" for him to mimic.  Weaving through the moored boats.  Only paddling on one side.  Wearing my shorts inside-out.  He invariably took the bait, but these moves were just for giggles.  The real pay-off came when Rob looked back to find me cutting the final bend of the Annisquam ridiculously close to shore.  He corrected his course to adopt my purported line, while I swerved away from the sandy shallows once his gaze returned forward.  I watched with glee as Rob heeled his boat increasingly to one side to avoid scraping his rudder and then ground to a halt.  The few seconds it took him to hop out of his boat and drag it to deeper water was just enough for me to catch him.  Jack, who had remained scrupulously clear of the shallows, hovered a few lengths back.

My ingenious ploy bought me all of 3 minutes of draft time.  Exiting the river, Rob broke free once again while I was clumsily (and boorishly) trying to pass an outrigger who had the temerity to be out on the same course.  Over the next mile, Rob stretched his advantage to a dozen length lead.  A short distance back, Jack was resolved to stay on a line 50 meters inside of mine.  At one point, I tested his commitment to this strategy by angling over to within 25 meters of the shore.  Sure enough, when I glanced to the right, there was Jack, boat on his shoulder, scrambling spryly across the rocky coast.  He seemed to be gaining on me during this stretch, so I quickly veered back to open water, a subdued splash behind me signaled the end of Jack's portage.  There may have been some mild degree of exercise-induced hypoxia associated with this anecdote.

Race buddies Elmore, Jerry, and Bernie.  The camaraderie of mile 7 was inevitably replaced by the bitter recriminations of mile 12 (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although the tide had been restraining our exuberance in a motherly manner (firm, but gentle, and with occasional snacks), the sea was smooth with barely a wisp of wind.  At Halibut Point, however, we were collectively shipped off to boarding school, where "tough love" was the order of the day.  Inevitably, this would later evolve to rampant sadism and, for some of the less hardened pupils, psychotic breaks.  I'm getting ahead of myself, though.  At orientation, we were merely slapped in the face and reminded that this was the Atlantic Ocean, not our mama's duck pond.  There was some confused refractory chop around the rocky points and an unwelcome headwind, but crossing Sandy Bay towards Straitsmouth wasn't an unreasonable first assignment.

Rob was slipping inexorably further ahead during this span, but I took some solace from the possibility that Jack had the same feeling about me.  If his inside line had been helping him while closer to the coast, in Sandy Bay it was doing him no favors - I could see him gradually falling back.  A quarter of the way to Straitsmouth, I heard the first waft of the dreadful sound that would burrow itself into my brain so deeply that I hear it still.  Hut!  The six-person outriggers had started immediately after the skis.  Hut!  The lead OC-6 had blasted by as we left the Annisquam, but now the second was approaching at a rate usually associated with glaciers or your slower growing mosses.  Hut!  For the next half-hour, the rhythmic call to switch paddle sides would scrape at my nerves, fraying my sanity.  Hut!  I can now testify from first-hand experience that torture is an unreliable interrogation technique, since at one point (dear God, make it stop) I confessed to war crimes in Bosnia, cheating on my Econ 101 mid-term, and having a secret crush on Mrs. Garrett.  Hmm.  Somewhat unreliable.

Before you comment that "the OC-6 paddlers themselves seem to have no problems maintaining their sanity after 3 hours of calls", I'd say that (a) you apparently haven't met that many outrigger paddlers and (b) it's a matter of context.  If your own 5 year old (it's Walter, right?) whacks you repeatedly on the head with a croquet mallet, that's adorable.  If it's me getting whacked on the melon, that's felonious assault and Walter is going to be spending the next 35 years in the Big House.  I forgot to mention that in this analogy, we're in Canada - they don't mollycoddle minors up there.  In any event, my hypnotherapist (you may remember Dr. Huber) has promised to wipe all memory of the traumatizing chant, but so far he's only succeeded in making me forget where I put my wallet.

By necessity (except, perhaps, for shore-clambering Jack) boats are funneled through the narrow Straitsmouth gap after traversing Sandy Bay.  I must have got a hold of some bad juju before the race (never trust unlicensed parking lot vendors), because, despite my best efforts, I arrived at the throttle point simultaneously with the OC-6 mentioned in passing above, two rowboats, and a double ski piloted by Chris Kielb and Rob Flanagan.  The tightening situation required deft maneuvering to avoid incident, but I instead opted to close my eyes and hope for the best.  Only when the screaming (mine) stopped did a I dare to reopen them.  I have no new scars, so it seems like everything worked out just fine. 

If technique and style points were factored into the results, I would have been disqualified.  (photo courtesy of Phil Sachs)

Although tempered by the disturbed waters around each subsequent headland, we enjoyed a tidal boost after Straitsmouth.  This uncharacteristic respite from antagonistic conditions faded after clearing Lands End, where we started our 3 mile trek across open water.  Our punishment now took the form of a headwind and waves predominantly from the quarter beam.  Seconds stretched to minutes, and minutes stretched to curses and impassioned prayers that the distant coast would get at least marginally less distant.  That particular request wasn't immediately granted, but I did receive one unexpected blessing from above - the OC-6 took an outside line ahead and was finally out of earshot.  On a negative note, Rob had similarly advanced, and was finally out of eyeshot.

Many of those anxious for landfall after their endless odyssey found themselves in emotional turmoil after achieving their goal.  On one hand, Hooray!  On the other, Zounds!  It's tough to describe the chaotic ocean surface exactly, but perhaps "prickly" comes closest.  We would also accept "nettlesome".  Between the prevailing beam waves, slop reflected randomly from the craggy shore, and undersea seismic activity, conditions were sub-optimal for paddlers who already had 15 miles worth of balance fatigue under their belts.  Although challenging even for veterans, this rough-and-tumble hazing took its toll on the underclassmen.  Several had to be hustled into decompression chambers after the race, lest the sudden change in anxiety levels burst their fragile psyches.

I managed to bumble through the disorder, bouncing along haphazardly in a path that led more-or-less in the right direction.  How different from my early Blackburn years, where I mostly floundered instead of bumbling.  Rounding East Point, the beam waves were finally forced into a more favorable alignment, providing juicy rides along the Dog Bar, just waiting to be harvested.  That's more of a theoretical than empirical observation, since fatigue prevented me from actually sinking my teeth into most of those plums.

The two mile trip from the Dog Bar to the finish across a busy Gloucester harbor is typically an interminable slog - a life sentence punctuated by moments of powerboat-induced terror.  With a breeze at our backs and the reduction of the bounty on paddlers (recently reclassified from "pestilent scourge" to "nuisance species" by the Harbormaster), this year's traverse was only 95% as unpleasant as usual.  And now with a sustainable cull rate!  For once I passed the finish line looking robust enough that concerned spectators weren't calling 911.

Two legendary watermen.  That's 12-time Molokai winner Oscar Chalupsky in the black shirt.  And Blackburn rower extraordinaire Rich Klajnscek in the blue shirt and orange hat.  Our staff is still trying to identify the guy next to Oscar.

No single stretch of the Blackburn was particularly onerous this year, but the relentlessness of unfavorable conditions made for a humbling race.

Rob had notched his second Blackburn championship in 2:54:03.  I don't mean to take anything away from his performance, but I'd hardly be a conscientious journalist if I didn't point out that this was the slowest winning time in nearly 25 years.  I will, however, graciously admit that his 5 minute advantage over 2nd (me) and 10 minute edge over 3rd (Jack) indicates that Rob isn't quite the slouch the facts objectively show him to be.  Johna Till Johnson claimed the women's HPK class, while Jean Kostelich won the SS20+ class.  John Stevens was the men's SS20+ champ.  The HPK tandem team of Matt & Dan came in as the overall fastest surfski at 2:51:50, while the SS20+ duo of Wesley & Tim slotted themselves between me and Jack as the 4th overall ski.  Rejuvenated by his first tandem race, Wesley was heard to shout "We're going around again!" just prior to being knocked unconscious by Tim.

Here's the prescription for those who need to ease themselves back into racing after their 3-to-7 hour long Blackburn trauma.  Start with a flatwater outing on the relatively tranquil Connecticut River - the New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on July 30th in Hinsdale, NH.  Follow that with the more adventurous Clean Ocean Access Paddle 2023 in Newport, RI on August 19th (register at PaddleGuru).  Then throw yourself whole-heartedly back into the open water fray at the Nahant Bay Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 26th (probable date - keep tuned).  

You can view many great photos of the race from Phil Sachs (at Halibut Point) and Glen Tine (at Straitsmouth). 

Hut!

Double Beaver: Double Trouble

There's been a lot of speculation as to exactly how Tim Dwyer manages to convince world-class paddlers to participate in one of his races every few years.  I suspect he has some dirt on the Rhode Island Bureau of Tourism that he leverages to obtain generous subsidies, because the alternative - his warm personality, long history in the sport, and extensive network of paddling contacts - doesn't make for good copy.  For this year's running of the Jamestown Double Beaver, Tim really put the squeeze on the Visitor Services Officer (not his real name) to arrange a public appearance by US national sprint team member Jesse Lishchuk.

I'm old enough to remember being beaten by Jesse as a child prodigy (him, not me), but for others this would be their first chance to meet this amazing athlete in person.  He didn't disappoint - in either the race itself or in his post-lunch workshop.  Jesse spent the race flitting around like a deranged hummingbird, combining interval training, paddler wellness checks, and just plain youthful exuberance.  If there were classes in this race, starting with Jesse alone in "Elite" and progressing through "Expert", "Advanced", and lesser levels from there, we'd have had about 7 empty classes before getting to the rest of us in "Present".  It goes without saying - at least from this sentence on - that Jesse won.  Poof.  For the purpose of this report, he wasn't in the race.

With the kid out of the picture, recent Ride the Bull champion Ed Joy was undoubtedly the favorite.  Ronald Rivera finished only a couple minutes back in that race, after having honed his rough-water skills dodging ferries (as well as items left best unidentified) in the disturbed waters around Manhattan.  Hailing from western Massachusetts, flatwater specialist Joel Pekosz had edged me out in the Oxbow Paddle earlier this season.  A few weeks later, however, I really turned things around when we met at the Mystic River Herring Run.  Alas, not in a good way - Joel absolutely kippered me at that race, smoking me by several minutes.  I'd need a little help from a surly ocean.

During the captain's meeting, Tim had trouble competing with the contradictory instructions I was relaying via my drone's loudspeaker.  We came this close to running a half mile version of the race where we paddled backwards.

Just in case you're wondering, the guy with the paddle - that's the international-caliber athlete. (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Intriguingly, 4 doubles would be competing.  It seemed quite likely that the pairings of Tim & Wesley, Max Yasochka & Andrius Zinkevichus, and Mary Beth Gangloff & Kirk Olsen would be mixing it up with the top singles for the overall title (again, excluding Jesse).  Robin Francis & Igor Yeremeev might not be contenders, but it was nice to have a tandem that wasn't crewed by scurrilous cutthroats.  In addition to the skis, we were joined by a handful of OCs and SUPs of undetermined demeanor.

This would be at least the 15th running of the notoriously challenging race - it's hard to pin down an exact count since many of the early records still remain sealed due to ongoing litigation by next of kin.  Racers would start off the end of the Conanicut Yacht Club dock, proceed 1.5 miles across the relatively protected waters of Jamestown Harbor, round Bull Point, then spend 3.5 miles crossing open water to the Beavertail Light buoy before returning to the start.  Traditional geometry puts the total length at 10 miles, but after factoring in boat wakes, refractory waves, and unpredictable tidal currents, I've seen paddlers who have logged thrice that in subjective distance.  Sorry, typo.  Not "seen", "been".  Although the forecast was for mild conditions and the harbor was calm, veterans knew to strap down their valuables, get their affairs in order, and gird their loins.  That may seem redundant, but it pays to triple-check these things.

Here's the take home from this picture... In a fight with Andrius, you'd end up stabbed through the heart with your own broken femur.  In a fight with Max, he'd set a kitten on your head. (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Chris watched, forlorn, as the last paddler left the beach headed to the start.  A single tear ran down his cheek.  Then he remembered that he brought a boat too.

If anyone was hoping for a gradual enough start by the leaders that they could slot in easily on a draft, I was sorely disappointed.  The abrupt acceleration of Ronald, Ed, and Max & Andrius practically dislocated my confidence within the first 15 seconds of the race.  With some moral (and hydrodynamic) support from Joel and Tim & Wesley, however, I managed to cling to a glimmer of hope.  After weaving through the densest concentration of boats and buoys in the harbor (with one notable near-collision where I nearly dropped a stitch), I noticed Ed pulling landward to catch a few runners.  He's a master at finding the subtlest boosts.  Knowing that anything I could do, Ed could do better - but hoping that anything he could do, I could do maybe 72% as effectively, I followed his lead.  Joel did as well, but I was pleasantly surprised that my mere 100-fold advantage in ocean paddling hours allowed me to crack a gap between us.  He soon reverted to the outside line that most of the other leaders were pursuing.

At Bull Point, Max & Andrius and Ed had a 10 length lead over me, with Tim & Wesley right on my tail, Ronald just behind them, and Mary Beth & Kirk less than a half dozen lengths further back.  Now targeting the distant Beavertail Light, I pulled slightly ahead of the others.  I chased the leaders from 5 lengths back.  When I again noticed the other three boats a few minutes later, they were a good quarter mile outside of me in approximately the same arrangement.  I was clearly still ahead of them, until, in a matter of less than 10 minutes, I wasn't.  I'd heard Tim claim many times that even though he'd been paddling here for nigh on 75 years (he's older than he looks), he was still as confused by the Narragansett tidal currents as he was by push-button telephones.  I bought into this hokum, in part because I'd repeatedly seen him searching for the finger holes on his cell phone.  But I should have known that the crafty locals would be taking the best line for the outgoing tide.

I tried not to be squeamish about it, but I wasn't exactly thrilled about the last-second cockpit adjustments Wesley asked for help with.

While Max & Andrius and Ed slowly lengthened their lead, I merged with the train led by Tim & Wesley as the upcoming Beavertail headland began pinching us together.  I zippered in a couple of lengths behind their double, and a couple ahead of Ronald and Mary Beth & Kirk.  Tim & Wesley looked more comfortable than one would have liked at this stage - not exactly paddling languidly, but at a measured pace that hinted at deeper reserves.  Figuring I'd better give myself a buffer before they spooled up to full power, I used some interval efforts to put them back behind me.  At the Beavertail buoy, Ed and Max & Andrius were 10 lengths ahead of me, Tim & Wesley 3 lengths back, with Mary Beth & Kirk and then Ronald each a half-dozen lengths further back.

Given Tim & Wesley's line-related gains on the outbound leg, I probably should have shadowed them on the way home.  In my defense, they were flagrantly ignoring my navigational lead after the turn, so I felt petulantly justified in refusing to acknowledge the superiority of the upstarts' course, even after they slipped ahead on an inside line.  I was, however, willing to eat enough crow to, uh, let's say, trend in their general direction to avoid being lapped.  Ed and Max & Andrius, who had started their return on a line much further out than mine, realized how much of their effort they were wasting against the current as they fell behind both the new lead double and me.  They veered shoreward in response.  I now had Ed and two doubles in pursuit as Tim & Wesley widened their lead.

Being ahead of Ed had a "I'm just happy to be nominated" feel to it.  Now that we were on the same line, it wasn't likely I was going to win the award, but if I could drum up some kind of grassroots support from the other paddlers while simultaneously waging a black-ops smear campaign on Ed, maybe I'd have a chance.  Unfortunately, nobody was close enough to either pull me to victory or cancel Ed.  After a heated battle (that is, Ed periodically overheating and stopping to douse his head), he overtook me in the polls and opened a runaway lead.  Now I had only Max & Andrius and Mary Beth and Kirk to thwart.

Although I wasn't obsessing about the relative position of the pursuing doubles, a mild curiosity resulted in what my new orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Huber, refers to as "severe C1-C2 degradation due to excessive head rotation".  If I were the anxious type, the fact that Max & Andrius loomed comically closer with every backward glance might have sent me into full-blown hysteria.  The memory of my actual reaction is a little vague, however, since Doc Huber also has me on pretty heavy doses of Paxil and Klonopin.  He's kind of a jack-of-all-trades.

Inevitably, Max & Andrius passed me shortly after we entered Jamestown Harbor.  After the race, they complemented me on my ability to navigate through the rocks at the entrance of the harbor without once actually looking forward.  When fighting for dominance, it's important to maintain eye contact to avoid the appearance of weakness.  Based on the results, however, it's evidently more important to actually not be weak.  With Max & Andrius successfully flushed from the Worry Pool (as Hube suggests I call it), I could concentrate on the existential threat posed by Mary Beth & Kirk.

Kirk demonstrates why the Epic V8 Double is nicknamed "The Crotchbuster".  (photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Up ahead, Ed challenged Tim & Wesley for the lead, but wasn't able to permanently overtake them due to ongoing malfunctions in his heat dissipation subsystems.  Steam (hopefully) venting from his orifices, he had to settle for the non-Jesse solo crown 15 seconds behind the non-Jesse overall champions, Tim & Wesley.  Max & Andrius took third overall 16 seconds later.  Driven to a berserker state by the prospect of having to move out of our house to avoid the incessant gloating of Mary Beth (just packing up my Hummel collection by itself would be unthinkable), I actually managed to close to within 20 seconds of Max & Andrius while staying well ahead of Mary Beth & Kirk.  In the Big Bang cosmology time-frame, that 8 second gap encompassed at least a half-dozen distinct epochs.  I particularly enjoyed the Inflationary Phase.  Ronald took the non-Jesse solo bronze soon after.

While rinsing off the heat beyond the finish line, we excitedly rehashed the events of the race.  Usually such discussions are peppered with "shoulda" and "if only" lamentations, but, miraculously, the paddlers from the 6 lead boats all seemed to be pleased with their performances.  Well, it was tough to tell with Ed since he was cooling off by floating face-down in the water during the 15 minute discussion, but he definitely wasn't complaining.

One of the fan favorites of Jesse's post-race clinic was this moment.  They eventually had to call in 3 more people to wrestle me into the proper paddling position.

She's mocking me, isn't she?

At roughly half the length of the Blackburn Challenge, the discomfort engendered by the Double Beaver should be sufficient to dissuade even the hardiest of paddlers from subjecting themselves to the longer race on July 15th.  Please keep that in mind before registering and foiling my rapidly diminishing chances at ever winning the thing.  Better see if the Hubester has anything that might help.

You can find additional photos of the Double Beaver by Olga Sydorenko here.

Ride the Bull: Stormless Weather

The Ride the Bull race in Jamestown, Rhode Island is the high point of the season for many paddlers.  And not just because it's the only course in New England in which misjudging the confused surf might leave you stranded 10 feet up a cliff face.  It's a beautiful course with conditions that is never anything less than exciting.  As co-director of the race with Tim Dwyer, I feel compelled to say that Tim is almost entirely responsible for anything that goes right, wrong, or sideways at the RTB.  I mostly just lend my gravitas.

In the week leading up to the race, the forecasts for Narragansett Bay had been all over the map.  We had already lost a couple of races this season to inclement weather, so nobody wanted to see yet another scrapped.  One site said clear skies with a light breeze, another predicted thunderstorms with bluster-class winds, and a third calmly advised readers to give away all their worldly possessions, strip naked, and await the Rapture.  Even the day before the race, meteorologists couldn't seem to decide between utopia and cataclysm, although as with life in general, the balance was tipped in favor of the latter.  The morning of the race, however, there was a general consensus.  We might get wet, but we'd  neither be blown out to sea nor blasted to kingdom come.  With the final verdict in, I borrowed a boat, fashioned a towel into a make-shift loin cloth, and headed to Jamestown.

What started out as the world's saddest tailgate party turned into a fine race.

In last year's race, Sean Brennan had schooled the field - winning the race by a margin that makes one wonder if anyone else was actually using a paddle.  Apparently some of us didn't learn our lesson, however, because we returned to the scene of our humiliation.  Fortunately, the Headmaster couldn't bear the prospect of teaching the identical course to the same bunch of dunderheads and instead chose early retirement.  Without Sean, I wagered that Rob Jehn (NJ) and Ed Joy (NY) would vie for the title.  Other noteworthy competitors from afar included Manhattan paddler Ronald Rivera, the New Jersey "Pair Extraordinaire" Erin and Alan Lamb (with special appearance by bonus mini-Lamb), and John Hair, who insists on making the trip out from Rochester, NY every goddamned year.  New Englanders Mary Beth Gangloff and Kirk Olsen would try their luck in the double's draw.

After an injunction from the FDA against "egregious experimentation on unwitting human subjects", the ever-changing Ride the Bull course was locked into its current state in 2018.  Participants are now forced, Clockwork Orange-style, to watch a sobering race video beforehand so that they can officially be qualified as "well-informed victims".  Roughly 90% of this film consists of Chris Chappell complaining about how much he hates the course.  Chris was not present this year.  The 8.8 mile course starts in West Cove, proceeds for two laps around a flattened triangle defined by a rocky island in Mackerel Cove, buoy G7, and buoy G11.  There's then an additional loop back out to G7, ending near our launch point.  Conditions this year were mild, with a light northerly breeze, but you never want to turn your back on the Bull.

We stood in silence for 10 full minutes before Tim remembered that he was supposed to be leading the captain's meeting.

If I had known beforehand that it was Charles Schulz Appreciation Day, I would have worn my Woodstock costume.

Tim did an effective job of corralling a field of paddlers so exuberant to finally be racing on the ocean that they could hardly be contained in West Cove.  After getting us arranged in a buzzing line, he counted us down to the start.  Ed, Rob, Ronald, and the Lambs jumped into the lead.  The charge out of the cove was led by this team of powerful boats, hitched side-by-side, behind which the rest of us were pulled along.  Inevitably, as paddlers were jostled by an unexpected bump or misjudged a stroke, they were thrown from this gravy train and left to continue under their own power.  Just before I was to be ejected myself, the lead team started to break-up, with Ed and Rob separating from the others.  I managed to harness myself to Ronald, who himself clung briefly to Erin & Alan before falling off.

Knowing Ronald came from a sprint background, I kept waiting for him to ease back on the throttle.  I tried to get around him a couple of times, but could make no progress.  Approaching the mouth of Mackerel Cove, however, I saw an opening as both Ronald and the Lambs gave a wide berth to the rocky headlands.  I cut inside and took the tightest line I dared.  Or, more accurately, I accidentally took a line a half-dozen feet tighter than I dared.  Fortunately, I'm so cowardly that I left myself an ample enough peril cushion.  The gambit paid off and I pulled ahead of both boats.

By the turn at the rock island in Mackerel Cove, it was clear that Rob and Ed would be standing on the top two podium steps, or perhaps sharing the summit in a show of solidarity.  Having hit it off in last year's race as silver-n-bronze paddle buddies, I wasn't surprised that they were attempting to rekindle the magic.  Nevertheless, I was surprised to see the pair heading out of the Cove together, plotting a course 45 degrees off course in a direction that would send them out of Narragansett Bay into the open Atlantic.  Were they planning to Thelma and Louise themselves over the horizon?  Or was this just a navigational error?  As I was taught in childhood, I counted slowly to 250 before saying anything rash, then yelled out a suggestion that the leaders might want to try aiming for the next turn buoy rather than the endless abyss of the ocean.  Since they'd each paddled this course multiple times before, I seasoned the recommendation with the appropriate amount of sarcasm.

Despite their roundabout detour, Ed and Rob reached G7 about 10 lengths ahead of me.  The Lambs and Ronald were several lengths back, but I managed to open this gap to perhaps a dozen during the subsequent stretch to G11.  Unfortunately, the leaders had added as least as much distance to their own safety margin.  Completing the first lap some short time later, we benefited from a decent swell angling towards shore.  Up front, it seemed that Ed had either (a) leveraged his vast experience of reading waves to get slightly better rides or (b) whacked Rob over the head and broke free while he was disoriented.  It was tough to tell from such a distance in back.  In any event, Ed was alone in the lead and separating quickly from a semi-conscious Rob.

I was also having a good leg, catching some nice runners and occasionally even entering that magical zone where you feel like maybe you're not the uncoordinated dweeb everyone who signed your high-school yearbook insisted you were (and whose mother signs their yearbook?).  There could be no doubt that I was gaining on Rob.  By the time we re-entered Mackerel Cove, I was actually close enough to make out his species.

I'm unsure whether to say that through superhuman effort I clawed back most of Rob's advantage, or that through a lack of vigor Rob ceded most of his lead.  When given a choice between aggrandizing myself and belittling another, however, I've found the best policy is to just do both.  When considering both my potency and Rob's feebleness, then, I'm quite frankly surprised that I didn't shoot right by him.

Coming out of Mackerel Cove, I was 10 lengths behind.  At the second G7 turn, I slipped the buoy attendant a sawbuck to set the bell a-ringing.  "Hear that, Jehn?" I shouted (with just the right tinge of deranged hysteria), "It's tolling for thee!"  It was tough to tell from behind, but I'm pretty sure he blanched.  On the subsequent downwind leg, I proceeded to methodically hunt Rob down.  Smidge by smidge.  Within 5 minutes I had shaved an entire dollop off his lead.  Some quick calculations in my head indicated that I'd have to stalk a little faster if I wanted to catch my prey before Tuesday.  I did manage some incremental acceleration, but by the G11 turn Rob was still 5 lengths ahead.

There are many theories about how Rob then managed to reverse the trend and start reopening his lead:  He's a better paddler.  He's fitter.  He wanted it more.  Karma.  That last one hurts a bit, I'll admit, but all these "reasons" are poppycock.  His shocking turn-around was due entirely to my inability to improvise another demoralizingly villainous quip at this buoy.  Why, oh why, had I not composed a few dastardly catchphrases before the race?!?  His spirit unburdened by what he perceived to be my silent concession, Rob soared away on this penultimate leg of the race.

I rounded the final buoy and turned for home with Rob now 10 lengths ahead.  Between my increasing levels of existential discomfort and Ed's gradual recession into the distance, I had pretty much forgotten that Joy existed in the world.  This made the wave of euphoria all the more intoxicating when I then noticed Ed paddling 50 meters to my left along the coastline.  Not content with his modest navigational blunder earlier, he had doubled down with a tremendous directional gaffe in the final leg by heading into the wrong cove.  He scrambled to correct his "oopsie" (that's Ed for you), but now the race was on!  Oh, not with me, mind you.  But by sacrificing a good portion of his minute lead, Ed had given Rob a new impetus.  Despite Rob's best efforts, however, Ed was able to salvage the win by a couple of boat lengths.  I galumphed in 30 seconds or so later to take bronze.  Although Erin & Alan established a convincing lead early in the double's race, Mary Beth & Kirk refused to concede.  They worked their way back into contention by the half-way mark, only to be led by Lambs to a finish line slaughter - a full 2 seconds behind the ovine winners.

What the...?  In a few more years I'll fit in the palm of your hand.

Ed just can't.

The days festivities ended with a drawing for a paddle donated by race sponsor Epic.  It was coincidentally won for the 6th time by Mary Beth, who I'm pretty sure "sold" it back to Tim for $25 so that it could be raffled off again in a future race.  And yet she didn't even treat me to the after-race lunch held down the road in Jamestown.

With the Blackburn Challenge only a few weeks away, there's not much time left to build up your pain tolerance.  If you're tired of thumb-screws and can't quite get the hang of self-flagellation (it's all in the wrist), the Jamestown Double Beaver may be just the shock to your system that you need to push you over the edge.  Register for this free 10 mile suffer-fest at PaddleGuru and join your fellow masochists on July 1.

Narrow River Race: Delayed Reaction

A one-week delay imposed by fickle spring weather had given us that much extra time to work ourselves into a collective tizzy about the grand opening of the surfski race season.  Like gleeful orphans on an early January Christmas morning, we gathered excitedly at the Narrow River, each wondering if race directors Tim Dwyer and Bob Wright would leave them a shiny medal or a lump of coal.  Tim's sooty face and surly demeanor did not bode well, however, nor did the mysterious absence of "good elf" Bob.  Oh, well.  At least the race itself would be marginally more enjoyable than another 14 hour shift at the textile factory.

After the briefest of greetings and perfunctory life updates upon arrival, competitors threw themselves energetically into the complex social dance known as "training one-downmanship".  Bobbing unsteadily with an anemic torpor, racers took turns regaling one another with tales of bed-ridden COVID recovery, unrelenting work travel, and recent amputations.  Chris Sherwood proudly showed us the possum nest in his footwell, although this excuse was somewhat compromised by his heavily bandaged feet.  It appeared that Sam Duffield might emerge the champion - after all, who else could credibly claim that they couldn't get on the water because of spending the last 90 days in the brig?  The details are very hush-hush, but something about taking the Alabama out for a joy-ride.  But when Wesley revealed that he had only been born last week, dropping his pants to show off his Huggies, we grudgingly agreed that he was the least trained of us all.

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

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

With Mike Florio winning the last 4 races held on the course (including the inaugural 2022 fall race - "2 Narrow, 2 Shallow"), Tim and Bob were determined to find a way to reintroduce an element of surprise and spontaneity.  After months at the drawing board and an uncountable number of crumpled iPads, they emerged with a design for a revolutionary new class of boat that might just level the playing field.  The "woggler" would sit sideways on the craft, gripping a network of lines in each hand, moving their arms hither and yon (Bob really argued for thither, but yon won the day) - propelling the boat forward via a series of pulleys, sprockets, and cantilevered woggles.  However, when the prototype quickly burrowed itself under the riverbed like a spaghetti-armed quahog instead of moving forward, the remaining race director decided that he'd instead just recruit a pair of expert rowers to give Mike some competition - New England standouts, Dan Gorriaran and Betsy Harling.  I was hoping to play second fiddle to Mike in the paddler's ensemble, but knew that Chris Chappell, Jerry Madore, Tim, and a dozen others were eager to steal that seat for themselves.

We'd run the now-standard course - up the Narrow River 3 miles to an on-your-honor turn-around at a dock, back 4 miles past the start to a turn on a mid-river piling (no honor needed there - a nearby "fisherman" in waders was clearly a narc), then back a final mile to the start, for a total of what feels like somewhere between 14 and 37 miles, depending on how successfully you didn't train.  Tim patiently outlined the course for each of the new participants individually, after which the veterans took them aside and thoroughly erased his verbal sketch via clever misdirection and, in my case, dangerous navigation recommendations and outright lies.  I'd be surprised if Chris Sousa managed to finish the race still in Rhode Island.

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

The best drone shot is the one that leaves you questioning whether it was just taken by a tall guy holding the camera over his head.

It was soon time to start the race.  After traipsing around the river for several minutes in search of the odd depressions deep enough to float our boats, we were counted down to the start by Tim.  Fortunately, Dan had no need to deploy his advanced anti-surfski weaponry to cut down the number of competitors.  Although most of us would have voluntarily avoided the semi-circular exclusion zones around him anyway, he removed any "wonder what would happen" knife-in-the-outlet temptation by briskly separating himself from the field.  Betsy was slightly behind me, so I can't say definitively how the paddlers in her vicinity fared, but I'm pretty sure I would've heard the tell-tale squelching of a decapitation.  Or at least noticed afterwards that, say, Dave Grainger was unusually quiet.

Mike started well to the right of the main pack, moving smartly into the surfski lead (henceforth, "the lead", because if we start treating rowers like real people, we may never see the podium again).  On the left, I went out with Jerry, Tim, and Wesley, with Chris even further inside to set up for the first gentle bend of the river.  Getting ahead of Tim and Wesley, I veered over to get on Chris' side draft, misjudging the angle and crowding him unnecessarily.  Although he had previously been skimming by the protruding docks, he apparently wasn't interested in actually scraping off his gelcoat on them.  A missed stroke and an accusatory half-glance backwards were sufficient to express his umbrage, so the bloody hatchet I found that night under my pillow felt like overkill.

I corrected my course and managed to pull ahead of both Chris and Jerry - neither of whom apparently wanted to be too close to the guy crazily swerving over the center line.  Mike is more of a super-charged tortoise than a hare, meaning that (a) he hadn't yet receded out of range and (b) I was unlikely to sneak by him napping at the turn.  By channeling my own inner hare, I managed to put together a twitchy surge that culminated in a string of mini-strokes.  And an unsteady perch on, uh, that guy's draft - you know the one, the guy I had been chasing, starts with some letter, maybe an Ω?  I had hoped for a long ride, but it was so taxing to maintain Mike's pace that when the 8 second horn finally sounded, I was happy to hop off the bull and catch some shut-eye.

Although it's not the best photo, I spent over a week hiding in the rushes to get just the merest glimpse of this reclusive fellow. 

Apparently I was sleep paddling again (which wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't also prone to sleep capsizing) because when I roused myself 15 minutes later, I was emerging into the widened lake-like portion of the river.  Mike was a solid 90 seconds ahead, with Dan stroking away perhaps half that distance further along.  Without the meandering shore to provide some wind protection, nor the incoming tide to give us a boost, we were completely at the mercy of an unrelenting Beaufort force 3 headwind.  As you can imagine, the subsequent battle to the turn-around a mile later was nothing short of a waking nightmare. OK, so a 3 is technically categorized as a "gentle breeze", but I assure you there was nothing "gentle" about the smooth caress of that placid zephyr!  

Despite my grumbling, I was rubbing my hands for the expected downwind bonanza (which doubtless contributed to my lack of upwind progress), but as quickly as the gale picked up in my imagination, it died down in reality after the turn.  I did get a burst of motivation from seeing Betsy, Chris, and the Jerry-Tim train in close pursuit, though.  Of course, this didn't keep Dan and Mike from further increasing their leads as I made my way down the lake.

Normally I'd insert a video of the race here - to many, the high point of the report, at least in terms of scrolling speed.  Due to sabotage or operator error, my GoPro had been maliciously reconfigured to take a sequence of stills at half-second intervals.  So rather than a video I have 10,550 individual pictures.  I've printed them all out and put them in old-school photo albums.  Let me know if you'd like a limited edition 44 volume set for your records.  Shipping and handling charges apply.

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

I was not looking forward to re-entering the river proper, and my apprehensions soon revealed themselves to be be well-founded.  Between the opposing tide and the relentless suckwater, I would have made faster progress by getting up and punting.  Unfortunately, I had left my striped blazer and straw hat in the car, and the United Fellowship of Punters & Gondoliers doesn't take livery violations sitting down.  After half-heartedly exploring various alternative navigational options (cutting corners, taking corners wide, hugging the shore, getting crosswise to the flow and just paddling back and forth between shores, etc.), I resigned myself to lumbering up-tide, nervously eyeing my waning GPS battery level and being passed by the occasional wading egret. 

By this point, I probably shouldn't have been surprised when the downriver turn yielded no significant improvement in my speed.  And yet there I was, shaking my fist at the heavens (again, not helping the pace) and launching into an obscenity-laden tirade about the vagaries of winds, tides, and the commodities market (what the hell is going on with molybdenum futures?).  I vented the majority of my spleen in that outburst, but left enough in the tank to get me through the final leg to the finish, muttering invectives as necessary.  I cursed my way over the line roughly 7 minutes behind Mike.  In a just universe, they'd cut the lower steps off the podium, ban the rest of us from the sport, and crown Mike as Eternal God-Champion.  Because racing results are graded on a curve, however, my next-day finish was good enough for surfski silver.  Woohoo?

Dan was the overall winner.  Given the mechanical advantages of rowing - sliding seat allowing for fuller use of legs, application of power via a fulcrum, built-in cup-holders - it's truly remarkable that Mike finished scarcely a minute behind one of New England's premier scullers.  Competing back-to-back, neither Betsy or I had a solid read on how close we were to one another, but she pulled in less than 2 minutes behind to claim the 4th overall spot.  Tim took surfski bronze, although he insisted that Jerry be awarded an assist - completely ceremonial and destined to soon be forgotten, naturally.  Leslie claimed her 3rd Narrow River title, with Mary Beth taking her 5th 2nd (to go with her 5 previous wins, I'm told I better note).

I know you're wondering why Jerry is dressed in a bear suit and Wesley is wearing a mask stitched together from human flesh, but sometimes it's best not to ask.

Tim congratulated the podium finishers, shaking his own hand a little more vigorously than was comfortable for we spectators, and dispensed raffle prizes supplied by Epic.  Once the on-site festivities were concluded, we retired to the Oak Hill Tavern to resuscitate ourselves with post-race gruel.

As many of you have heard by now, the Charles River Watershed Association has permanently discontinued the Run of the Charles.  Apparently it was "not aligned with our core mission" and "had too many yahoos showing up for a footrace".  You didn't hear it from me, but there are rumors of a spontaneous gathering on Sunday, April 30 at 10am at Christian Herter Park.  I'm not sure of the purpose, but maybe bring your boats and watches.  And your lucky racing hat!  I've... said too much.

Josh Billings Triathlon: Ups and Downs

As one of the oldest multisport events in the country, the Josh Billings Triathlon has achieved legendary status in New England.  Cyclists, paddlers, and runners have been joining one another since 1976 to compete in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts in mid-September.  While most people race as part of a 2, 3, or 4 person team, a growing percentage compete in the "iron" category as solo racers.  The Josh had been on my radar for years, as some paddling friends race every year.  I long had a secret desire to compete as an iron, but was able to use a scheduling conflict with a long-standing paddling race to avoid confronting this masochistic urge.  The cancellation of the paddling race, combined with prodding from my friend, Janda Ricci-Munn, finally convinced me to take the plunge.  A former national-caliber triathlete, Janda won the Josh iron race in 2021, establishing a new solo course record in the process.  If he thought I could do the race, despite having no multisport experience and knowing nothing about cycling, who was I to argue?

The 27 mile cycling route starts in Great Barrington and ends at Stockbridge Bowl boat launch via a circuitous hilly route that includes around 1,900 feet of ascent in five significant climbs.  Unlike most triathlons, drafting is allowed (and, in fact, essential) on the bike leg.  The 5 mile paddling course takes you 1.75 times around the circumference of the small lake, ending at the Camp Mah-Kee-Nac beach.  And the 6.4 mile run loops around the lake back to the Camp entrance, with around 500 feet of climbing.  Both the ride and run include net ascents, which is just plain mean-spirited.  I suppose we should be thankful the organizers couldn't find any rapids for us to paddle up.  Most of the 300 or so teams (and individuals) finish somewhere between 2.5 and 4.5 hours, although there are outliers on either end.  My goal was to wrap things up in under 3 hours, which would likely put me comfortably in the top 50.

Under Janda's patient tutelage, I started multisport training in the spring.  Lots of easy volume across disciplines (which I was fairly conscientious about) combined with much briefer gut-busting high intensity workouts (which I'd seize upon the lamest excuses to avoid).  Despite spending drastically fewer hours paddling than in past years, under this new regimen I was still performing comparably in my surfski races.  In the spirit of preparedness, I crashed my bike in June so I'd have the appropriate sense of dread of the riding leg come race day.  I didn't think that through fully, however, as the resulting sore hip sidelined me from run training for a couple of weeks.  Even with this setback, I was feeling pretty good about my fitness level.

In early August, I dipped a toe in the water via a short run-ride-paddle triathlon in central New York.  I discovered that rubbery legs weren't conducive to stability in my skinny boat, but performed well enough overall.  At roughly half the distance of the Josh, my misery level at this race fell just below the threshold that would have contractually permitted me to abandon plans for the longer race.  There would be no escape from the suffering.

If you were prone to understatement, you might describe the logistics of the Josh as "challenging".  With different sites for the start, both transitions, the finish, and parking - not to mention closures on roads linking them - your planning requirements make the Apollo program and the D-Day landing seem like child's play.  Without a helper, you finish the race with equipment strewn across the Berkshires and must then embark on a tedious treasure hunt to find and retrieve it.  Of course, it's difficult to find such a dupe locally since the helper role is widely known to be more exhausting than the triathlon itself.  I had to reach well out-of-state to find a chump - my old college housemate and former business partner, Bryan.  After weeks of unsuccessful cajoling, I suspect what finally convinced him to make the 4.5 hour drive were the 1989 house party photos that I innocently reminded him weren't yet posted on Instagram.  If all went as planned, he'd leave home pre-dawn to arrive in time to meet me at the bike-to-boat transition.  I should note that Mary Beth probably would have agreed to help, purely out of brand loyalty, but was out of town.

Bryan was so proud of his bib, he's taken to wearing it around town.  (Photo courtesy of Helper)

I arrived in the Berkshires a day earlier.  I picked up my race packet at the Arcadian (a sporting goods store in Lenox), where I ran into several paddling buddies who were members of canoe or kayak teams.  I was also surprised by a somewhat less familiar face - Michigander endurance athlete, Denny Paull - along with his daughter, Mandy.  Denny and I met at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race, where we finished within a minute of each other in 2016 and 2017.  The pair had driven 1,000 miles to race as iron competitors.  As fellow neophytes to group bike racing, we eagerly shared tips garnered from various sources.  Later, I checked into a hotel in nearby Lee, where Janda and his family would also be staying.

Early the next morning, Janda and I ran our surfskis over to the boat launch, laid out our paddling gear in the transition zone, and dropped off my car at the finish area parking lot.  We'd be carrying our running paraphernalia in dry bags on our boats, so there was no need to also visit the second transition area.  We returned to the hotel for a breakfast that I hoped wouldn't be making a showy reappearance later in the day.  I had kept my pre-race jitters under control thus far, but while subsequently shuttling down to the start with Janda and his family, I struggled to refrain from diving out of the moving car to safety.  Once we arrived at the staging area, at least I had the mechanical distraction of gear prep and warm-up to keep apprehension from suffocating me.  I soon found myself perched expectantly at the starting line on Route 7 with 275 other riders.

Janda's a true pro.  Prepared for any eventuality on race day, he wore his headlamp in case of an unexpected eclipse.

As a nervous Josh greenhorn, I had asked a number of veteran racers for advice on cycling strategy.  They were happy to comply.  And then, to calm my anxieties, they'd invariably show me their crash scars or tell me about some guy who hit a pothole in Stockbridge and was thrown under a steamroller.  In any event, the two things everyone agreed on was that I should (a) go out fast with the field on the flat stretch through town and then kill myself on the initial climb to establish myself in a fast pack and (b) watch out for yahoos who went out too fast and were now making a nuisance of themselves by dying on the initial climb.  They apparently failed to see the irony.

Pre-race picture included for contrast with photo at end of report.

Starting amongst a pack of several hundred riders along the flat village roads, I'd been told that I'd be sucked along at a breakneck pace with scarcely any effort.  It took a moment for the field to get moving as cyclists clipped in and found their rhythm, but soon enough we were flying along.  With the exhilarating whir of the multitude echoing in my ears, I enjoyed the sensation of flowing with the current.  Perhaps a little too much.  As the riders ahead encountered a small incline, I could finally see the sheer number of bikes in front of me.  I was mid-field at best.  Despite concerns about soon becoming an object lesson in yahoo-hood, I ramped up my effort to improve my position prior to hitting the first climb.  Working conservatively to avoid being Rider Zero of a cascading twenty bike pile-up, I managed to get into the first third of the field by the foot of the hill.

To experienced cyclists the climbs of the Josh are doubtless humdrum, but to a novice rider from an area with no significant hills to train on, they are imposing.  As advised, I attacked the first ascent with more vigor than seemed wise.  The painful effort paid off, however, as I moved past many competitors and, at the top, found myself riding with what I estimated (based on an embarrassing amount of time spent analyzing past Strava results and YouTube race videos) to be the pack that would finish between 1:10 and 1:15.  I got my first real taste of cooperative cycling as a dozen of us absorbed smaller groups up ahead.  Our group stabilized at around 25 people, including Denny and a couple of extroverts who enthusiastically narrated their upcoming tactical moves to one another.

I felt uncomfortable riding in such a large group, worried that out of ignorance or incompetence, I'd cause an accident.  I had expected there to be more structure with the pack - a line of riders in an orderly rotation from front to back.  While that occasionally happened, we'd quickly revert to an unpredictable and amorphous blob.  This felt more inefficient than it did dangerous, though.  Hills were particularly vexing, as there was such variation in climbing style.  I invariably found myself moving to the front of the pack at the start of an incline, then falling back as riders with a more measured approach caught me.  At around mile 12, this would prove disastrous.  Frustrated by the pace starting up a gentle hill, I accelerated and took the pull.  The grade steepened slightly, but I foolishly kept the power going, much as I would during a solo ride.  As I tired, the pack inevitably began to pass me.  I tried fruitlessly to slot in, but couldn't find an opening until the end.  Falling a few lengths behind the last rider, I didn't panic until it was too late.  Having lost the benefits of the draft, I now lacked the power to catch up.

My erstwhile companions in the pack ahead would ultimately finish 4+ minutes before me, meaning that by the end they were well over a mile ahead.  But it took only a few moments for them to disappear from view on the winding course.  I had been told that if you lose your pack, the smart move is to pedal easy until the next gravy train comes along.  You're going to get caught anyway - why waste the effort by pushing when solo?  That's fine in theory, but it felt like a ridiculous option in practice.  I was in a race, dammit!  Maybe I could stay ahead of this hypothetical chase pack.

The fact that I was having to expend much more energy than I would have in a pack was galling, to say the least, but it didn't keep me from appreciating the perks of cycling solo.  Most importantly, unless I went off-piste and took out a guy mowing his lawn, I no longer had to worry about my mistake ruining anyone else's day (or skeletal integrity).  Another benefit was that I could absorb 100% of the support from roadside spectators (and there were a surprising number of them) - those cheers weren't being diluted within a pool of riders.  And finally, there was the police motorcycle escort along the busier roads.  Presumably each officer was assigned a zone and would loop back to accompany successive packs.  As a pack of one, I was eligible for the same treatment.  For a few moments, I could imagine being a lone breakaway in the Tour de France.  Or the guest of honor at a funeral procession.

At the start of my solo journey, I didn't seriously expect to keep ahead of the next pack.  I anticipated their arrival at any moment.  But apparently my original group had been faster than I realized, giving me quite a substantial buffer.  Passing through Stockbridge and starting the penultimate climb, I began to wonder if I might just make it on my own.  On the subsequent flat, however, I started to notice how the fickle spectators would focus behind me immediately after I passed.  How much longer could I hold their allegiance as the plucky solo rider?  During the final climb, I could clearly hear shouts of encouragement directed at someone other than me.  Humph.  Fair-weather fans.  And then, just after the final turn, with less than a mile to go, I was caught.  This hurt my soul, but I took some solace in seeing a friendly face - Mandy - leading the charge.  Resigned to finishing as just another cog in the machinery of the 1:17 pack, I nestled into a mid-pack draft position for the final descent.

Following Mandy into T1.  Just one of the gang.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

Pulling into the transition area, I was relieved to find that helper Bryan had indeed arrived.  As we had agreed upon, in exchange for the negatives (it was 1989, after all) he released my paddling equipment to me.  I had half-heartedly practiced some transitions earlier in the week, but these leisurely exercises had virtually nothing in common with the race-day experience.  All I had to do was exchange my helmet for a hat, cycling shoes for water shoes, and put on a PFD - tasks that wouldn't tax the facilities of, say, your average raccoon.  And yet I now stood motionless, at a complete loss as to how to proceed.  Remove helmet?  Maybe.  Shoes?  Could be.  But what if instead I put on my PFD like pants?  The combination of fatigue and stress had mentally incapacitated me.  Turns out that a more effective transition training program would have consisted of reducing myself to a state of exhaustion and then solving Wordle and some Sudokus.

Bryan was probably on the verge of calling over emergency personnel when I groggily emerged from my paralysis of indecision.  I got prepared for the paddle leg with clumsy inefficiency and waddled down to the water (because of cycling legs - I had the PFD on correctly).  My hands were so sweaty that I had trouble getting a grip on the boat, but I managed to launch it and get underway.  I was now theoretically in my element, prepared to chase down the fleet of watercraft with head starts provided by their bikers.

In anticipation of having fatigue-induced balance issues, I brought a wide enough surfski that I wouldn't have to worry about toppling over or sacrificing stroke power to instability.  Heading into a brisk headwind on the first lap around Stockbridge Bowl, I started to pick off slower paddlers.  In many cases, this was because they were in inherently slower boats - recreational plastic kayaks, heavy metal canoes, or stand-up paddleboards.  For the most part, these craft were helmed by competent paddlers, so passing them simply involved providing a little clearance.  The two-man crew of one particular canoe, however, had not only apparently never paddled a boat before, but appeared also to be suffering from a severe case of vertigo and/or inebriation.  They were moving vaguely in the direction of the course via a sequence of comically exaggerated zigzag corrections.  I calculated a safe lateral passing margin, doubled that after witnessing a couple of particularly erratic deviations, and they still managed to collide with me as I overtook them.  I suspect it was neither the first nor last such close encounter they had.

Although I was passing people, I wasn't going very fast.  I initially attributed my disappointing speed to the headwind, but halfway through the first lap I could no longer maintain that useful fiction.  My downwind speed was roughly what I had targeted for the entire paddling leg, so I was clearly falling short of my goal.  Despite recognizing this, I lacked the mental fortitude to increase the intensity.  A growing malaise was soon compounded by minor leg cramps.  By the end of the first lap, I had begun the insidious psychic shift from race mode to survival mode.

I can't blame the boat assistants for holding back - I was emanating a lethal miasma by this point.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

Since paddling is my specialty (and, let's remember, was in a fast boat), I managed to do fairly well on the leg in objective terms, even though I felt subjectively sluggish.  I was 66th after the bike leg, but emerged 22nd coming off the water.  Bryan was waiting on the beach, talking me through the most basic transition steps while watching warily for renewed signs of dementia.  After a lethargic T2 that couldn't have been any slower without also incorporating a nap (denied, unjustly I think, by my helper), I burst onto the running course with the zeal of the condemned heading to the gallows.

I had long since thrown any "plan" out the window, but to raise my spirits I reviewed the ludicrously optimistic running goals I had established.  With two second-half hills responsible for most of the climbing, I'd burn through the first 3 miles with a 7:15 to 7:30 pace, then try to hold on through the uphill sections to finish at an average pace of 7:30 to 7:45.  I chuckled grimly as my pace on the flat leg settled in at the upper end of the overall average target range.  Fortunately, my growing sense of apathy helped blunt the disappointment.  It wasn't really doing anything for the discomfort and fatigue, but at least it kept me from diving any deeper into suffering.

I was surprised at how lonely it was on the course.  I passed a couple of people early on, but then could see nobody else ahead.  I had expected to be overtaken by a continuous stream of faster runners, but as the miles slowly accumulated only a handful streaked past.  I made it through the flat portion maintaining my languid pace.  While struggling to find a lower gear that wasn't neutral during the first climb, I was caught by Ryan Smith - previously unknown to me, but now heir to half my estate and kidneys (should that eventuality prove necessary).  We hardly talked while running side-by-side over the next couple of undulating miles, but nevertheless established a lifelong pinned-down-in-a-foxhole kind of bond.  I'm pretty sure I would have slid backwards on a couple of hills without Ryan pacing me.  When we came to the final climb, however, I urged him to save himself.  I was a goner.  With tears in my eyes, Ryan finally moved ahead.  Shortly afterward, my right hamstring began cramping and I ignominiously had to revert to a limping walk. 

I rallied (to the extent that resuming a running gait in a race qualifies as rallying) before the summit of the hill and entered the final half-mile with renewed fervor.  Hmm.  "Renewed fervor" may be overstating it a bit.  Let's say instead that I now had "slightly less disinterest in racing".  This didn't translate to an accelerated pace, mind you, but I did start looking back to determine if my overall place was assured.  Nope.  A particularly spiteful runner was rapidly gaining ground, even though I had done absolutely nothing to provoke him.  You can probably figure out who he was from the official results, but I'll spare his family the shame of naming him here.  Turning into the steep downhill entrance to Camp Mah-Kee-Nac, I enjoyed a modest lead over the fleet-footed scoundrel.  By the final turn into the grass timing chute, my nemesis had pulled even.  The final sprint was a laugher.  The ne'er-do-well had cravenly held enough power in reserve to accomplish a genuine finishing kick, whereas I barely managed to stagger drunkenly across the line.

I don't remember being punched repeatedly in the face during the run, but I can't deny the photographic evidence.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

Janda and Denny discuss their races while I try to imagine a time when everything no longer hurts.  (Photo courtesy of Bryan Moulton)

I had managed to finish in just under three hours (2:58:29).  Remarkably, I had only dropped 5 places during my anemic run, allowing me to finish 27th overall.  Among iron competitors, Janda finished first (4th overall at 2:31:45) and Denny second (13th overall at 2:44:14).  I was fourth.  Mandy was the first iron finisher among women (39th overall at 3:04:43).  You can find full results here, and official race photos here.

I'm extremely glad I competed in the Josh.  I genuinely enjoyed about 23 minutes of the 3 hours I was out there.  That's not a bad ratio, even for life in general, so it may be enough to lure me back for another shot 2023.  Thanks to Janda for the many weeks he spent guiding me through training and prepping me for the race.  And also, I suppose, to slacker Bryan for those few measly hours he also sacrificed for the cause.