I apologize for the delay in posting my Blackburn Challenge race report. I've spent the last week immersed in an ice bath, mainlining chilled Harpoons and listening to the cool, cool vocal stylings of Mr. Lionel Richie. They say that you haven't felt real heat until you've stood on the surface of the sun. "They" being robots from the future. I think the fact that the two lobes of my brain have fused (in the nuclear sense) into a single core qualify me to dispute that claim. I judge the pain of a race by how long after it takes me to renounce my
inevitable finish-line oath that I'm never even going to look at a
surfski again, let alone race in one. The jury is still out on the Blackburn.
This was to be my 10th sanctioned 19-mile trip around Cape Ann, although only my 3rd in a surfski. With a field of 55 skis (including doubles and boats in the new SS20Plus class) and 1 racing kayak (hang in there, Brian!), it promised to be another very competitive race. As the top US finisher (and 14th overall) at the inaugural world championships, Ohio's Dorian Wolter was the odds-on favorite to win in Gloucester. The only legitimate challenger would be Borys Markin. Beata Cseke was almost certain to be the fastest woman. Beyond these top contenders, though, the field seemed pretty open. With high heat and humidity and an unhelpful (some might say spiteful) tide, who knew how things might play out?
After a captain's meeting at which I believe I glimpsed several fat, naked Russian guys enjoying a steam, we retreated to our boats to figure out exactly how much liquid we could strap on. My experimental Slushee holder failed catastrophically during launch (brain freeze has nothing on groin frost, by the way), so I stuck with a water bladder the size of an exercise ball. I made my way to the starting line, watched the SK and FSK classes head out, and all too soon it was our turn to join the fray. We were so young. The starter counted us down and the HPKs were off.
We were packed a little too closely at the start, resulting in some spirited jostling, a few paddle scrapes, and one guy shivved. By the time we got up to speed, I found myself staggered back on the right side of the main pack - much further back than I had drawn up in my playbook. I spotted Dorian and Eric McNett off to the far right, quickly separating themselves from their neighbors. Borys (leading the main pack to my left) and Dorian (on the right) were quickly gone, transported into some alternate dimension where F=ma is for suckers. Eric was adhering to the standard laws of physics, but I suspect he might have been bending the rules a little.
Like a man lunging for the last rung of the ladder dangling from the rescue helicopter, I angled to the right and made a desperate push to grab onto Eric's wash. I ended up hanging on by my fingertips, but I was on the draft. The ongoing level of effort required to remora Eric was slightly alarming, but I figured I'd soon dial in my stroke or he'd slow down a shade. It'd all work out. In this manner, we passed by those slower paddlers who couldn't match our blazing pace. I feel justified in using "our" here because I considered this a joint venture. Eric would take the first shift, and then at some unspecified and unlikely future time, I'd pull him.
Five minutes into the race, we had caught up to Craig Impens and an unknown racer wearing a wide-brimmed floppy hat and brightly patterned print shorts. I would have never guessed that headwear could be deployed as a formidable psychological weapon, but Floppy Hat was a master of this game. Despite having an elite ski, being obviously fit, and demonstrating a fine stroke, his ridiculous hat easily trumped these qualifications. This yahoo was clearly a dilettante paddler. Any moment now he'd pop open a can of Bud and drop a line for stripers. Working at 100% on a draft just to keep up with such a dabbler was demoralizing in the extreme.
With Floppy Hat leading the charge, Craig and Eric in the second rank, and me hanging on Eric's tail like an asthmatic baby elephant, we pushed out against the tidal currents of the Annisquam. At one point, Hat and McNett decided that they could shave a few inches off the course by going under the sloping gangways that led down to private docks. Concerned about shaving a few inches off my head, I jumped over to Craig's wash. The herd reconvened a few minutes later and I demonstrated my loyalty to Eric by hopping back on his musk-scented wash. We were working together, after all.
In the smooth and protected waters of the river, Floppy Hat chose to take the psychological warfare up another notch. With no warning and no apparent cause, he executed the first half of a perfect barrel roll. This kayaking bumpkin was responsible for driving my heart rate to levels it hadn't seen since the Carter administration? Well-played, Floppy Hat, but we now must bid you adieu. Our trio carried on.
We were less than 20 minutes into the race, but I had to face some hard decisions. My heart rate was pushing 170 (out of a maximum possible score of 176) , my core body temperature was slightly higher, and our house should probably be refinanced. Wesley Echols' pre-race words of wisdom echoed in my mind - "Mortgage rates are never going to be lower!". He also said something about not blowing up early in the heat. I weighed this sage advice and, in the end, decided to double down on my current strategy. I'd stick with the fastest guys I could for as long as I could, then throw up and die. I thought I had a shot of making it out to the mouth of the Annisquam before requiring resuscitation.
Despite my new resolution, Eric began to slip inexorably away. It was a great relationship while it lasted, but you don't want to push these things to the point where you also have to contribute. Mary Beth and I have a similar arrangement. Before dissolving our partnership, Eric had pulled me almost even with Craig. I pushed hard and, to my surprise, was able to complete the passing move. Up ahead several boat lengths, I could see Eric powering by Jan Lupinski. Would I be able to bridge the gap and grab onto Jan's coattails for yet another time this season?
Coming by the Annisquam light, Jan made a drastic left turn to avoid a barely submerged rock. I took advantage of this maneuver to pull within one and a half boat lengths, but like a skittish colt, he sensed my presence and refused to let me ride. Despite my efforts to keep up, over the next five minutes Jan extended his lead to four boat lengths. I was about ready to give up the chase and settle into a pace less likely to leave me in a coma when I saw the nose of a ski push into my periphery.
The only reason that I find the strength to write about the next moment is that it was followed almost immediately by a compensatory event. Floppy Hat was back. All of my training. All of my hard work out in the cold and wind. All of the missed birthdays and lost jobs and crippling debt. And I was going to lose to Gilligan's less coordinated brother. My heart sinking two notches (where it pounded uncomfortably against my churning stomach), I made a panicked grab at Floppy's side wash. It was no use. I clawed helplessly at the water with my paddle, but could find no purchase. I slid off his stern.
Rather than plunging into darkness, however, I found myself standing on the shoulder of a giant. Glickman, you magnificent bastard! Er... I read your book! In my initial despair, I hadn't noticed that Joe had been drafting Floppy Hat. I had figured that he was somewhere up ahead with Dorian and Borys, more of a theoretical presence in the race than a flesh-and-blood paddler. Finding myself ahead (if only for eight more seconds) of a man with 15 top-five Blackburn finishes under his belt soothed the soul-deep wounds left by the reappearance of The Hat.
My spirits buoyed, I marshaled my remaining resources and managed to pulled onto Joe's wash. Thirty-five minutes into a three hour race, you generally don't want to talk about "remaining resources", but if I was going to burn out, it would at least be a spectacular viking funeral pyre. Floppy Hat was pulling us closer to Jan. As we approached the next small promontory, our outside track converged with his inside line. Just as we caught Jan, I lost my battle with exhaustion and dropped off the train. I found myself side-by-side with my nemesis.
Hapless Jan has been the focal point of a number of my jokes and gibes this season. I stand by my decision to poke fun at his expense, but I fear I may have awakened something terrible in him. There's never been any doubt that, despite his charming antics, he's a very strong paddler. Although I've edged him out in several races this season, there have always been extenuating circumstances (navigation errors, leaky boats, drug overdoses, etc.). As I looked across and saw the determination carved on his face, I realized that I was no longer dealing with Wrong-Way Lupinski or Calamity Jan. In the biggest race of the year, he was here to set the record straight.
Seeing Floppy Hat and Joe pass by, Jan tweaked a setting on his clockwork stroke and quickly joined their train. Before I could stop the bleeding, I found myself back three boat lengths. It was time to take measure of my mettle. Would I fold under this attack? Or would I find the inner strength to laugh in the face of heat stroke and rejoin the pack? My mettle was worn paper thin, but I managed a set of long-rest micro-intervals (something like 3 strokes on, 120 off) that edged me closer to the trio.
Joe had been pulling the group, but just as I was on the verge of establishing a place at the back of the pack, he paused to take a drink and Jan took the point. Uh-oh. As he told me after the race, there was no way I was going to get a ride at his expense. He upped the tempo once again and I was lost. For the next half hour, I watched helplessly as the group pull further away until, mercifully, they disappeared in the distance. I was left in solitude to contemplate the void.
With nearly two-thirds of the course left, I settled into what I hoped would be a sustainable rhythm sufficient to protect me from whatever Impens or Echols lurked behind. After checking in near Straitsmouth Island and rounding a couple more headlands, the tide and a mild headwind (which I would characterize as "stunningly unrefreshing") started their relentless attack. Coincidentally, my GPS began to malfunction at this point, showing speeds that must have been in Euros or something.
I was still managing to reel in slower vessels, so they also must have been having problems with their exchange rates.
Every once in a while, a small series of runners would risk a foray out against the wind and tide, offering whispered promises of fabulous rides. I'd throw myself into pursuit, only to have these promises evaporate in the pounding heat. At least this sadistic game kept my mind off the fact that my blood was congealing into a pasty sludge, despite my frequent attempts to rehydrate.
I soon found myself the unwitting participant in a behavioral psychology experiment. Occasionally, I'd accidentally throw an ugly stroke that would result in a refreshing (but wasteful) splash. Interesting. Better try that again. I'd seen a PBS show like this with a pigeon. Peck the right button, get a scrumptious food pellet. The positive reinforcement of the cooling splash was quickly conditioning away any semblance of efficient paddling style. That pigeon suffocated under a mound of pellets, I remembered. If I didn't break out of this cycle, I'd soon be immobile and hypothermic.
As I once wisely observed after unwisely trying to pick up a cast iron pan repeatedly by its sizzling handle, what separates man from animal is the ability to ignore our past mistakes. Or in this case, our past rewards. I disciplined my stroke enough to maintain forward progress, although I still couldn't resist a peck or two every once in a while.
Somewhere in the haze well ahead of me, a timeless tale of nature's savagery was playing out. Working together, the bloodthirsty trio of Floppy Hat, Steely Jan, and Glicker (and if those names don't throw a chill into your heart, well, perhaps I might want to rethink my aliases) was tracking down Eric the Sleeveless (not "the Shirtless" due to some kind of court order, I'm guessing). I'm speculating here, but Eric, wild-eyed with terror, probably darted towards the surf zone to evade his pursuers. Finding no shelter there, he went turtle and was overtaken.
Meanwhile, back in the cheap seats, I paddled on unaware of the carnage ahead. Although I was maintaining a steady/plodding pace, the heat was getting to me. Reality was starting to melt at the seams. At one point, I hallucinated a black and sinister ski off to my port, sliding effortlessly by. I huddled myself small so as to not be noticed and boarded. And so it was that Craig caught and passed me at mile 15.
Eventually, the long back shore stretch came to an end. After two-plus hours, I figured the credits would start rolling at this point, but no. A quick glance at my GPS told me there was at least €40 left in this melodrama (gotta get that thing fixed). I had expected the back side of Eastern Point to be confused and angry, but found it rather to be as playful and good-natured as an inebriated bear. As long as you didn't get careless or smear your head with honey, you'd be OK. I'm more of a molasses man, so I sailed through with nothing more than a few mischievous cuffs to the head.
Along the outside of the Dog Bar there were some nice swells heading my way, but out of principal and/or exhaustion, I avoided taking any hand-outs. I'd finish on my terms, and those terms were unconditional surrender. As I turned into the harbor, I knew from past races that in about 16 minutes it would all be over. I gritted my teeth (not out of resolve, but because even my jaw muscles were cramping at this point) and bore down.
I asked a rower I was passing for some recon assistance. This was probably a breach of etiquette, but I would have mooned the Dalai Lama to get an edge at this point. She reported that there were no paddlers immediately behind us, so I started to power down unnecessary subsystems. The brain fusion I mentioned in the introduction had made it difficult to tell left from right, so I put all my energy into remembering to paddle on alternating sides of my craft. In this manner, I managed to limp to the finish, only rousing myself from my this-side/the-other-side stupor when I noticed that I'd miss breaking 3 hours unless I picked up the pace slightly. Beata pulled in shortly after to also stay under 3 hours - the fastest woman by nearly 20 minutes. Doubtless she would have caught me had the race been much longer.
The race was over, but nobody told the pain. Inwardly, I cursed those paddlers who had placed ahead of me, and were now chatting convivially in the shallows, as if I wasn't in muscle-screaming agony. Don't even get me started on Francisco Urena, who, having finished 30 minutes earlier with Flavio Costa in the winning double ski, was dancing a jig on the greasy pole as I finished. After bleeding off some excess heat in the not-cool-enough waters of Gloucester Harbor, I retreated to the isolation of my air-conditioned car. Like a deep-sea diver suffering in a decompression chamber, I writhed and groaned as a pack of curious onlookers pressed against the windows to gawk at the spectacle.
After regaining my composure, I rejoined the festivities at the finish (to be inwardly cursed by the next generation of finishers, no doubt). Given the adverse conditions, nearly everyone who had raced last year was considerably slower this year. The flaming husks of exploded paddlers littered the beach. Dorian had spit in the eye of El Diablo Sol, however, finishing at 2:25:32 - only a minute off of last year's record pace. Borys, suffering from numb legs for most of the race, was well shy his previous mark, but easily took second. Joe rounded out the podium finishers.
Through some fine deductive reasoning, I determined that fourth place finisher Jakob (Jack) Van Dorp and Floppy Hat were one and the same. Your secret is safe with me, Jack. Jan finished an eye-opening fifth. I'm currently accepting applications for a new nemesis - there's no point continuing to focus on someone who finishes that far ahead of me. Other paddlers who had fine days were Bob Capellini (5 minutes faster than last year) and Mary Beth (15 minutes better than last year). In the new SS20Plus category, Matt Drayer impressed in a win against a strong field, with Ken Cooper and Dana Gaines finishing second and third. Matt finished 5th in the SS20Plus class of the Essex River Race, so his improvement this season has been truly frightening.
Having written this summary, I've decided that my no-more-racing oath might have been a little rash. Maybe just one more race. But only if it rhymes with Ward's good-for-nothing hobo brother, Stubble Cleaver.
ERRATA & CORRECTIONS: To the best of my knowledge, Eric does not smell of musk. Jack is neither a bumpkin nor a dabbler, but he does dress kind of funny and claims to be from Canada. Craig only looks like a pirate. I was never actually able to pass that rower. Francisco's jig was more of a lively two-step.
This was to be my 10th sanctioned 19-mile trip around Cape Ann, although only my 3rd in a surfski. With a field of 55 skis (including doubles and boats in the new SS20Plus class) and 1 racing kayak (hang in there, Brian!), it promised to be another very competitive race. As the top US finisher (and 14th overall) at the inaugural world championships, Ohio's Dorian Wolter was the odds-on favorite to win in Gloucester. The only legitimate challenger would be Borys Markin. Beata Cseke was almost certain to be the fastest woman. Beyond these top contenders, though, the field seemed pretty open. With high heat and humidity and an unhelpful (some might say spiteful) tide, who knew how things might play out?
After a captain's meeting at which I believe I glimpsed several fat, naked Russian guys enjoying a steam, we retreated to our boats to figure out exactly how much liquid we could strap on. My experimental Slushee holder failed catastrophically during launch (brain freeze has nothing on groin frost, by the way), so I stuck with a water bladder the size of an exercise ball. I made my way to the starting line, watched the SK and FSK classes head out, and all too soon it was our turn to join the fray. We were so young. The starter counted us down and the HPKs were off.
We were packed a little too closely at the start, resulting in some spirited jostling, a few paddle scrapes, and one guy shivved. By the time we got up to speed, I found myself staggered back on the right side of the main pack - much further back than I had drawn up in my playbook. I spotted Dorian and Eric McNett off to the far right, quickly separating themselves from their neighbors. Borys (leading the main pack to my left) and Dorian (on the right) were quickly gone, transported into some alternate dimension where F=ma is for suckers. Eric was adhering to the standard laws of physics, but I suspect he might have been bending the rules a little.
 |
| Exiting the Annisquam River (Photo courtesy Mike Chamness, wingsandwaves@comcast.net) |
Five minutes into the race, we had caught up to Craig Impens and an unknown racer wearing a wide-brimmed floppy hat and brightly patterned print shorts. I would have never guessed that headwear could be deployed as a formidable psychological weapon, but Floppy Hat was a master of this game. Despite having an elite ski, being obviously fit, and demonstrating a fine stroke, his ridiculous hat easily trumped these qualifications. This yahoo was clearly a dilettante paddler. Any moment now he'd pop open a can of Bud and drop a line for stripers. Working at 100% on a draft just to keep up with such a dabbler was demoralizing in the extreme.
With Floppy Hat leading the charge, Craig and Eric in the second rank, and me hanging on Eric's tail like an asthmatic baby elephant, we pushed out against the tidal currents of the Annisquam. At one point, Hat and McNett decided that they could shave a few inches off the course by going under the sloping gangways that led down to private docks. Concerned about shaving a few inches off my head, I jumped over to Craig's wash. The herd reconvened a few minutes later and I demonstrated my loyalty to Eric by hopping back on his musk-scented wash. We were working together, after all.
In the smooth and protected waters of the river, Floppy Hat chose to take the psychological warfare up another notch. With no warning and no apparent cause, he executed the first half of a perfect barrel roll. This kayaking bumpkin was responsible for driving my heart rate to levels it hadn't seen since the Carter administration? Well-played, Floppy Hat, but we now must bid you adieu. Our trio carried on.
 |
| Junior, Bob, Tim, Kam, Chris, and Wesley (Photo courtesy Mike Chamness, wingsandwaves@comcast.net) |
Despite my new resolution, Eric began to slip inexorably away. It was a great relationship while it lasted, but you don't want to push these things to the point where you also have to contribute. Mary Beth and I have a similar arrangement. Before dissolving our partnership, Eric had pulled me almost even with Craig. I pushed hard and, to my surprise, was able to complete the passing move. Up ahead several boat lengths, I could see Eric powering by Jan Lupinski. Would I be able to bridge the gap and grab onto Jan's coattails for yet another time this season?
Coming by the Annisquam light, Jan made a drastic left turn to avoid a barely submerged rock. I took advantage of this maneuver to pull within one and a half boat lengths, but like a skittish colt, he sensed my presence and refused to let me ride. Despite my efforts to keep up, over the next five minutes Jan extended his lead to four boat lengths. I was about ready to give up the chase and settle into a pace less likely to leave me in a coma when I saw the nose of a ski push into my periphery.
 |
| Exploring the shallow-water capabilities of my V10 (Photo courtesy Mike Chamness, wingsandwaves@comcast.net) |
The only reason that I find the strength to write about the next moment is that it was followed almost immediately by a compensatory event. Floppy Hat was back. All of my training. All of my hard work out in the cold and wind. All of the missed birthdays and lost jobs and crippling debt. And I was going to lose to Gilligan's less coordinated brother. My heart sinking two notches (where it pounded uncomfortably against my churning stomach), I made a panicked grab at Floppy's side wash. It was no use. I clawed helplessly at the water with my paddle, but could find no purchase. I slid off his stern.
Rather than plunging into darkness, however, I found myself standing on the shoulder of a giant. Glickman, you magnificent bastard! Er... I read your book! In my initial despair, I hadn't noticed that Joe had been drafting Floppy Hat. I had figured that he was somewhere up ahead with Dorian and Borys, more of a theoretical presence in the race than a flesh-and-blood paddler. Finding myself ahead (if only for eight more seconds) of a man with 15 top-five Blackburn finishes under his belt soothed the soul-deep wounds left by the reappearance of The Hat.
My spirits buoyed, I marshaled my remaining resources and managed to pulled onto Joe's wash. Thirty-five minutes into a three hour race, you generally don't want to talk about "remaining resources", but if I was going to burn out, it would at least be a spectacular viking funeral pyre. Floppy Hat was pulling us closer to Jan. As we approached the next small promontory, our outside track converged with his inside line. Just as we caught Jan, I lost my battle with exhaustion and dropped off the train. I found myself side-by-side with my nemesis.
Hapless Jan has been the focal point of a number of my jokes and gibes this season. I stand by my decision to poke fun at his expense, but I fear I may have awakened something terrible in him. There's never been any doubt that, despite his charming antics, he's a very strong paddler. Although I've edged him out in several races this season, there have always been extenuating circumstances (navigation errors, leaky boats, drug overdoses, etc.). As I looked across and saw the determination carved on his face, I realized that I was no longer dealing with Wrong-Way Lupinski or Calamity Jan. In the biggest race of the year, he was here to set the record straight.
Seeing Floppy Hat and Joe pass by, Jan tweaked a setting on his clockwork stroke and quickly joined their train. Before I could stop the bleeding, I found myself back three boat lengths. It was time to take measure of my mettle. Would I fold under this attack? Or would I find the inner strength to laugh in the face of heat stroke and rejoin the pack? My mettle was worn paper thin, but I managed a set of long-rest micro-intervals (something like 3 strokes on, 120 off) that edged me closer to the trio.
With nearly two-thirds of the course left, I settled into what I hoped would be a sustainable rhythm sufficient to protect me from whatever Impens or Echols lurked behind. After checking in near Straitsmouth Island and rounding a couple more headlands, the tide and a mild headwind (which I would characterize as "stunningly unrefreshing") started their relentless attack. Coincidentally, my GPS began to malfunction at this point, showing speeds that must have been in Euros or something.
I was still managing to reel in slower vessels, so they also must have been having problems with their exchange rates.
Every once in a while, a small series of runners would risk a foray out against the wind and tide, offering whispered promises of fabulous rides. I'd throw myself into pursuit, only to have these promises evaporate in the pounding heat. At least this sadistic game kept my mind off the fact that my blood was congealing into a pasty sludge, despite my frequent attempts to rehydrate.
I soon found myself the unwitting participant in a behavioral psychology experiment. Occasionally, I'd accidentally throw an ugly stroke that would result in a refreshing (but wasteful) splash. Interesting. Better try that again. I'd seen a PBS show like this with a pigeon. Peck the right button, get a scrumptious food pellet. The positive reinforcement of the cooling splash was quickly conditioning away any semblance of efficient paddling style. That pigeon suffocated under a mound of pellets, I remembered. If I didn't break out of this cycle, I'd soon be immobile and hypothermic.
As I once wisely observed after unwisely trying to pick up a cast iron pan repeatedly by its sizzling handle, what separates man from animal is the ability to ignore our past mistakes. Or in this case, our past rewards. I disciplined my stroke enough to maintain forward progress, although I still couldn't resist a peck or two every once in a while.
Somewhere in the haze well ahead of me, a timeless tale of nature's savagery was playing out. Working together, the bloodthirsty trio of Floppy Hat, Steely Jan, and Glicker (and if those names don't throw a chill into your heart, well, perhaps I might want to rethink my aliases) was tracking down Eric the Sleeveless (not "the Shirtless" due to some kind of court order, I'm guessing). I'm speculating here, but Eric, wild-eyed with terror, probably darted towards the surf zone to evade his pursuers. Finding no shelter there, he went turtle and was overtaken.
Meanwhile, back in the cheap seats, I paddled on unaware of the carnage ahead. Although I was maintaining a steady/plodding pace, the heat was getting to me. Reality was starting to melt at the seams. At one point, I hallucinated a black and sinister ski off to my port, sliding effortlessly by. I huddled myself small so as to not be noticed and boarded. And so it was that Craig caught and passed me at mile 15.
 |
| Dorian overtakes Francisco and Flavio at the Dog Bar (Photo courtesy Mike Chamness, wingsandwaves@comcast.net) |
Eventually, the long back shore stretch came to an end. After two-plus hours, I figured the credits would start rolling at this point, but no. A quick glance at my GPS told me there was at least €40 left in this melodrama (gotta get that thing fixed). I had expected the back side of Eastern Point to be confused and angry, but found it rather to be as playful and good-natured as an inebriated bear. As long as you didn't get careless or smear your head with honey, you'd be OK. I'm more of a molasses man, so I sailed through with nothing more than a few mischievous cuffs to the head.
Along the outside of the Dog Bar there were some nice swells heading my way, but out of principal and/or exhaustion, I avoided taking any hand-outs. I'd finish on my terms, and those terms were unconditional surrender. As I turned into the harbor, I knew from past races that in about 16 minutes it would all be over. I gritted my teeth (not out of resolve, but because even my jaw muscles were cramping at this point) and bore down.
 |
| Cooling down (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols) |
The race was over, but nobody told the pain. Inwardly, I cursed those paddlers who had placed ahead of me, and were now chatting convivially in the shallows, as if I wasn't in muscle-screaming agony. Don't even get me started on Francisco Urena, who, having finished 30 minutes earlier with Flavio Costa in the winning double ski, was dancing a jig on the greasy pole as I finished. After bleeding off some excess heat in the not-cool-enough waters of Gloucester Harbor, I retreated to the isolation of my air-conditioned car. Like a deep-sea diver suffering in a decompression chamber, I writhed and groaned as a pack of curious onlookers pressed against the windows to gawk at the spectacle.
 |
| Top three: Dorian, Borys, and Joe |
Through some fine deductive reasoning, I determined that fourth place finisher Jakob (Jack) Van Dorp and Floppy Hat were one and the same. Your secret is safe with me, Jack. Jan finished an eye-opening fifth. I'm currently accepting applications for a new nemesis - there's no point continuing to focus on someone who finishes that far ahead of me. Other paddlers who had fine days were Bob Capellini (5 minutes faster than last year) and Mary Beth (15 minutes better than last year). In the new SS20Plus category, Matt Drayer impressed in a win against a strong field, with Ken Cooper and Dana Gaines finishing second and third. Matt finished 5th in the SS20Plus class of the Essex River Race, so his improvement this season has been truly frightening.
Having written this summary, I've decided that my no-more-racing oath might have been a little rash. Maybe just one more race. But only if it rhymes with Ward's good-for-nothing hobo brother, Stubble Cleaver.
ERRATA & CORRECTIONS: To the best of my knowledge, Eric does not smell of musk. Jack is neither a bumpkin nor a dabbler, but he does dress kind of funny and claims to be from Canada. Craig only looks like a pirate. I was never actually able to pass that rower. Francisco's jig was more of a lively two-step.
