Essex River: Last of the Flats

Well before I even dreamed that it was possible, let alone desirable, to spend so much time and money on surfskis, the Essex River Race gave me my first taste of competitive paddling.  That bitter flavor lingered on my palette for the hour and seven minutes it took me to complete the race.  I had thought I was a fast paddler, but it became a little hard to reconcile that belief given the empirical evidence of being passed every few minutes.  It took me a a couple of years of getting beat down (OK, maybe seven) to wise up and start paddling a ski and then a couple more to get wise up further and start training with gusto (or, more often, reluctant tepidity).

The Essex River is practically my back yard (which explains the low-tide stench that occasionally wafts through the house, often right after taco night), so I planned to make the most of my home estuary advantage.  We'd have a modest outgoing tide and light breeze ferrying us along for the first half of the race, but the tide would turn (not literally) on the way back home.  I would dance nimbly from the channels to the shallows via a route that cross-optimized speed versus distance traveled.

The day got off to a rocky start as all six of the prime parking spots right across Route 22 from the boat launch were already taken, despite our pre-dawn arrival.  I'm pretty sure Bob Capellini had been sleeping there in his truck since Thursday.  I tried to put this setback behind me and prepare for the race ahead.  Several long hours later, we were on the water awaiting our turn as the last heat of the day.  As we floated idly about, Borys and Beata were conspicuously absent.  I thought they might be granting us a head start, but it turns out they were just putting some final touches on their victory speeches.

As I twist sideways to take this photo, the field waits hungrily for me to either flip or drop my camera in the drink.  No such luck, fellas.  I'm in an Epic V10 - the fastest and most stable boat on the market!  Nothing?  Cripes.  What's a guy got to do to get a little love from a sponsor?

I managed to get a good position near the left bank of the river, such that when the starting cannon fired from the right, I was barely grazed.  I also was set up well for the initial left turn.  Without having to burst any major organs, I was pulled along with the lead set of eight or so racers.  So this is what it feels like to not be disheartened in the first minute of a race.  It's all right as a lark, but probably not for me.  Makes for boring copy.

After a few moments, I started pulling my way forward, trying to do so with a little more grace than my oafish flailings at the Run of the Charles race.  I eased by Chris Chappell and Bruce Deltorchio (who used this race to announce his engagement to a new V10 Sport, even though he's still paying alimony to a string of ex-es), squeezed between Wesley and Francisco, and set my mark on Chris Laughlin and Andrius Zinkevichus up ahead.  About five minutes into the race, I pulled ahead of these two and set my sights on Borys.  That is, I was looking forward and he was probably one of those specks within my field of view.

Before the race, I had to explain to an embarrassed Wesley that he had been misinterpreting "leg drive" all these years.

In the past, I've always been guided through the winding portion of the race by a pack of faster seeing-eye paddlers.  Even if I had different ideas about the best route, it never seemed worth giving up the advantages of the draft. This year, after the first half mile I found myself with Open Waters well out ahead of me (I'm suggesting that as Borys' new nickname) and Andrius drafting off to my starboard.  Perfect.  I could use my knowledge of the river to plot an optimal course.

What I hadn't considered, however, is that my preferred route would frequently intersect with the seemingly random courses of the first wave of rowing craft, heading back towards the finish.  In other mixed-craft races like the Snow Row or Blackburn Challenge, working your way around the wide oarspans of rowboats can be challenging.  In those races, however, you're generally overtaking a boat at a relative speed of a knot or two, the rowers can see you coming, and you have an ocean to maneuver in.  In the Essex, you're approaching each other at a combined speed of 12+ knots, the rowers are blind to your presence, and you're in a winding river.  Also, because they can't see where they're going, they tend to pursue a course down the middle of the channel while always seeming to be about 8 degrees askew from heading straight downriver.

The stage has been set for bad navigation decisions, and I was just the person to make them.  In trying to stay in the channel to reap the benefits of the tidal current, I found I was erring on the side of "holy geez, that was close" as I misjudged the course and oarspan of the oncoming blurs.  A six man behemoth roared by inches off my port side.  Fortunately my heart got stuck in my throat, or it would have been whisked right along downstream with the rowboat.  I left ample room for the next several rowboats to pass on my the port side (you might reasonably assume that I had learned my lesson from the close call, but don't jump the gun...), after which I was confronted with a disaster-in-waiting.  Ahead, a two person shell and a six person rowboat were bearing down on me.  They appeared at first to be abreast of one another, but it turned out that the shell was actually a length or two in front.

I could either yield the direct route and go to the right of both boats or stay true to the channel current and split their difference.  In my split-second appraisal (a wildly inaccurate use of that term) of the situation, I judged there to be enough of a gap for the latter course.  I angled to port to clear the shell, then straightened out to keep from straying further left into the path of the workboat.  I shot through the gap with several feet to spare on either side.  Whew.  Except...

A pained grunt from my right attested that I had neglected one critical element in planning my trajectory.  The astute reader may recall that I wasn't alone at this point, but was pulling Andrius on a starboard draft.  I hadn't pulled far enough left, leaving insufficient room between my boat and the two person shell.  Andrius took an oar to the chest but managed to stay upright and in contact.  For the next few moments, that contact consisted mostly of us debating (in what might be described as "flowery terms") the finer points of sportsmanship.

In retrospect, I have to concede that if I were Andrius, I'd have been plenty unhappy too.  It was a stupid decision to pass between the two craft in the first place, but once I had committed to that course I should have ensured that we both had ample room.  All I can offer in my defense is that it was a reckless and poorly executed move (for which I have apologized) rather than a malicious tactic.

Now that I've brought the race report to a screeching halt with this mea culpa, let's see if I can lighten things up by returning once more to a deep and generous well - having some good-natured fun at the expense of our friend Bill Kuklinski.  Ostensibly because Bill would be entertaining us immediately after the race, the organizers asked that he start in one of the early heats.  This was just as well, since the squirrel bladders in his Victorian-era life vest tend to lose buoyancy as the temperature rises.  Bill has paddled the Essex course many times (occasionally multiple times during the same race, if I'm not mistaken) and knows the perils of Devastation Reef as well as anyone.  Since you could literally hop to shore on Cross Island from this hazard, I'm not sure that it technically qualifies as a reef, but nevertheless many a craft has been dashed (or, at least, gently grounded) on its jagged maw.  Alas, that list now includes Bill's Epic.  Fortunately, as master glasser Chris Chappell diagnosed after inspecting the damage, it's nothing that a little Wite-Out and baling wire can't fix.  Although he did look a little dehydrated after the race, Bill seems to have weathered his shipwreck with only financial scars.

For the second race in a row, my GoPro failed me.  What gives?  It's got like two buttons.  I did get a pretty good still shot of my foot plate, though.

Back in real time, I managed to tear free from Andrius a quarter mile or so later.  Borys, of course, had pulled his typical disappearing act, so I was on my own.  Fortunately, the Essex race includes a string of mobile motivational waypoints (MMWs) in the form of kayaks in slower classes from earlier starting heats.  Overtaking one of these obliging targets every couple of minutes helps to keep the spirits up in the struggle against fatigue.  Of course, the MMWs are by definition in boats that are inherently much slower than mine, but (a) I find it pretty easy to selectively ignore that fact and (b) it's not my fault if you race in a 12 foot rotomolded kayak.

Remembering my time as a hapless waypoint for the skis, I made sure that I paid it forward.  Approaching each new boat, I did everything I could to put on a good show.  That is, I temporarily stopped moaning and gasping for air, straightened up my fatigue-induced slouch, did my best imitation of a graceful stroke, and tossed off a carefree "Cheerio!" as I passed.  With any luck, my charade would allow them to share in that same desperate inadequacy I felt back in 2004.  I do have the concept of paying it forward right, yeah?

Somebody at headquarters miscalibrated a couple of the MMWs.  Although I had spotted Dana Gaines and Bob Capellini (the leaders of the SS20+ class) with a couple of miles left in the race, I didn't actually seem to be closing on them.  The entire point of the MMW program is to provide an invigorating burst of confidence as you cruise by these paddlers (again, overlooking that they are in much slower boats).  Dana and Bob were pushing their burly skis way too fast, which I found more frustrating than motivating.  Come on, guys.  Get with the program.  Finally, with less than a half mile to go, I managed to pass Dana and then Bob.  I finished with an anemic sprint that left one smart-ass spectator wondering aloud if I was also in the race.

Tim's unexpected rendition of "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!" was a little off key, but still oddly moving. (Photo courtesy of Wesley Echols)

Despite having my own personal best time on the Essex course by 1.5 minutes, Borys had finished nearly 4 minutes in front of me, breaking his 2012 paddling record with a time of 42:17.  While Borys and I had spent most of the race in isolation, most of the other paddlers were engaged in pitched combat within various pods, complete with parries, feints, and, at least in my envious imagination, witty repartee.  After battling for much of the last two-thirds of the race, Andrius edged out Chris (Laughlin) for 3rd.  Wesley bested hard-charging Mike for 5th, with Beata and Bruce Deltorchio hard on their sterns.  Chris Chappell managed to hold off a late surge by Tim Dwyer, who slipped by Kirk Olsen and Tim Hudyncia in his push to fill out the top 10.

Top 3 guys, top 2 gals.  (Photo courtesy of Wesley Echols)

With little wind and mild tidal currents, it was a fast day on the Essex.  Most paddlers who stayed in comparable boats beat their 2013 times by 1 to 2 minutes.  A few cheaters upboated from the SS20+ class to improve their times by 5 minutes or more.  Tim Hudyncia and Mary Beth, however, really outdid themselves, each shaving nearly 9 minutes off of last year's times without radically changing boats.  Mary Beth is so attached to her (fine, you all win) new boat that she has started bringing it to bed, which has made spooning a little awkward.

Last report's call-to-arms for New England paddlers was answered in no uncertain terms.   In this race, eight of the top ten spots went to native paddlers.  Granted, the metropaddlers were pretty thinly represented this time, with regulars Jan Lupinski and Eric Costanzo apparently too frightened and/or busy with other commitments to make the trip to Essex.  Still, this race proves conclusively that in the absence of competition, we will fill in the open places in the results.

For those of us in the North Shore of Massachusetts, our next race is the opening salvo in the summer-long barrage of pain called the Salem League.  For everyone else, the Sakonnet calls in early June.  In any event, we're abandoning calm river waters and casting off into rougher seas.  And yes, I have started practicing my remounts.  Thanks for asking.

Run of the Charles: A Full House

In days past, the 6 mile Run of the Charles race was a relaxing spring event.  A handful of paddlers would mess about on the lazy river for a while, then enjoy some crumpets and split a Zima.  The real competitors were doing the 19 mile race, lugging their boats down the leafy streets of Boston suburbs for most of that distance.  Times have changed.  In 2011, there were 4 skis in the 6 mile event.  This year 23 showed up for this race, including a large contingent of out-of-town luminaries.  Cue the nausea-inducing feelings of inadequacy.  With early season bragging rights on the line, this would be no Sunday in the park.  Well, sure, technically it would be just that.  But no crumpets.

The cold temperatures did little to quench the competitive fires of the paddlers, although I'm pretty sure mine would have been promptly extinguished if the bitter early morning rains hadn't stopped.   As we hopped about to stay warm and caught up with friends, I realized that I had made a tactical error in my Narrow River report by pointing out that "Mary Beth's boat" actually wasn't.  Not only are people now universally referring to the V10 Sport as her boat, they're also asking her when she's going to start racing in the V10 that she's so generously letting me temporarily paddle.  She's devious, that one.  Covetous too.

Mary Beth's quiver.

After the brief captain's meeting, I hit the murky waters for warm-ups in my borrowed (oh for Pete's sake!) boat, then paddled warily over to the starting line.  The combined talent of the field was truly formidable.   Apparently I passed out from anxiety just before the start, because when I came to, I found myself safely ensconced in the final third of the pack.  You might think that I'd grow accustomed to this, but just like you never get used to the unexpected sting of rejected grade school Valentines (Katie Bloom, did you have to write "return to loser" on the envelope?), I still found floundering in the backwash of 15 boats dispiriting.  However, there was nothing for it but to buckle down, grit my teeth, and commence feeling sorry for myself.

I can't be sure which paddlers took the immediate lead (other than Francisco Urena, who expends more energy in the first 30 seconds of a race than most people do in a season), but within a few minutes Jan Lupinski, Andrius Zinkevichus (in a K-1), and Flavio Costa had asserted control of the race, with Chris Chappell, Craig Impens, and Wesley Echols in close pursuit.  Borys Markin, having finished the 19 mile course about three minutes before the start of this race, was just too fatigued to stay with the leaders.  I jest, of course.  Borys was actually perfecting his needlepoint skills while chatting with Beata Cseke (who managed to make a pink-accented ski look downright menacing) and occasionally dipping a paddle in the water to arrest his god-given momentum.

I'm told the start went off without a hitch. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

As I started to work my way toward the front, I bobbed and weaved my way between boats, catching a useful draft here and leaving a disgruntled fellow competitor there.  Years of glue sniffing (mostly inadvertent) have taken a toll on my fine motor control.  That lack of steering accuracy, combined with wake turbulence and a casual disregard for those previous factors led to some reckless maneuvering.  There was some bumping of boats, some clashing of paddles, and some not unwarranted chiding.  Tim Dwyer - normally the sweetest-natured of fellows - threatened to unman me with a dull paddle blade if I didn't quit crowding him.  Point taken, guys.  Sorry about the sloppiness.

I apparently couldn't be trusted amongst other paddlers.  Chastened, I slowly distanced myself from the throng to a self-imposed exile in the gap between the colorfully-named lead trio of Jan, Andrius, and Flavio and the rest of the pack.  For a half-mile, I paddled with quiet introspection, far from the maddened crowd.   I found gratifying solitude in my reclusive position.  Eventually, however, the relentless isolation started to wear on my psyche.  I began to hear disembodied voices.  I turned back to see that they were, in fact, bodied by Chris and Craig, who were only a couple of lengths behind.  I renounced my imagined seclusion and pushed hard to catch the lead pack, joining up with them 1.5 miles into the race.

Jan was getting no reprieve from the pull he started at the beginning of the race.  With Andrius and Flavio trailing off his right flank and me on his stern, he continued his metronomic cadence while we others gave silent thanks for his philanthropic nature.  At one point, I managed to get my nose between Jan and Andrius in a misguided attempt to discover an inside passage.  Predictably, I got in the way of Andrius' whirring stroke and found myself apologizing for temporarily exempting both of us from the draft.  To my great relief, Andrius latched back quickly onto Jan.  With the first buoy turn-around approaching, I vowed to stop being a navigation hazard.  I hung behind the trio for the turn.

I took some retroactive comfort from the fact that Andrius and Flavio ran afoul of one another rounding the buoy, while I managed to skirt around without incident.  Heading back upstream, Jan continued the lead, with Andrius drafting on his left flank.  Flavio and I had fallen a couple of boat lengths behind, but a brief interval got me back on Jan's stern.  After a few minutes of this, our benevolent leader snapped sharply to the right in an attempt to shake his loyal followers.  Having pledged undying allegiance to Jan's wake miles back, I wasn't about to be thus dissuaded.  Shortly thereafter, however, Andrius proved more fickle - renouncing his oath and falling back to forge his own path to the finish.

Normally I'd put a video about here, but due to technical issues with my GoPro, I ended up with a whole lot of nothing.  I've instead inserted a great shot of Chris, who prides himself on his impeccable contrast and color saturation. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

After four miles of non-stop pulling, I sensed that Jan was tiring.  His Herculean efforts had not been in vain, though - his sacrifice had kept me relatively fresh.  I pulled alongside (willfully ignoring any comments Jan may have mumbled about "ungrateful bastards" - I knew that was just the lactic acid talking) for a few moments, then usurped into the lead.  A couple of intervals later, I was Jan-free.

Of course, I was under no pretense that I would win this race.  Borys was back there somewhere, and would eventually put the hammer down and start paddling instead.  I had been in this same position in a couple of other races, so when all grew quiet and I sensed an otherworldly presence behind me, I was able to skip right over the other likely explanations (angel of death, invading alien, plesiosaurus, etc.).  I had been reeled in.  Like that wee minnow that you never even knew you had on your line.  I was relieved to find, however, that he hadn't pulled any of his fishing buddies along with him.

Borys paddled alongside me for the quarter mile or so.  I could tell the strain of matching my speed was taking its toll - he's just not built for paddling in such a low gear.  It was just a matter of time.  When you're racing your 4 year old to the end of the driveway, you let the little tyke have a little lead to build his confidence before blowing by him in the last few meters - you don't want him to forget how much physically inferior he is, plus this gets you out of buying the ice cream you promised him if he won.  Fortunately, as in that analogy, as Borys and I get older our roles will eventually reverse.  Hold on.  That can't be right.

In the end, Borys and I just had to agree to disagree. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

With about a mile and a quarter to go, Borys kicked it up a notch and started to pull away.  Already at my last visible notch, I was forced to jump blindly for a hypothetical ubernotch and hope that I could hang on.  For a miracle minute, I balanced precariously on Borys' draft.  I was doing it!  "It" being barely holding onto a guy who had already paddled 25 miles and was probably still only working at about 2/3 effort.  Still!  I've pulled helpless bear cubs from a raging cave fire, donated a kidney (not mine) to a dying friend, and recently discovered a cure for diabetes (all I can tell you now is that it involves pimentos), but this had to be my proudest moment.

I had passed my red line a while back, and was well into CGS (cataclysmic glycogen shock - I just made that up, but it should be something), when we reached the starting line and Borys stopped paddling.  Having never paddled the 6 mile course before, he didn't realize that we were supposed to continue upstream another half mile before rounding a turn buoy and returning to the start/finish.  I congratulated Borys and then, in the most nonchalant tone I could muster while gasping for air, added "I'm just going to warm-down a while at a level of effort that may appear somewhat excessive for a recovery paddle."  And then, of course, continued racing.

Top 5: Jan, Borys, Greg, Flavio, and Chris. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

At some point in the next 5 seconds Borys saw through my clever ruse, because 6 seconds later he was back beside me.  After the upstream turn-around, we repeated our dash to the finish line from the opposite direction, but with the same result.  Borys (49:45) had finished 3 seconds ahead of me for the second time that day.  Long-suffering Jan came in next (51:21), followed by Flavio (51:56) and Chris (52:10).  Beata led the women in at 10th place overall (54:12).  Tim Hudyncia has asked me to note that, in addition to having a good race (13th place, 55:08), he also had an uncharacteristically dry race (tied for first, 30% relative humidity).

I'd like to end this report on a serious note.

It's no secret that our New England surfski stronghold has been under relentless attack from New York and New Jersey paddlers*.  While we've weathered the occasional Glickman pillaging raid in the past, and have now grown accustomed to paying steep bi-weekly tributes to Borys and Beata, we are now in danger of being completely overrun by marauders.  Six of the top ten ROTC finishers hail from these nether regions!

We need to put aside our interstate rivalries in an effort to beat back the Metropaddler hordes.  Does it really matter that Connecticuters seldom bathe or that New Hampshirites can't quite grasp the concept of the silent "e"?  Who gives a fig if Rhode Islanders are prone to Twinkie abuse and Vermonters drive like addled goats?  In the end, even though Mainers eat their own young and Bay Staters are exceptionally handsome, aren't we all in this (sinking) boat together?  Legion of New England Paddlers, unite!  I call on those who have already been racing this season to double, nay treble!, their training.  And to those who have yet to make an appearance (McNett, McDonough, Cooper, Olsen, Kuklinski, Deltorchio, Pritchard, Shaw, ...), I appeal to your sense of civic responsibility.  Beat your plowshares into paddles and join us in defending the honor of our loosely amalgamated collection of states!

To Essex!!!

* A reminder that Bob Capellini, Steve DelGaudio, and Jim Hoffmann - while technically all from New York - have been granted dual citizenship.