Chattajack 31: Living by the Sword

Paddling 31 miles down the Tennessee River isn't everyone's dream, but veterans of the Chattajack 31 are relentless in trying to convince you that it should be.  The camaraderie of shared suffering!  The pre-dawn muster!  The fully-trained medical staff!  How could I resist their rabid proselytizing?  I registered in early May, not realizing that I'd then spend the better part of the next six months training for the race.  Probably should have consulted the calendar first.  Having now completed the Chattajack, I must join the chorus of advocates.  However, I might choose to highlight different factors - the clockwork organization, the fascinating people (probably at least half of the 600+ paddlers), the beautiful course, etc.  Despite being in only its 7th year, it's a can't-miss classic.

Fair warning.  An epic race deserves an epic report.  Since that was clearly out of reach, I settled for the poor man's version - an interminable report.  Remember about the shared suffering.  If you haven't finished by the 8 hour cut-off, officials will yank you out of the article.

We set off for Chattanooga on the Wednesday before the race, whiling away much of our 18-hour drive playing roadkill bingo.  Unfortunately, somehow I ended up with a card from the Australian edition.  Not only did I have to play with the antipodean sheet upside down, precious few wallabies and cassowaries had been careless enough to end their lives on the shoulder of the interstate.  With Mary Beth gleefully chalking up squares with groundhogs, porcupines, and prairie dogs (we may not have taken the most direct route), I was - as MB kept smirkingly reminding me - in serious danger of being skunked.  Finally, somewhere around the Tennessee border I recognized the tattered remains of a spotted quoll.  Rather unsportingly, I think, MB chose to use one of her discretionary challenges. Subsequent DNA analysis proved inconclusive - mainly because the lab insisted that it couldn't test a "ratty old sweater".  Amateurs.

Through a series of complicated transfers usually reserved for laundering mob money or smuggling endangered amphibians into the US, we'd be delivering a Think Uno from Massachusetts to Tennessee for mid-westerner Greg Greene.  Greg is my college roommate's wife's sister's husband's brother, so we're practically family.  He lives in Wisconsin, so we don't get together often enough to reminisce about the one person in the middle of that connective stream who we both actually know.  We managed to get the boat to Greg without mishap, although he should probably check the footwell for dwarf splayfoot salamanders.

This year she just watched, but I predict next year she'll listen too.

We pulled into Chattanooga Thursday afternoon.  Never having paddled an inland waterway south of the 40th parallel, I hit the river to recalibrate my boat.  Some WD-40 and a few well-placed hammer blows later, I was ready to get cleaned up and hit the town.  We met up with our Northeast friends, Jean Kostelich and partner Alex, for dinner, where we saw some appropriately gruesome pre-Halloween pictures of the remains of a V8 Pro that had flown off their rack on the way down.  That's something you can't unsee.  Undeterred, they simply returned home, picked up a replacement boat, and completed the trek to Tennessee.  Jean is my new hero.  Afterwards, we headed to the Chattanooga Brewing Company for a shindig hosted by convivial locals Ted "Theo" "No, Ted!" Burnell and wife Cindy.  Ted was kind enough to provide a plethora of valuable racing tips and course notes, nearly all of which evaporated with my first stroke on Saturday.  Next year, tattoos.

What are the odds that I'd come to Ted's costume party as him, and he as me?

With three previous Chattajack wins under his belt, including a record-setting sub-4 hour time last year, Erik Borgnes was the hands-on favorite to leave the younger members of the surfski field wondering when they too could finally be 53.  I, for one, look forward to my domination in 2020.  Some months before the race, Erik had expressed interest in recruiting an elite cadre of paddlers to work together as the lead pack.  I'd always wanted to be part of a cadre.  If he was willing to relax the "elite" requirement, I was in.  We haggled over a substitute qualifier, eventually settling on a non-committal "scrappy".  When Flavio Costa's name appeared on the registration list, I was worried that Erik might eject me from the cadre and revert to his original, uncompromised vision.  Fortunately, he seemed committed to an egalitarian approach - if you could hang with the group, you were sufficiently scrappy.  Based on their results from 2017, I thought perhaps Scott Cummins, Murray Hunkin, or Terry Smith might become de facto cadre members.

I was particularly looking forward to dueling with Flavio.  The last time we competed head-to-head, we were practically both in diapers (in my case, an unfortunate side-effect of an ill-advised visit to the all-you-can-eat shellfish buffet at a Sizzler).  I doubted I could keep with him in a shorter ocean race, but hoped that the long flatwater distance might allow me to grind him down.

Perhaps the most interesting race of the day would be between the power tandems of Matt Skeels & Neil Fleming, Nate Humberston & Bruce Poacher, and Morgan House & Stanton Collins.  Paddling V10 Doubles, it seemed a lock that at least one of these boats would break Nate & Bruce's all-around course record of 3:53:54, set in an Epic 18X Double.  To add a little spice to their battle, they'd be competing for overall honors against an OC-6 stacked with legendary talent.

The staging area the afternoon before the race.  Later on, we'd celebrate Chattajack Eve here - singing traditional paddler shanties and eating Moon Pies.

The race starts at the Market Street Bridge in downtown Chattanooga and winds 32 miles down the Tennessee River to finish at Hales Bar Marina in Nickajack Lake.  Hence Chattajack 31.  Perhaps market research revealed that using the actual distance would frighten off too many competitors?  Using that same line of reasoning, I suggest that they instead advertise the straight-line start-to-finish distance of 13 miles - maybe skimping on details of the 12.7 miles of portage.

Book-ended by the Chickamauga and Nickajack dams, the river current is determined solely by the sadistic whims of the Tennessee Valley Authority (ostensibly with some token concern for power generation and water level remediation).  The day prior to the race, the TVA provided a tantalizing preview of what might be.  Watching SUPs inch upstream against a terrific flow (after which, presumably, they'd mate and die), between chuckles I estimated the current at 1.5 knots.  That astonishing degree of assistance would surely... What's that?  We'll have a quarter of that on race day?  And a head wind?  And somehow the fundamental physical properties of water will be changed so that it's stickier?  Oh TVA, you old rascal.

They're fellow New Englanders, but somehow everyone in Chattanooga seemed to know Team Ide.  The Electron and the Sphinx.  That's the title of the upcoming Netflix series about their antics.

Women's champion Pam Boteler before the race.  I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure she has a kite-boarding rig hooked up in her footwell.

Having stowed our boats in the riverside staging area the night before, there was considerably less pre-race rigmarole than you'd expect for a race with nearly 500 watercraft.  Paddlers quietly outfitted their boats and selves for the upcoming expedition.  The temperature hovered around 50 with a moderate breeze from the west.  The first wave of paddleboards, kayaks, and canoes got off without a hitch (but with a ceremonial bagpiper) and it was time for the skis and OCs to get on the water.

I opted to start somewhat to the right of river center, away from the 140-boat throng that would doubtless be clamoring to swamp me in their initial zeal.  As a result, I got off the gently drifting line cleanly at the gun and managed to keep clear of virtually all traffic through the opening minutes.  As I settled into my pace, I surveyed the field.  It was easy to identify Flavio, leading all solo craft in his vibrant pink Nelo, but the rest of the cast ahead remained indistinguishable.  I was relieved to find that after the first mile, all of the OCs (with the exception of the Star-Studded Six) were safely behind me - I was worried that I might be tangling with multi-person outriggers for the whole race.  Eventually I was able to spot Erik's all-white ski in third position, chasing a blue ski with an all-Murray core.

I was already exhausted by the time the first wave finished passing the staging area.

The only other ski ahead of me was Scott, whom I'd never met but recognized from photos I had chanced to see... pinned prominently on the "Hit Wall" of our den (in the "Scott?  William?" column).  I introduced myself from alongside after catching him, neglecting to mention that I had an unhealthy obsession with finishing ahead of him.  We paddled together for a few minutes in pursuit of Erik, until I managed to open a small gap.  I eventually reached Erik (who, if I'm not mistaken, tapped his watch impatiently to indicate his frustration at my lollygagging) and Murray.  The latter relinquished his pull and I took point to track down Flavio and absorb him into the cadre.

I suspect that Flavio was already kicking back just waiting for the gang to show up, but it still took me a mile to close the gap.  When we finally merged, I eased off and slid back into the rear of our fresh diamond formation.  Despite now sitting in the lap of luxury, however, I had difficulty adapting to the easy life.  If there were a wash-riding licensing board, they'd have revoked my draft card long ago.  I can muddle through a simple single-boat stern draft, but in any other configuration the appropriate combination of position, rhythm, and stability eludes me.  I'm doubtless still getting significant benefit, but drafting too often seems like more of a chore than a respite.  Fortunately, Murray resigned from our diamond after a mile or so, meaning that my blessed turn to pull would come that much more frequently.

More than 300 boats had started in the heat before us, with the vast majority of those being SUPs.  We'd be passing virtually all of those paddlers at some point - a fact that more than one race veteran reminded me of with a shell-shocked glaze in his eyes.  Not only would we have to plot a course through the semi-random meanderings of the more inexperienced stand-up paddlers, we'd suffer through a never-ending barrage of congratulations and encouragement.  Couldn't these people see I was in no condition to acknowledge or reciprocate their heart-warming support?  I occasionally issued an appreciative grunt between wheezes, but mostly just hoped that Erik and Flavio's good-natured banter would compensate for my apparent surliness.  As to the navigation challenges, I take pride in never once yelling "Try a straight line, blockhead!"  Mostly because of the wheezing, but still...

Relinquishing the pull to one of my cohorts.

About 7 miles into the race, I finished a stint pulling and decided to power up with a gel.  I had taped a virtual magazine along my gunnel for rapid-fire access.  Although I had been drilling with just such a set-up, the unexpected discontinuation of PowerBar Gels meant that I'd be working with untested ammunition during the race.  It's a controversial stance, but I'm of the opinion that an energy gel should have at least a vaguely gel-like consistency.  I discovered that Clif Shots are at least an order of magnitude more viscous than any self-respecting gel should be.  More of an energy spackle, really.  In any event, in trying to squeeze the dry paste into my maw, I fell behind the leaders by a few costly lengths.

For whatever reason, I spent the next 3 miles trying to claw my way back to Erik and Flavio.  Yes, we know that my sprint speed is only 3% faster than my cruising speed.  And sure, we're aware that even the mild turbulence kicked up by a couple of skis 15 meters ahead can compromise my questionable V14 stability.  OK, it's also clear that a wild-eyed panic never helped anyone's stroke.  But the specific reason for my drawn-out return to the fold is unclear.  One unfortunate byproduct of my dilly-dallying was that as we passed the first spectator viewpoint at Suck Creek Boat Ramp, Mary Beth had to witness my desperate "little brother tries to keep up" act.  I could hear the mixture of disappointment and pity in her cheers.

Given my recent struggle, I wasn't optimistic about my ability to stay with the leaders once I had caught them.  But over the next few miles, I became more comfortable on the side draft and felt strong on my pulls.  Flavio no longer felt compelled to talk me through relaxation exercises.  The miles started to flow by.  Perhaps I really did belong up front with these guys!  Having watched us pass the Raccoon Mountain and Sullivan's Landing viewpoints in crisp formation, MB later reported that my sudden display of competence made her question the fundamentals of her world-view.

I had been scrupulously watching my GPS speed as we traded pulls, mostly so that when I was out front I wouldn't disgrace our clan.  With varying headwinds and tailcurrents, we spent the majority of our time in the 7.7 to 8.2 mph range.  If you're more accustomed to metric units, be a pal and just multiply by 2 to get the kph values.  For the most part, we had been trading off 10 minute pulls.  Metric folk, that's roughly 18 demiquavers.  Around mile 24, however, Flavio had a short pull at sub-average speed (1.54 tick-tocks at 85 uph).  My heart leaped.  Was this the first symptom of terminal fatigue?  We were bucking a stiff breeze in the shallower waters on the inside of a long bend, so it was impossible to make a definitive prognosis.

It's taken more than 50 years and thousands of photos, but I finally found a shot in which I don't look like a doofus.

I took the next pull.  Evidence continued to mount, as Flavio appeared to struggle on my port wash, ultimately falling back to a stern draft.  I thought perhaps he was merely trying to duck out of the wind, but as my shift up front ended and Erik slid into the lead, he told me that he thought Flavio was "done".  Glancing back, I finally noticed that the pink Nelo had dropped back a couple of lengths.  If Erik and I could keep working together, it felt like maybe we could cement the top two spots.  The fundamental flaw with this strategy, however, was that Erik had probably cemented the top spot just by showing up in Chattanooga.  His motivation for keeping me seemed pretty weak.

As he started our reduced cadre's pull, Erik repeatedly tried to relay some message to me.  I had difficulty hearing over the wind, paddle splashes, and moaning.  All I caught distinctly was "I can drop you anytime I want", delivered in an icy monotone.  I suppose it's possible that he was actually talking about our new strategy and I was just picking up the subtext, but he sure nailed the menacing intonation.

Despite the implied threat (slash indelible truth), I stuck with Erik until it was my turn at the front.  Finishing up my shift at around mile 26, I was starting to feel a little anemic.  I warned Erik that I was going to grab a spackle (weird look) and he graciously slowed to let me recharge.  With this tacit acknowledgement that we'd continue paddling together for at least another pull or two, I could practically feel the weight of the silver medal around my neck.  Sure, Flavio was a much better sprinter and a more accomplished rough water paddler, but I'd be finishing out the remaining miles on flat water with at least some portion on Erik's draft.  How could I not beat him?

And that's how my glorious Chattajack 26 ended - a well-earned second place finish just seconds behind Erik.

The ensuing Chattajack 5, however, started with an embarrassing debacle and went south from there.

While energetically trying to coax a Clif Shot out of its protective pouch, I lost my balance and tumbled off the ski.  Typically in this situation (and there have been enough similar instances to establish statistically reliable trends), I'd let loose with a string of obscenities so foul that they'd leave an expanding oily slick on the surface of the water.  To punctuate the sudden (I was tempted to use "unexpected", but see previous parenthetical) turn of events, I decided to concentrate my rage and frustration into a single mighty expletive, potent enough that seismic tsunami warnings were triggered off the Pacific coast.  Awkwardly scrambling aboard my treacherous craft, I watched as Erik moved on without me, perhaps with a lone tear running down his cheek.

By the time I got back to paddling, I was a dozen lengths back, with Flavio doubtless smelling blood in the water.  It quickly became apparent that catching Eric would be difficult - he had evidently taken my capsize as a signal to make his push for the finish.  More concerning, however, was the degenerating conditions.  We had encountered spells of irritating headwinds accompanied by some minor chop, but as the river turned west and widened into Nickajack Lake, some quirk of topography funneled a gale our direction.  Within a few minutes of paddling, it seemed as if an entirely different course had been spliced into our race, replete with short-period two-foot waves jacked up by the wind-against-current clash.

My pace slowed dramatically as I struggled to stay upright in a boat that had never seen conditions a quarter as hectic.  Erik had long ago pulled far enough ahead that he changed from being an aspirational target to a receding rebuke to my prowess.  As he moved further to river right, he mercifully disappeared from view in the maelstrom (cut me some slack on the embellishment - I'm about to take another swim).  Now topping out at 6 mph, I was just starting to build up a stomach-churning anxiety about getting passed by Flavio when I toppled over.  Never having imagined I'd be paddling my V14 in anything other than serene conditions, my rough water remount practice had been limited to a handful of nightmares of the "forgot about the geometry mid-term" variety.  And those had not gone well - I kept sliding off on tangents.  In real-life, however, I vaulted side-saddle into the bucket, teetered precariously there for a half-hour, then slid my legs in and restarted the upwind slog.  I was cold, demoralized, and "sitting on my hydration tube" (despite the misleading quotes, not a euphemism).  During the excitement, Flavio had passed me in spirited fashion - rocketing by along the left shore so adroitly that I was saved the bother of drumming up any reckless hope of catching him.

I managed to keep within 30 degrees of vertical through the next ten minutes of paddling, although collapse seemed imminent several times.  With two miles left, the rollicking surface of the river flattened again.  The accumulated miles and rough water had taken their toll on my strength, balance, and willpower, however.  I wasn't quite bonking, but I was definitely bonk-adjacent.  My race was over, but I still needed to finish the sucker.  It seemed like each stroke was slightly more difficult than the one before, my arms getting progressively heavier.  The final turn at the old dam building provided just enough of a morale boost to propel me through the last couple hundred meters.  I even managed a smile-adjacent grimace when Mary Beth confirmed that I had held on for a third place finish.

When Hollywood finally get around to making a movie in which an intrepid surfski paddler must rescue a bunch of orphans from the flooded ruins of a post-apocalyptic Manhattan (only to discover, tragically, that they're flesh-eating mutant orphans), they could do a lot worse than Erik.

Flavio, on the other hand, may be more suited to a rom-com in which a carefree paddler must rescue a misguided SUP lass from a life of single-bladed toil (only to discover, tragi-comically, that she's only a recreational paddler)(and also his sister)(and, in a post-credits twist, a zombie).

Erik had pulled in (yet again) as the first solo competitor 6 minutes earlier, with Flavio finishing 1:15 ahead of me.  Scott and Murray took the 4th and 5th spots.  In the women's race, Pam Boteler easily grabbed gold in one of her few surfski races this season.  Matt & Neil edged out Nate & Bruce for the tandem surfski crown, both shattering the course record, with the lead OC-6 just a few seconds behind the latter.  Click for the overall results or the division results.  Congrats to all finishers of this rewarding race.

After weathering a brief breakdown onshore (thanks to MB and Flavio for preventing me from going into the light) and getting my core temperature back into the 90s, my subconscious got busy revising memories of the last five miles to make them more palatable.  Within an hour of finishing, I had convinced myself that the race was wholly enjoyable and was eager to sign up for 2019.  The festive tent celebration that evening did nothing to dissuade me.  There were free donuts, for Pete's sake!  Let's end the report, and the season, on that happy note.