You may remember the cliffhanger finish to last year's thrilling episode of the
Blackburn Challenge, in which we were all left wondering whether our heroes would
ever be paddling around Cape Ann again. With several boats literally
falling apart mid-race, a third of the field DNFing, and many other
racers clearly unprepared for the conditions (I myself spent most of the race crying), the Coast Guard was threatening to shut down the
venerable race. Fortunately, the Cape Ann Rowing Club stepped up to the plate, placating the authorities by instituting sweeping new safety measures for
2016.
While the requirement that all racers must carry a knife between their teeth to fight off pirates was dropped at the last minute, each competitor did need to have PFD, cell phone, whistle, and adequate hydration. In the staging area, packs of roaming safety inspectors verified that we had the required gear and patted us down for contraband (that was legit, right?). Mingling in the crowd, undercover agents would look at their cell phones, then proclaim loudly "Looks like the seas are up to 4 feet!" or "Three more Great Whites spotted near Straitsmouth!" A noticeable blanch or sudden loss of bladder control, and you were sitting this one out. On the water, the Race Committee had recruited a fleet of safety boats sufficiently dense that 3 people were able to complete the course on mountain bikes. In summary, you'd be far safer during the Blackburn Challenge than you would be driving to it (especially if Jan were behind the wheel).
With the Canadian Nationals drawing many of the best North American paddlers (including semi-local Jesse Lishchuk, with an impressive 15th place finish), the Blackburn would be refreshingly ringer free. With most of the remaining the top-tier paddlers in the Northeast attending, it promised to be the most competitive race in years. I figured that 9 of these paddlers had a legitimate shot at taking gold - Mike Dostal, Ben Pigott, Craig Impens, Jan Lupinski, Matt Drayer, Eric Costanzo, Matt Nunnally, Jim Mallory, and myself (via a home turf exemption). While a New Englander hasn't won the Blackburn in 15 years, we've at least been able to keep the title north of the Mason-Dixon line every year since then. Given that ace paddler Eric Mims was driving up from Charleston, however, that streak of dominance would be in jeopardy.
Matt Drayer had been sending me hourly updates on the race day forecast starting back in mid-April. I watched in horror as the meteorological wheel of fortune clicked around to eventually settle on "hot and flat" (just one notch off "frogstorm", which would have been awesome). For those accustomed to open-water racing, the latter half of that pairing was particularly troubling. Mike, Ben, and Jim, on the other hand, would be in their element. I was pretty sure that I wanted the win more than any other competitor, but that attitude didn't help any when I was trying to get into Applebee's management program.
When I mentioned to Mary Beth that I was tempted to use the V14 - it was supposed to be flat, after all - her months of emergency training kicked in. The eye roll was a reflex reaction, of course, as were the vigorous slaps to the face. When these measures failed to elicit any improvement in my judgment, however, she stayed on protocol. After being forced to binge watch my capsize videos, sit through a lecture on hydrodynamic stability, and re-grout the bathroom (hold on a second...), I started to come around. The coup de grâce was listening to the recorded loop we had made of Bill Kuklinski saying "It's always sloppy at the Dog Bar!" Wiser words have never been spoken. At least, not by Bill. I'm not sure why the slapping had to continue even once we were driving to the start with the V10 strapped safely to the car, but (as Mary Beth kept reminding me) protocol is protocol.
With the forecast showing temperatures rising into the high 80s with little wind or cloud cover, proper hydration would be critical to avoid accidental incineration. To that end, I rigged my ski with a ingenious network of bladders, tubing, and freezer-chilled underwear that would be sufficient to see me halfway across the Sahara (at which point my stroke technique would completely fall apart). I'm happy to announce that I was able to conserve three-quarters of my water supply for next year's race.
Despite warnings from the organizers that we might experience delays due to the new safety measures, everything went smoothly (with the exception of those handsy inspectors). I was soon on the water, starting the experimental RaceJoy tracking app (which, after the race, informed me that I had successfully circumnavigated Vermont). Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, someone was shouting a long series of numbers ending with 3, 2, 1, and the surfskis were underway. I had lined up behind Craig, knowing that he'd go out fast and drag more water behind him than the lighter contenders (if you think that's a put-down, you haven't seen Craig). Good plan, poor execution. Craig burst out of the blocks while I creaked into action, never even getting onto his draft.
While I slowly ratcheted up to race pace and began to pick my way through the fifteen or so paddlers ahead of me, a tight lead group consisting of Mike, Ben, Eric Mims, Jan, and Jim formed to the left, while a looser conglomerate of Craig, Matt Drayer, Eric Costanzo, Matt Nunnally, and myself stayed river right. A half-mile from the start, the Annisquam River turns sharply to the right. Because the Little River joins the Annisquam at this point, however, it's a pretty easy turn to miss around high tide - especially when you have your race blinders on (a somewhat counter-intuitive new requirement from the Coast Guard, but we paddlers do startle easily). And the lead pack was missing the turn in spectacular fashion.
Back in 2009, the handsome young sea kayaker that burst into the early lead of that class would have proceeded up the Little River had not a civic-minded competitor yelled out corrective directions from behind. That fresh-faced paddler was me (the last 7 years have not been kind - might have something to do with all the slapping), and that competitor... that competitor was none other than my nephew's optometrist's dog-walker. On one hand - if I didn't pay it forward now, who knew what kind of karmic doo-doo I'd be stepping in. On the other - half my rivals would soon be roaming the marsh aimlessly, wondering why everyone raves about the beautiful diversity of the Blackburn. Not wanting to rush into a rash decision, I took a few strokes to ponder the conundrum, resolved to do the right thing, wavered for a couple more strokes, took a sip of water to clear my throat, then finally called out their navigational blunder.
The wayward horde was so quick to adjust their course that I suspect the whole maneuver may have been a test of my moral fiber. The few remaining strands are stretched pretty thin, so I wouldn't recommend losing your wallet near my car.
Because I have no other hobbies or friends, I had spent the last couple of weeks plotting the optimal route through the Annisquam given the tide, water salinity, and presidential poll numbers. While the former lead group was reintegrating with those who had taken a more direct line, I shifted even closer to the right shore. Over the next couple minutes, I was able to pull roughly even with Mike and Ben, who were now pulling the lead pack.
As we approached the Route 128 bridge, I lined myself up to skim over
the submerged sandbar on the other side, where the current wouldn't be
as strong. Mike lined himself to take a more inside route, with Ben
drafting on his gregward quarter. In retrospect, I chose a poor time to
question that geometric axiom (so-called) that any two non-parallel lines
must intersect. By the time it became clear that an intersection was
indeed imminent (Damn your impeccable logic, Euclid!), poor Ben was
suffering an acute shortage of breathing room between us. Before anyone
could adjust course, Mike caught his paddle on Ben's bow, missed a
stroke, hung precariously at a dangerous angle for a moment, and then
toppled over. Deft maneuvering by a trailing Craig saved Mike from what
could have been a nasty blow.
I'm not sure if Ben was pushing the
pace or if fatigue was taking its toll, but it was all I could do to
keep from tumbling back off his wash into oblivion. After a half mile
or so, however, we slowed a bit and I was able to push forward slightly
to Ben's right. I hung out there for a while - waiting for the lactic
acid to finally burn through all my nerve endings - then pulled ahead.
At some point in the last couple of miles, we had dropped Jim. Glancing back a few minutes after taking the lead again, however, I saw that Eric Mims was overtaking on my left, with a stroke as smooth as a baby's liver (I just know, OK?). Its regular perfection was mesmerizing. A hushed and tranquil sploosh, sploosh, sploosh. Serenity washed over me. As he effortlessly relieved me from the lead, I asked him if he had pulled any other paddlers with him. "No." he answered. "In fact, I'm not even here." Seemed reasonable. And saved me from having to try hanging on.
Only after Eric had pulled a boat length ahead did I realize I'd been hornswoggled. Seduced by southern charm! With the spell broken, I put my head down and thrashed the water in an attempt to erase the gap, throwing only the briefest of glances ahead to ascertain my progress (lest I be hypnotized anew). After a few minutes, it became clear that the gap was indelible, although I had managed to drop Ben during the chase. I focused all of my efforts on a single, noble goal - keeping within a boat's length of Eric until Halibut Point, where Chris and Leslie Chappell could document me "battling for the lead" with the eventual race winner.
I'm
proud to say that I achieved that objective. Kind of. Leslie's photos
show two paddlers locked in an epic struggle - moments of glory, frozen
in time. While Eric is ahead, one might credibly hypothesize that I was
in the process of closing on him. Unfortunately, Chris' video
of those same moments captures a more gruesome reality. The illusion of
competitive equality is revealed as a farcical sham when motion is added
to the equation. Seeing the racers paddling together, you want to set
up a charitable foundation for the guy in the back. Hopefully someday they'll
have a cure. But at least he's trying!
Once safely past Halibut Point, I could finally relax my put-on-a-show-for-the-cameras form (Good Lord - the poor wretch thought that was his "model" stroke! Where's my checkbook?) and let Eric pull away. By the time we reached the half-way point at Straitsmouth, he was 10 lengths ahead. Eric's lead would continue to grow over the next few miles, despite taking a conservative route that kept him well offshore from each point we rounded.
Having cleared Emerson Point, we were now facing a mild headwind and increasing tidal currents. My GPS speed dropped by the better part of a mile per hour, while my subjective speed dipped dangerously close to zero. For the past half-dozen miles, I had been waiting for Mike to reappear. With limited open-water experience in his V12, the conditions were lively enough to slow him down a skosh or two. Given the raw speed he had exhibited at the flatwater Meltdown Race a few weeks ago, however, I figured he had at least four or five skoshes to burn. And, sure enough, about 12 miles into the race, I spotted an Epic back ten lengths on an inside line.
Rather than panic, however, I assessed the situation in a rational manner. I was (a) in a more stable boat, (b) against a guy who had never even seen the ocean before today (had to embellish a little to keep the rising hysteria at bay), (c) with the roughest part of the course coming up. It's always sloppy at the Dog Bar, someone once whispered in my ear a thousand times. Despite the growing heat and fatigue, I kept my cool and concentrated on getting at least part of the paddle in the water with each stroke.
I
caught actual glimpses of Mike over the next fifteen minutes, and
imagined glimpses of him for the remainder of the race. In the
periphery, I discovered, a lobster buoy is a dead ringer for a V12.
However, I soon became more interested in the tiny figure ahead of me.
In my frenzied efforts to fend off attackers (that whole thing about
resisting panic... might have been some embellishment there too), I was
actually closing on Eric.
I usually give myself plenty of breathing room while rounding Eastern Point, but seeing an opportunity to cut into Eric's lead by shortening my route, I decided to take chances with a riskier route. By the time Eric reached the end of the Dog Bar (for all the hype, not all that sloppy), he was only a half-dozen lengths ahead. Given my closing rate over the past fifteen minutes, I started to work on my victory speech as we turned into Gloucester Harbor. I was debating whether to open with a disarming story of a be-diapered Greg gurgling adorably when propped up in his first ski (2011, right Wesley?) or an off-color joke about paddle feathering when I noticed that Eric was rejecting the preferred race narrative. The one where the local boy falls way behind to a sinister outsider, but through sheer pluck (at one point he patches his hull with chewing gum!) claws his way back to glory in the final stretch. Hooray, Local Boy! Then it comes out that Local Boy had been using steroids and was kind of a racist. And Outsider wasn't really sinister at all - Local Boy had actually drawn on his villainous mustache while Outsider was sleeping! In slow succession, each member of the crowd dramatically turns his or her back on Local Boy.
So... perhaps for the best that I didn't win.
Eric hadn't realized how close I had drawn until the turn around the Dog Bar. Shaken from the complacency of
having been alone out front for the last 10 miles, he had no trouble
finding another gear. By the finish, he had extended his lead back to
20 lengths, clocking in at 2:43:25. I finished 40 seconds back, spurred
through the line by the last minute surge of a lobster buoy. Craig, steadily
reeling in competitors after exiting the Annisquam in 8th place, took
the final podium spot at 2:45:43. Two minutes later, the next four
racers - Mike, Matt Drayer, Eric Costanzo, and Ben - finished within 20
seconds of one another, with Jan, Jim, and John Hair rounding out the
top 10. Mary Beth can (and will) claim bragging rights in our house after securing her first Blackburn title. Dana Gaines, in his 25th and final
Blackburn (the new mandatory retirement clause - what can you do?), took
home the SS20+ gold. In the double HPK class, South Carolinians Bruce Poacher & Waylon
Willis edged out Joe Shaw & Kurt Kuehnel for the win.
I sincerely hope the good folks from Charleston enjoyed the race enough to give us a chance to win back our gold medals next year (and every year thereafter, as required). Congratulations to all paddlers, rowers, and whatever you call them that go down to the sea on prone boards. Thanks to the Cape Ann Rowing Club, the Race Committee, and the many dedicated volunteers, for ensuring that the Blackburn carries on. Check out Leslie Chappell's photos (from Halibut Point and Pavilion Beach), Mike Sachs' photos (from Halibut Point), and Chris Chappell's video (from Halibut Point).
Seems like forever since you've been to Rhode Island, right? Race the Jamestown Double Beaver and it'll feel like you never left. July 30. Register at PaddleGuru.
While the requirement that all racers must carry a knife between their teeth to fight off pirates was dropped at the last minute, each competitor did need to have PFD, cell phone, whistle, and adequate hydration. In the staging area, packs of roaming safety inspectors verified that we had the required gear and patted us down for contraband (that was legit, right?). Mingling in the crowd, undercover agents would look at their cell phones, then proclaim loudly "Looks like the seas are up to 4 feet!" or "Three more Great Whites spotted near Straitsmouth!" A noticeable blanch or sudden loss of bladder control, and you were sitting this one out. On the water, the Race Committee had recruited a fleet of safety boats sufficiently dense that 3 people were able to complete the course on mountain bikes. In summary, you'd be far safer during the Blackburn Challenge than you would be driving to it (especially if Jan were behind the wheel).
With the Canadian Nationals drawing many of the best North American paddlers (including semi-local Jesse Lishchuk, with an impressive 15th place finish), the Blackburn would be refreshingly ringer free. With most of the remaining the top-tier paddlers in the Northeast attending, it promised to be the most competitive race in years. I figured that 9 of these paddlers had a legitimate shot at taking gold - Mike Dostal, Ben Pigott, Craig Impens, Jan Lupinski, Matt Drayer, Eric Costanzo, Matt Nunnally, Jim Mallory, and myself (via a home turf exemption). While a New Englander hasn't won the Blackburn in 15 years, we've at least been able to keep the title north of the Mason-Dixon line every year since then. Given that ace paddler Eric Mims was driving up from Charleston, however, that streak of dominance would be in jeopardy.
 |
| Since conditions vary along the course, we each like to carry a spare boat. |
When I mentioned to Mary Beth that I was tempted to use the V14 - it was supposed to be flat, after all - her months of emergency training kicked in. The eye roll was a reflex reaction, of course, as were the vigorous slaps to the face. When these measures failed to elicit any improvement in my judgment, however, she stayed on protocol. After being forced to binge watch my capsize videos, sit through a lecture on hydrodynamic stability, and re-grout the bathroom (hold on a second...), I started to come around. The coup de grâce was listening to the recorded loop we had made of Bill Kuklinski saying "It's always sloppy at the Dog Bar!" Wiser words have never been spoken. At least, not by Bill. I'm not sure why the slapping had to continue even once we were driving to the start with the V10 strapped safely to the car, but (as Mary Beth kept reminding me) protocol is protocol.
With the forecast showing temperatures rising into the high 80s with little wind or cloud cover, proper hydration would be critical to avoid accidental incineration. To that end, I rigged my ski with a ingenious network of bladders, tubing, and freezer-chilled underwear that would be sufficient to see me halfway across the Sahara (at which point my stroke technique would completely fall apart). I'm happy to announce that I was able to conserve three-quarters of my water supply for next year's race.
Despite warnings from the organizers that we might experience delays due to the new safety measures, everything went smoothly (with the exception of those handsy inspectors). I was soon on the water, starting the experimental RaceJoy tracking app (which, after the race, informed me that I had successfully circumnavigated Vermont). Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, someone was shouting a long series of numbers ending with 3, 2, 1, and the surfskis were underway. I had lined up behind Craig, knowing that he'd go out fast and drag more water behind him than the lighter contenders (if you think that's a put-down, you haven't seen Craig). Good plan, poor execution. Craig burst out of the blocks while I creaked into action, never even getting onto his draft.
 |
| Sometimes it's just nice to break things up with a picture of Francisco. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell) |
Back in 2009, the handsome young sea kayaker that burst into the early lead of that class would have proceeded up the Little River had not a civic-minded competitor yelled out corrective directions from behind. That fresh-faced paddler was me (the last 7 years have not been kind - might have something to do with all the slapping), and that competitor... that competitor was none other than my nephew's optometrist's dog-walker. On one hand - if I didn't pay it forward now, who knew what kind of karmic doo-doo I'd be stepping in. On the other - half my rivals would soon be roaming the marsh aimlessly, wondering why everyone raves about the beautiful diversity of the Blackburn. Not wanting to rush into a rash decision, I took a few strokes to ponder the conundrum, resolved to do the right thing, wavered for a couple more strokes, took a sip of water to clear my throat, then finally called out their navigational blunder.
The wayward horde was so quick to adjust their course that I suspect the whole maneuver may have been a test of my moral fiber. The few remaining strands are stretched pretty thin, so I wouldn't recommend losing your wallet near my car.
Because I have no other hobbies or friends, I had spent the last couple of weeks plotting the optimal route through the Annisquam given the tide, water salinity, and presidential poll numbers. While the former lead group was reintegrating with those who had taken a more direct line, I shifted even closer to the right shore. Over the next couple minutes, I was able to pull roughly even with Mike and Ben, who were now pulling the lead pack.
Although I was displeased with my role in the circumstances that put me there, I found myself in the lead. Of the Blackburn. Still 19 miles to go, and I was already a lock to win this thing! With Ben drafting by my side, we continued to wend through the
Annisquam. Although I was aware that someone (Jim, it turns out) was
also on my stern draft, I naturally assumed that everyone else in the
race had dropped out in impotent frustration at our lead trio's
blistering pace. It's difficult to maintain that belief now given all the contrary evidence, but I'm sticking with it.
Ben
was begging to take a pull out front, so I graciously eased back to
around 130% of my target heart rate. I enjoyed the ride for a while,
but soon grew impatient with Ben's leisurely pace. My GPS was
indicating that this was exactly the speed that I had been pulling at,
but this is America, dammit. If we couldn't selectively choose to
question science in favor of intuition, we'd all still be getting
vaccinated and using velcro (aka, the devil's zipper). You can trust in
a mythical constellation of meticulously positioned satellites if you
want, but I'm going with my gut. As expected, once I had retaken the
lead, our subjective pace improved dramatically.
I figured that once we were out of the Annisquam, ocean
conditions would start to erode Ben's technique. Since I scoff at
highfalutin' concepts such as "technique" and "marine forecasts", the
raging sea would have no such impact on me. Nor could I possibly know
that the sea would not be raging. If there's "irony" there, it's
lost on me. With only a light trailing wind, there were few waves to
disrupt Ben's stroke. Further, my presumption that I was the superior
rough water paddler seemed to anger him (note to self - keep future
notes to self to self). A few minutes past the Annisquam Light, Ben
slid into the lead. I balanced briefly on his side wash before falling
back onto his stern.
At some point in the last couple of miles, we had dropped Jim. Glancing back a few minutes after taking the lead again, however, I saw that Eric Mims was overtaking on my left, with a stroke as smooth as a baby's liver (I just know, OK?). Its regular perfection was mesmerizing. A hushed and tranquil sploosh, sploosh, sploosh. Serenity washed over me. As he effortlessly relieved me from the lead, I asked him if he had pulled any other paddlers with him. "No." he answered. "In fact, I'm not even here." Seemed reasonable. And saved me from having to try hanging on.
Only after Eric had pulled a boat length ahead did I realize I'd been hornswoggled. Seduced by southern charm! With the spell broken, I put my head down and thrashed the water in an attempt to erase the gap, throwing only the briefest of glances ahead to ascertain my progress (lest I be hypnotized anew). After a few minutes, it became clear that the gap was indelible, although I had managed to drop Ben during the chase. I focused all of my efforts on a single, noble goal - keeping within a boat's length of Eric until Halibut Point, where Chris and Leslie Chappell could document me "battling for the lead" with the eventual race winner.
 |
| Finishing strong! Unfortunately, 12 miles before the actual finish. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell) |
Once safely past Halibut Point, I could finally relax my put-on-a-show-for-the-cameras form (Good Lord - the poor wretch thought that was his "model" stroke! Where's my checkbook?) and let Eric pull away. By the time we reached the half-way point at Straitsmouth, he was 10 lengths ahead. Eric's lead would continue to grow over the next few miles, despite taking a conservative route that kept him well offshore from each point we rounded.
Having cleared Emerson Point, we were now facing a mild headwind and increasing tidal currents. My GPS speed dropped by the better part of a mile per hour, while my subjective speed dipped dangerously close to zero. For the past half-dozen miles, I had been waiting for Mike to reappear. With limited open-water experience in his V12, the conditions were lively enough to slow him down a skosh or two. Given the raw speed he had exhibited at the flatwater Meltdown Race a few weeks ago, however, I figured he had at least four or five skoshes to burn. And, sure enough, about 12 miles into the race, I spotted an Epic back ten lengths on an inside line.
Rather than panic, however, I assessed the situation in a rational manner. I was (a) in a more stable boat, (b) against a guy who had never even seen the ocean before today (had to embellish a little to keep the rising hysteria at bay), (c) with the roughest part of the course coming up. It's always sloppy at the Dog Bar, someone once whispered in my ear a thousand times. Despite the growing heat and fatigue, I kept my cool and concentrated on getting at least part of the paddle in the water with each stroke.
 |
| Approaching the finish, Mike, Matt, Eric, and Ben decided to split up to cover more ground. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell) |
I usually give myself plenty of breathing room while rounding Eastern Point, but seeing an opportunity to cut into Eric's lead by shortening my route, I decided to take chances with a riskier route. By the time Eric reached the end of the Dog Bar (for all the hype, not all that sloppy), he was only a half-dozen lengths ahead. Given my closing rate over the past fifteen minutes, I started to work on my victory speech as we turned into Gloucester Harbor. I was debating whether to open with a disarming story of a be-diapered Greg gurgling adorably when propped up in his first ski (2011, right Wesley?) or an off-color joke about paddle feathering when I noticed that Eric was rejecting the preferred race narrative. The one where the local boy falls way behind to a sinister outsider, but through sheer pluck (at one point he patches his hull with chewing gum!) claws his way back to glory in the final stretch. Hooray, Local Boy! Then it comes out that Local Boy had been using steroids and was kind of a racist. And Outsider wasn't really sinister at all - Local Boy had actually drawn on his villainous mustache while Outsider was sleeping! In slow succession, each member of the crowd dramatically turns his or her back on Local Boy.
So... perhaps for the best that I didn't win.
 |
| I figured this was the perfect time to tell my paddling buddies about an exciting new investment opportunity. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell) |
 |
| It's gold to me. Some kind of color blindness thing. |
 |
| Oh, darn. It seems that I accidentally cropped out Mary Beth's medal. We'll have to assume it's bronze. |
Seems like forever since you've been to Rhode Island, right? Race the Jamestown Double Beaver and it'll feel like you never left. July 30. Register at PaddleGuru.
