The fanfare has sounded. It's officially race season. Between now
and mid-October, there's no gap longer than 3 weeks between point series races (either SurfskiRacing.com or New England Surfski, or both). With a squad of new paddlers and a returning cast of grizzled veterans, it promises to be an exciting year. Taking a cue from reality TV, however, I'd suggest that to make ourselves more marketable, we all concentrate a little less on paddling, and a little more on backbiting, personal vendettas, and equipment sabotage. I'll get us started. Tim, you call that a dry suit? Ouch. Burned.
The morning of the Narrow River Race dawned crisp and windy. Although temperatures were forecast to reach reasonable levels later in the day, at the 10am start the thermometer was several degrees south of 40 and a chilly 15 knot northerly wind sluiced down the river valley. Despite the less-than-springlike conditions, we had an excellent turn-out. In addition to a healthy batch of local regulars, we had a trio of fresh-faced V8ers - Bruce Deltorchio, Matt Drayer, and Bob Wright. We usually see Robin Francis and Gary Williams in double sea kayaks as part of the Achilles team, but today they elected to race in single skis. And the metro NY area was amply represented by Bob Capellini, Borys Markin, and Jan Lupinski.
The 10 mile course would take us upstream 3 miles, followed by 5 miles back down to where the river dumps into Narragansett Bay, and then a final 2 miles back to the start. The lower part of the Narrow River is tidal in nature, but with an outgoing tide both the current and the wind would be heading downstream. We'd be in a slog sandwich situation, with a chunk of mild whee in between. Given the temperature and the wind, making the right clothing decision would be critical.
They say that you should never try anything new on race day. A regrettable experiment with Zoroastrianism last year at the Blackburn reinforced that bit of wisdom, but I nevertheless found myself navigating uncharted waters on the Narrow River. I'm not much of a winter paddler, so I've gotten by in the past with relatively thin neoprene gloves for cold weather. Fearing that the brisk headwind would prove too chilling for the gloves this day, however, I decided to try some pogies I had bought but never tried. After putting them on before the race, I changed my mind and reverted to gloves. And then changed back to pogies. Then back to gloves. And so it continued until the impending start of the race interrupted the cycle. Turns out pogies love me.
We worked our way into a rough starting line. Wesley called out "Go!" and the field surged ahead. After a few moments of confusion, a pattern became clear. Like frenzied fish misguidedly boarding the ark (you don't think the rest of the school weren't laughing their tails off?), Borys Markin and Jan Lupinski jumped out to a quick lead in their K-1s, followed by Wesley and Chris Chappell in their Mohicans, then Tim Dwyer and I in our V12s. Francisco Urena was also in the mix with his Stellar SE, but let's just call him Noah so that I can keep my analogy intact. Two by two, we made our ways upstream. I was taking things one cubit at a time, drafting off first Tim, then Noah. Eventually, I pulled even with the mismatched pair.
I'd been keeping a hawk eye on the Mohicans up in front of us, and decided that I had best try to bridge the gap before it widened further. Chris and Wesley remained side by side five or six boat lengths ahead. I ratcheted up the intensity as we entered the narrowest stretch of the Narrow River, and managed to latch onto Chris' wash after a short while. I spent a blissful 5 minutes enjoying my stay at Chez Chappell (the complimentary turn-down service was a nice touch), before wanderlust compelled me to reluctantly move on. Chris - look for a glowing review on Yelp.
I figured I'd throw in a quick interval to see if the guys would answer. I was a bit surprised to find that they were letting me go, so felt obligated to keep up the intensity, hoping that I could build up a buffer before they decided to hunt me down. At this point, a stranger positioned at the abutment of a bridge snapped a picture of me and shouted some encouraging words. Surfski groupie, I figured.
As the river widened into a small lake, I could see Borys a half-mile up ahead. As usual, his stroke rate was roughly 70% of what the laws of hydrodynamics required it to be given his speed - he apparently has some kind of special dispensation. Jan was perhaps 15 boat lengths ahead of me. In the wider river, the head-on wind was a constant annoyance, but due to the short fetch and direction of the breeze, stability wasn't going to be an issue for anyone.
I hadn't been able to spot anyone behind me in my stolen glances over my shoulder, so was glad to get the lay of the field after the turn-around. As I turned downwind and downriver, I saw that Wesley had pulled 5 boat lengths ahead of Chris, who was maybe a dozen boat lengths ahead of Tim, followed at roughly the same distance by Francisco. It was wonderful to feel the wind and current at my back, and seeing the GPS nip occasionally into the 8s, but I knew that in a matter of seconds the loose pack behind me would be enjoying the same bounty.
If that weren't enough motivation to keep paddling hard, Jan was tantalizing close up ahead of me. I'd appreciate it if we could keep this between us, but I consider Jan something of my secret weapon. He has a ridiculously fast start. In last year's Essex River and Blackburn races, I managed to harness his horsepower to get me through the first couple miles of those races. I had latched onto the back of his blood red Nelo like a demented, wheezing leech. He should really consider installing a draft guard on that ski.
Today Jan had gone out even faster than usual in his K-1, such that I was unable to hitch a ride from the start. Worse yet, he didn't seem to really be flagging as the race progressed. On the upwind leg I was slowly closing the gap, but he must have nailed the turn-around because by the time I got pointed downwind it seemed like he had put another half-dozen boat lengths between us. I sighed (or would have had I been able to spare the oxygen), lowered my head (or would have had I not already been hunched over in a classic pillbug paddling posture), and turned on the juice (or would have had the breaker not already been thrown).
As the river narrowed again, I confusingly found myself paddling downstream in the company of Dave Grainger in his Mohican. Wondering how exactly he had gotten ahead of everyone, I eventually realized that he had abandoned the race in pursuit of his art. With an elaborate superstructure on his bow to mount a camera, he went out of his way to get video footage of most of the racers. I'm looking forward to dissecting my stroke, although it's unlikely I'll find any recognizable features.
As I again approached the bridge with the stranger, he snapped another picture and again urged me on. Odd. A dedicated groupie, apparently.
I was slowly picking up on Jan. We passed the starting line and made our way to the first of two bridges further downriver. After skittering cautiously over a shallow sand bar, my rudder lightly grazing the bottom, we went under the first bridge. It looked like I was finally going to catch him. Before the race, Wesley had advised us to stay right after the bridge to keep out of the shallows, but Jan chose a more direct route. I followed, nervously watching as the bottom incrementally approached the top. Just as the K-1 seemed in my grasp, I stuck fast. I hopped out of the boat and lurched forward on foot a few boat lengths before awkwardly flopping back in my boat with a blasphemous tirade that touched on most of the great religions. Jan's lead was back to 10 boat lengths.
As I approached the final bridge, I saw the stranger with the camera again. Wait a second, I though. There's no such thing as a surfski groupie - at least not in New England. My race-addled mind mulled some other possibilities. He was too well-groomed to be a troll, so I began to suspect he might be a hallucination. He shouted out something like "You're gaining on him!" This was kind of my hallucination to say, but didn't actually seem to be true. I shook the apparition from my head and paddled on. Shortly after this, I saw Borys heading back upriver.
He exchanged a few words with Jan, who then headed river left - where Borys had appeared to come from. I thought that we were supposed to stay right, but I wasn't confident enough to yell out a correction. The deeper water seemed to be towards the right, so I stuck with my intuition. I soon saw the turn-around marker in front of me, as well as Jan emerging further downriver on the other side of a large sandbar. He apparently had ocean waves lapping hungrily at his stern as he executed his turn.
My turn was less dramatic, but more pathetic. With the river narrowed to 50 feet or so, we had to execute a turn around a pole standing in the strongest current, maybe 10 feet from shore. I had a vision of swinging my boat around gracefully with powerful strokes, like an Olympic whitewater kayakers pirouetting through an upstream gate. That vision was not prophetic. I should have instead envisioned an 18-wheeler attempting a K-turn, driven by an inebriated bear. It wasn't pretty, but there were no casualties and, in the end, I was pointing in the right direction.
Heading back upstream meant fighting the wind and the current again. Wesley, Tim, Chris, and Francisco went flying downstream as I started my salmon-like run through the shallows. Bridge guy was still pretending to be there, but I figured it was prudent to pretend he wasn't. Bucking a headwind that seemed to be growing exponentially stronger, I kept expecting to see Jan pull by me. Misery may love company, but I really preferred to wallow alone in this instance. Minutes stretched to hours. I began to question my life choices (in particular, letting Wesley somehow trick me into buying my first surfksi). Would this torment never end? After the race, my GPS indubitably verified my 7th grade gym teacher's assessment that I was an "alpha wuss". The interminable upstream grind had lasted all of 21 minutes (keep in mind, though, that this is the same damnable apparatus that recorded a 180 foot change in elevation over the course).
I had finished at 1:27:40 - so close to Borys (at 1:17:20) that he was actually still in Rhode Island. I was followed in by Jan, Wesley, Tim, Chris, and Francisco. While packing up in the parking lot, I finally cracked the Case of the Mysterious Bridge Guy. Tim Hudyncia, a new surfski paddler temporarily sidelined by a pulled muscle, had (a) graciously volunteered to take some photos during the race and (b) supplied the best smelling prizes ever awarded in a surfski race. After warming up and changing, a contingent of a dozen or so paddlers headed to the Oak Hill Tavern in nearby Kingstown for food, drinks, and the inevitable discussion of neo-existentialist tenets - as they applied to Wesley's new Vajda Hawk, of course (the carbon matrix as a metaphor for the societal framework, the moral relativism implied by the stability-speed trade-off, the pretty colors, etc.).
Looking forward to seeing everyone at the Run of the Charles.
The morning of the Narrow River Race dawned crisp and windy. Although temperatures were forecast to reach reasonable levels later in the day, at the 10am start the thermometer was several degrees south of 40 and a chilly 15 knot northerly wind sluiced down the river valley. Despite the less-than-springlike conditions, we had an excellent turn-out. In addition to a healthy batch of local regulars, we had a trio of fresh-faced V8ers - Bruce Deltorchio, Matt Drayer, and Bob Wright. We usually see Robin Francis and Gary Williams in double sea kayaks as part of the Achilles team, but today they elected to race in single skis. And the metro NY area was amply represented by Bob Capellini, Borys Markin, and Jan Lupinski.
The 10 mile course would take us upstream 3 miles, followed by 5 miles back down to where the river dumps into Narragansett Bay, and then a final 2 miles back to the start. The lower part of the Narrow River is tidal in nature, but with an outgoing tide both the current and the wind would be heading downstream. We'd be in a slog sandwich situation, with a chunk of mild whee in between. Given the temperature and the wind, making the right clothing decision would be critical.
They say that you should never try anything new on race day. A regrettable experiment with Zoroastrianism last year at the Blackburn reinforced that bit of wisdom, but I nevertheless found myself navigating uncharted waters on the Narrow River. I'm not much of a winter paddler, so I've gotten by in the past with relatively thin neoprene gloves for cold weather. Fearing that the brisk headwind would prove too chilling for the gloves this day, however, I decided to try some pogies I had bought but never tried. After putting them on before the race, I changed my mind and reverted to gloves. And then changed back to pogies. Then back to gloves. And so it continued until the impending start of the race interrupted the cycle. Turns out pogies love me.
We worked our way into a rough starting line. Wesley called out "Go!" and the field surged ahead. After a few moments of confusion, a pattern became clear. Like frenzied fish misguidedly boarding the ark (you don't think the rest of the school weren't laughing their tails off?), Borys Markin and Jan Lupinski jumped out to a quick lead in their K-1s, followed by Wesley and Chris Chappell in their Mohicans, then Tim Dwyer and I in our V12s. Francisco Urena was also in the mix with his Stellar SE, but let's just call him Noah so that I can keep my analogy intact. Two by two, we made our ways upstream. I was taking things one cubit at a time, drafting off first Tim, then Noah. Eventually, I pulled even with the mismatched pair.
I'd been keeping a hawk eye on the Mohicans up in front of us, and decided that I had best try to bridge the gap before it widened further. Chris and Wesley remained side by side five or six boat lengths ahead. I ratcheted up the intensity as we entered the narrowest stretch of the Narrow River, and managed to latch onto Chris' wash after a short while. I spent a blissful 5 minutes enjoying my stay at Chez Chappell (the complimentary turn-down service was a nice touch), before wanderlust compelled me to reluctantly move on. Chris - look for a glowing review on Yelp.
I figured I'd throw in a quick interval to see if the guys would answer. I was a bit surprised to find that they were letting me go, so felt obligated to keep up the intensity, hoping that I could build up a buffer before they decided to hunt me down. At this point, a stranger positioned at the abutment of a bridge snapped a picture of me and shouted some encouraging words. Surfski groupie, I figured.
As the river widened into a small lake, I could see Borys a half-mile up ahead. As usual, his stroke rate was roughly 70% of what the laws of hydrodynamics required it to be given his speed - he apparently has some kind of special dispensation. Jan was perhaps 15 boat lengths ahead of me. In the wider river, the head-on wind was a constant annoyance, but due to the short fetch and direction of the breeze, stability wasn't going to be an issue for anyone.
I hadn't been able to spot anyone behind me in my stolen glances over my shoulder, so was glad to get the lay of the field after the turn-around. As I turned downwind and downriver, I saw that Wesley had pulled 5 boat lengths ahead of Chris, who was maybe a dozen boat lengths ahead of Tim, followed at roughly the same distance by Francisco. It was wonderful to feel the wind and current at my back, and seeing the GPS nip occasionally into the 8s, but I knew that in a matter of seconds the loose pack behind me would be enjoying the same bounty.
If that weren't enough motivation to keep paddling hard, Jan was tantalizing close up ahead of me. I'd appreciate it if we could keep this between us, but I consider Jan something of my secret weapon. He has a ridiculously fast start. In last year's Essex River and Blackburn races, I managed to harness his horsepower to get me through the first couple miles of those races. I had latched onto the back of his blood red Nelo like a demented, wheezing leech. He should really consider installing a draft guard on that ski.
Today Jan had gone out even faster than usual in his K-1, such that I was unable to hitch a ride from the start. Worse yet, he didn't seem to really be flagging as the race progressed. On the upwind leg I was slowly closing the gap, but he must have nailed the turn-around because by the time I got pointed downwind it seemed like he had put another half-dozen boat lengths between us. I sighed (or would have had I been able to spare the oxygen), lowered my head (or would have had I not already been hunched over in a classic pillbug paddling posture), and turned on the juice (or would have had the breaker not already been thrown).
As the river narrowed again, I confusingly found myself paddling downstream in the company of Dave Grainger in his Mohican. Wondering how exactly he had gotten ahead of everyone, I eventually realized that he had abandoned the race in pursuit of his art. With an elaborate superstructure on his bow to mount a camera, he went out of his way to get video footage of most of the racers. I'm looking forward to dissecting my stroke, although it's unlikely I'll find any recognizable features.
As I again approached the bridge with the stranger, he snapped another picture and again urged me on. Odd. A dedicated groupie, apparently.
I was slowly picking up on Jan. We passed the starting line and made our way to the first of two bridges further downriver. After skittering cautiously over a shallow sand bar, my rudder lightly grazing the bottom, we went under the first bridge. It looked like I was finally going to catch him. Before the race, Wesley had advised us to stay right after the bridge to keep out of the shallows, but Jan chose a more direct route. I followed, nervously watching as the bottom incrementally approached the top. Just as the K-1 seemed in my grasp, I stuck fast. I hopped out of the boat and lurched forward on foot a few boat lengths before awkwardly flopping back in my boat with a blasphemous tirade that touched on most of the great religions. Jan's lead was back to 10 boat lengths.
As I approached the final bridge, I saw the stranger with the camera again. Wait a second, I though. There's no such thing as a surfski groupie - at least not in New England. My race-addled mind mulled some other possibilities. He was too well-groomed to be a troll, so I began to suspect he might be a hallucination. He shouted out something like "You're gaining on him!" This was kind of my hallucination to say, but didn't actually seem to be true. I shook the apparition from my head and paddled on. Shortly after this, I saw Borys heading back upriver.
He exchanged a few words with Jan, who then headed river left - where Borys had appeared to come from. I thought that we were supposed to stay right, but I wasn't confident enough to yell out a correction. The deeper water seemed to be towards the right, so I stuck with my intuition. I soon saw the turn-around marker in front of me, as well as Jan emerging further downriver on the other side of a large sandbar. He apparently had ocean waves lapping hungrily at his stern as he executed his turn.
My turn was less dramatic, but more pathetic. With the river narrowed to 50 feet or so, we had to execute a turn around a pole standing in the strongest current, maybe 10 feet from shore. I had a vision of swinging my boat around gracefully with powerful strokes, like an Olympic whitewater kayakers pirouetting through an upstream gate. That vision was not prophetic. I should have instead envisioned an 18-wheeler attempting a K-turn, driven by an inebriated bear. It wasn't pretty, but there were no casualties and, in the end, I was pointing in the right direction.
Heading back upstream meant fighting the wind and the current again. Wesley, Tim, Chris, and Francisco went flying downstream as I started my salmon-like run through the shallows. Bridge guy was still pretending to be there, but I figured it was prudent to pretend he wasn't. Bucking a headwind that seemed to be growing exponentially stronger, I kept expecting to see Jan pull by me. Misery may love company, but I really preferred to wallow alone in this instance. Minutes stretched to hours. I began to question my life choices (in particular, letting Wesley somehow trick me into buying my first surfksi). Would this torment never end? After the race, my GPS indubitably verified my 7th grade gym teacher's assessment that I was an "alpha wuss". The interminable upstream grind had lasted all of 21 minutes (keep in mind, though, that this is the same damnable apparatus that recorded a 180 foot change in elevation over the course).
Looking forward to seeing everyone at the Run of the Charles.
