Casco Bay Challenge: Tactical Maneuvers

From its murky origins in 2013, the Casco Bay Challenge has quickly grown to be an important race on the New England calendar.  In theory, the course is dead simple: Proceed northeast from Willard Beach in South Portland 16.5 miles across Casco Bay to the Mere Point boat launch.  In practice, picking out the optimal path amongst the dozens of similar-looking islands is no mean feat.  On the positive side, Casco Bay encompasses only 958 square miles, so if you wander off course the Coast Guard will likely find you before the ice sets in (which would be in late August, I believe).  Eric McNett and family would again be serving as our hosts.

On a sunny day with a moderate breeze on our hind quarter (very refreshing), 23 skis (including 5 women), a dozen outriggers, and a handful of SUPs would take this year's Challenge.  To supplement the local paddlers, a healthy contingent from the DC area was rounded up and shipped to Maine.  A more nefarious crew of foreigners from the north also made an appearance.

A couple of years ago, while dabbling in black sorcery, Chris Sherwood inadvertently opened a portal to Halifax (which is about what you deserve when you substitute beaver for newt).  Through this abominable Hal Gate climbed Tim Milligan.  After this first sweet taste of freedom from the eternal torments of universal healthcare, civility in public discourse, and dangerously high syrup consumption quotas, Tim returned with his compatriot Dave Murray in 2014.  And this year he's also unleashed the fearsome Lang Twins on a slumbering country.  Inexplicably separated by 30 years, Lang the Elder (henceforth Robert) is one of Canada's premier marathon and wildwater kayakers, while the younger Lang (Neil, although his robust beard made it difficult to tell) is on the national sprint team.  With Mario Blackburn slipping down from Quebec when nobody was looking, this qualified as an invasion.  I called Homeland Security to warn them, but they told me that Maine wasn't technically under their jurisdiction.

Before the race, Pam tries unsuccessfully to synchronize her internal compass with Robert's.

A half hour after sending the SUPs off to almost certain exhaustion, Eric shepherded the remaining boats onto the water.  Although few suspected it at the time, we were lining up for one of the most intriguing races in recent memory - chock full of back-and-forth tactical maneuvers (mostly back in my case) that would repeatedly scramble the order of the top seven finishers.  A quick airhorn blast later, we were off.  Jan Lupinski, who has more humorous kidney stone anecdotes than almost anyone I know, took the early lead.  To my mind, he was the man to beat today, although with such a strong field there were certainly other contenders.  By a couple of miles into the race I had worked my way into what was probably second place - it was difficult to tell because there was some action way off to my right.

Behind me Jim Mallory had locked onto my wash and swallowed the key.  Although we've never raced directly against one another, Jim and I do have a rivalry of sorts.  For 4 of the past 5 years, we've competed in the same run-bike-paddle team triathlon - finishing as the fastest two kayakers each time.  I would just leave it at that.  A more conscientious writer might also mention that Jim beat me in those 4 races, but I'll be damned if I contract scruples at this age.

After several unsuccessful attempts to shake Jim by working small runners, I eventually adopted a grind-him-down strategy, the primary component of which involved pretending that I was more fit than he.  Through a concentrated application of willful ignorance, I had assumed that Jim and I were alone in pursuit of Jan.  Five miles into the race, the sudden appearance of Neil passing close by at a phenomenal rate made me question that assumption.  Post-race video analysis reveals that he had been lurking behind us for some time.  Jim deftly hopped over to Neil's draft and also slid by me.  With an effort that left only a slight taste of blood in my mouth, I was able to clip onto the back of our reordered train.

Sure, it was a lot of work pulling Jim, Neil, and half of Robert.  But I think they'll agree it was worth the effort. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

For some time, I had been monitoring Eric's progress well off to our right.  It soon became evident that he was going to pass us.  I made the difficult decision to abandon my new-found foster home on Jim's draft to see if Eric would take me in.  Although Jim and Neil soon hopped back on my wash to provide moral support, I couldn't seem to close the half-dozen boat lengths that separated me from Eric.  To muddle matters further, Matt Drayer used an island skimming trajectory to drop in unannounced.  Neil cut over to Matt, and together the youngsters pursued Eric while Jim and I dropped further behind.

Unable to narrow the gap myself, I appealed to Jim for help.  Without hesitation, he leapt into action and surged forward.  Sadly, I had neglected to take into account Jim's power as a sprinter.  Already bruised and battered from my tumble from 2nd to 5th position, I was too woozy to match his awesome acceleration.  My only hope of catching the leaders evaporated as I lost my grip on Jim's wash.  He cast a rueful look back, but there was nothing he could do to arrest my fall.  With a respectful tip of his cap (phenomenal ear control, that guy), Jim carried on to join Matt and Neil.

I was almost grateful for the clean break - there'd be no lingering suffering while I struggled in vain to keep up with those guys.  My competitive fire was on the flickering edge of extinguishing itself when Robert Lang showed up with some kerosene and a bag of marshmallows.  Engulfed by the newly stoked flames, I resigned myself to another hour of torment.  Robert soon passed me, but not without picking up a nasty parasite.

Uh-oh.  Things don't look too good for Mary Beth.  Stay tuned to this blog to find out if she pulled through. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

Eric is the butterfly of the surfski world.  While he always knows where he's going, his erratic fluttering to and fro makes him damn difficult to net (let alone stick a pin in).  Eric's wanderings had those of us behind him weaving drunkenly in an attempt to stay on line.  Jan had been leading throughout from a line well to our left, but our meandering string of six skis proved an irresistible lure for him.  Everyone loves a parade.  He turned sharply to join the festivities, losing enough ground in the process that he lost his solo lead fell in with the head group.

I experimented with a downwind line (peer pressure) in hopes of getting by Robert and making up some ground on those ahead.  I managed to pass and gap Robert, but soon enough he caught me and settled on my wash.  Despite my incantations (OK, curses), I could not exorcise this Canadian demon.  Up ahead, however, his bearded spawn was showing signs of mortality.  Paddling alone for the last few miles, Neil appeared to be struggling with cramps.  Taking advantage of his periodic stops, I gradually closed the distance between us until, with two miles left, we caught him.

It's pretty obvious what I should have done at this point was to continue pushing by Neil (or at least try) - if we were even remotely close to one another near the finish, a 25 year-old national-caliber sprinter was probably going to win that battle.  What I actually did was settle onto his wash, rationalizing that I'd just recuperate a little and then - after a half-mile or so - I'd make my move.  Or maybe, since it's pretty comfy back here, I'll just nestle in for another half-mile.  Seems a shame to make a move with a whole mile left, so perhaps... (at this point my reverie was momentarily disrupted by Robert passing us both) ... I'll just hang out here a little longer.  And so on.  Perhaps 200 meters from the finish, I made a token effort to overtake Neil - mostly because I thought he would appreciate the gesture.  Of course, he brushed my attack aside effortlessly.

The lead pack of Eric, Jim, and Matt were too far ahead for me to pick out individuals but I've reconstructed the events through contemporary newspaper clippings and first-hand accounts from old-timers (I feel a little bad about that low blow, but you bastards should have thought of that before kicking my ass).  Matt held a lead of several boat lengths entering Mere Point Cove, but couldn't fend off a last minute attack from Jim.  In a bang-bang-bang finish, it was Jim, Matt, and Eric in a 4 second span.  90 seconds later it was a pop-pop finish for Jan and Robert (2 seconds apart) and, in another 30 seconds, a pew-(pause)-pew end for Neil and me (6 seconds apart, but not nearly as close as that might sound).  Even though I finished on the periphery of the action, it was perhaps the most exciting race I've been a part of.

In the women's race, Pam Boteler beat Kathleen McNamee by 40 seconds for the win, with Sara Jordan placing third.  Kai Bartlett dominated the OC-1 field, finishing nearly 20 minutes ahead of the next single-bladed competitor.

Jan's new happy place.

I was pleased to find that the post-race spread contained nearly every known recovery provision (although if you're taking requests, Eric, I wouldn't mind seeing some ambergris and tiger blood next year).  Joe Shaw, fearing that someone in the crowd might have a deadly nut allergy, selflessly threw himself on the jar of peanut butter.  Taking inspiration from his altruism, I guzzled the chocolate milk to protect the lactose intolerant hordes from themselves and scarfed bananas like ibuprofen to protect the accident prone (although the fiber blast from the peels made me subsequently regret that philanthropic endeavor).

Even Timmy's high jinks couldn't scour away the bitter taste of defeat (and banana peels). (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

Eric presented the awards for the top paddlers in the various categories (some type of carved coaster I think - I was too far off the podium to see very well), then proceeded to draw for door prizes given to every participant.  I won a cool Kai Wa'a sponsor shirt, a bottle of mouthwash, and a trial subscription to Southern Bride magazine - a pretty good haul.  Thanks to the McNett clan and sponsor Adventurous Joe Coffee for a memorable time on Casco Bay.

We now have a long break to the Blackburn on July 25.  Great.  That'll give Matt some extra time in the Salem League to undermine the crumbling foundation of my confidence.

Don't miss these great photos from the race (courtesy of Kealani Kimball).

Ride the Bull: Returning to Form

Hubris, I've recently learned, is not a tasty Middle Eastern dish (which explains a lot about the odd looks I got when ordering Lebanese take-out the other day).  Turns out it's a virulent strain of cockiness that can be cured only by by being surgically cut down a notch or two (note to self - check to see if "hubris" has a Hebrew origin).  With Jan Lupinski, Eric Costanzo. and others doing battle at Eric's Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, and the generally confused conditions of the Narragansett Bay course likely to offset any threats from flatwater specialists, I haughtily assumed I'd be crowned Master Bull Breaker this year.  Bobbing beside my boat in the mouth of Mackerel Cove watching Jim Hoffman pull away, however, it was difficult not to think of myself as the clown of this rodeo.

Let's rewind to a time before my comeuppance.

With Northeast paddlers divided among two races (both of which are in the SurfskiRacing point series), attendance at the 3rd annual Ride the Bull race was down from last year's 21 paddlers to a cozy group of 11.  Designed to challenge our rough water skills by keeping us in the confused intertidal zone for a good fraction of the course, the race has a reputation for inducing DNFs and the occasional psychotic break.  Mary Beth had wisely borrowed a V8 for the day, leaving me free to choose my stability level (V10 or V10 Sport).  I've been training almost exclusively on a tiny lake so far this season, so I figured I was well-equipped to handle the refractory slop we'd be paddling through.  Strapping the V10 on the car, I just wished I had a V14 in the quiver.  Hubris in action, folks.

Although he's repeatedly asked me to stop calling him "swami', Tim remains in charge of my spiritual well-being.

I'd usually provide a thorough description of the course about here, but doing so would require that I stop bathing and take the next few days off from work.  During Tim Dwyer's extended pre-race briefing, three people had to be treated for scurvy.  Given the confusion over the such rudimentary concepts as clockwise and counterclockwise, I wasn't optimistic that we'd all be making it back for the awards ceremony.  More cake for me, I figured (that's not so much hubris as a misguided fixation on baked confections).  The gist of the course was that we'd head to Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then the House on the Rock, then back to Fort Wetherill.  If you weren't feeling dizzy from all the turns, you were definitely off track.  Jim Hoffman and Mark Ceconi arrived late to the party and would be forced to improvise their course.

Twenty minutes later, we were underway.  Wesley led the charge towards the first buoy, but I managed to pull ahead of him before we had to make the turn.  Conditions were a little sloppy, but they seemed manageable.  A few minutes later, as I rounded the rock that would slingshot me across the mouth of Mackerel Cove, I saw a tight knit pod of paddlers five or six boat lengths back.  I'd see this group of Wesley, Tim Dwyer, Chris Chappell, and Jim Hoffman whirling by hypnotically over the next few turns of this carousel of a course.

In the turbulent waters off the point that separates Mackerel and Hull Coves, I found myself reminiscing about that golden time (say, 6/22/13) when one could find Jan Lupinski floundering in mortal danger beside his boat rather than basking in glory atop the podium (say, 11/2/14, 4/26/15, 5/2/15, etc. - don't forget to check out Surfski America for all the latest race data!).  Reluctantly shaking myself free from my nostalgia for bygone days, I recommitted myself to winning a mercifully Jan-free race.

Sure, I lost a few tenths of a point for paddle entry angle, but I really nailed the dismount.

As I turned into Hull Cove, I scanned the waters off the beach in search of the orange turn buoy.  Always waiting for such an opening, the wily ocean took advantage of my momentary distraction to serve up a surprise wave from port.  It was more of a playful bump than anything malicious, but it was enough.  A ineffective last-second brace left my paddle buried deep below the surface.  At this point, the capsize was inevitable, but I first had to endure the slow motion unspooling of the process - much like when I'd ask a girl out in college and would have to wait out the laughter before the inevitable no (and/or slap).

After righting myself in the saddle, locating the turn buoy, and heading back out of Hull Cove, I spotted the same chase pack of four hunting me down.  It was tough to tell from a distance, but I'm pretty sure a couple were slavering.  Some cracks began to mar my veneer of confidence.  The trip back to the turn on the far side of Mackerel Cove was uneventful, but I did notice that conditions were getting increasingly messy as the afternoon wind picked up.  Turning back to retrace my strokes, Los Quatro Lobos were still on my heels.  I'm not sure how they managed to get matching leather jackets (embroidered with their toothy logo, natch) since the last turn, but they were looking sharp.  And hungry.

Back at the point between Mackerel and Hull Coves, the action was lively.  Choppy waters had already taken a toll on my paddling form, but now I had to completely disengage my core to daintily pick my way through the syncopated landscape of peaks and troughs.  As long as I concentrated and didn't push too hard I'd have no trouble staying in the bucket, but the knowledge that at least 3 of the Lobos were much better rough waters paddlers than I kept me on the edge of my seat.  Nor was the relentless baying doing any favors in keeping my calm.

If you had told me before the race that at some point I'd do a backwards somersault out of the bucket... I would have been a lot more prepared.

The waters smoothed out entering Hull Cove, providing a brief respite.  Repeating the turn, I was alarmed to see that an alpha wolf had emerged and was making a pursuit breakaway.  Jim had outdistanced the rest of his gang and was now close enough to smell my fear.  Panic rising, I retraced my steps back into Mackerel Cove somewhat less gingerly.  After a few close calls averted via last-second braces, I wasn't too surprised to find myself swimming again.  I blew my first remount, clambered clumsily back onto my ski on the second try, and found that I was now in Jim's clutches.  By now, however, he had slipped on his sheep disguise and was all "Are you OK?".  I warily assured him that I was, got myself together, bared my teeth experimentally (I have no lips, so this isn't easy for me), and slipped into my new role as predator.

For the next mile or so, as we periodically hit patches of relative sedate water, I'd nip at Jim's heels for a few minutes, only to fall back several boat lengths as we returned to more wobbly conditions.  If he was at all alarmed at being chased, he didn't betray his concern - he looked relaxed and steady.  And lost.  After leaving Mackerel Cove, it soon became apparent that Jim didn't know where he was going.  He was in danger of missing the next turn buoy unless I corrected his course.  My first instinct, of course, was to let him wander Narragansett Bay aimlessly while I stole the win.  My next instinct was to send him either further afield by slipping him false directions - as far as villainy goes, in for a penny, in for a pound.  Then I remembered Jim's kind heart, quick smile, and cinder block fists.  Reluctantly, I yelled that he should turn left.  Then, a few minutes later, that he should continue straight past the cove where we launched.  A pattern had been established.

Everyone tells me that I need to work on my paddling form, but I really think I've got it dialed in.

From a half-dozen boat lengths behind, I was shouting out instructions to my very own remote-controlled Hoffman.  If only I could maintain this sway after the race, think of what I could accomplish with my once-gentle giant!  I'd never again have trouble opening jelly jars, messing around with car jacks, or defending myself from enraged grizzlies.  With a stiff breeze making it difficult to hear and Jim constantly threatening to exceed maximum recommended range, reception wasn't quite 100% - but it was enough to keep us headed in the right general direction.

After maneuvering through a field of standing waves near the House on the Rock, I rounded the green channel buoy to find Jim awaiting further instruction.  Pulling alongside, I sketched a quick map and play-acted the final stretch for him.  The scene where I eked out the win in the last 20 meters was particular poignant - were those tears I saw in Jim's eyes?  We got underway again, heading back towards the finish.

I soon saw the remaining Lobos coming towards us - maybe 90 seconds behind.  Actually, I heard them before spotting them.  Chris - apparently not a fan of the capricious Ride The Bull conditions - was venting his criticism of the course in a stentorian voice that had tourists in Newport wondering who Tim and Wesley were and why exactly they deserved to be de-boned and stuffed with live crabs.  I made a mental note to scratch Chris from the invitation list to my inaugural "Slop, Chop, and Roll" race.

With my sensei-like guidance and encouragement ("Keep going!  Through the gap!  Sweep the leg!"), Jim finished strong.  Although I made a final push to pull within a couple of seconds of him at the end, he obviously would have gapped me long before had he not had to keep slowing to wait for directions.  It wasn't long before Tim arrived to claim the final podium spot, with Chris (who, having lost his voice, was now just muttering under his breath) and Wesley not far behind.  Tim Hudyncia, Bruce Deltorchio, and Mark Ceconi were the remaining XY finishers, with Mary Beth again dominating the XX field.  There was only one other swimmer on the day, and I'm sure Tim H would want me to point out that - defying all odds - it was not him.

Thanks to Tim and Wesley (and Jim) for a humbling day.  I'll try not to hold a grudge.

Sakonnet River Race: Winding Up

As the first open water competition of the year, the Sakonnet River race always attracts an enthusiastic group of paddlers anxious to frolic once again in the salt spray.  Twenty-some skis and assorted accoutrement festooned the beach at McCorrie Point, adding some color to the overcast and breezy morning.  This was to be the second of five planned Rhode Island races for the season.  A quick side note: Wesley and Tim have been directed by Providence to provide a clamroll, small drink and the key to the governor's private washroom to anyone who completes all the Ocean State races.  Plan accordingly - I hear they have one of those high-tech toilets that checks your blood sugar levels (ouch) and gives you financial advice.

Despite its mild-mannered appearance, the Sakonnet has been the site of a disproportionate share of weather-related drama.  From the palpable will-they/won't-they tension of the thunderstorm-plagued 2010 race, to the lamentable upwind grind of 2013, to the rain of hellfire in 2012 - it's been a meteorologist/theologist paradise.  While we wouldn't be risking lightning strikes or eternal damnation this year, we would have to contend with a small craft advisory ("For a festive day on the water, consider decorating your boat with stenciled flowers", I believe).  For the 3rd time in the past 6 years, Wesley would be tasked with concocting a new set of ambiguous waypoints to define a course customized for the weather conditions.  I'll grudgingly admit that the course was optimal, but I still maintain that instructing us to turn on the yacht "with a barnacle pattern that looks a little like my nephew Floyd" was vague at best and deceitful at worst (I knew Floyd.  Floyd was a friend of mine.  Collection of sessile suspension feeders of the infraclass Cirripedia, you're no Floyd).

The revised 9 mile course would take us upwind from McCorrie Point for 3 miles to the end of the Sakonnet, followed by a gleeful 4.5 miles downwind to Sandy Point, where we'd turn back towards McCorrie and commence cursing the 20 mph headwind for the final 1.5 miles.  Planning ahead, I brainstormed a series of expletive-laden oaths so that come crunch time, I'd have a range of vibrant options at my fingertips.  The ancient sea gods have pretty much heard it all (sailors...), so they appreciate it when you go the extra mile when blaspheming them.

Reactions ranged from bemused smiles to puzzled stares as I unveiled my new racing thong.

After his impressive K-1 showing on the Essex River, someone got the bright idea to put Mike Dostal in a ski.  Sure, he's personable, humble, and has a delightful accent - a real credit to flatwater paddlers.  But as we've learned from kudzu, Asian carp, and Independence Day, invasive species pose acute threats to delicate ecosystems.  With no natural predators, Mike is liable to irreversibly disrupt the innate balance of the ocean paddler environment.  But, as they say, you can't unring a bell.  Get used to the tolling (it is, after all, for thee).  The best we can do is try to contain the spread of the invasion.  As a first step in this direction, I recommend that we discourage Ben Pigott (Mike's fellow flatwater paddler) from upgrading his old Epic to a next generation ski.  What's that?  He's paddling a Fenn Glide today?  OK, new strategy.  Just cover your ears and pray that the end is quick and painless.

Wesley conducted a well-orchestrated rolling start just off the McCorrie Point beach and the 8th Sakonnet River Race was on.  Somewhat paradoxically, I've long since stopped commenting on my slow starts.  Roughly a dozen paddlers stood between me and the lead, including Jim Hoffman to my right.  It never says anything outright, but I feel like Jim's uncompromising posture has a sneering contempt for my lazy, dejected slump.  Jan Lupinski was to my left at the start, but quickly pulled ahead and worked his way to the lead.  Mike followed, handling the choppy conditions with aplomb (or possibly with equanimity - he was too far ahead to tell for sure).

Once I passed Andrius Zinkevichus to move into 3rd a mile into the race, twenty boat lengths or more lay between me and the lead pair of Jan and Mike.  I wasn't alone though.  Eric Costanzo had glommed onto my draft with both hands and a liberal application of pine tar.  As a rough water specialist, Eric was practically licking his chops for the second leg of the race.  Behind me, I could hear him sharpening the knives he'd use to filet me on the downwind run.  No matter what I tried, I couldn't generate enough speed to shake him.  I'd periodically throw a glance behind, catch a glimpse of his maniacal smile over the millstone I seemed to be dragging, and my hair would stand up on end (you know, like a phantom limb).

Approaching the lee provided by the north end of the sound, the water started to flatten.  I was now able to get some traction in my struggle to pull myself free from Eric, and with a great sucking sound, finally escaped his clutches.  After putting a few lengths between us, I surveyed my situation.  Jan and Mike were well ahead, but apparently didn't know Floyd from a hole in the wall - they were well off heading.  Perhaps I could make up a little time as they realized their mistake, but that alone wouldn't be nearly enough to catch them.  Of more immediate concern was Matt Drayer, who was looking strong paddling my traitorous old black-tip V10.

Allegations that I've rigged my ski with a propulsion device have, until recently, been unsubstantiated.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

Desperate to give myself as much of a head-start as possible over Eric in the mild conditions in the half-mile on either side of the upwind turn-around, I pushed so hard for the next 10 minutes that I was surprised to not be cradling a newborn afterwards.  I lost track of everyone behind me after the turn, so I had no idea if my labor had been in vain (insert rim shot here).   By this time, distance had dispersed the lee and I found myself in increasingly improving downwind conditions.  A blanket of calm descended over me.  The race was now out of my hands.  All I could do was wait to be overtaken by Eric.  While ranking my teeth from most to least favorite - had to pass the time somehow.

I'd never wish a fellow paddler ill unless there was a clear personal benefit in doing so.  It was therefore with a misguidedly clear conscience that I prayed that the downwind conditions would be Mike's undoing.  He'd obviously done fine in the bumpy upwind grind, so I wasn't particularly optimistic that he'd falter going the opposite direction.  And yet... he did seem to be slowing.  Since Mike was on an inside line while I stayed much further out, it was difficult to judge our relative positions.  Over the next 20 minutes, however, it became clear that he was falling more and more to my side.  And there eventually came a time when I looked to my right and couldn't spot his bright orange boat.  As I discovered later, he had at this point started falling more and more to his side. He had been baptized in the warm Rhode Island waters just off McCorrie Point, almost exactly where I had been similarly indoctrinated my first time in a ski five years ago.  With this new-found bond, a sudden realization came to me... Mike was no different from us.  I imagine a similar thought crossed the mind of the last dodo the first time he saw a human laying an egg.

Now it was only Jan ahead.  Way ahead.  He also was well to the inside of me, but no amount of absurd "yeah, but I'm on a better line" self-deceit could actually convince me that I would be catching him.  Conditions continued to improve as we progressed further down the Sakonnet, with the waves becoming larger, cleaner, and more predictable.  Even a downwind bumbler like me was able to link together some quality runs.  I still missed some good rides here and there, but for once I wasn't grappling in a life-or-death struggle with each wave.  Nevertheless, it wasn't until I was 50 meters from the end of the leg that I convinced myself that I wasn't going to be passed.

It was a tie for first, by the way.  Left lateral incisor and right 2nd bicuspid.

After an excruciatingly slow and wide turn at the final turn-around, I finally got a look at the field behind me.  Given that we had just completed 5 miles of open downwind, I was surprised to see how close the next 6 paddlers were clustered.  It looked like Eric, Andrius, Matt, Joe Shaw, Chris Chappell, and Bruce Deltorchio would be competing for (what I sincerely hoped would be) third place.  These guys were perhaps 90 seconds behind me, but unless I increased my upwind pace from "near-standstill" to at least "laggardly", that soon wouldn't be the case.  In the latter stages of the downwind leg, I had averaged something north of 8 miles per hour.  Struggling against the wind and waves, I was now barely breaking 5.

Eric, Andrius, Matt, and Joe vie for 3rd though 6th, apparently not understanding that there's a limit of one ordinal place per paddler.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

There's a saying in my family: "Make Greg eat it."  That's not particularly relevant in this case.  Another saying is: "Nobody hates X as much as I do."  There's an implicit challenge there - "I dare you to say that you hate X more than I do."  Over the years we've ceded certain Xs to particular family members.  My mom has "hypocrites", a cousin has "snakes", and an oddly-specific racist aunt has "Samoans".  I have a lock on "the sun" and "garden hoses" (my blood pressure went up 20 pips just typing that out).  For 30 years, my father, my Uncle John and I have been arguing about who gets "wind".  I'm happy to announce that I've now unilaterally awarded it to myself.  During the upwind leg I achieved a medical grade purity of hatred - a poisonous knot of rancor that threatened to sear me from the inside out unless I spat out the excess venom.  Needless to say, I was grateful to have an assortment of scripted curses at hand.  A non-stop stream of profane invectives powered me through the last leg.  Wind power, I suppose.

For the fourth race in a row, Jan was the first ski to the finish.  As far as he's concerned, he should now consider me utterly bereft of fighting spirit.  A beaten man.  A demoralized husk.  In short, definitely not someone who would spend every waking moment over the next three weeks training to avenge his recent drubbings when we meet again at the Casco Bay Challenge.  So maybe it's OK for him to have a few extra cheeseburgers or to exchange an interval session for a bubble bath.

Jan collected his $50 hotspot winnings, only to squander it immediately on a generous charitable gesture.

Although Eric nabbed the final podium spot, he was frustrated by his less-than-optimal line to the down-wind turn-around.  I was pretty OK with it.  Andrius managed to hold off a hard-charging Matt for 4th, with Joe, Chris, Bruce, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley rounding out the top 10.  Positions 3 through 7 finished within the span of a minute.  Despite not being at the race, Mary Beth took the top female spot.  Mike and Ben both finished the race strong and upright - a non-trivial feat given the conditions and their lack of ocean experience.  Dave Grainger - who's comfortable enough in rough water that he's been known to nap during downwind runs - was having so much fun he immediately got back in line for another ride.  Many thanks to Wesley and Betsy for organizing the race and the post-race spread - great job as always.

The next race weekend will see our field split in two, as the folks in the New York area head to Eric's inaugural Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, while the rest of us Ride the Bull in Narragansett Bay.  The winners of the two races will then compete in a best-of-five rock-paper-scissors match at a neutral site to determine the week's Northeast regional champion.