Run of the Charles: Victory! Moral Variety.

The Run of the Charles may primarily be a punishing battle for those who want to test their mettle against 19 miles of portages, rudder-tearing shallows, and the endless meanderings of the river, but don't tell that to the 27 paddlers who instead opted for a painless 6.1 mile surfski jaunt.  Seriously, don't.  We can get pretty defensive about our gutless life choices.  The race would take place under blue skies, with mild temperatures and a breeze I'd characterize as "light to friggin' annoying" (depending on when exactly you asked).

With the unfortunate cancellation of the Shark Bite Challenge a couple of weeks back, this would be our first chance to see how some of the northeast's heaviest hitters weathered the off-season.  Defending SurfskiRacing point series champion Jan Lupinski was joined by formidable Jersey denizens Eric Costanzo, Matt Nunnally, and Craig Impens (don't worry folks, they all cleared quarantine first).  It was going to be a tough day.  Hearing that Jesse Lishchuk was also going to be making an appearance, everyone shifted their finish expectation down a notch.  This despite the fact that he'd be paddling a Think Ion - a borrowed ski whose flatwater performance positions it just a smidge to the left of Huck Finn's raft in Wesley's comparison chart.

For the first time ever, I'd have some unpaid spectators cheering me on - my cousins Emily and Alison, Al's husband Matt, and their son Patrick.  With the temporary exception of Patrick, all of these individuals have won national-level championships (granted, only in the fringe sports of swimming and triathlon - not in anything as prestigious as surfskis), so I was feeling particularly motivated to put on a good show.  Or at the very least, to not fall out of my boat.  On a side note, if there are any athletes out there looking for triathlon training - Matt's your man.

Spring is here!  Before the race, this young fella plucked the season's first coconut from the Charles.

The course is straightforward.  You head downriver under a series of bridges until you lose count.  At that point - which hopefully will be after about 2.5 miles - you turn around and retrace your steps.  Since you'll be heading upwind and upstream, there will be twice as many bridges on the way back.  Since you lost count on the first leg, however, it may seem like three or four times as many.  You'll attempt to hug this or that shore to tuck out of the breeze as you negotiate the sinuous Charles, but will inevitably end up hacking through a headwind the whole way.  Eventually, you'll get back to the starting line, only to find that you were mistaken - the starting line is actually another three curves ahead.  This process will repeat several times, but those who fight through the hope-disappointment cycle to actually reach the starting line will be amply rewarded with some bonus racing - a quarter-mile more upstream to another turn before returning to the start/finish line.

After catching up with the other racers (a recurring theme for me), carefully choosing my paddling outfit to ensure that I would be both too cold and too hot at various points during the race, and sabotaging a few boats (not yours though), I hit the Charles for a brief warm-up.  After a quick trip to see the upstream turn marker (quite frankly, not as exciting as I was led to believe), I headed to the line.  A few minutes later, the starter set us off.

Mere seconds after this photo bomb from Bruce, Bill was inexplicably knocked unconscious.

As expected, Jesse blasted out to an immediate lead, a dispiriting cloud of youthful vigor billowing behind him.  Rushing into the vacuum left by Jesse's sudden departure, Chris Chappell, Craig, and Jan also got a big jump on me.  Possibly one or two or six other paddlers too.  I'd had some bad jostling experiences in the past heading river left while negotiating the first gentle turn, so I resolved to stay above the fray this year.  I'd be close enough to shout words of blood-thirsty encouragement to the combatants, naturally, but safely out of range of blood spatter and shards of carbon fiber.

So nobody was more surprised when - some 90 seconds into the race - I found myself attempting to wrench Matt's rudder off with a paddle while screaming to Craig that I'd eat his children.  Throw an unexpected boat wake into the mix for seasoning, and we had a real pot of jambalaya boiling.  In the midst of this testosterone stew, I had a sudden moment of clarity - I needed to make myself scarce before the authorities arrived and started taking names.  I pulled to the right of Craig and together we fled the scene.  Feeling a bit sheepish about that imagined cannibalism threat, I avoided Craig's gaze as I threw in an interval to get by him a moment later.

Jan and Eric were directly ahead, with Jesse a good dozen boat lengths in front of them.  I pulled alongside Eric's new Mohican, attempting to calculate whether I could squeeze my 21 foot boat in the 8 foot gap that separated Jan from him.  The math seemed to work out fine (and I figured I had Eric's Hippocratic oath on my side should things threaten to get ugly over what essentially would amount to a rounding error), so I eased my V14 into the slot.  Fit like OJ's glove.

I figured the best way to get around Jan would be to get downwind of him and sneak by unnoticed.  I swung to his left while trying to maintain a low profile.  And I mean that literally.  Check the non-threatening hunch in my video!  Jan might have been momentarily confused at being passed by a surfski being paddled by a PFD, but he nevertheless managed to angle over and get on my wash.  Over the next few minutes, he valiantly resisted the urge to reprimand me on my posture.  In the end, however, biting his tongue for so long must have interfered with his breathing pattern.  The nose of his inky Uno fell out of my periphery and I was free from the weight of his silent judgment.

I've received several complaints recently regarding the length of these race reports.  Let me take a break from the action to address this concern.  Reading this blog is like visiting a back-alley dentist.  First, everyone would have a better time enduring the procedure with few snorts of nitrous oxide, but it's been impossible to get since our forged credentials were confiscated.  Second, it's going to be that much more unpleasant if you struggle.  It's over when it's over.  None of us are professionals here, but we certainly know how to work pliers and a mallet.  And finally, you should count yourself lucky if you emerge on the other side with only mild nausea and a headache.  Are we clear, Mom?

Perhaps wanting to toy with his prey before dispatching him, Jesse remained within reach.  In fact, over the next mile I closed the gap until - with just a few hundred meters to go before the turn back upriver - I caught him and settled warily on his tail.  At the orange marker, Jesse checked my position, pivoted his stern crisply around, and then catapulted himself through the turn with an acceleration that left me wondering how he kept from being flung out of his boat by centrifugal force.

Elapsed time... 15 seconds.

That turn alone was worth the price of admission, but I wanted to see it again at the other end of the course so I kept my head down (which, as a pretty integral part to the hunch, wasn't that hard) and set off again in pursuit.  I saw Jan flash by heading towards the turn, followed a few seconds back by Eric, Matt, Craig, and Chris.  Our trip downriver had mostly been with the wind, but now we'd be fighting the breeze, the current, and that ham sandwich we were forced to eat just before the start.

In an attempt to escape the headwind, I cut to the left bank, managing to maneuver ahead of Jesse in the process.  For the next couple miles I would have a convenient place to set my coffee, although Think really should consider adding some bow padding to their so-called armrest.

At one point - either because I slowed or Jesse surged - I caught my paddle under the bow of his boat on my exit.  Momentum kept my left hand going up while the corresponding paddle blade stayed petulantly low, finally free from the death grip I had been subjecting it to.  I teetered on the edge of disaster for the briefest moment before regaining my grip and bracing myself upright.  It's a lock that I'll go over at some point this season, but I may just make it to the ocean first.

About 5 miles into the race, I started to wonder if I might have a chance to win this thing.  But then Jesse said something from behind that made my blood run cold.  It wasn't what he said (a question about the course), but the sinister tone he used.  And in this context, by "sinister" I mean "conversational".  This was the composed voice of someone out for a pleasant day of puttering about on the Charles, not that of a paddler struggling desperately to hold on the draft.  My labored reply consisted of a series of semi-intelligible grunts, punctuated with foaming spittle.  This may have tipped my hand regarding my precarious physical state.

Approaching the upriver marker, I quickly took out my pen and notebook so that I wouldn't miss any details from Jesse's master class on turning technique.  I was appropriately schooled.  Just prior to the turn he sprinted ahead to seize inside position, then wrapped his boat around the buoy and shot off downstream - all while I was still writing the date at the top of the page.  In retrospect, I should have made a move to drop Jesse well before the turn.  Oh, right.  I did try that a few times.  Both Jesse and my GPS refused to notice those efforts.

Amazingly - not the same picture sequence as above.

Jesse now had a four boat length lead with a quarter mile left.  I splashed my paddle around a lot to put on a good show for the racers still heading for the turn, but I had no power left for a sprint.  Bobbing on the current, I floated through the finish to take a shame-free second.  I looked up from my dry heaves just in time to see Jan take the final podium spot.  Behind him, a stream of paddlers came by spaced at 10 to 30 second intervals - Eric, Matt, Craig, Chris, Tim Hudyncia, and Bruce Deltorchio.

The women's race turned out to be particularly thrilling, as Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell dueled for the top spot in a photo-finish.  Once the pair had fully exhausted Chris Sherwood's good-natured hospitality, they exchanged leads a couple of times in the final half-mile before Leslie nipped Mary Beth at the line.  Jenifer Kreamer took third shortly after.  An enthusiastic young videographer with real promise captured the waning second of the women's race...

The post-race cookout is an essential component of the Run of the Charles.  Even though I had heard that Bob Capellini would be missing the race, there's a big difference between knowing his pulled pork wouldn't be available and actually experiencing the devastating loss.  Between sobs, we consoled ourselves by sharing stories of sandwiches past.  Tim H tried to step up by passing out samples of the playfully named jackfruit.  I've known Tim long enough to be wary of his edible treats.  I was blind for a week after eating one of his ginger candies, and that was probably the most benign reaction I've had after trying one of his snacks.  Tim does most of his shopping at the kind of market where you also might chance across a Mogwai or a monkey's paw in a forgotten corner.  So it was with some surprise that I found the jackfruit quite tasty, albeit with the mushy-stringy texture of a rotten pumpkin.  Feeling emboldened (and forgetting all past lessons), I also tried the roasted seeds.  The doctor said that the facial numbness will go away in a few weeks, but doubted that my toenails would grow back.

The hard-working paddlers of  ROTC 2016.  I have no idea how Timmy got in the picture.

For those of you concerned about how far Mary Beth and I have to drive to races (almost 45 minutes for this one!), you can put your minds at rest - at least for the time being.  In 30 or 40 years, the Essex River Race will likely begin in our driveway, but for now we'll endure the 5 minute drive without complaining too much.  I was hoping to enter as the hometown favorite, but Mary Beth assures me that I'm nobody's first choice.  Yeah, but... free beer at our house after the race!

Narrow River Race: Seriously Soggy

In its 8 years of existence, the Narrow River Race has grown from a thinly-attended ragtag affair to Rhode Islands' preeminent shallow-water surfski competition.  Jointly hosted by Wesley Echols and Tim Dwyer, hardly a paddler in New England doesn't have a hair-raising tale of adventure on this treacherous river.  I myself spent the better part of a month stranded on a mid-river sandbar a couple of years back, surviving only on quahogs and gel packs.

Rhode Island's recently unveiled tourism campaign ("You'll come for the volcanoes, hot springs, and hákarl, you'll stay because you're stuck thigh deep in the mud of our tidal rivers!") was apparently a resounding success.  A record twenty paddlers braved the elements on a rainy Saturday morning, vowing to get as sodden as necessary in an effort to beat the Narrow River.  Women paddlers were particularly well-represented, with Leslie Chappell, Jenifer Kreamer, and Carly Tillotson (on a SUP) joining habitual masochist Mary Beth.

The Narrow River is a sinuous inlet of Narragansett Bay that provides sheltered waters nearly ideal for abnormally short-legged wading birds and frugal retirees who thought stainless steel was a bit too extravagant for their knee replacements.  Amateur local historian Bob Wright assures me that in bygone days, the river was lined with repair shops configured to overhaul schooners, brigs, barques and all other manner of sailing vessels.  Unfortunately, captains preferred to send their boats to more accessible shipyards in the White Mountains.  As a result, the destitute families of the Narrow River shipwrights were forced to survive on quahogs and agar slurries.

Early April weather in this area can be unpredictable, and the conditions for this year's race may have been no exception.  Who can tell?  In any event, with temperatures in the mid 40s and drenching showers, I had half a mind to write a strongly worded complaint to Sigmundur Gunnlaugsson (and what the hell are the odds that this joke [sic] would be rendered obsolete between the time I started and finished writing this report).  Between getting outfitted in the rain before the race and de-outfitted after, everything I own is now covered in mildew.

Due to a shifting sandbar at the mouth of the river that would have necessitated a true overland journey to complete the normal course, Wesley and Tim carefully plotted out an alternative that would lengthen our early season agony to 11 miles.  It's that kind of dedication to craft that makes these two the consummate sadists.  We'd head downriver, turn around a mid-stream piling after 1.25 miles, paddle back the way we came, pass the start, continue up the winding river to where it widens into a small lake, turn on an orange buoy at the northern end of that lake, then reverse the entire process (including the downstream piling turn).  Seemed simple enough when Wesley ran us through it, but would one of the inexperienced first-timers manage to botch it up?

Wesley: Impassioned.  Bruce: Rapt.  Matt: Contemplative.  Mike: Uh... Stoned?

In attempt to gin up a little extra speed by paying for it rather than earning it (and they say we need to make America great again!), I bought a V14 late last season.  This was to be my first race on this flat-water thoroughbred, although I had put in quite a few training hours learning how to remount and practicing my crop technique.  Settling into the bucket, I adjusted my pogies, then slipped on those mitten-like hand protectors (what are those called again?).  As we warmed up, the steady rain intensified to a vigorous downpour.  What luck!  With the extra precipitation, the river might just be moist enough to keep lighter paddlers afloat.

Wesley soon corralled us into position, then counted us down to the start.  Apparently many of the other paddlers had only recently roused themselves from hibernation (and I think Kirk might have still been semi-comatose), since my habitually sluggish start seemed positively sprightly in comparison.  I figured Mike Dostal, Ben Pigott, and Chris Chappell would be out of the gate like rabid polecats, and they didn't disappoint.  Seeing no reason to get mixed up in that pack of snarling mayhem, I was content to scamper up to fourth position within the first couple hundred meters.  After a few more minutes, I was able to overtake Chris.  From a safe distance off to one side, of course.

Ben was now pulling lead, with Mike off his starboard quarter.  With an effort that left me wondering whether my insurance premiums were fully paid up, I managed to pull onto Mike's wash.  Never having raced in the V14, I had also never drafted with it.  Maybe the shallow water was exacerbating the wake turbulence, or perhaps Mike had fitted his boat with that asymmetrical vortex generator I had seen him tinkering with before the race, but I found myself bouncing around like a monkey at a Bananarama concert (still waiting on that reunion tour, ladies).  Throwing brace strokes left and right, I struggled fruitlessly to calm my steed.  It quickly became apparent that I wasn't going to remain in an upright posture if I stayed behind Mike, so I peeled off to the starboard and nestled into a side draft.

With Ben pulling us through the shallows leading into the first turn, I shouted out a few helpful navigational tips to ingratiate myself with our hard-working leader, all the while plotting my strategy to overthrow his oppressive reign (after all, he hadn't asked if we were satisfied with his speed, nor offered us any refreshments).  A quarter mile before the turn, I gave the signal to Mike.  In retrospect, I probably should have apprised him of our joint insurrection.  As it was, my call of "Sic semper tyrannis!" was met with what I can only describe as confused indifference.

The mind-blowing effort required to catch Ben and Mike reduced my head to little more than a diffuse blob.  It coalesced later, but I'm not happy with the results.

Left without a wing-man, I pulled smoothly out front... into four inches of water.  The quicksand-like bottom threatened to suck the paddle out of my grasp as I struggled to adapt my stroke to the thin layer of liquid I now found myself balanced on.  While Ben had followed me onto the same shoal, Mike had remained in navigable waters and pulled past us - his paddle decadently submerged to the throat on each stroke.

Finally freeing myself from the viscous grip of the sludge, I managed to get on the new leader's starboard draft.  As we approached the right side of the turn-around piling (marked, as Wesley had promised, with a warning for kayaks to stay safely to the left of the piling), I swung wide to negotiate the U-turn while Mike attempted a tighter pivot.  On the far side of the pilings, ours paths merged and we briefly attempted to occupy the same space at the same time.  If we remember anything from high school physics about the Pauli exclusion principle, it's that Pauli had the kick-ass first name of Wolfgang.  And perhaps something about the same-space/same-time thing being frowned upon.  Something had to give.  Rather than quibble about who had the "right of way" or the "moral high ground", let's instead concentrate on who had the "momentum".  Me.

I skidded past Mike, completed the turn, and moved into the lead.  I would never look back...

OK, so that's not even remotely true.  Mike stayed on my tail for a few minutes before I was able to put some distance between us, but he's not a paddler to turn your back on. That makes for a real awkward stroke, though, so I had to settle for throwing nervous glances over my shoulder every few moments.  Several days later, I'm still finding it hard to break that habit.

The trip upstream was notable mostly for the disorienting strength of the tidal current working against me (and, with some luck, everybody else).  How could so little water be diluting my GPS speed by so much?  On the positive side, the current tended to even out the notorious depth variations in the Narrow River - either you were in the deeper channel where the tide was your damned-if-you-do enemy, or you were in the shallows with the damned-if-you-don't suck-water instead limiting your headway.  You were being bled dry either way, but I took some comfort in the steadiness of the drip-drip-drip.

With the widening of the river at the north end of the course, the twin tormentors released their grip and I finally started to feel less anemic.  My speed increasing to a more palatable level, I plotted a course up the center of the lake and started searching for the turn buoy.  Three-quarters of the way up the pond, I began to get nervous.  There was no sign of a buoy.  What if I alone missed the turn while the rest of the field slipped stealthily back downriver behind me?  I broke into a cold sweat at the prospect of blowing my lead.  Probably.  It was difficult to tell with all the warm perspiration and cold rain.

And then... I spotted a white sphere bobbing off to the left.  We had been promised that the turn buoy would be orange and that it would be at the far end of the lake.  This particular marker was neither, but that seemed increasingly less important as a decision loomed.  I maintained my line, frantically scanning for a buoy further on that shared at least some of the properties that Wesley had described.  At last, I decided that "floating" constituted a pretty darned good match.  I veered abruptly to the left and turned on the mooring buoy.

Orange buoy.  Check.  End of lake.  Check.  Half-coalesced head.  Check.

When you're in the lead, you're usually absolved for crazy changes in course and other ill-advised maneuvers (see "Trump, Donald").  Nevertheless, I was relieved to see Mike and Ben follow in my misguided footsteps.  I'm told the entire field traced this path, although many saw the error of my way.  I had inadvertently cut a half-mile off the course, for which the race directors later sanctioned me but graciously allowed me to retain all earnings.  In an unrelated matter - Bill, I'm still waiting on your check.

With the tide now working in my favor and a rudimentary mental map of the meanderings of the channel, the trip back down the river was a blur.  Mostly because of the growing pain and fatigue.  As I passed the starting line again, I weighed my options.  If I quickly turned my boat around and hunched over in a (wholly feigned, of course) posture of extreme exhaustion - perhaps with some theatrical groaning thrown in - could I convince the next paddler that I had just finished before he came around the corner?  I did some quick calculations on my fingers (metaphorically - with those neoprene mittens on, I might as well be counting on my pogies).  No good.  I'd have a difficult time selling a winning margin of 20-some minutes.  Ruefully, I committed to actually paddling the final 2.5 miles.

Having learned my lesson the first time through, as I approached the shallows that had threatened to strand me and Ben earlier I tried a slip-and-slide approach from my childhood.  Having built up a head of steam, I threw myself headlong towards the shoal in the hopes that my boat would skim frictionlessly over the thin membrane of water.  Not an unqualified success, but at least this time I didn't end up bottom-less in the neighbor's yard.

A gray day was had by all.

I negotiated the final turn without difficulty (same place, different time - thanks, Wolfgang!) and headed for home.  Having to slog back against the tide for the final mile was a slap in the face, but at least this roused me from my weary torpor.  And restored me to my natural state of prickly irritation.  I figure if you're not blaspheming when you cross the finish line, you can't even call it racing (although when in Rhode Island, cursing Echols or Dwyer is an acceptable alternative/supplement).  Suffice it to say, I'm not expecting any divine intervention the next time I'm in a foxhole. Nor any Christmas cards from Tim or Wesley.

After finishing, I had just enough time to start shivering uncontrollably when Mike, Mike, and (I'm pretty sure) Mike pulled in to collectively take second.  A veritable host of Bens filled out the crowded podium a short while later.  The remaining members of the top ten were Chris, Bruce Deltorchio, Joe Shaw (in a K-1), Tim Hudyncia, Tim Dwyer, Matt Drayer, and Wesley.  Leslie took the women's title, with Mary Beth second and Jen opting for the abbreviated 8 mile course.  Carly swept the SUP division.

By this point, I was probably sleeping it off under the table.

Once we had exchanged our soaked paddling outfits for our dampened civilian duds, most of us headed over to the Oak Hill Tavern to work on reconstructing everyone's finish time.  I can't be sure, but I think I also might have heard someone talking about boats.

The mercifully short Run of the Charles is next on the agenda up here in New England, but best of luck to those escaping the icy grip of Spring to race at the Shark Bite Challenge on Saturday.  Bring back some glory.