With the cancellation of all the early season races, there's been a grassroots campaign for a virtual race report. It's been subtle and almost entirely unvoiced, but I can't resist this clandestine groundswell of support. Who amongst us hasn't pondered over the philosophical puzzle about The Sound of One Man Clamoring? I'm no Zen master (any longer), but I can provide you with the answer to this riddle (which is why those close-minded Buddhist bastards kicked me out - like magicians, we're not supposed to give away our mystery-of-the-universe secrets). It sounds exactly like the bing of a text from my Uncle John, wondering whether I had thought about writing a quarantine blog entry rather than peppering him with pyramid scheme opportunities and conspiracy theory emails. I realize that some of you might consider this a pretty low bar for a clamor, but that's exactly why the monks passed you over in all sixteen rounds of their biennial reincarnation draft. And also because you look terrible in orange. In any event, how can I begrudge my loyal fan?
I realize now that there may be some confusion about a "virtual" race report. For those hoping that you could knock off early and just imagine how exciting the report might be, I have some bad news. First, blog technology simply hasn't yet advanced that far. You'll have to slog through the old-fashioned way. Second, you're aiming way too high with that "exciting" expectation. Dial that back about 85%. Third, it's a "virtual race" report.
In the absence of in-person racing, several paddling organizations are hosting time trials in which you run a course of a given length (starting and finishing at the same location) and then submit GPS data to substantiate your time. I've participated in the weekly Social Distance 6 (sponsored by Newbury Canoe and Kayak) and the one-time Breakout Virtual Paddlesport Race (sponsored by NECKRA). These are both 6 mile races. To the extent that I inadvertently hew to the facts in this report, I'll be referring to the Breakout race. I've been doing the other trials in my ICF boat rather than the V14, and I'm just not stable enough in the former to safely write about it.
In my past reporting, I haven't been squeamish about naming names when it comes to embarrassing foibles. In fact, tossing a Kuklinski or a Dwyer under the bus every so often has become something of a signature move. Nobody gets hurt, and I know I'll always be able to hear the creaking and wheezing well before the aggrieved parties get within retribution distance. Given the delicacy of my current living situation and the intensely personal nature of this report, however, I've decided to use pseudonyms to protect the anonymity of the characters. In particular, I'll refer to my housemate as Embeth and our pet as Benedict. One or both of these may actually be fictional or composite characters. I'll probably stick to convention and mostly refer to myself (or ourselves) using pronouns, but if forced unexpectedly into third-person, his/her/its/their pseudonym will be Dennis. Don't read too much into the names.
We're healthy, don't have to worry about food or shelter, and in anticipation of some day being trapped 24/7 with them, made the wise decision to forego children (and also, just to be sure, got old enough that if some unexpectedly did show up, they'd no longer be minors and we could legally turn them away). So it's callous and tacky to complain about my privileged lockdown experience. In that spirit, let's get started!
Since Embeth's retirement last year, we've grown accustomed to spending 95% of our time together in the house. So you'd think a few more minutes a day wouldn't put much stress on our relationship. However, we've been operating within extremely tight tolerances. It's like that pile of old plutonium chunks you keep piled in the back of your closet. They're sub-critical in their current configuration, but one day you forget and carelessly toss your beryllium bowling ball in there and BLAMMO! Embeth goes nuclear. I've begun to surreptitiously bury all the knives and scissors around our property, but I have to start preparing for gorier scenarios. While watching TV the other day (12" B&W with rabbit ears - we're prepping for when things really go south), Embeth innocently asked where we kept the circular saw. "Just in case." Might be time to dig some unmarked graves for the power tools also. I don't see what I can do about the nearly endless variety of household objects that could be used for fatal bludgeoning, however.
Several weeks ago, we hit the end of Netflix. We'd been greedily lapping up the dregs from those hard-to-reach sub-genres for the last few weeks, but I had to draw the line once we got to "Car 54, Where Are You?" episodes and Pia Zadora movies (I've been advised by my editor to keep my joke references hip and topical). Since then, there's been a lot of drinking and reminiscing about that one time when we went to the Yarn Barn.
I've been hearing a lot about Zoom meetings to alleviate social isolation - virtual happy hours, game nights, extended family dinners, etc. I must have accidentally signed up on the video Do Not Call Registry, however, because my screens have been devoid of other humans. The Registry must also affect outgoing calls since my parents don't seem to have received any of my Zoom invitations. In the face of this deprivation of outside contact, I'm afraid Embeth is cracking up. She's taken to locking herself in the spare bedroom with her iPad and a bottle of wine for hours at a time, where I hear muffled sounds of gaiety as the poor thing carries on imaginary conversations with herself. I've reacted in a more rational manner, spending most mornings entering random Zoom meeting IDs and passwords in the hopes of video bombing a live one. Thus far I've managed only one success - I was able to crash a third grade geography lesson in Kokomo. Although the authorities ultimately accepted my explanation and decided not to press charges, I learned a valuable lesson: If you forget to get dressed before starting a game of Zoom roulette, don't call attention to it with a "south of the border" joke. And probably stay out of Indiana for a while.
Another unanticipated side-effect of the quarantine is that Benedict the Pet has realized that I am not only superfluous, but flat-out vexing. Never mind that I'm the one that feeds and cleans up after the ingrate. If his claws need trimming, who dons the padded armor and wields the bolt-cutters? That's right, me. When his feathers lose their luster, is it Embeth who licks them back to an iridescent shine? No, that's me too. And God knows, those musk glands don't milk themselves. Now that Embeth is available around-the-clock for cuddling, however, I'm as uninteresting to Benedict as his recently sloughed-off carapace. I was utterly ignored by the Judas I had personally delivered from the egg sac. The real knife (spike, technically) in the back came just three days ago, though, when I received official notice from the Massachusetts Probate & Family Court accepting Benedict's Petition for Partial Emancipation. The physical wounds will heal - well, probably not the missing fingers - but this betrayal's going to linger.
Now that we've established my fragile mental state, let's start moving towards the water. I get the impression that most participants aren't taking the virtual races too seriously. They're casually showing up at the beach, paddling out and back 3 miles, and submitting whatever the hell time they happen to clock. I wouldn't be surprised if they were whistling a jaunty tune during the trial. Phooey. Aren't these races supposed to be about doing everything possible to unfairly stack the odds in your favor? While the chumps are out having fun in their boats, I'm combing through maps searching for the best flatwater venue within 300 miles, checking barometric pressure every 20 minutes, and shaving my arms to minimize drag. To save weight, I've pealed the Epic labels from my ski and cut the handle off my toothbrush. A Beaufort wind classification of "calm" is one "dead" qualifier short of being placid enough for me to run a time trial. In short, I did everything but falsify my GPS records to game the system. The $30 I paid for that useless Garmin Hacker Toolkit was a complete waste.
Much as keeping current with the latest virus news, eating healthily, and bathing, my motivation for training has taken a significant hit. Without the incentive of racing, most of my paddles have degenerated into the on-water equivalent of a morning constitutional. Load the CamelBak with coffee, take a brisk loop or two around the lake, and then its back home for a well-deserved lie-down. Intervals? Long slow paddles? 30/30s? Nope. We're all in this together. No need to raise the mean of our shared suffering.
OK, I'll admit to some scattered Fartleks, but those were mostly involuntary.
The announcement of the first virtual race didn't exactly light a fire under my ass (thank God), but it cornered my ego in a dark alley, slapped it around a little, and threatened lead-boot humiliation unless I paid off those outstanding fitness debts. My pride can take a hint, but spelling it out in 1s and 0s on a web page always helps to underscore the intimation. Reluctantly, I dialed up the training intensity in the hopes of saving face at post time. Not having a solid conditioning base to work from, those post-paddle lie-downs suddenly transformed into full-blown comas. Through the marvel/curse of Garmin Connect, I was able to cross-reference my progress against the previous decade's worth of work-outs. Happily, my vision blurred with tears before the full scope of the ongoing 2020 disaster could be revealed.
On the day of the trial, I faced a significant hurdle before I even left the house. In an attempt to out-Wesley Wesley, last year I'd taken to putting on my PFD prior to the short drive to our local lake. This minimizes the time from parking to launching, while simultaneously cementing my reputation as the neighborhood eccentric (a foundation I had carefully started pouring years ago with some unorthodox - and quite frankly, unsanitary - gardening practices). Unfortunately, my Vaikobi vest zips up the front. Not having worn actual pants for the past month and a half, I spent several minutes looking for the PFD drawstring before realizing I'd have to dust off my atrophied zipper skills. As you'd expect, I pinched my tongue a few times before working out the kinks in my rusty technique, but eventually was safely ensconced in my fluorescent cocoon. After the time trial, I'd probably be too fatigued to figure out how to reverse the process, but figured that Embeth could cut me free.
I can't say for sure that the PFD saved my life on the subsequent drive, but there's no doubt that my head stayed above water.
The lockdown has reshaped the recreational profile of our lake. The rowing teams that usually train in the early mornings and evenings are gone, presumably after attempts at manning multi-person boats with skeleton crews got the Pirates of the Caribbean copyright lawyers involved. Although we generally get along, I must say that it's more peaceful on the water without the incessant ponderous beat of the drums and the occasional panic-inducing cries of "Ramming speed!" Unfortunately, the rowers neglected to take along their yappy little pest of a mascot, who patrols the docks and adjacent shores like Cerberus, noisily warding off visitors from his hellish little bay.
Of course, you can only defy the natural order of things to a certain point. The law of Conservation of Watercraft remains in effect. What we've lost in rowers, we've made up for by a bloom of Homo cabelas - more commonly known as the North American kayak fishermen. These gentle critters are at least as scared of us as we are of them. And with ample reason. With their muted color palette, low profile, and quiet demeanor, they quite literally blend into the background. Combine their accidental camouflage with the blinkered intensity of a frenzied interval, you have the perfect recipe for me terrorizing the poor souls. I live in fear of the inevitable lawsuit when one of them fails to dive clear in time.
A sidebar. Like most people, I imagine, the greatest moments of joy in my life have stemmed from entering a preposterously specific question into Google and getting an exact result. I'm talking queries so detailed that you can't even come up with a reasonable set of search terms, so you literally just type out the entire question. Every year on February 27, for example, our household celebrates the time I Googled "How long would it take two bowling balls one meter apart in space to collide from gravity?" and was whisked off to a page with almost that exact title. Just under 10.5 hours, you'll be excited to know. The problem is, you can't yet reliably count on such gems. For every winner, there are dozens of disappointments like "Who is the actor that looks just like a jowly Jason Bateman but with a larger forehead and maybe his last name starts with an R?" or "So... animals that aren't birds but have beaks. What's the deal?" My point is, you can't build a joyful life around lucky hits on obscure Google searches.
Fitness paddling, however, provides me with almost daily bursts of euphoria. It's not about a transcendent connection to the water. Nor entering that flow where each stroke propels you along an almost pre-ordained glide. And it's not even about that tingly feeling you get from your spandex shorts when you forget your underwear again. No. It's more primal than any of those. As you've probably deduced by now, I'm referring to the smug satisfaction that comes from launching and retrieving your surfski - from car to water, and vice versa - in roughly one-hundredth of the time it takes any other boater to get on and off the water. I've trained myself to pull into the lot and start paddling in one continuous motion. I didn't buy Goodboy V-bars to safely transport my boats. I got them solely for rapid deployment. If I can leave one shore-side sea kayaker (strapping down a spare paddle) in open-mouthed stupor, one fisherman (sorting tackle) wondering what the hell just happened, one pleasure boater (trying to get his boat centered on the trailer for the twelfth time) grinding his teeth in envy... Well, that's what it's all about, isn't it?
Sitting on the water prior to the start, I found it difficult to build up the level of pre-race anxiety to which I've grown accustomed. Keeping in mind the maxim that you shouldn't change anything on race day, I considered running home and gulping down some rancid meat smothered generously with a laxative gravy. At least that way I could approximate my typical belly-state. With darkness threatening to cut my trial short, however, I decided to gut it out as is. I did manage a few reassuring dry heaves of anticipation, at least.
The Hamilton-Wenham Gun Club is situated quite close to our lake, so I didn't have to wait long for the blast of the starter musket (those guys are old school). Fully engaging my core, I made a powerful lunge forward. Abdomen and shoulder muscles burning from the effort, I just barely managed to stretch enough ahead to start my foredeck-mounted GPS. Time to get paddling! With a series of dainty strokes, I eased into the race. Although I've requisitioned a lake with a simpler geometry, the one I'm currently stuck with is amoeba-shaped. Meticulously following the curves of each pseudopod would yield a turn-heavy 4.5 mile loop. I've therefore designed a friendlier two-lap 3 mile course that maximizes straightaways.
In virtual races, most people make the mistake of shooting for the best time. Mistake. Through trial and error (and spreadsheets), I've discovered that there's an inverse relationship between average speed and finish time. The implications are staggering. I haven't worked out the exact math (or grammar) yet, but in layman's terms: "Faster are better time". This insight has unshackled me from the tyranny of the clock. No more seeing 34:21 on the GPS and wondering if I can just hold it there until I'm finished. It's now simply a matter of maintaining a target speed. Even if you slip off the pace, you're almost guaranteed to end up with a time after the 6 miles are up.
Not counting yappy dogs, there are three primary time trial enemies: fatigue, wind, and wakes. As the ancient Sumerians already knew, there's nothing to be done about the first. We're each bestowed our daily allotment of vital humors, and once those are exhausted we fall limp until the sun god Utu refills our reservoirs at daybreak. Sure, you could sacrifice your charred foreskin to all-powerful Enlil in the hopes of getting an extra half mina of juice, but you've only got so many penises to burn. Maybe even none. And in all probability, mischievous Ishtar would swoop down, make some hurtful wisecracks about your still-smoking manhood, and steal off with that hard-won supplemental humor. Embarrassing. So for all practical purposes, fatigue is an immutable constant.
That brings us to wind. Surprisingly, also immutable. Around 80% of your trial will be into a stiff breeze. In theory, you could also appeal to a higher power for becalming as well, but the cost of influencing an intrinsic natural element like wind is going to be much higher than just a modest burnt offering. Unless you have a pool of virgins on hand (with signed and notarized consent forms, of course), let's stick to secular work-arounds. We've been hearing a lot about letting science drive our decisions. To the vexation of phrenologists and astrologists everywhere, it turns out that meteorology does technically qualify as a science. I've read that a modern five-day forecast is as accurate as the one-day forecast from 1980, so at the very least meteorologists have an excellent PR firm. I'll concede that their predictions are occasionally better-than-chance. When it comes to forecasting the wind at our lake, however, they might as well be throwing darts at my head. I nevertheless continue to heed their prophecies when scheduling workouts, despite being deep into "shame on me" territory.
Finally, we have wakes. Of course, there may also be wind-driven waves, but in that case the savvy time trialer knows to curse the parent, not the child. Later in the season, we'll have to contend with the wakes of water skiers and their hillbilly cousins, tubers. At least those boaters have a clear purpose. At this time of year, though, it's just a grab-bag of morons, each of whom needs to rapidly get from A to B for some inscrutable reason. And in the absence of a known motive for their journey, I'm forced by Occam's razor to ascribe the most likely one: They're just trying to piss me off. You might argue that they're probably applying the same argument to the idiot paddler always putting himself directly in the path between A and B, but allow me to correct the error in your logic. They're barely smart enough to drive a powerboat let alone carry on abstract reasoning such as this. I've found it best to keep all of this to myself because, even though they're not very bright, it turns out they have extraordinary hearing.
I can tell I'm out of practice. My pacing is way off. I've barely started writing about the actual race and the "wrap it up" light is already flashing red. Before the band starts up and they cut off my keyboard feed, I hope I'll have time to convey the full excitement of the virtual race.
I paddled alone for six miles.
Whew. Just under the wire. Thanks everyone!
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