Essex River Race: Winner to Swimmer

I hold the Essex River Race responsible for getting me in a surfski.  When I first wondered "what is that?" while racing in a sea kayak in the early aughts, who knew that I'd end up spending my final years obsessing over loggerhead shrikes and red-winged scrub jays!  I'm assuming that I'll eventually move on to a new hobby.  For now, however, the ERR holds a place of honor in my heart.  And owes me about $25K in accumulated ski reimbursements.   Wesley, you can probably expect to be named as a co-defendant in the forthcoming lawsuit.

The race is a 5.75 mile out-and-back lollipop course with Cross Island as the delicious candy treat  (not lime, obviously, which would make it neither delicious nor a treat) and the Essex River as the unusually sinuous stick.  This year, there would be 25 skis sharing the winding river with 100 other self-powered watercraft of varying descriptions (with "ponderous" and "unsteerable" being two of the more worrisome).  You gotta be able to bob and weave your way out of trouble, but you better also have a good corner-man ready to clean you up after taking an unseen oar to the noodle.  With perennial thorn-in-my-side Jan Lupinski making his New England season debut and Mike Florio reprising his role as a somber reminder of lost youth (not mine specifically, as he highlighted by paddling shirtless, but someone's), the non-lethal competition was also intimidating.  And there's now also this other guy...

A couple of years ago, I received an email out of the blue from a young kayaker who had seen some of my race reports and was looking for some advice about getting into a surfski.  Obviously he hadn't read my blog too carefully, or he'd have known that my true expertise lies in getting off of a surfski.  Nevertheless, I responded to "Janda Ricci-Munn" (the humorous pseudonym he had chosen for himself ) with a few tips and a liability waiver.  If only I had read the signs and instead answered with a rude dismissal!  Instead, I unknowingly invited into our midst the fiend who may one day destroy us all.

Janda was a national-caliber 70.3 (Half-Iron) triathlete with a PR of 3:57:53.  For context, that's slightly less time than it takes me to get out of bed most mornings.  After retiring from triathlons a few years back, however, Janda let his fitness level slide from inhuman to merely superhuman.  Searching for an outlet that would combine fitness, the outdoors, and friendly competition, his unwavering gaze eventually settled on surfskis.  Think Sauron, but more personable and with an actual body.  He's committed, hyper-fit, knows everything there is to know about training, and won't rest until the Fellowship is broken.

Of course, once I realized my mistake in opening the portal to our doom, I did everything I could to mitigate the damage.  To myself, I mean.  In exchange for periodic demonstrations of paddling mistakes to avoid, Janda has guided me through the physiological underpinnings of effective training techniques.  Despite his hurtful jokes about my "VO2 Min", he's been the best lactate consultant I could ask for.  And, in return, I expect he lays much of the credit for his success in last year's Blackburn (3:00:20 - in a V7, for the love of Pete) on not doing those things that I painstakingly showed him.  He'd be churning through the field on a V10 Sport for his first race of the season.

Ryan's outfit is the primary reason we find it difficult to attract young paddlers to the sport.

At low tide on the estuary, wind speed would be immaterial to stability - waves can only get so big over a fetch of 40 feet.  And most boats would be firmly grounded anyway as they searched fruitlessly for the even narrower channel.  At high tide, however, the river converts into a featureless expanse with enough fetch to make for choppy conditions.  Not exactly rough water, but syncopated enough to throw my carefully calibrated V14 stroke into arrhythmia.  With a forecast for winds out of the northwest at 12 mph with gusts in the 20s, I agonized over which boat to bring, then finally threw my V10 on the car and headed to the start.  At the last moment, I remembered that Mary Beth would probably want a ride too.

I'd spend the next couple of hours second-guessing that boat choice as the forecast mellowed, trying to decide if I should make the 5 minute drive home to swap boats.  Finally, with Bruce Deltorchio assuring me that the estuary would be "smooth as gravy" (weird, but whatever), I dashed back to the house and grabbed the 14.  After launching and warming up, I ran into Bruce on the water.  He was shocked that I had switched boats given that it would probably be "loose and wavy" out there.  Nobody believes me when I tell them how devious Bruce is, but surely this embellished example must finally convince them.  I only had time for four more trips home before ultimately settling back on the V14.

We all mocked Wesley, but ended up feeling pretty foolish about 36 days later.  38 for Chris.

Unbeknownst to me, the minute immediately preceding the start had been shortened to 30 seconds - some type of leap-half-minute clock correction, probably.  As a result, I found myself a few boat lengths behind the line as the starter announced 5 seconds left.  Unsure of the protocol regarding running starts, I took a series of nothing-to-see-here half strokes during the subsequent countdown in an attempt to casually close my pre-start deficit.  I shouldn't have bothered, given that my post-start acceleration was so anemic that I actually experienced a few seconds of zero-g weightlessness.  With an immediate bend in the river compacting the group in front of me, I found myself squeezed between Mike and Janda.  My execution was appalling, but you have to admire the dedication - during the middle of a race providing another instructive example of lousy paddling.  I slipped up a bit though by eventually doing the right thing - easing back and ceding the right-of-way.

In the ensuing straightaway, I managed to swing wide of the pack and start working my way up toward the leaders.  Chris Chappell had vaulted to an early lead, with Jan and Mike in pursuit.  As I eased past Ryan Bardsley, 18 inches to his starboard, we showed off some of the exquisite paddle synchronization that saw us through the first three rounds of America's Got Talent.  I'd had limited rehearsal time with Tim Dwyer, Mike McDonough, Wesley Echols, and Timmy Shields, however, so I gave them a much wider berth.  A half-mile into the race, I was clear of the main pack and in pursuit of the lead trio.  I cued up some motivational music in my head, but the ripples from the boats ahead caused the track to repeatedly skip back to the beginning.  Gotta update that technology so that I can finally find out who's peekin' out from under a stairway and calling a name that's lighter than air.

Just joking.  Everyone knows it's Windy.  On an unrelated note, my advertisers have asked me to target a reader demographic that hasn't yet been involuntarily committed to assisted living facilities.  If anyone has ideas along this front, please shoot me a telegram.  Or whatever it is the younglings are using to communicate these days.  A Grindr poke, maybe?

A couple of minutes later, I passed Mike and latched onto Chris for a breather.  These being my home waters, I had a pretty good idea of the course I wanted to navigate through the river bends.  Apparently, so did Chris.  I base this assumption on his uncanny ability to block me from my preferred heading without ever even looking back to see where I was.  If I wanted to go left, I somehow found myself on his starboard side.  If I wanted to head right, he'd magically appear on that side to corral me like a stray dogie.  And if I wanted to pass him on a straight-away, Chris stubbornly insisted on going faster than me.

Eventually I thought about going one direction and then juked the opposite way.  This mind-feint threw off his ESP long enough for me to pull even with Chris before he could steer me back into the fold.  He appeared surprised when I triumphantly taunted him with "Where's your prescience now?" which just underscores the extent to which his supernatural abilities had been compromised.

We've barely heard a peep about Jan thus far.  This uncharacteristic reserve from one of the biggest personalities on our stage is starting to make me nervous, so let's catch up with his shenanigans.  While I was trying to out-maneuver Chris, Jan was soldiering along to our left, paying absolutely no heed to the thrilling game of cat-and-mouse that I imagined was going on.  The lack of drama coming from his direction was deafening.  After a few moments of this eerie impassivity, I couldn't take it any more.  Swerving to avoid some weedy shallows (Chris' oaths from behind revealing that he'd utterly lost his gift), I threw in an interval to separate myself from Jan and the others.

Like Old Faithful, I can be expected to go off at regular intervals.

The tide-enriched river opened into a marshy lake devoid of navigational landmarks.  Fortunately, the reconnaissance heats we had sent out in advance had heroically sacrificed their times sussing out the shortest navigable path.  By following the string of paddlers ahead, I was able to skirt the shallows.  Despite their critical service spotting obstacles from high altitude (up to 6 feet, in some cases), I couldn't help muttering curses at the SUP corps as they zig-zagged randomly into my path.  I know that they also serve who only stand and wade, but couldn't they do it somewhere else?

Once I had cleared the tide-induced chop near Conomo Point, the remainder of the course was relatively smooth sailing (although, in my defense, I also threw in a few strokes from time to time).  The primary challenge was maneuvering around all the slower craft once I was back in the river proper.  I'm referring, of course, to the motorboats returning to Essex.  Constrained in speed by no-wake rules (with varying degrees of compliance) and in course by the channel, I'm sure they were muttering their own curses as I zig-zagged across their paths.  It all comes full circle.

I made it back to the finish without being shot by an irritated yachtsman with a flare gun, taking my first win of the season.  A few moments later, Jan and Janda arrived just four lengths apart to claim the other podium spots, with Mike only 15 seconds back despite having stability issues behind Cross Island (not a euphemism).  In the women's race, Leslie Chappell pulled ahead at Conomo Point and never looked back.  If she had, she'd have seen Mary Beth shaking her fist in fury and vowing revenge in the next race.  MB then continued paddling to take second prize, with Jean Kostelich in third.  Gary Williams and Robin Francis seized the double's crown, and refuse to give it back until their demands are met.

Ja! Jan, Janda und Greg.

Oui! Leslie, MB et Jean.

Back in 2016, I managed to tumble from the bucket of my V14 just seconds before the start of the Essex.  I'm proud to announce that I've now book-ended that feat by capsizing just minutes after the finish.  While the boat was stable enough for the race, it's apparently not quite a secure enough platform to turn my head to answer a question while stationary.  Assuming there will now be a betting pool on when I'll take a swim during the race itself, put me down for $100 on 2020.

With an assist from the finest weather of the spring, the Cape Ann Rowing Club threw another crackerjack race.  Thanks to all the volunteers for their devotion to providing the rest of us with a memorable day.  And pizza.

If you're going to do just one race on a "river" this year, why not make it at the Sakonnet River Race on June 1?  Wesley has assured me that by the time of the race, the Sakonnet will be piranha free!  He actually said 95% free, but what's a toe or two?  You must preregister at PaddleGuru.  If you live within reach of Beverly, MA, you should also consider joining us on Tuesday nights for the 14th season of the Salem League races.  As the old adage goes... there's no better training for ocean racing than listening to Bill Kuklinski grumble about ocean racing.

We may need to rethink our post-race party.  This photo was taken Tuesday morning.

Run of the Charles: Course Adjustment

(Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

For many New England paddlers, the Run of the Charles is the first race of the season that is commonly referred to by acronym.  Besides that important distinction, the 6 mile ROTC is also one of the largest flatwater races in the area, drawing 20-some skis in the past few years.  A week and a half ago, Mary Beth and I greased a few of the right palms and weaseled a pair of coveted invitations into that pack.  I was surprised at the $700 "expedited entry fee" that organizer Mark Jacobson asked for on a shady bank of the Charles a month earlier, but I guess that's the going rate.

Between Mary Beth's recent retirement and my need to stay one step ahead of federal mail fraud investigators (there's some debate about the technical definitions of "non-profit" and "miracle hair growth lotion"), we've been forced to spend a lot of time away from home.  It's tough to find time to craft a finely honed race report when you're jet-setting around the world.  And, apparently, also when you're lounging on your parent's couch in Western New York, trying to figure out if you can stuff yet another slice of banana bread into your pie-hole.  The answer is always yes, by the way.  So that's why this report is less than timely.

Those years of working car shows really paid off for Andrew.

Veteran racers of the 6 mile course are as familiar with the 5 bridges on the route as they are their own remaining teeth.  Eliot, Anderson, Weeks, Western, and Cambridge.  For some, this was just never enough - especially with the BU bridge looming tantalizingly close to the downstream turn-around.  After years of ignoring relentless demands from an anonymous participant, the Charles River Watershed Association finally acceded to my appeals.  We'd now pass under the BU span!  And in a move clearly designed to eliminate any future crayon-written screeds about the meager bridge count, the organizers sweetened the deal by adding an unnamed railroad trestle.  That's 40% more bridges, folks!  Even without counting the return trip.

Unlike previous years, in which the 6 mile race involved downstream and upstream turns, the newly bridge-enriched course had a single downstream turn.  We'd proceed 3 miles towards Boston, round an inflatable orange marker, then return to the start.  Perhaps due to the increased bridge permit costs associated with the shorter race, the 19 mile course was eliminated, replaced by a 12 mile race with a dozen fewer overpasses.  Here's hoping they save up that surplus for deployment down the road.

You!  Hey!  You with the camera!  For the last time... please put on some pants.

While John and the rest of the paddlers listened with grim determination to the course instructions, Sam burst into giggles every time the race director said the word "abutment".

God only knows what would have happened had Leslie not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo.

From rereading past reports, I find that we've occasionally had nice weather on the Charles.  That won't dissuade me from affirming that it'll be a cold day in Hell when they finally choose a warm day for the race.  But I suspect they'd then relocate to that nether realm to maintain their unbroken tradition of frigid races.  I'll admit that my perspective on this year's temperature may be skewed by an unanticipated dipping of my own nether realms when I slipped on a mossy rock while launching and took a clumsy seat in the river.  Fortunately, I already had my GoPro turned on to catch my manly squeal of shock.  I can affirm that it's not the lack of heat that gets you, but the humidity.

Despite persistent rumors that Chris Quinn would show up at the last moment to break my spirit, he was nowhere to be seen as we jockeyed for starting position.  ROTC mainstay Craig Impens was also conspicuously absent.  Despite my best efforts to pretend Mike Florio didn't make it either, however, he bobbed next to me at the line.  As the starter counted us down from shore, Mike seemed a little twitchy.  I couldn't tell if his slight wobbles were a sign of nerves, instability, or one too many of whatever adrenaline-laden drinks he secretly quaffs to maintain his boundless energy.  To be safe, I helpfully reminded him to watch out for abutment eddies (distant snicker from Sam), tidal standing waves, and rabid beavers.  It's the seasoned racer's duty to destabilize the confidence of younger paddlers.  If you can also throw a few "I'm just adjusting my seat pad" waves their way as you spasmodically rock your boat, so much the better.  In fairness, I should probably point out that Mike made his way into a V14 about 6 years sooner into his racing career than I was able.

Twenty-four skis started the race, but only six would finish without wondering how the wind could be against them both ways.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Hank Thorburn, shaking off a long winter's hibernation in Maine, exploded off the line like an ebullient bull moose.  Feeling a little woozy after this initial effort, however, he quickly snuck back to his burrow for a nap.  Hank was never very good at zoology.  Chris Chappell also started fast, but eased off the accelerator earlier than we're used to seeing from him.  This left two unknown paddlers in the lead - an orange Stellar SES and a vintage Epic V10L.  The former soon dropped off, but the latter continued at an unrelenting pace.

I discovered that the leader was youngster Augustin Reboul, who would go on to have been the 2017 ICF Junior World Wildwater champion from France (while the orange Stellar was powered by his father, Pierre).  At the time, however, he was just some dumb kid who had more youthful exuberance than sense.  He'd fold after a half-mile and limp through the remainder to the finish in 23rd place.  As luck (or destiny, if you insist on accuracy) would have it, I had chosen the wrong day to make baseless assumptions about an unknown paddler.  I was working as hard as I dared, but Augustin's lead slowly grew as the bridges ticked by.  As a defense mechanism, I was forced to recategorize the kid as an "Elite" paddler, which allowed me to jump suddenly to the lead of the "Normals".  Mike had been on my draft for a few minutes after the start, but he had dropped off some ways back.

I had a brief moment of classification doubt as Augustin attempted to round the downstream buoy.  As he started to turn he came to the kind of unnaturally abrupt halt usually reserved for long-suffering cartoon coyotes.  From 20 lengths back, it was difficult to make out exactly what happened, but I believe his squared-off bow caught the buoy's anchor line.  That felt more like something I'd do than would an implacable paddling machine, so despite my best intentions, hopes for a second-half comeback rose.  By the time Augustin recovered from his stumble and regained his accustomed pace, I had closed a depressing number of lengths.  Let's be generous and say that number was 5.  Those fickle hopes - already dimming.

Starting back upriver a few moments later, I patted myself on the back for deftly avoiding the buoy.  I saw Mike maybe a minute back (nervously glancing around for foam-mouthed aquatic rodents), with Chris and Doug Howard back again about the same distance.  Doug isn't allowed out of Vermont very often, but appeared intent on making the most of his paddling furlough.  John Costello, Tim Dwyer, Wesley Echols, and Pierre were chasing.

You'd think that Augustin would have the decency to at least pretend to be working hard for the win.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

They were neck and neck coming into the finish, but Chris was able to out-grimace Doug at the line. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

God only knows what would have happened had Mary Beth not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo.  Kind of a wasted opportunity.  I definitely would have deleted it, Sweetie.

The trip back to the start was uneventful.  Even with the rush of excitement provoked by the extra bridges, I couldn't muster any additional speed.  I lost not only the ground gained on Augustin at the turn, but ceded a vast expanse of additional territory under his ruthless advance.  Unconditional surrender was my only option.  Although I pushed hard through the finish, I was only fighting to maintain second place.  Mike came in a couple of minutes behind me, followed a moment later by Chris and Doug.  In the women's race, an evenly-matched Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell escorted one another for the entire course before deciding via rock-paper-scissors who would take the honors at the finish.  That's what MB is making me write, at least.

Just as polar bears are gradually adapting to the loss of sea ice (mostly by eating unsuspecting eco-tourists - a truly self-sustaining industry), ROTC paddlers must come to terms with the increasingly erratic presence of Bob Capellini's pulled pork.  Once a dependable staple of the post-race party, the crop has now failed in 2 of the past 4 years.  Bob probably has had solid excuses for not making the 4+ hour drive, but given that FedEx now offers special same-day delivery rates for barbecued meat products, it's hard to see why we have to continue to suffer.

For a moment it appeared that the tragic rift between Phil and Chris would finally be mended, but after silently staring at each other for several moments, each turned and walked away, dark glasses hiding their tears.  (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Don't forget to register for the Essex River Race, held on May 18.  This is our hometown race, so please remember to treat Mary Beth and I with appropriate deference on the course.  While not strictly prohibited, passing without curtsying would constitute a serious breach of etiquette.  Paddlers of all ilk are invited to stop by our place after the awards ceremony for beverages and snacks.  However, we do ask that SUP-ers provide a note from their physician indicating that they're no longer contagious.