Salem League 5/28/13: Running on Empty

The second night of the Salem League dawned clear and pleasant, although after my warm-up the temperature suddenly dropped to single digits.  In addition to most of last week's attendees, we were joined by grizzled (but not yet drooling) veterans Mike McDonough and Kirk Olsen.  The field was: me, Mary Beth, Francisco, Mike, Kirk, Bill, Matt, Ken, Bruce, and Ciro.  Bill showed up with a new (er) life vest which proudly bears a label stating that "no rodents were harmed in the manufacture of this article".

We'd be running course 2 this evening, which would take us out of the harbor, around the granite pylon marking Bowditch Ledge 2.8 miles out, and back to the beach.  With a ESE breeze somewhere S of 10 mph, we'd be heading almost directly into the wind and waves (small, but well behaved) on the first leg, then downwind after the turn-around.

In an effort to improve my Le Mans starts, I've been visualizing the process, like a downhill skier might.  I close my eyes and picture the entire operation in vivid detail: the gazelle-like run down the beach, the effortless lift and carry, the elegant slide into the boat, and the powerful initial strokes.  That's how I visualize the visualization, at least.  In practice, even my mental imagery is plagued with false starts, face-first falls into the shallow muck, the crunch of smashed carbon fibers, and, in one instance, an indictment for tax fraud.

Perhaps having flushed out the worst case scenarios in my head, I managed a solid start.  Coming out of the gate, I stood in second, four or five lengths behind Francisco.  Taking advantage of the more protected waters near the start, I made up as much of that ground as possible before the rougher conditions of the open sound slowed me down.  I managed to catch Francisco several minutes into the race, with Mike close on our tails.

In our previous flatwater races this year, Francisco started out considerably faster than me, but I managed to catch and pass him after about ten minutes into the contest.  Unfortunately, the water wasn't flat.  And, more importantly, Francisco always gets much faster as the season progresses.  I pulled alongside, trying my best to ignore these two factors, but after struggling for five minutes to pass, I fell back onto his wash.

The remainder of the race to the Bowditch pylon was divided into a half-dozen cycles of me attempting to pass Francisco, and Francisco unilaterally decreeing that this wasn't going to happen.  After each failure, I'd return dejectedly to drafting.  I could only hope that the struggle was wearing out the big fish.  The one positive outcome of this duel was that with each attempt to pass, we would put more distance between ourselves and Mike.

With a quarter mile to Bowditch, I resigned myself to staying on Francisco's wash until we turned downwind, after which I would, uh, try to go faster than him.  The wind-driven waves weren't large enough to hook into any solid rides, but they were significant enough that when some help was offered, you'd feel like an ingrate if you turned it down.  My trip back to the beach was therefore a series of desperate five second sprints to wring every drop of support from the sea, punctuated by groans of protest from my overtaxed (and underpaid) cardiovascular system.

Although Francisco was generally ahead of me during this stretch, I'd occasionally catch a wave just right and ever-so-briefly take the lead.  As we neared the final point before the beach, however, I slid back, fingernails clawing at the cliff's edge to maintain contact.  Heading in towards the beach I was trailing by a couple of boat lengths.

At this point, we entered the half-marathon phase of the duathlon.  Francisco aced the transition and was halfway up the beach before I had changed into my running shoes.  Although the run to the finish was probably about 200 yards, it felt more like 50 people standing on my chest.  When I eventually arrived at the finish, I vowed to myself to stop procrastinating and finally do something about low tide.  Watch this blog for details on how you can help.

With a solid inaugural race, Mike came in 3rd, followed by Matt and Ken.  Here are the results for the evening (skis only):

Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	0:48:39	12
Greg Lesher	Epic V12	0:48:46	11
Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:51:12	10
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:52:17	9
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	0:52:23	8
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:52:47	7
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	0:53:13	6
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	0:54:12	5
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	1:08:00	12

With back to back wins, Francisco has established himself as the guy to trick into missing a couple of weeks.  Sakonnet River* Race up next, with plenty of warmth on the schedule.

* Product contains no actual river.

Salem League 5/21/13: The Race Is On

The 8th Salem League kicked off this past Tuesday with a solid field of 10 paddlers, including several first-time participants.  Besides myself and Mary Beth, we had Francisco Urena (warming down from his Molokai run on Sunday), Bill Kuklinski (after breaking through a PETA picket line), Ken Cooper, Matt Drayer, Bruce Deltorchio, Rick Stoehrer (the previous 5 paddlers all in V8's), Ciro de la Vega (in an FSK), and Rod McLain (in his trusty OC-1).  As always, Ed Duggan was serving as ringmaster of the circus.

For readers unfamiliar with the Salem League, here's a summary.  Each Tuesday over the summer we meet at Lynch Park in Beverly to race one of five courses (in the 5 to 6 mile range), chosen at random each week (with adjustments to randomness based on weather, tide, and sunlight conditions, as necessary).  The start is "Le Mans style" - we run a short distance down the beach, grab our boats from the shore, carry them out to deep enough water, hop in, and paddle.  The finish is likewise on land, requiring a refreshing run up the beach to cap off the evening.  Paddlers are awarded points based on their position for the evening, with points being tallied over the course of the season to determine the League champion.

That clinical description of the League omits the visceral component.  This ain't no bridge club.  You're struggling against the same set of relentless competitors week after week, in what amounts to a series of 45 minute sprints.  It's grueling and painful, but in an immensely satisfying way.  The League is just about the most fun you can have while dry heaving.

Based on my warm-up paddle, I sensed it would be a tough evening.  My strategy this season has been to concentrate on conditioning and form to prep for the early flatwater races.  Nearly all of my training has therefore been on lakes, rivers, and ergs.  After the Essex, I figured I'd ramp up my ocean workouts to get ready for the ocean races.  With only one ocean paddle before this race, it looked like I'd instead be cliffing up.  The moderately sloppy conditions weren't abnormal for Salem Sound, but they were sufficient to make me question my training methods.  I had made my bed, now it was time to sleep (with the fishes?) in it.

Because of the weather - the possibility of thunderstorms and limited visibility - Ed wisely kept us close to shore with a non-stop version of course #4.  We'd be heading 1.5 miles out of Beverly Harbor along the coast (into a 15 mph or so headwind), circle Black Rocks shoal, head 2.1 miles back into the harbor, circle a buoy (Red Nun #10 - also a fine Cabernet), then head the 0.9 miles back to the Lynch Park beach.

Like vegemite and self-flagellation, the Le Mans start is an acquired taste.  My race starts this year have been poor enough without adding running, toting, and mounting into the mix.  Despite many years of living and two years of practice in the League, I have yet to master any of these skills.  When the smoke (don't ask) cleared, I was 10 lengths behind Rod and Francisco, both notorious cheaters (but like any skilled con-men, adept at making it seem like everything is legit).  Most of the guys in V8's were also ahead of me, although I at least managed to slow down Matt with a well-timed paddle whack.

Battling upwind through uneven conditions, I slowly moved through the V8 squadron, then eventually passed Rod.  Francisco was still 8 or 9 lengths ahead, but I was making up ground despite feeling a little wobbly.  As we approached the turn-around, Francisco appeared to lose his bearings, looking back to reassure himself that he hadn't already past Black Rocks.  Even though we were a couple of hours from high tide, only a handful of the rocks were peaking out up ahead.  He quickly spotted them and continued onwards.

Rounding Black Rocks I was 4 or 5 lengths behind Francisco, but it soon became evident that I wasn't going to continue gaining in the downwind (ish) conditions.  Already feeling the effects of balance fatigue after our short upwind (ish) run, I started throwing braces like hand grenades.  Francisco started to pull away.  It was going to be second place for me, at best.  Then fortune smiled on me: I hit a floating two-by-four.  Although I didn't realize it at the time, that thump of lumber against my hull was actually the sweet sound of an air-tight alibi...  There was no way I could have won that race, officer!  My boat was compromised!

It was obvious that something was wrong.  Whereas before I had been flailing with a purpose, now I was just flailing haphazardly.  I couldn't stay on course.  At first I thought perhaps my rudder had been snapped clean off, although the collision hardly seemed violent enough for that.  It slowly dawned on me that the rudder had been bent slightly backwards so that it was wedged against the hull.  I had binary steering.  If I pushed the left pedal really hard, the rudder would eventually work free and swing to full left deflection.  Although my politics tend in that direction, I prefer a more centrist position for racing.  I'd therefore lean on the right pedal to restore my middle-of-the-road course, ultimately resulting in a swing to the far right as the rudder again would stick on the hull momentarily before bursting free.

After struggling with deviant navigational behavior for a couple of minutes, I realized that I'd finish dead last unless I could fix the problem.  I performed an intentional dismount (for those cynics inclined to scoff at this assertion, I have semi-controvertible video proof) and made my way back to the rudder, where I struggled to get enough leverage to loosen the bind.  While enjoying the soothing Atlantic waters (53 degrees), Rod, Matt, and Ken passed me.  No matter, I thought.  With restored steering, my V12 would assert its extra 4 cylinders and I'd quickly catch Matt and Ken.  And with only one blade and not a single V, what hope would Rod have?

After a blown slow-motion remount, I was in my boat again.  I had fixed the problem and was back in business.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten that while the faulty rudder had exacerbated my difficulties, I had been operating in the red even before the crash.  I was misfiring every few strokes, counteracting most of the speed advantage my slender boat was providing over the slower vessels.  I slowly gained ground, but it wasn't until we were nearly at the second turn-around that I managed to get back into second place.  Catching Francisco was never an option.

There was some confusion about which buoy to turn around, in part because the target nun was screened behind a couple of moored boats (as is her habit).  I saw Rod peel off around the first nun, but confident that the peek-a-buoy was hiding somewhere up ahead, I kept my line, with Matt and Ken following.  Sure enough, the buoy leaped out from behind the boats at the last possible second, setting me up for an overly wide turn.

Heading back to the finish, I could hear Matt revving close behind me.  Although we were in the relatively protected waters of the harbor, I was having more trouble than ever maintaining a steady stroke.  After each frequent brace I expected to see his V8 pull alongside and then inexorably drop me into third.  Fortunately, I was able to hold on just long enough, squeaking out a 14 second advantage over Matt, with Ken just 7 seconds behind him.  Here are the results (skis only)...

Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	41:26	12
Greg Lesher	Epic V12	42:58	11
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	43:12	10
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	43:19	9
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	44:52	8
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	46:37	7
Rick Stoehrer	Epic V8	49:44	6
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	58:42	12

It was an exciting opening night, despite the absence of some of the stalwart League paddlers from the past couple of years (Mike McDonough, Kirk Olsen, and Graeme Rockett).  I'm looking forward to another great season of masochism and camaraderie.

Essex River: Terror on the Low Seas

The Essex River Race holds a special place in my heart.  At the 2004 race, I stood on the shores and watched the most fascinating collection of watercraft I had ever seen.  A month later, we bought a house 5 minutes down the road (perhaps correlation doesn't imply causation, but it seemed at least kismet in this case) and I started training for that summer's Blackburn.  Flash forward 23 years and there I am hoisting the Essex River trophy with my remaining arm.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...

As always, the race would be a 5.7 mile voyage down the winding Essex River, around Cross Island, across a wide estuary, and back up the river.  Between tidal currents and sandy shallows, choosing the right line can tax even the most seasoned navigator.  Which is why most people just blindly follow whoever happens to be in front of them at the moment.  The entire field of 1997 was found having lunch at an Ipswich clam house after the lead rower got hungry midway through the race.

With 33 surfskis participating, this was the best attended ski race ever in New England that doesn't include 20 miles of pain. This is, of course, largely due to the explosion of super-stable boats (the Epic V8 and Stellar S18S), which accounted for 12 of the skis this year.  For the first time, these boats were pulled out of FSK and given their own SS20Plus class.  Given that seven SS20Plus boats beat the top FSK, the governing board of the Cape Ann Rowing Club deserves kudos for this move.

The forecast for the morning wasn't exactly dire, but neither was it all smoothies and kittens.  With a 15 to 25 mph wind from the south and a strong chance of showers, it seemed we might be in for a rain- and spray-scoured race, but at least it would be in the 60s.  Some of the old-timers were inspired to share memories of the tempest of 2010, where for weeks afterwards the authorities were rescuing boats thrown by the raging seas into the treetops of Cross Island.

Arriving at 5am to snag a prime parking spot has its disadvantages...

As it turned out, the wind stayed on the lower end of the forecast and the rain materialized only in a few brief, unenthusiastic showers during the awards.  As everyone maneuvered into place for the start, the wind and lively flooding tide made for an awkward demonstration of half-forgotten sea kayak maneuvering skills.  I nearly got a chance to show off my rolling abilities after a particularly erratic attempt at sculling.  As the rest of us struggled to maintain our positions with mounting pre-race anxiety, Borys Markin carved lazy circles around us - a shark savoring the moment before the kill.

And then we were off, blades and fins and teeth everywhere, glistening forms darting madly through the churning water, the tortured screeches of gulls and paddlers blending into a symphony of unrestrained mayhem.  So the start was unremarkable.  When the frenzy subsided, I was sitting in 12th place.  After my previous lackluster starts this season, I had sworn a sacred pre-race oath to jump out strong with the leaders.  I now mirrored this with a profane in-race oath directed at myself.  It was difficult to tell from my distant vantage point, but on the horizon I could vaguely make out Borys, Eric McNett, Jan Lupinski, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Francisco Urena heading the pack.

Still upset with my lack of off-the-line acceleration, I slowly hauled myself past Mike McDonough, Tim Dwyer, and Flavio Costa (who has beautiful paddling form, but still managed to redirect several gallons of the river into my face with every stroke) before getting briefly caught behind Wesley Echols, Beata Cseke, and Eric Costanzo - a triad so committed to unity that they'd spend the entire race within a bowling ball toss of each other.  Exploiting a temporary schism between Wesley and Beata (presumably some disagreement about the trinity's bylaws), I pushed forward between them.  They evidently reconciled afterwards, since they'd eventually finish side by side, singing kumbaya.

After a strong interval, I caught Francisco.  According to the Garmin track he posted, his heart rate at this point in the race was only at 220.  I don't know if he had some kind of problem with his nectar supply or if he was just meditating, but I took advantage of his hibernation-like metabolic state to pass him.  Francisco is now off in Hawaii for next weekend's Molokai race, where I expect he'll represent New England paddlers in a manner better than most of us deserve.

There were now four paddlers ahead of me.  Borys, racing for the first time in his new Stellar SES, was nearly out of sight.  Paddling an Epic V14, Eric was a dozen boat lengths ahead.  He was hugging the shoreline like Ferdinand Magellan searching for a hidden passage to the Pacific - apparently trying to avoid the incoming tidal current.  Jan, with Andrius drafting off his left stern quarter, was taking a more direct line as the river widened.  This pairing of red skis remained tantalizing close 4 or 5 boat lengths ahead, but I couldn't seem to close that gap as we headed straight downwind (but uptide). 

Finally, a quarter mile before the narrow strait between Conomo Point and Cross Island, I caught the elusive devils.  I drafted comfortably for a few moments before pulling even with Jan as we passed through the narrows.  We remained in this formation until rounding to the back of Cross Island, at which point I inched ahead.

Eric's littoral strategy back in the river had apparently paid off, since his lead had increased substantially by the time our paths converged.  Since then, he had opened up an even larger lead
on Jan and I.  As we cleared Cross Island and faced into a 15 mph headwind, Eric looked to be at least a quarter mile ahead.  With the wind and chop directly on our bows, the conditions weren't technically challenging, but required more vigor than you'd perhaps prefer after 25 minutes of all-out paddling.

Five minutes into the upwind crossing, I had dropped Jan.  I was locked onto Eric's bright orange Mocke vest up ahead.  Could it be possible that I was gaining on him?  I concentrated on maintaining strong, measured strokes, trying not to get too discouraged by my GPS, which was showing hateful numbers.  Despite its best efforts, though, I made it across the broad estuary and entered the river proper.  I was getting closer to Eric, although there was still probably 50 boat lengths separating us.  It didn't seem at all likely that I'd catch him in the remaining couple of miles, but I was feeling content to have 3rd place locked up.

Reality has a vexing way of hammering through even the most concrete of delusions, often accompanied by Carol Houghton's derisive laugh when asking her to junior prom after your best friend assured you she was "into you, big time".  In this particular instance, however, it was the bow of a red Nelo creeping into my peripheral vision that crushed my heart.  Jan "Zombie" Lupinski had arisen from his watery grave.  Actually, reports of his death were greatly exaggerated - he had been lurking out of sight (as the undead do) the whole time I thought that I had dropped him.  Needless to say, I was thoroughly demoralized by this competitive resurrection.  I could only pray that Andrius and Francisco wouldn't also appear from the gloom as part of a resurgent horde.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I watched helplessly as Jan slowly pulled past me with a methodical stroke.  He didn't look over as he passed, but I'm sure that if he had, I'd have seen my own mortality reflected in his cold, lifeless stare.  There was little I could do except fall in behind him again, hoping to regain enough energy to deliver a fatal blow closer to the end of the race.  After a couple minutes of drafting, I attempted to pass on the left as the river widened, but backed off and fell back into line when Jan responded to my modest surge.

At this point, we passed Bill Kuklinski in his V8.  The 80's called, Bill.  They were relaying a telegram from the 30's.  They want their prototype life preserver back.  If I'm not mistaken, Bill's vest was the first ever to use inflated squirrel bladders for flotation.

We were starting to run out of river, so with about a half-mile to go I made another attempt to put a stake through Jan's heart (wait, that can't be right).  I gradually pulled even, where I remained for what seemed ages as we threaded through slower boats.  With two bends of the river left, I called on what little life force I had left and redoubled my efforts.  I finally started to pull ahead.  I'm ethically obligated at this point to note that before the race (and, mind you, this was prior to brain death) Jan had taped his bailer closed in expectation of flat conditions.  Wind chop quickly filled his footwell with water, meaning that, for most of the race, he was lugging around twenty pounds of handicap.

The top 3 men in their stirring tribute to the Romanian flag.

Coming into the finish, I made a terrible navigation choice.  Bob Capellini (in his V8) and a two person rowboat were ahead, starting to round the gentle right curve to the finish.  There seemed plenty of room to slide through, but the rowboat took a wider line than Bob and the gap tightened around me.  I found myself awkwardly wedged between the boats, trying to avoid interfering with the other racers while still escaping Jan.  I spluttered out an embarrassed apology to the rowers for cutting things so close as we crossed the finish line.  Bob appeared too happy at his second place SS20Plus finish (between Ken Cooper and Dana Gaines in first and third, respectively) to care much.

Borys (43:27) had finished first, of course.  Although I had been gaining on Eric (47:30), he was still well over a minute ahead of me (48:48) at the end.  Jan (48:53) finished just behind me, with Andrius (50:06) rounding out the top five.  Other notable finishers were Beata in 7th place overall (1st place woman, naturally), Eric Costanzo in 9th place (after finishing 24th the last time he was at the Essex), Barry Fifield (last seen in a five hour man-vs-rudder battle of wills at the Blackburn, an approach to racing now known as "barrymeandering") finishing 13th in an HPK-registered V8, and Mary Beth Gangloff, completing the race nearly 4 minutes faster than her 2012 time (in conditions that made every other repeat paddler slower).  Congrats to these - and all other - racers.

Beata and Mary Beth display their medals.

After the race, we were treated to fine chili and chowder while enjoying music provided by Bill (who graciously forgives me for poking fun at his vest) and his band.  As the first place paddlers, Borys and Beata walked off with modern PFDs donated by Mocke through New England Surfski, carrying on a long tradition of carting local plunder (so sorely needed by Bill) back to New Jersey.  Thanks to the Cape Ann Rowing Club for another in a long line of smoothly run races.

Wesley's unpredictable Sakonnet River Race beckons us to his backyard playground in three weeks, but before then we'll be competing on Ed Duggan's turf (and surf) as the Salem League starts its 8th season next Tuesday at Lynch Park in Beverly.  Sounds like we'll have some new faces this year joining us.  Sure, it's a brutal and excruciatingly painful series of races.  But, uh, you should all come.

Run of the Charles: Bridges! Warmth! Pulled Pork!

With the addition of the 6 mile version of the Run of the Charles to the SurfskiRacing.com point series, I expected to see a robust turn-out for this early season flat-water race.  A beautiful spring day may have also helped coax a few more paddlers out of their lairs.  With a dozen skis, participation was double what it had been the past couple of years.

This would be my first time at the Run of the Charles.  Eager to help, several race veterans reviewed the 6 mile course with me.  We'd start down the Charles, go under 14 bridges, through a set of locks out into the Harbor, where we'd circumnavigate Old Ironsides before making our way back to the start.  Seemed like that'd be a pinch longer than 6 miles, but it's always tough to judge distances in Boston.

Ah, the blooming colors of spring...

Fortunately, Mary Beth managed to get proper directions from more chivalrous paddlers, and brought me up to speed.  We'd go downstream 2.5 miles under 5 bridges, round a buoy and come back past the start another half a mile, then round a second buoy to finish on a downstream run.  Like a traveler stranded on a desert island counting days, I planned on scoring my ski for each bridge passed.  I hoped it wouldn't also come to gnawing on my own arm for sustenance, but I tucked some condiments in my vest just in case.

While I was warming up, I was surprised to look over and find myself paddling next to (for the briefest of times) Borys Markin, who was just finishing up the 19 mile race in his Nelo K-1, nearly 30 minutes ahead of the next competitor.  That's three consecutive ROTC wins for Borys.  Beata Cseke, also in a K-1, finished fourth overall in the 19 mile race, with the indomitable Ted Van Dusen finishing first in the unlimited kayak category.  Jan Lupinski lost his K-1 rudder in the shallows, but still managed to finish 6th overall.

As the designated time for the 6 mile race approached we all hung close to the starting line, aware that last year a few paddlers were caught unawares by an unannounced pop start.  With the captains' meeting scheduled for roughly 20 seconds before the race start, most of us chose to skip it, hoping that we didn't miss too many "For Pity's sake, you mustn't ..." type warnings about the course.

In keeping with the theme of capricious timing, the starter gave us a 15 second warning and then (presumably 15 seconds later, but who can be sure) yelled "Go!"  Chris Chappell jumped out to an immediate lead, although Junior Prates (in a K-1) and Francisco Urena also got out quickly on different lines.  When the smoke settled, it was Chris out front by himself, with Wesley Echols, Junior, Tim Dwyer, Francisco, me, and Mike McDonough, and Kam Truhn following in a pack.

By the time we went under the first bridge, Chris had opened up a lead of several boat lengths on the rest of the squad.  Not wanting to let him slip too far ahead, I decided to try to make a move.  My attempt to pass to the right of the group was thwarted by an irksome shoreline.  Francisco and I both grazed bottom with our paddles.  I fell back and adjusted my course to test the waters between Tim and Francisco, seeing if perhaps I could instead sneak through via an inner passage.

I put on my best look of "What?  Me, a weasel?" innocence as I gradually wormed my way between my competitors.  Then, with a sudden burst of vigor, I shot through the gap like a greased pig out of a cannon.  In situations like this, it's critical that you trick both yourself and your fellow paddlers into believing you're doing something impressive.  To that end, I've been working with a vocal coach on a realistic whoosh-of-speed sound (complete with Doppler effect).  I've also found it helps if you splash the other guys a lot.  And in the self-deception category, here's a tip.  Squint really hard, and the guys who were formerly right next to you recede almost immediately into a hazy limbo.

In this manner, I got past Tim and Francisco, and, with a bit of momentum on my side, continued by Junior and Wesley.  Chris remained well out in front, but I fell into one of those unexplainable rhythmic grooves that you're tickled to find yourself in, but can't figure out how exactly you got into.  After one or two more bridges (who's counting?), I managed to catch the orange Mohican.  I spent a couple of minutes resting on Chris' wash before trying to pass him on the right.  This attempt fizzled out unceremoniously, so I recategorized it as a "feint" and started a second draft.  Again, learning to delude yourself is half the battle.  I marshaled my resources for a while, then threw in a respectable interval to finally get past Chris and put a few boat lengths between us.

The final downstream stretch was into a mild zephyr.  I wasn't sure what exactly was going on behind me until I came around the first buoy to head back upstream.  Chris seemed to be a little under a minute back, with Wesley 7 or 8 boat lengths behind him.  They were followed in a drawn-out string by Tim, Francisco, Mike, Junior and Kam.

A combination of the winding route of the Charles and a fickle breeze meant that 90% of the round-trip race was into the wind.  I had been planning on doing some aerodynamic testing on my gear anyway, so the wind-tunnel effect under each of the low, arched bridges wasn't entirely without benefit.  Regardless of whether it was the wind, the sluggish current, or an over-fast initial pace, the distance between the bridges on the upstream leg accordioned out to such an extent that I began to wonder if I had missed the second turn-around and would soon find myself doing the portages of the longer races in reverse.

The five top paddlers from the 6 mile race.  Yep.  I'm napping.

Fortunately, the final bridge made a surprise appearance and I re-established my bearings enough to realize that only another mile of pain separated me from a well-deserved coma.  I struggled to the turn-around, after which I saw Chris and Wesley abreast of one another a couple of minutes back, with a similar battle between Tim and Francisco 30 seconds behind them.  I focused on one of the canoes from the 24 mile race that was 7 or 8 lengths ahead of me, using it as motivation to keep pushing through the finish a quarter mile away.

Chris managed to hold off Wesley for second place, with Tim similarly holding off Francisco for fourth.  Mike pulled in next, followed by Junior (not in a ski), then Kam. Rounding out the field of a dozen were Bob Capellini (who has worn a groove between his Long Island home and the Boston area), Chris Sherwood (who is more than ready for a faster boat), Mike Herrera (more below on Mike), Caroline Pierce (who I didn't get a chance to meet, but didn't look mean), and Mary Beth Gangloff (who also could use a faster boat and also doesn't look mean).

Mike, a seasoned whitewater and sea kayak paddler made his surfski debut in impressive fashion.  His finish time of 1:02:08 put him at 10th place, but he did the entire race with a pretty severe handicap.  Within a few feet of the start, Mike's rudder cable broke.  Instead of abandoning all hope, he discarded the rudder completely and soldiered on through what, for most of us, would have been a Hell of drunken meandering (4th ring, rudderless skis).

Although he didn't race, Eric McNett made the trek down from Maine to demo the new Epic V14, which a few of us tried.  Although I found it slightly less stable than my V12, the snugger fit of the seat provided a more secure connection to the boat.  With a higher seating position and razor thin bow, I felt like I was skating on the water.  I'd certainly struggle with the V14 in ocean conditions, but on flat water it's a very attractive vessel.

After packing up our skis the racers gathered at the hospitable NECKRA tent to swap war stories, to catch up with paddlers from the other races, and - most importantly - to cram as much of Bob's pulled pork into our faces as we could manage.  It's less than two weeks until the Essex River Race - always one of the biggest and most exciting competitions of the season, and the last to offer a likelihood of flat water.