Narrow River in Broad Strokes

Originally scheduled for April 4, the governors of the 10 mile Narrow River Race had granted us a stay of execution due to high winds and excessive whining about the excessive early-season length.  Having exhausted our appeals, however, it came time for our final paddle (with the exception of a sick Wesley, who exonerated himself half-way through the race).  Although the course stubbornly remained as long as ever, the three week reprieve at least supplied us with a pleasantly sunny day and a little extra time to fine-tune our pain thresholds.

Jan, Eric, and Tim - an inseparable trio I like to call the JET Pack.  What tomfoolery will they get into today?

The field was comprised of exactly the 14 paddlers that you'd expect at this race.  I proposed that we also just assign the finishing order that you'd expect and head straight to Oak Hill Tavern, but some reality-addicted sticklers insisted on empirical trials instead.  Wesley and Tim Dwyer called the skippers' meeting to order and supplied us with well-intentioned navigational tips, most of which amounted to variants of "watch out for the bottom".  We'd travel up-river 3 miles, head back down past the start to the mouth of the tidal river, and finish back at the start.  With some luck, we'd accomplish 90% of this afloat.

Via a progression of increasingly dire-sounding warnings about the impending start of the race, Wesley eventually counted us down to a rolling start.  Chris Chappell jumped out to an early lead, with Eric Costanzo in pursuit.  Jan Lupinski, leaving the gate as the favorite with better than 2-1 odds (I had twenty bucks on him myself), started conservatively on the left flank of the snarling pack.  Lacking torque at low RPMs, I eased up to race pace alongside Tim Dwyer.

Yet again, Tim lectures us on the importance of oral hygiene.

After clambering up several familiar rungs of the draft ladder, I was surprised to find myself grabbing hold of Bob Capellini's wake for a boost up to Wesley.  I figured Bob maybe knew something I didn't about an upcoming hotspot, so I ramped up my effort.  Off to my left, still well removed from the fray, I saw Jan moving like a tremendous machine towards the front.  I made a burst to pull past Wesley and hook onto Chris and Eric, with the hope that we three could hitch our wagons to Jan's runaway locomotive.

Recognizing Jan as a villain who must be fettered before he can do additional damage to our point series hopes, Eric Costanzo and I had discussed strategy before the race.  We developed a vigilante plan that was as brilliant as it was unreasonably optimistic:  Trick Chris into pulling us onto Jan's wash, discard him like an old air conditioner (after carefully draining him of environmental toxins, naturally), then work together to deliver a series of punishing intervals directly to Jan's ego.  Perhaps wanting to maintain plausible deniability, Eric didn't technically agree to any of this, but I could tell by the way his eyes glazed over during my Powerpoint presentation that he was on board.  Now we just had to execute.

All the way until mile 0.7, we were spot on plan.  As Chris settled in behind Jan, however, the unimaginable happened...  A catastrophic failure in the Eric-to-Chris latching mechanism left Eric and I to rely on our own over-taxed power plants.  I tried to stoke Eric into overdrive by shoveling derision on his fitness and stamina, but my position squarely behind him gave me no real moral leverage in this regard.  Eventually, a combination of guilt and desperation drove me to move ahead of Eric and take a turn pulling.  Jan eventually dropped Chris, but by that point the latter was at least a dozen boat lengths ahead of us.

Eric soon dropped off my starboard side, leaving me to reel in Chris on my own.  Not wanting to land him too green, I spent the next four miles patiently hauling in the big fella.  When I eventually pulled even with him, however, he still had quite a bit of fight left in him.  It took another mile or so before I could put him away - and even then, as I found afterwards, he lingered on just out of my periphery for another mile (while still keeping enough in the tank to beat off Eric in the final stretch).

I'd be remiss if I failed to address the most notorious characteristic of the Narrow River.  With the exception of a three mile up-and-back portion of the course when the river widens into a small lake, you could see the bottom sliding under your boat for vast stretches of the race.  So?  The water of Lake Tahoe (bear with me here) is so extraordinarily clear that you can often see objects on the lake bed even at depths of over 100 feet.  I can assure you, however, that were the water of the Narrow River miraculously replaced with Guinness, you'd still be able to see each and every pebble through the thin slick of delicious stout.  Also, the race would be a lot more popular.

Every few minutes, you'd hit a particularly shallow stretch of river, draining your speed and willpower in equal measures.  The first few times this happens you'll weave to and fro in search of an ever-elusive channel, but you soon realize that your energy would be better spent cursing Tim and Wesley.  Instead, you plow ahead through the morass - only changing course to avoid prospectors, imprudently discarded murder weapons, and the occasional bag of undrowned kittens.  With perseverance, you'd eventually return to water deep enough to wade in.

Chris and Eric play a medium-stakes game of cat and mouse (Photo courtesy Wesley Echols and SurfskiRacing.com).

With Chris behind me I could still see Jan far ahead, the distance reducing him to that awkward size somewhere between a mote and a speck.  Larger than a point, sure, but definitely smaller that a dot.  Not really mite-sized, but go ahead and use that as a point of reference.  Say 10% larger than a mite, but dressed in bright yellow.  In any event, I focused solely on Jan (without my glasses, I should point out, a mite-plus object is blurred to a subjective size of a diffuse splotch - but I recommend you stick with the objective reality of a mite-like Jan for your visualization purposes), letting Lupinski guide me through the twists of the Narrow River as it approached Narragansett Bay.  That's right...  I navigated by our Pole star.

I've been saving that one for years.

The final turn of the race is only marginally less notorious than the Narrow River's questionable legal status as a "navigable waterway".  Exhausted from 8 miles of racing, we're then asked to turn around a pole that's perilously close to the bank in the fastest-flowing part of the river.  I understand that the race organizers had originally wanted to place an osprey's nest on the pole so that we'd further have to fend off an enraged bird-of-prey, but the cost was prohibitive (call me next time - I got a guy).  Even knowing that it was unlikely that my eyes would be gouged out, I approached the turn with considerable trepidation.  Fortunately, I swung around the pole with no problems that you need to know about.

Mary Beth finished the way she started - mumbling something about the length of the damn race under her breath.

Although I seemed to have gained on Jan at the turn - knocking his lead to under a minute - the visions I had of hunting him down in the last couple of miles revealed themselves to be more of the "fevered" than "prescient" variety.  He steadily widened his lead in the final upstream stretch, ultimately finishing nearly 2 minutes ahead.  Behind me, a heroic battle for the final podium position was playing out as Chris successfully parried repeated attacks from a hard-charging Eric (check out Chris' video).  Bruce Deltorchio continued his strong early-season run by nudging out Tim Dwyer for 5th place.  Mary Beth remains unbeaten among women this season, but now owes Chris Sherwood a case of beer (you're a Schlitz man, right Chris?) for his untiring efforts on her behalf.

We're on my home turf next - the Essex River.  You may want to wear your goggles.  Remember... I got a guy.