Gorge Downwind Champs: Running Wild

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.

Timmy is everywhere these days.