The Narrow River Race is essentially the Groundhog Day of the New England paddling season. And not just in the sense that its recurrence triggers an existential crisis of feeling trapped in an endless cycle of meaningless behavior. But also because your performance at this race is a harbinger of things to come. Limp past the finish and you're likely to spend the next six weeks in your burrow, eating tubers and grubs. Power majestically through the race, however, and you'll be able to enjoy those delicacies right out in the sunlight. Where the farmer can get a clear shot at you. Whew. I see we're starting out dark this year.
Under race director Tim Dwyer's watchful gaze (that is, once I rapped on his car window to wake him up), 20 racers assembled in North Kingstown for the 14th instance of the NRR. I've told him repeatedly that he'd get even better attendance if he watered-down the race tagline ("The suckiest suck-water around!"), but he's a staunch believer of truth in advertising. Drawn by the extravagant prize money and novelty of pumping their own gas, a full quarter of the field made the trip from the wilds of New Jersey. John Costello arrived with a bandaged hand and the charred tatters of Rob Jehn's remaining clothes were still smoking, but they'll get the hang of it by the end of the season. They were joined by Melinda Schlehlein, defending women's champion Loukia Lili, and newcomer Anthony Colasurdo.
Local favorite Mike Florio was attempting a three-peat at the Narrow River, having demoralized the field so thoroughly with his 5+ minute win margins in 2021 and 2022 that officials instituted a mercy rule to prevent further humiliation. Should Mike's lead ever exceed 200 boat lengths, the rest of the field would be forced to sell their skis and take up a new hobby. This past fall, Rob got the better of Mike at the Essex River (Replacement) Race, so anticipation of the rematch was palpable. The parking lot resembled the floor of the Chicago commodities exchange as paddlers excitedly fought to place their bets with the bookies. One of those two would surely win. The best I could hope for would be to feature in the final tier of the trifecta. Given the field, however, finishing outside the octofecta was a distinct possibility.
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| We're all feeling the years. Tim used to be able to hit that high C in "I Will Always Love You" with no problem, but now he needs to strap on the Depends before trying. |
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| As Shakespeare wrote about a remarkably similar situation, "Uneasy is the head that wears the crown." |
The women's field looked to be a battle between Loukia and former Narrow River champs, Leslie Chappell and Mary Beth. Based on her Facebook posts, Loukia apparently spent the off-season paddling through extreme conditions and sleeping in a hypoxic tent tuned to simulate the oxygen-poor atmosphere of Mars. I can't speak for Leslie, but Mary Beth's winter regimen leaned more towards electric blankets and eating peanut butter out of the jar. Just as exacting a program, in its way, but perhaps not quite as beneficial to paddling fitness or coronary health. As a handicap, Loukia consented to paddle her K-1 while the other contenders were on more stable skis.
Although my own on-the-water training has been less than rigorous this spring, I had figured the "30 Days to a Better You" motivational tapes I had recently started would more than compensate for any physical shortcomings. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have waited until Providence to begin listening. As we pulled into the parking lot and shut down the car, I was just learning that the key was "leveraging mind over matt...". Maybe mattresses? I was already feeling pretty nappy after getting up at 5, so that made a lot of sense.
There was some concern that Tim would unilaterally revert the course to its former 10 mile infamy, but after shaking down a few paddlers who looked particularly anemic, he committed to maintaining the somewhat more forgiving 8 mile joyride of recent years. This would encompass a 3 mile upriver jaunt, followed by a luxurious 4 mile downriver excursion past the start, capped by a delightful mile-long junket back upriver to the start. The temperature was around 50 with a 10 mph breeze blowing from the south. Despite being tidal, scientists have somehow found it impossible to nail down the ebbs and floods of the Narrow River. As such, the race-time tide was listed as having a 65% chance of receding.
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| If you have a drone photo, you're contractually required to include a drone photo. |
What I would imagine was a brief captain's meeting underscored the need for me to pay more attention to these kinds of things. The start was soon upon us. Always striving to become the best me I can be, I hit play on my Walkman as Tim counted us down to the gun. "...er." So... no nap, I guess. That threw off my game plan since I had been settling in for a good opening doze. By the time I roused myself, I had fallen behind Mike, Chris Chappell, Rob, John, Tim, Anthony, Wesley Echols, Sam Duffield and a few other paddlers who weren't even attending. Egad! Since resisting the urge to panic never actually works, I succumbed whole-heartedly. Bugging out my eyes and gibbering half-formed cuss words, I flailed away with abandon.
Chris and Mike had led the charge off the line, with Rob and Anthony not far behind. Within the initial quarter mile, order emerged from chaos as the heated frenzy of the start cooled. Mike was pulling away from the field, with a dotted line of paddlers in hapless pursuit - Rob, Anthony, Chris, me, Tim, John... With an all-out effort I'd characterize as "unseemly" (mostly because of the weeping), I managed to slip by Chris and latch a death grip onto Anthony's stern. I read that once a Gila monster bites down on its prey, even cutting off its head won't cause its jaws to release. That was my drafting goal, although I've been known to faint after nicking my neck shaving, so that level of devotion might exceed my tenacity.
Leading up to the race, Anthony had been the focus of the latest scuttlebutt (it's been going around - try a few doses of amoxicillin and a hydrating ointment). Although he had been perfectly content as a collegiate track athlete and prone paddleboarder, some damned fool had suggested he try a surfski. That was sometime around last Tuesday. Now here we all were, facing the indignity of getting beaten by yet another New Jersey paddler. In a ski apparently built during the Nixon administration. He had certainly gone out fast, but did he also have the fortitude to pull me around the course?
After a mile or so of drafting, I took a slightly different line around a bend and ended up alongside Anthony, with Rob several lengths ahead. As the Narrow River widened to a narrow lake a few minutes later, I started to separate from Anthony. Yet another flash in the pan, apparently. A fool's golden boy, much like Mike and Rob before him. And as with his predecessors, I expect I'll never need to adjust that assessment.
Reaching the end of the upriver leg, Mike enjoyed a two minute lead. Rob was a half-dozen lengths ahead of me and Anthony roughly the same distance behind. Chris was next in pursuit, but had fallen back by more than a minute. We were now beating back against a modest breeze - not nearly strong enough to shake an enraged fist at, but as every paddler knows, even a slight headwind is sufficient to drain the color from life. Making our way back down the now-drab lake, Rob maintained his lead over me, but repeated glances behind revealed that I wasn't holding my end up of the status quo. Despite my iron-clad assumption about his endurance, Anthony had taken up the slack and was reeling me in. Which explains why it felt like I was paddling in honey.
I figured a bow would pierce my periphery at any moment, but his overtaking velocity was so extreme that Anthony himself burst unexpectedly into my central vision, appearing bodily from nowhere. I half expected him to throw his arms wide, shouting "Ta-da!!!" as his cape flowed theatrically around him. Once the shock of his sudden materialization wore off, I got down to plotting my endgame strategy. With Anthony now openly practicing black magic, my only hope at getting on the podium would be to ingratiate myself as a dark acolyte. I dutifully stationed myself on his starboard draft, where I was subjected to a bone-chilling baptism of wind-driven paddle splash. After several minutes of this occult initiation, I took the hint. He was looking for more of a mindless disciple than a right-hand man. I dutifully dropped to the appropriate position of subservience at his stern.
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| Sam slipped me a ten-spot to include this photo. |
As I had hoped, Anthony continued powering downriver after pulling ahead of me, gradually narrowing the gap to Rob. Perhaps a mile after joining forces (in a partnership of equals, some might say), we finally caught Rob. For the next mile and a half, the three of us snaked along in linear draft formation, with me at the tail. With two strapping fellows furrowing a veritable drafting trough and blocking most of the headwind, I basically could have stopped paddling. Or so you'd have thought. In reality, my heart rate barely dropped in this stretch. Rob was setting a brutal pace. That didn't bode well for the time when our reluctant camaraderie inevitably reverted to enmity.
With less than 2 miles left in the race, our group began to splinter. Anthony fell off Rob's draft. I pulled alongside the former in an attempt to pass. We hung together for a few poignant moments, and then I started to move ahead. Although Anthony would probably attribute his fade to some combination of leg cramps and fatigue, I suspect a different reason... Over the hour or so we'd spent paddling together, he had come to view me as something of a mentor. Under my tutelage Anthony had blossomed. Also, maybe I reminded him a little of his father. Or his father's older brother. In any event, as a sign of esteem, Anthony was offering me one last chance at silver-clad glory (Tim's kind of a cheapskate).
Which I completely botched. I caught Rob a minute or two later, but was unable to stick on his draft. Approaching the turn to the final upriver leg, I hoped to be able to carve a graceful arc that would erase his three length lead. Unfortunately, any turn that spectators would describe generously as "lumbering" is unlikely to be effective. Rob's maneuver wasn't exactly a pirouette either, but it was sufficient to stay ahead. Efforts to overtake him in the final mile were rebuffed with scoffing laughter, although when he told me afterwards that he "really didn't want to get beat by you", he had the courtesy not to scornfully emphasize you. Mike had re-established Narrow River dominance by finishing in 1:03:40 - more than four minutes ahead of any of us Betas. Anthony notched an impressive 4th place finish in his 1st race, with Chris taking 5th. In the women's race, Leslie held the lead past the first turn, but Loukia tracked her down and eked out a repeat victory in a thrilling sprint finish. Mary Beth took third place.
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| Nothing like that third crown to ease the head. |
Everything in moderation. You got a taste of brine in the Narrow River, but before you dive headlong into the ocean proper, you need to acclimate yourself to slightly higher salinity and less protected conditions. Where better than the salt marshes of Essex? After a couple of years on sabbatical, the Essex River Race returns on May 14. You'll come for the scenery and fellowship, you'll stay because, once again, you badly mistimed the tides and were arrested after being discovered wandering the mud flats without a clamming permit.
