If you're a New England paddler and you don't have a signed excuse from your doctor or your congressman, you're pretty much self-obligated to attend Mike McDonough's Nahant Bay Cup - the final regional race before Labor Day rolls in and puts the kibosh on summer. Despite missing a few regulars (still waiting on those notes, guys), a healthy crew of 18 paddlers made the arduous trek to Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott - a town so notoriously difficult to get to that it wasn't actually discovered until 1973. And yet, somehow, parking is still a problem. I spent a good chunk of the mandatory pre-race socialization period talking with first-time participant Peter Lacoste. Try as I might to maneuver the conversation in this direction, I just couldn't get the Australian expat to say something funny about a dingo. Maybe next time.
Mike soon called us together for the skippers meeting, leading off with a heartfelt dedication of the race to Jim Gilligan - a beloved local paddler and all-around class act who passed away unexpectedly a couple of weeks earlier. One of my favorite memories of Jim is of him excitedly explaining how he was going to resolve stability issues with his new Huki S1-X by fitting 20 pounds of shaped lead weights into the footwell. That may make him sound like less than a serious paddler, but this is the same competitor who broke 3 hours in the Blackburn paddling a Mako XT just a few years back.
Jim Gilligan at the finish of the 2011 Nahant Bay Cup.
Although Mike often adjusts the course to accommodate the conditions, this year we'd be running the "classic" course (well, maybe "neoclassic" would be more appropriate) for the first time since 2015. We'd cross Nahant Bay to turn on a red buoy shortly past East Point, skim across the mouth of the bay outside of Egg Rock, round Off Rock, skirt Dread Ledge, and return to Fisherman's beach for an onshore finish - a total of 9.5 miles. The initial leg would be into a moderate headwind, the second leg would be a mild downwind (The Disappointment of the Out-and-Back Paddler - good title for an autobiography), and the final leg would include a grab-bag of conditions and a hull-tearing reef. Of course, it wouldn't be the Nahant Bay Cup if these directions weren't relayed by Mike exclusively via a pantomime of dramatic gesticulations.
Everyone thinks he's an expert...
...but there's only one true master.
Before the race, Mike had proudly showed off an antique brass contraption consisting of a pump and a trumpet-like bell. Needless to say, I was appalled. Having read my Harry Potter (to the, uh, orphans), I recognize a Soul Snatcher when I see one. As Mike made to demonstrate the ghastly apparatus by plunging down the handle, I sprang into action. Fortunately, it turned out to be an old starting horn for yacht races. Mary Beth, grown accustomed to my inexplicable behavior over the years, didn't blink at having been thrust in front of me just as the horn sounded. Which is good, since it allowed me to quickly check her eyes. Whew. Soul intact.
I knew that Jan Lupinski couldn't pass up a chance to defend his Nahant Bay crown. After getting off to a good start this season over an admittedly under-trained Jan, we've split our last four head-to-heads. We're so familiar with each other's strengths and weaknesses that there's barely a reason to actually race one another. Given details on the course and conditions, we just plug the numbers into the Leshpinksi Algorithm and voila... no need to actually suffer. Of course the head-to-head outcome doesn't indicate the overall champion of the race, but as long as I beat Jan on paper, I'm okay with taking a DNS. However, the particular circumstances of this race led to inconclusive results - the flummoxed algorithm just kept spitting out Toto lyrics. Looks like we'd have to settle this the old-fashioned way. Now imagine Jan saying "on the water" and me saying "coin flip" at the same time. Masochist.
Honoring the long-standing nautical traditions of Swampscott, the Nahant Bay Cup is the only race on the New England calendar that still features live semaphore translation.
I didn't have the heart to tell Mike, but the starting horn was something of a disappointment. Based on his quarter-effort demo, I figured the full-throated roar of the horn might have the more pious residents of Swampscott doing some last-minute rapture prep. Instead, I found myself waiting for someone to excuse themselves as the modest toot wafted over the starting area. By the time I realized my mistake (pardon me, by the way), Jan, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Chris Chappell had jumped out to an early lead. With Matt Drayer in tow, I chased after them through the mooring field, barely dodging a number of deceptively stationary boats. A few minutes into the race, Jan separated himself from the (fraternal) twin 550s of Andrius and Chris. Shortly after, I passed Team Nelo. They slid over and joined Matt, but the trio never quite managed to catch my draft. Over the next couple of minutes, I approached to within a couple lengths of Jan. Not wanting to spook him (or, possibly, not able to close the final 40 feet), I hung back in this position.
About two miles into the race, I was startled by a abrupt shift in balance as my footplate slipped a notch on the left side. This had happened once before in our Tuesday night Salem League, so I wasn't overly alarmed after recovering from the initial surprise. The skewed footplate made it slightly more difficult to turn left, but nothing I couldn't compensate for. I continued shadowing Jan, staying back a few lengths in the hopes that he'd forget about me and decide to take a nap. Entering the more confused waters around East Point, Jan stayed further out while I kept closer to the rocks hoping to find some reflected waves heading my way. Traffic was light in that direction, and few were keen on picking up a malodorous hitchhiker, but I did manage to close to within a length of Jan by the time we reached the buoy. My gains were short-lived. Jan's lead sprang back to three lengths almost immediately after we both had swung our noses downwind, then continued to stretch as he more effectively exploited the small runners. I saw Matt, Andrius, and Chris make the turn perhaps a minute behind me, but was unable to identify the subsequent paddlers.
Although I hadn't initially been too concerned about my footplate, in the downwind leg it became an annoyance. More importantly, it was a minor mechanical issue, the resolution of which I could pin extraordinary and unwarranted expectations on. Surely the slight compromise in my steering was the only reason Jan was pulling inexorably away! Although you don't need tools to adjust the Epic footplate, I'd had some expletive-laden difficulties in the past getting the mechanism to slide freely after disengaging the spring-loaded detentes. Even standing on dry land with the boat in a sling, it's 50/50 whether I'll manage to stay upright while making the adjustment. Remarkably, I managed to shift the plate back into position with just a quick tug. I was underway again almost immediately. However, if there were benefits to be reaped from this repair, they weren't immediately apparent. Over the next couple of miles, Jan continued to increase his lead. In contradiction of the algorithm output, turns out it wasn't gonna take a lot to drag me away from him.
You certainly wouldn't characterize the downwind conditions as "ripping" - or even "mildly entertaining" - but we were being helped along by a steady stream of wavelets from a selection of directions. You had to work for each little bump though. Although the temperature was only in the 70s, the interval-like efforts and the lack of apparent wind combined to make the trip to Off Rock increasingly uncomfortable. Additionally, the sea had that glassy sheen that adds a good ten degrees to the perceived temperature. I hypothesize this is because the smooth parabolic concavities focus the sun directly on your head from every conceivable angle, but that just might be the ravings of a man suffering from wave-concentrated solar energy brain damage. It was difficult to maintain a commitment to chasing down Jan, but having built up a head of steam, I didn't want to waste it.
Given that Jan's guidance software has been glitchy for as long as anyone can remember, I couldn't tell if his meandering up ahead was due to imperfect targeting or if he was aggressively chasing off-angle runners. In any event, it felt like I was able to staunch the bleeding by taking a more direct line towards Off Rock. Perhaps a minute before I reached it, Jan rounded the rocky island with what seemed a generous berth. In an attempt to shave his lead, I risked shaving my rudder by gingerly feeling my way around the shallow verge. I made it around unscathed, but not for lack of trying. Somewhere in the world, a glacier gave its life to provide me with those 2 extra inches of clearance.
We had approximately a half-mile of forward quartering seas before reaching Dread Ledge and heading back into Nahant Bay. This deep into the race I figured that I had the flatwater speed advantage over Jan, but the conditions were slightly too confused for me to hammer efficiently. I could still flail sloppily, however. Rounding the ledge with a mile of paddling left, I was back perhaps a half minute. With only relatively smooth water separating us from the finish, that old devil, optimism, started whispering in my ear that with enough pain, I could take this. Like a sucker, I bought a jar of this snake oil. Turns out it was half-empty. Jan ran up the beach to beat me by 13 seconds. Matt rolled in a few moments later to take third. As additional paddlers completed the course, we gathered to anxiously await everyone's favorite Swampscott spectacle - Francisco's jubilant drum-major-on-speed high-stepping dash across the finish. He didn't disappoint. Mary Beth took the women's title, although with considerably less panache.
Nobody knew who this was, but he kept asking if anyone had seen his pony.
Kind of a stickler for safety, Mike insisted that we wait until every single paddler was accounted for before allowing us to dig into a spread of watermelon pizza salad and cookies. Maybe he should worry a little less about boats being lost at sea and a little more about missing punctuation. Once we had sorted out the comma fiasco, the food really improved. After the medals were awarded, Dave Grainger was rightfully knighted into the Order of the Bad Ass in a solemn ceremony. Mike was a little wild with the non-dubbing paddle blade, but fortunately all wounds were superficial. As an OBA, Dave is entitled to use whatever-the-hell honorific he chooses. I'd probably go with Overlord Grainger, but it's his call. For Ryan Bardsley's quick rise to prominence (and unfortunate propensity for standing behind Mike during dubs), he was fitted with the Helmet of Promise. Don't let it go to your head, Ryan - Bill Kuklinski held this traveling trophy before you, and, quite frankly, we're still waiting for him to blossom. Thanks to Mike, Carol, and assorted other family members for a superb day.
The champs, the Bad Ass, and that guy with a helmet.
Summer may finally be burning itself out, but the New England surfski season isn't taking the hint. Even though it's on the placid Merrimack River, the Great Stone Dam Classic has become one of the largest ski races in the northeast. It's also now a part of the SurfskiRacing point series. That's on Sunday, September 9. You'll then be primed for the East Coast Surfski Championships at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse the following weekend (September 15). Register at PaddleGuru.
Once again, the Battle of the Bay fell within the mandatory blog blackout period following the Gorge Downwind Champs. However, I'm assured that the Committee often turns a blind eye to brief race summaries provided that they "portray surfski paddlers in a positive light" and avoid ancillary alliteration. Hardly seems worth writing anything under those conditions, but here goes.
While last year's race was hastily reorganized to a rip-roaring downwinder, with modest wind conditions we'd be reverting to a course similar to 2016's. You may recall this as the route so distasteful to Jan Lupinski that he instead created his own alternative course, persisting for two laps even when it became obvious that nobody was following his lead. From the dock of the Conanicut Yacht Club, we'd head out around buoy G11 near the House on the Rock, retreat up the bay to a stanchion of the Newport Bridge, return to G11, and finish back at the Yacht Club. Assuming no detours, this would be about 6.25 miles.
Wesley really took Sean's recommendation to "keep his arms up" to heart.
I knew it. They're pod people!
Attracted, no doubt, by the prospect of humiliating post-race novelty costumes, Sean Rice once again joined the Battle of the Bay. To help cover his expenses, he also scheduled a few clinics and private lessons in Jamestown. As in previous years, Sean would provide us with a sizable head start, then blow by us mid-course as if we were moored.
After the first wave start, Chris Laughlin and Jan quickly took the lead on an inside line. Hoping to catch some of the outgoing tide, I stayed further out initially, but quickly revised my tactics and angled over to join the leaders. By the time I caught them, Jan and Chris had switched places (but, showing little imagination, had remained in their own boats). I pulled onto Jan's side wash, then slid back to his stern as Chris dropped off the pace. We remained in this stable configuration, bucking a moderate headwind, until arriving at G11.
I had assumed that Jan would pull away during the subsequent downwind leg, but surprisingly I was able to maintain contact as we both enjoyed some decent runners heading toward the Newport Bridge. With our speed matching that of the wind, the warmth and humidity of the day became increasingly apparent. I was just starting to build an unhealthy dread of having to duel Jan for the remainder of the race in these muggy conditions when I unexpectedly caught and passed him. At first I figured that I must have surged ahead on a fluke run, but as I continued downwind to the turn-around abutment, I realized that Jan had fallen well back. As it would turn out, he had imploded in the heat.
Presenting a strong finish requires perfect synchrony with the photographer. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
Sad Jan makes me question the existence of God. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
I spent the remainder of the race awaiting to be passed by the one-man second wave. Of course, I wasn't disappointed. With a half-mile to go, I spotted Sean overtaking me on an outside line. He would ultimately beat me by 8 minutes in what was for him only a 45 minute race. So I still have a little room for improvement. Jan would finish third with hard-charging Kurt Hatem (who had overtaken a heat-flagging Chris on the final leg). Mary Beth nabbed the top women's spot.
Despite years of studying their ways, Greg could never truly pass as human.
The remainder of the day was spent grabbing lunch at Spinnaker's, watching boats from the cliffs of Fort Wetherill (hold on a second - is that Kurt doing out-and-backs after racing in the morning and then attending Sean's afternoon clinic?), and enjoying a lively group dinner at Tim's. The next day we'd again get schooled by Sean, this time in his all-day clinic. Thanks to Tim and Alyce for hosting the festivities and to Sean for slumming it with us in good cheer.
I still can't paddle worth a damn, but my rotator cuff was miraculously healed. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
For the 11th running of the Jamestown Double Beaver, race director Tim Dwyer decided to mix things up. No longer married to the "Jamestown", "Double", or "Beaver" parts of the name (the last two elements referring to the two passes by Beavertail Light), Tim briefly considered cutting all ties to the past by running it as a sled dog race. It was only after his wife patiently explained to him what "doggy paddle" actually meant that he decided to stick with humans. He did, however, migrate the venue to mainland Rhode Island (huh?) and shift the start time to late afternoon to maximize our chances for a downwind run.
While the wind did materialize, it brought along some unwelcome guests - lightning, rain squalls, and a newly-bald Chris Quinn (looking disturbingly fit). In the hour leading up to the start, the visuals to the north grew increasingly ominous, with a rumbling soundtrack designed explicitly to amplify our dread. Attempting to salvage a reasonably safe race, Tim cycled through course adjustments with wild-eyed fervor. From the original 9 mile triangle course, we progressed through countless variations before finally settling on a 5.5 mile sprint for survival. From our starting point at the University of Rhode Island (Go Quahogs!), we'd head up Narragansett Bay to turn on an abutment of the Jamestown Bridge, then return back to the start.
Only those paddlers categorized as "expendable" were allowed to compete this year.
Perhaps because of the dire forecast, turn-out for one of New England's signature races was uncharacteristically low. Once we shooed away all the huskies, I mean. Only ten of us showed up, with one gentleman opting out after deciding that a 17% chance of electrocution was too high a price to pay for the chance at Double Beaver glory. Tim sweetened the pot by offering to rename the next year's race in honor of anyone finishing in a literal blaze of glory, but that only resulted in the vainer of us affixing make-shift lightning rods to our PFDs.
Lining up for the start, the reason that Chris had shaved his head became obvious - he alone wouldn't have to deal with the distraction of his hair standing on end. I said he alone. Wanting to give us as much of a safety buffer as possible, Tim quickly counted us down to a start. Although the first leg wasn't a paddles-down kind of downwind, there were some decent waves to work with. Dave Grainger took advantage of the conditions to launch out of the gate looking strong, as did Tim and Wesley. A couple minutes into the race, I moved to the front of our increasingly spread-out group. This lead would last for about 90 seconds before Chris caught a nice series of runners and pulled ahead.
It took me the next half-mile to figure out that this was the new order of things. I wouldn't be able to catch him on the downwind without wiping myself out for the return trip. I resigned myself to just trying to hang in his general vicinity until the bridge and then, er... paddling better? Shortly after this ego recalibration, I heard Tim yelling something from behind. A surprising amount of yelling goes on during our races, most of which I've found can be safely ignored. An element of panicked urgency in Tim's voice suggested that I might want to pay attention, however. Upon tuning in, I discovered that he was amending the course yet again - perhaps to avoid the finale of the fireworks show that I had been hearing just over the horizon. Rather than turning on the bridge, we'd round a moored boat just a couple hundred meters ahead. The fact that it was necessary to relay this message to Chris didn't reflect too well on my efforts to hang close to him. He took the turn about 10 lengths ahead.
I didn't like my odds catching Chris by honorable means, so I decided to throw my lot in with the outgoing tide while he hung closer to the coast. In the face of inevitable defeat, it's important to start lining up rationalizations as early as possible. This desperate measure would at least provide me with a flimsy "bad line" excuse for getting so soundly beaten. So here it goes... By keeping better tucked out of the wind rather than foolishly trying to exploit a meager tidal current, Chris extended his winning margin from 55 seconds to a full minute. Tim held off Kurt Hatem to claim third. The final course clocked in at just over 3.5 miles with the winning time measuring well under a half hour. Chris' first surfski win was a convincing one. What better time to retire from the sport than while on top?
The photographer refused to take the picture until Tim and I had put our shirts back on.
Mary Beth's win in the female division merits some additional coverage. In a scant field with less speed diversity than usual, she had fallen off the back of the pack. As a result, she neither heard about the route change nor saw anyone make the abbreviated turn. Famously, the same thing happened in the 2013 Double Beaver, where MB alone completed the original course. As the lawsuit to have her instated as the official champion of that race drags into its fifth year, this year's repeat fiasco can only bolster her case (the term "depraved indifference" seems likely to sway a few jurors). Fortunately, this time Mary Beth figured out that everyone else had turned early, even though she didn't know exactly where. Picking an arbitrary point well beyond the actual downwind terminus, she ended up paddling a 4.25 mile course. The excess will be credited to next year's race. Additionally, Tim has decreed that all future Double Beavers must include a designated Course Adjustment Specialist assigned to apprise Mary Beth of the latest route alterations. As the person most likely to have to inform her parents should she be lost in Narragansett Bay, I suspect I'll have to volunteer.
Mary Beth reacts to being informed that, once again, she's been DQ'ed for course augmentation.
Tim's decision to shorten the course exactly when he did makes me think he's either a meteorological genius or a spooky clairvoyant. In any event, the timing of the event worked out perfectly. We tried out the new Stellar SEA that Dave Thomas had brought, stowed our boats, did the awards and the prize drawings, and were just finishing our pizza dinner when the skies opened up and deposited a swimming pool's worth of rain on our beach. Fortunately, we could see the wall of water approaching across the bay, giving most of us time to avoid the deep end. Thanks to Tim (and to prize sponsor Epic) for a brief but memorable race.
Mike McDonough's Nahant Bay Cup is this coming Saturday. There's no need to sign-up beforehand - just register at Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott between 8:30 and 9:30 for the 10 o'clock race.
[Note: Despite my jokes about the storms, we had forecasts and live radar indicating that the action wouldn't reach our locale until well after we had completed our appointed rounds. In fact, even though it eventually rained at the venue, we never experienced lightning in the immediate area. In summary, we're something short of suicidal maniacs.]
The USCA Nationals offer an opportunity for flatwater canoeists and kayakers to set aside their differences for four days to compete in harmony at a shared venue. All races are within group, of course - there's a limit to how much comingling can be tolerated. Like the better circuses, the Nationals are constantly on the move to stay one step ahead of the law. This year's edition took place at Onondaga Lake State Park in Syracuse. Most famous for dissolving flesh from bone, spurring runaway tumor growth, and giving you four varieties of dysentery, the EPA recently declared the lake "mostly water" after a multi-year cleanup effort. Fortunately, we wouldn't be paddling anywhere near ground zero of the Superfund site.
Onondaga Lake drains to the Seneca River via the half-mile Lake Outlet, the two waterways meeting at a T punctuated by a large island. Our 12.5 mile race would consist of two laps (and change), each lap consisting of a counterclockwise traversal of the T with 180 degree buoy turns at the, uh, serifs. So we'd have to negotiate a total of six left turns during the race. Since the park fronts the Outlet, spectators would be able to watch the start, half-way turn, and finish of the race. Although there were no shallows, those of us with rudders had to contend with weed beds when attempting to duck the current near shore.
Mary Beth dueled for much of the race with Courtney Rudder, beating her by 13 seconds in the end.
On Friday, I got a chance to scout the course by proxy as Mary Beth competed in the women's Unlimited K1 event. She had an excellent race, emerging as national champion in her age group. And, more importantly, she was able to provide valuable intel on current, weeds, and carcinogen pockets. Joann Hanowski edged out Eileen Visser as the overall winner. In men's unlimited K2, Matt Skeels and Jim Mallory cruised to an easy victory in their ICF boat. Imagine a dignified dog of a certain age (say, 8.5) who just wants to live his life in peace. And then imagine a mischievous whelp who won't stop playfully biting the elder dog's ear and cracking jokes about how old he is. That's the delightful Mallory-Skeels dynamic. Seems to work for them. In men's touring K1 (which has apparently now expanded to include the V10 Sport), ageless Mike Herbert powered his S18S to squeak out the win. OK, at a 9 minute margin, maybe more of a roar than a squeak.
The comedy team of Jim and Matt led the Unlimited K2 race from start to finish, in no small part because they were the only team with a well-defined schtick.
Saturday's Unlimited K1 roster was imposing, to say the least. Matt, Jim, and Mike would be racing again, of course. They'd be joined by Erik Borgnes, Craig Impens (who had competed in a C2 with his father on Friday), and Jan Lupinksi - not to mention the many unfamiliar paddlers who might also contend for the title. I'd never beaten Erik or Mike previously and had finished behind each of the others multiple times. Well, except Matt, whom I encountered just once, in his maiden open-water race. Competing against any one of these guys would redline my pre-race anxiety. At the prospect of facing them en masse, I spent most of the morning hyperventilating into a paper bag and trying to score some Xanax in the parking lot. The starting gun couldn't come quickly enough.
A lot of people tape their gels to the inside of the gunwale, but I prefer to sew it to my lower lip for quicker access.
After waiting for the first five heats to launch down the Outlet, it was finally time for us to maneuver into position. A quick roll call later, we were also on our way. Jan made the bold (and possibly cockamamie, given the competition) decision to seize the lead immediately, jumping a couple of boat lengths in front of the rest of the field. After several minutes, from the roiling remainder emerged a coherent order that would slowly evolve over the course of the race. Erik, Mike, and Matt were hot on Jan's stern. Craig, Jim, Gary Wade, and Kiril Florov coalesced into a formidable chase pack. To nobody's amazement, another cluster of paddlers separated me from that lead eight. It took me a couple of minutes to squeeze by Alan Lamb, Rowan Sampson, John Hair, and Joe White, providing myself with a clear turn at the buoy. To the great amusement of SUP paddlers at my local lake, I had spent a a good chunk of time practicing counterclockwise U-turns earlier in the week. The turns weren't graceful or fast, but they usually ended up with me pointing in the correct direction. That is to say, upright. Despite the rehearsals, I welcomed any turn I could make during the race without interference from other boats.
Moments after the Unlimited K1 start.
Jan shuns the company of his fellow paddlers, taking the first turn solo.
Having successfully negotiated the first turn, I took stock of the situation. A half-mile into the race and standing in 9th place (which probably explains the stability issues in those turns). I settled back into the bucket and set my sights on the next group of paddlers. A mile or so later, I pulled alongside Craig and the others. I was a little disappointed that nobody welcomed me to the neighborhood - a bottle of wine or a potted geranium would have been a nice gesture. In fact, I think they almost would have preferred that I hadn't moved in.
Putting the C in USCA, nearly 100 single-blade boats shared the course with us. While I admire the tenacity shown in adapting to their handicap, I can't say they made life easier for those of us blessed with a full complement of blades. Overtaking these slightly slower vessels was occasionally challenging, but the real excitement came when encountering them head-on. Since our route involved a number of out-and-back legs on the river, such meetings were inevitable - particularly at curves where paddlers traveling in both directions sought to optimize their trajectory by cutting the corners. There's nothing quite so terrifying as rounding a bend to find yourself facing a fusillade of oncoming canoes. However, turning into the Seneca River proper, an approaching murder of canoes actually helped me by driving a wedge through our group. In the ensuing disorder, I was able to pull free. Mostly.
Craig and Jim had to be pried apart with a crowbar after the race.
While getting around the chase pack I had picked up a nasty ICF infection. As I entered the second turn, K. Florov latched onto my wash. Despite dosing him liberally with paddle water between high-power intervals, I couldn't rid myself of the contagion. This didn't bother me too much, however, because we were undeniably making ground on the lead pack. Over the next few minutes, their advantage shrank from 20 seconds to a point where only a single boat length stood between me and a deluxe, all-expenses-paid cruise to a top six finish. Open bar even! I patted myself on the back for having doggedly clawed back into contention. For those of you who intuitively sense a grim turn of fortune on the immediate horizon... I wish you had been on hand to temper my expectations.
I don't know if the pack sensed our presence and upped their tempo or if I just didn't have enough oomph left to get over the last wake, but the outcome was the same - I lingered tantalizingly close to salvation, but was unable to reach the promised land. What the leaders didn't know was that I had a secret weapon in my stern pocket. I dispatched Kiril to bridge the gap and hopped on his draft. After struggling for a few tense moments, he was able to get over the final hump and hitch onto a wake. We had done it! And then... I watched in slow-motion horror as Kiril's docking mechanism malfunctioned. I don't know if he had failed to oil the reciprocating clamp or had miscalibrated the compensation gauge, but suddenly he was thrown off the draft. I briefly hoped that Kiril might be able to jury-rig a fix and re-engage with the leaders, but it soon became apparent that we were slipping further back. I pulled around my companion and attempted a push of my own, but also lacked the punch necessary to regain the draft. The struggle to join the uppermost echelon had been in vain.
As the four leaders pulled inexorably away, I considered my options. Of course, the first thing that came to mind was petulantly quitting the sport and concentrating on my second passion - competitive knitting. Upon further reflection, that seemed a little extreme given that I was, after all, still sitting in fifth place. Also, I've already had a few serious purling accidents. I briefly considered mounting another direct attack, but feared mutiny if my crew were so soon again commanded into action. That left me with one viable plan. Wait and hope. Although the leaders were currently colluding to freeze out everyone else, surely their foul conspiracy would eventually collapse as individual ambition trumped the common good. Perhaps I could feast on the fallen. Everybody loves a scavenger.
My strategy (such as it was) paid off much sooner than I had anticipated. Although it was difficult to make out from 20 lengths behind, it appeared that one of the leaders had dropped off the pace just prior to the third turn. As they rounded the buoy ahead, I could see that Mike Herbert had fallen behind the first three paddlers. Shortly after taking the turn myself, I was greeted with unexpected words of encouragement from fellow paddlers still headed upriver. I was truly energized to hear John, Joe, and Dave Thomas urging me on in my pursuit. John was so enthusiastic in his support that I suspected that he had a considerable amount of money riding on the race's outcome. At each future turn he'd not only spur me on, but also provide impressively detailed information on my targets - distance, speed, bearing, food allergies, etc. Thanks, John. Hope you didn't lose much coin on me.
Motivational guru John Hair.
Under normal circumstances, I'd have no shot at chasing down Mike Herbert. As paddling royalty, I shouldn't even look directly at him, let alone pass him. But apparently the previous day's race had taken a toll. A mile after the turn, I got on Mike's draft and followed him as he deftly threaded us through a dense formation of C1s. By the time we reached the Outlet to complete our first lap, I had the honor of pulling a former Olympian past the spectators for a once-in-a-lifetime photo op. Turning back into the Seneca River, I was eventually able to gap Mike.
My new profile pic, desktop wallpaper, mouse pad, coffee mug, tattoo, etc. (Photo by Ashley Cary)
The splits reveal that Erik, Jan, and Matt were still together at the halfway point, about a minute ahead of me. When they reached the fifth turn, this appeared to still be the case. By the sixth and final turn, however, the triumvirate had splintered - doubtless due to some kind of back-stabbing double-cross. Erik's power grab had him well out in front of Matt, who in turn had abandoned Jan. With John's bloodthirsty exhortation to "hunt down the cur!" echoing over the waters, I threw myself into pursuit. Normally at this point in a race I'd have broken out the supplemental oxygen, started an IV drip, and had the defibrillator set on stand-by mode. Through some miracle combination of smart pacing, cloud-cover, and proper hydration, however, I was feeling comparatively fresh.
The leaders make their way up the Outlet after completing the first lap.
Uncharacteristically, Jan went down without a snarling fight. Having neglected to wear a spray skirt for his ICF, he had been working against a gradually increasing weight handicap. His ability to accelerate particularly compromised, he was unable to answer when I pulled by with a mile left. Although Erik was well out of range by this point, Matt looked susceptible. I had been closing steadily, but as we turned into the final half-mile stretch of the Outlet, he smelled the barn (or perhaps me) and increased his pace. I was able to cut another length or two off his lead, but Matt ended up 12 seconds ahead. Erik had taken gold a little over a minute earlier. Jan coasted in for a comfortable 4th place finish, with Craig just holding off Jim at the line for 5th. Kiril, Mike, Gary, and Wade rounded out the top ten. Skis took six of the top ten spots, including the entire podium.
Geesh, so serious. Lighten up.
I was pleased with my performance. Despite starting from a typical self-excavated hole, I had clambered back to within just a few Skeels of a second place finish. After the race, several paddlers offered their congratulations and then complimented me for having the cadence of a hyperactive monkey. Of course, they didn't all draw that exact analogy - I believe Gary used "deranged bumblebee". Given that I've been concentrating on lowering my stroke rate while increasing power-per-stroke, I accepted these compliments with gracious dismay. But it seems to me that a high cadence isn't inherently positive. After all, you probably wouldn't hire me for secretarial work just because you saw that I could type 120 wsdr prer mnsute. Maybe I just need to install a strokechecker.
The Nationals provide a unique chance to race over multiple days, enjoy the company of all ilk of fellow paddlers, and - don't underestimate the entertainment value - savor the carnage of the initial turn in any C1 race. Congrats to the NYMCRA and USCA for throwing a memorable party in Syracuse.
Definitely worth the price of admission.
Although I enjoyed the flatwater break, it's back to the ocean this coming weekend for the Jamestown Double Beaver. Register at PaddleGuru. The race is at a new time and venue, so be sure to read through the details.
Usually when I write a race report, I find myself having to... let's say "embroider"... the story to keep it interesting. After all, it's mostly the same 25 people finishing in roughly the same order. Sure, you never know exactly what kind of wackiness you'll get from Jan or exactly how curmudgeonly Bill will be on a given day, but the people and events are life-sized. At the Gorge, everything is already larger-than-life. You get passed on a run by Oscar Chalupsky. Greg Barton has dinner at your house. Sean Rice asks you if your eczema has cleared up. The events and conditions don't need exaggeration. Nor does my incompetence. So in a seismic change from my normal style - here's the unvarnished tale.
Mary Beth and I arrived in Oregon the Wednesday before race week to check out some sights prior to settling in Hood River. At the Portland airport we were issued a complimentary Cannabis Dispensary Starter Kit and told that we could stake a claim anywhere except within 50 meters of an existing establishment. We eventually found a single viable location deep within a patch of old growth forest, but before we could get things up and running, uh, a sasquatch ate our stash. We contented ourselves with a whirlwind tour of the stunning Oregon coast, followed by a trip inland to Ashland, Crater Lake, and Bend. In the 95 degree heat of a still Sunday afternoon, we finally pulled into Hood River.
It wasn't all fun and games at the Gorge.
After a desperate search through a rapidly decreasing inventory, Tim Dwyer had secured a rental house for us back in November. We'd be joined by fellow Northeast paddlers Matt Drayer and Bob Capellini, along with Tim's daughter Gaelyn and Bob's wife Linda. Perched on a hill with a wonderful view of the Columbia River, this was to be our base of operations for the week. Naturally, we stockpiled it with just enough rations to get us through the end of the year. Or so I thought until I learned that Tim treats every breakfast as if it's his last meal before heading into a 10 day juice cleanse.
On Sunday evening the river was so menacingly flat that Matt was convinced that this whole operation was some vast practical joke on him. Addicted to downwind, but fated to live in a region where he must wait for storms to create suitable conditions for out-and-back paddles, Matt's trip to the Gorge was nothing less than a religious pilgrimage. The incense didn't bother me that much, but I could have done without the 4 a.m. wind invocation chants. While Matt's devotions may have had a positive influence on the conditions, surely their impact was dwarfed by whatever depraved ritual a wild-eyed Carter Johnson performed upon seeing his reflection in the mirror surface of the Columbia. Assuming it was a single-blade paddler, I think we double-bladers can agree that their involuntary midnight sacrifice was a small price to pay.
Without a flashier presentation, I'm just not sure that TIM Talks are going to take off. Also, nobody really wants to hear a half-hour lecture on the benefits of organic peanut butter.
We awoke Monday to a moderate breeze, with a promising forecast for later in the week. Mary Beth shuttled Matt and I down to race headquarters at Hood River's Waterfront Park. We quickly registered and went to find Epic's Kenny Howell, who was handling our boat rentals. Fortunately for us, all you have to do to conjure up Kenny is to say his name three times. He'll actually materialize after the first two, but will be facing the wrong way so you'll still need to get his attention. Throughout the week, whenever I'd need something - weed guard, pipe tape, extra paddle, ham sandwich - Kenny would magically appear to help out.
Once we had gotten our boats (a V10 Sport for me), we headed for the shuttles that would take us 7.5 miles upwind to Viento State Park. With more than 700 registered paddlers (split pretty evenly between skis and outriggers), this year's race would be over 50% larger than the 2017 race. Coming into the week, I had some concerns about how well all the logistics would scale - particularly with the shuttles. But by the end I was impressed by how smoothly things ran. The pairing of a bus-with-trailer and an SUV-with-trailer meant that you spent more time than you'd like waiting on the bus for both trailers to be filled, but my biggest complaint about the shuttles was that I seldom rode one without an ama in my ear.
Arriving at Viento, we hurriedly launched to start our first run. In typical east coast conditions Matt and I are pretty evenly matched, but I can usually edge him out. Within the first few minutes of hitting the Columbia, it was obvious that we weren't in Massachusetts anymore. I'd spend the rest of the week trying unsuccessfully to keep up with Matt. I'm most comfortable when I can settle into an undisturbed paddling tempo (cadence: allegro, pace: andante). Just wind me up and set me in the tub. Reading waves? Conserving energy? Syncopating rhythm to take advantage of runners? It's like trying to teach jazz to a metronome. Ooh! Can that be my new nickname? Thor "The Metronome" Firebolt. While I was at it, I went ahead and made some other improvements. Actually, forget the nickname. Let's just go with Thor Firebolt.
Matt and I debut our revolutionary new tandem design. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
In any event, I had some difficulty adapting to downwind conditions. As the old adage goes, "If you can't catch surf effectively in the Gorge, you probably shouldn't be writing a surfski blog. Greg." That hurts my feelings a bit, but it's true. Even when the wind was howling, the waves were neat and manageable - perfect for those of us with limited experience in bigger conditions. But not quite perfect enough for me to keep up with Matt.
Over the course of the first day, we ran into the other paddlers from our region. Three of our housemates from last year - Jim Hoffman, Timmy Shields, and Mark Ceconi - were staying together again. Tim and I had been unanimously voted out for reasons that definitely didn't involve "appalling personal hygiene" and "inappropriately provocative lounge-wear". The other Nor'easters were Max Yasochka, Olga Sydorenko (who took many outstanding photos, some of which I've used here), and Jan Lupinski (along with Renata, their two sons, and that little dog too - Tito, but close enough). Although they were forced to relocate to Hawaii some years back, we also claim Borys Markin and Beata Cseke as part of our cold-weather clan. After spending a week paddling, dining, and swapping embarrassing stories with these folks, they're probably about as close as I'll ever get to having a real family. Sorry, Mom and Dad. Maybe next time you'll think twice about not naming me Thor.
By the end of the third day of paddling, my stability was completely shot. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
As the week progressed, the winds ramped up. On Tuesday, Mary Beth got her first real taste of downwind, doing a run in the back of a V8 Double with Australian Ryan Paroz. She later characterized the experience as "better than any trip we've ever taken together". That also hurts my feelings a bit. And makes me wonder if Toledo is the right spot for our next big vacation. On Wednesday, we arrived at Waterfront Park to find that several vendor tents had blown into the boat racks overnight. Surely a challenge from the wind gods. It was becoming increasingly difficult for the seasoned Gorge veterans to dismiss the conditions as "3 out of 10" without them noticing us rolling our eyes. With Thursday's forecast indicating sustained winds of 30+ mph, Carter made the call to run the race then. Conditions would probably be a hyperbole or two shy of "nuclear", but they looked to be well within the reach of "life-altering".
While our training runs from Viento Park spanned the final 7.5 miles of the course, for the race we'd be launching 6 miles further upwind at Home Valley Park in Washington. Car-pooling along the north bank of the Columbia to the start, we watched the field of whitecaps with growing anticipation. And perhaps a smattering of apprehension. At Home Valley we checked-in at registration and located our boats. I took advantage of the subsequent lull to Kenny, Kenny, Kenny up a new weed-guard.
Future paleontologists will likely divide our current geological epoch into slightly more manageable sub-eras spanned by Carter's captains meetings. This is fitting since during the course of this edition's marathon meeting, I watched with fascination as several paddlers were gradually covered with sediment and fossilized. Others would have gladly thrown themselves in tar pits to end their suffering had that option been available. And, as Carter continually reminded us while seasons rushed by in a dizzying blur, this particular era would end with 90% of us extinct. Only those with apocalypse-proof remounts would be spared.
Refusing to acknowledge his error, Bob kept insisting on ordering an Egg McMuffin.
With dire warnings that wouldn't have seemed out of place in the Book of Revelations ("Lo, boats will taketh wing as falcons and sail through the air!") still ringing in our ears, we retired to the staging area to await our fate. The starting procedure would be very different from last year's confused scheme. Rather than putting everyone in the water and sending them off in successive waves, each group would launch and start prior to the next wave getting on the river. The relatively small contingent of SUPs would kick things off with a beach start. They would be followed by all women and double paddlers, then by men's skis, and finally by men's outriggers. Each wave would work their way into an upwind-pointing holding pattern, turn around after a two-minute warning to jockey into starting position, and then take off on a long blast from an air-horn accompanied by the dropping of a large flag.
Like the gopher, the Greg's primary defense mechanism is to quickly burrow itself into a hidey-hole.
Soon enough it was our turn to launch. With nearly 200 men's skis slowly threading down the main trail to the beach, I had some bonus time to ponder my race strategy. Last year I had cravenly opted for a conservative flat-water route, but the winds had conveniently eliminated that choice. On a shuttle the previous day, Sean Rice had told a bunch of us that the smart play was to stay near the left shore until approaching Viento Park, then cut over to hug the other shore until forced to move out a bit to avoid the shallows near Wells Island. So that was settled. If Sean had instead insisted that the best strategy was to dress in Hammer pants, lie backwards in the bucket, and raise your legs in the air, you can bet that I'd have been on the phone with MC himself (we go back) for an express delivery the second after getting off that shuttle. As it was, I waited until I finished my run before calling in the order. Just in case.
Tim was showing clear signs of phantom phone syndrome.
Despite our combined efforts, we just couldn't get Big Jim to broach.
Once on the water, I lumbered upwind to await the turn-around signal. Keeping clear of a couple hundred other boats attempting to hold position in rough and blustery conditions was challenging, so I moved to the downstream end of the pack. There I could concentrate on worrying about missing the start and on keeping my tethered hat from blowing off and kite-boarding me downwind. I eventually noticed people turning upriver and joined them in paddling easy back towards the start. I didn't hear the starting horn, but the suddenly whirling blades up ahead were a pretty clear indication when it was time to take off.
Perhaps the most charitable description anyone would give of my downwind paddling style is "frenetic". There's a lot of furious commotion with little visible effect. I was in prime form at the start of the race, attacking each wave with rabid (but toothless) vigor. Once I had exhausted my supply of adrenalin, I started recruiting other hormones to maintain the required frenzy. Only when all my glands (and supplemental syringes) had run dry did I settle in to a more controlled rhythm. By this time I had side-swiped one other ski (sorry, SEL guy), narrowly avoided several other collisions, and accumulated an impressive spittle beard.
With slightly more self-control, I could focus on the depressing fact that I was getting picked off by paddlers who had started behind me. We would engage in see-saw battles that would inevitably totter in the other guy's favor after a few minutes. I did manage to pass a handful of slower boats, although not all of those had upright paddlers.
I seldom wear my glasses when paddling, but I had opted for enhanced sight on this day in hopes of observing the lines that the leaders were taking. Having neglected to also tape binoculars to my face, this worked for about the first 3 minutes of the race. A couple of miles from the start, the water drops speckling my lens were giving me a terminal case of bee vision. I needed to remove the glasses before the urge to pollinate overwhelmed me. Not wanting to lose my $28.60 spectacles (Zenni.com - "When style, quality, and optical accuracy just aren't that important!"), my goal was to tuck them safely into a PFD pocket. But get this. Without stopping! OK, maybe this objective wasn't exactly the Manhattan Project, but for pity's sake, there was a zipper involved! Once I had rehearsed the procedure mentally a few dozen times, I waited for the perfect wave, started singing the Mission Impossible theme, and initiated the Clear Eyes Maneuver. I'm inappropriately proud to announce that I didn't miss a stroke during the execution of this pathetically simple task. To this very day, I still wear those rusty-hinged glasses.
The boost in confidence I got from this didn't take me very far. While my race plan had me staying left for the first six miles, the wind and waves kept nudging me towards an alternative - crack down the middle. I was able to catch some decent runs, but became very familiar with that sinking feeling you get when you realize that you're, yet again, paddling uphill. Even though I would eventually finish mid-pack (ish), as boats got spread out it became increasingly difficult to convince myself I wasn't in the rearguard - there were a lot of boats way up ahead, but not many around. Outriggers from the last starting wave started to pass me.
In the approach to Viento Park, conditions deteriorated significantly. Not only did most of the big runs evaporate, there was more general slop-and-chop than we'd encountered earlier. This probably worked to my advantage, as I could maintain a more consistent cadence and got a reprieve from the verbal abuse I had been piling on myself. By the time Viento rolled around, I had made the transition to the right shore and the waves were starting to jack up again.
Probably because these were the friendliest big conditions of the week, I started to link together some joyful rides. Don't fret though - I didn't forget to throw in some epic broaches, wallows, and expletives to maintain narrative consistency. During a particularly satisfying run, I looked over to find a fellow paddler cruising on the same wave. Having seen nobody I recognized since the start, I did a literal GoPro-captured double-take when I realized it was Tim. This was simultaneously my best and worst moment of the race. How incredible to be carving down the face of the same wave 10 miles into the Gorge with one of my best paddling buddies! And how terrible that there was a good chance that I'd be beaten by the rat bastard.
Huh. Kind of looks like I know what I'm doing. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
The next five minutes were my best of the race as I caught run after run to pull cleanly away from Tim. Alas, I pushed a little too hard trying to get diagonally over a wave and instead went laterally over the side of my ski. Apparently unaware that I had left him safely in the dust, Tim swooped by me just about the time my head resurfaced. A frame-by-frame analysis of the video footage shows that my friend, housemate, and frequent target of blog gibes spared not a single glance in my direction as he sped past not more than six feet away. That he had such confidence in my remounting competence... it just brings tears to my eyes. The awkward manner in which I clambered back onto the ski (teetering on the edge of back-into-the-water oblivion for some seconds before settling into the bucket) might have caused him to question his faith, but if you require proof (or disproof by contradiction)... it's not faith.
This must be some different guy.
Once I had regained control of my ski, I was naturally eager to chase down Tim to discuss the finer points of this theological quandary. Picking up where I had left off before the break, I was able to put some nice runs together. Whereas before my progress with respect to Tim had been purely illusory, this time I could see that I was catching him. This perhaps had more to do with my line closer to the right shore than any paddling ability, but let's not quibble. When our paths converged, I found myself ahead by several lengths. And floating beside my boat. The GoPro footage again reveals Tim's unwavering faith in my abilities.
And this could be just about anyone...
I got my butt back in the bucket easily enough, but an ill-timed attempt to swing my legs into the boat caused me to tumble off on the downwind side. As the ski blew over me it delivered a punitive bonk to the head, while also managing to wrap my leg leash tightly around both legs. Remembering that Houdini had almost died attempting this escape, I had a momentary tinge of panic. It took me a few moments to figure out how to keep the boat close enough to ease the leash tension while also holding the paddle and maintaining a free hand to untangle my legs. Several awkward contortions were involved, but I'm happy to say that I got out of the predicament without needing to dislocate any joints or regurgitate a file (although, in retrospect, that might have been an easier way to expunge it). Seeing me floundering around with feet occasionally emerging from the water and an insufficiently tightened PFD floating up over my head, a concerned Cory Lancaster - a fellow New Englander transplanted to the west coast some years ago - stopped to check on my welfare. Fortunately, in the time it took him to load a flare into his gun (he's old school, Cory), I managed to get back on my ski and convince him that no rescue was required. Of course, just to cover all bases, I borrowed the gun. Worst case, maybe I could blast Tim out of the water.
It would ultimately turn out that I had lost sight of Tim during my swim. I just didn't know it at the time. Removing my glasses earlier was now paying dividends. I managed to find a steady stream of blurry surrogates to pursue. I'd see Tim up ahead and chase him until it turned out to be someone else who had passed me while I was out of commission, a woman from an earlier start wave, or - in one embarrassing instance - a remarkably Tim-shaped buoy. Just about the time I had finally homed in the genuine Tim (probably), I drew even with Max and Michael Alexeev. Based on our last few head-to-heads back home, I had assumed that Max wouldn't be a factor in the New England race-within-a-race here. And at the previous year's Downwind race, I had beaten Michael by more than ten minutes. But both these guys had attended the Mocke Downwind Camp over the winter. Evidently those Millers Runs investments were paying big dividends in the Gorge.
Kenny's hat serves its purpose, distracting Jan just enough to seal the victory. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)
The turbo boost of motivation provided by wanting to beat Max and Michael propelled me on my desperate dash to also catch Tim in the waning moments of the race. Surely if I just sacrificed a couple of years worth of heartbeats in a five minute span, that'd do the trick. When it became clear that this deal wouldn't cut it, I sweetened the pot by shutting down inessential organs. What has my gall bladder ever done for me? I was just about to double-down by committing to a lifetime of dialysis and a lung transplant when I found myself at the finish beach. I dismounted from my ski and made a desperate lunge to tackle Tim, but given that he was a good 15 meters ahead of me, the net result of this maneuver was to send me falling face-first into knee-deep water. I scrambled to my feet and staggered past the finish line with the drunken grace of the Star Wars Kid.
My time was 1:53:02. Tim had finished 8 seconds ahead of me, Max and Michael just 20 seconds behind. Unsurprisingly, Jan had by far the best time from the current Northeast contingent at 1:42:25, with Jim finishing second at 1:48:33 and Matt third at 1:50:18 (with the best New England time). Transplant Borys absolutely crushed his race, finishing as the 14th male at 1:30:51, while Beata took the 8th female spot at 1:49:15. For some context, the overall winner, Kenny Rice, finished in an unbelievable 1:21:32.
Dawid just couldn't seem to get enough of my remount stories. (Photo courtesy of Max Yasochka)
After spending a few hours excitedly comparing race notes and helping Gaelyn explain the electoral college to a bewildered Dawid Mocke, we got cleaned up and headed out for a celebratory dinner. What started out as a low-key affair involving just the housemates ended up (through a series of "if you're not doing anything, we're at X" texts) morphed into a raucous party of our entire past-and-present regional contingent (well, minus Cory, but I silently toasted him). Mojitos flowed generously. Jan did whatever it is that Jan does to be so entertaining. Something related to the accent, maybe? Jim had us rolling with his account of attempting to forcibly rescue an uncooperative capsized racer furiously making the not-quite-universal pat-on-the-head signal for "I'm OK". I believe the swimmer eventually had to file a restraining order. Everyone was in high spirits. In short, it was the perfect ending for a most memorable week.
Except, of course, it was only Thursday. In the interest of wrapping things up while there are still some words left, however, let's just leave things at our happy party. Many thanks to Carter and the dozens of volunteers who made the Gorge Downwind a great success.
