Blackburn Challenge: Showing Up

After retreating into seclusion in 2020 citing "public health reasons" (as if we knew nothing about the sordid affair with Chattajack), the Blackburn Challenge unexpectedly turned up last year in Gloucester as a "semi-organized group paddle" - a ridiculous disguise about as effective as a stack of kids wearing a trench coat.  With the release of a recent tell-all memoir ("Currents of Passion"), however, the Blackburn embraced the scandal and was in full promotional mode for 2022.  Not everyone has forgiven the 35 year old race its indiscretions (as evidenced by lower attendance), but I think it's safe to say that after the excitement of this year's surfski competition, the public will see the past in a more forgiving light.

As is my habit (or pathological mania, Mary Beth might say), I pored over tthe registration list to generate a handicap sheet that the Vegas bookies would have killed for.  Or perhaps the Atlantic City odds makers would have been more interested, given that the top two prospects hailed from New Jersey.  I'm referring, of course, to thoroughbreds Rob Jehn and Craig Impens.  Both are previous Blackburn champions.  Rob has been trampling my ego all season, but now Craig would finally have a chance to get in a few kicks of his own.  At the recent Toms River Race, Craig edged out Rob by less than a minute - the only time they've been head-to-head in the last 4 years.

With the blasted border open again, Canadians Brian Heath (12 top-ten finishes, including two silver medals) and Jack Van Dorp (Mr. Consistency - placing between 4th and 7th in each of his seven appearances) would again be lapping on our shores.  Area favorite Matt Drayer would be trying to improve on last year's second place, while local pariah (hey... what the hell?) Greg Lesher would be latching on to the draft of whomever wasn't quick enough to swat me off.  So it would be a battle between New England, New Jersey, and New Brunswick.  Jack and Brian are actually Ontarians, but I poetic licensed them a couple of provinces east for symmetry.  With his usual mind-boggling fitness level but very limited bucket time - Gloucester native Janda Ricci-Munn opted for the SS20+ class, hoping to be the first ever to break the 3 hour mark in such a craft.  The slower among the contenders hoped that he wouldn't also break us in the process.

Matt was so focused on the upcoming race that he struggled with even the simplest tasks.

Obsessing over Saturday's weather, Matt, Janda, and I had been keeping a dedicated team of meteorologists employed.  Netflix only wishes it could have a streaming hit that garnered the kind of binge watching that WindFinder.com enjoyed over the past two weeks.  Despite offering little in the way of plot or character development, we'd gather every couple of hours to gossip about the latest twists of our Blackburn fate and debate how scripted our favorite reality show actually was.  Despite our write-in campaign to influence the outcome, the weather eventually unspooled exactly like it had to.

Let's get this out of the way.  The race between Craig and Rob has been branded as an instant classic - one of the greatest head-to-head match-ups in the annals of New England racing.  Strategic maneuvering.  Attacks and parries.  Feints and dodges.  It was legendary!  Maybe.  I mean, sure, we saw them jockeying for the lead at the start and a few people watched Craig surge to the victory in a final sprint.  And there are a few photos of them "dueling" at Halibut Point.  But they were so far ahead of the field that the majority of their race was conveniently witness-free.  For all we know, Rob and Craig flipped a coin before the race and spent the majority of the Blackburn tour getting their stories straight.  They couldn't fake blowing everyone else off the water (unless... could we all have been in on it?), but the evidence for a GOAT race is circumstantial at best.  Nice try, chumps.

As usual, my starting strategy was to sidle up to Rob and try to cadge a ride off the line.  I've got a little "Reserved" placard that I set on his rear deck to prevent other moochers from horning in on my turf.  Over the years I've developed a preference for Rob's port draft.  His paddle release on the left provides a gentle spray of fine droplets, while the right has a chunkier consistency more likely to induce draftee spluttering.  In retrospect, I should have worried a little less about exhaust streams and more about relative paddler positioning.  Craig started to the left of us, with Brian and Jack between.  Given that Rob and Craig would most certainly converge while fighting for the lead, in hindsight it seems obvious that any bystanders between the two would be the hapless victims of an unintended pincer movement.  Within seconds of the start, I found myself interlacing strokes with Jack as we were forced to share an increasingly narrow lane of international water.  On his other side, he and Brian were similarly squeezed, although in their case I sensed some internecine rivalry as paddles clashed and jaunty repartee followed (they are Canadian, after all).  While fine-tuning my stroke synchronization mechanism, I slipped off of Rob's side draft.

Number 34 was a worthy competitor, but Jack and I eventually were able to drop him. 

Rob soon pulled into the lead, with Craig nonchalantly brushing off my placard to claim my port draft exemption.  We unfortunate three teetered for a moment on the razor's edge of a stern draft before tumbling into an abyss of despair and regret.  The lead pair opened a gap of a couple of lengths, with Rob making erratic course changes in an attempt to either avoid being torpedoed or to shake Craig off his draft.  I pulled slightly ahead of Jack to move briefly into third, but after taking a wider line around a river bend found myself again by his side, with Brian and Matt in close proximity.  While I'll admit that I was morbidly fascinated by Jack's eclectic garb (signature floppy hat, floral compression shorts, knee socks, and epaulets), by avoiding staring directly at his outlandish costume I was able to focus enough to pull ahead again, this time opening a decent gap on Jack, Brian, and Matt.  The lead pair continued to extend their lead through the winding Annisquam, while we four pursuers wove independent paths along markedly different lines - fruitlessly trying navigational tricks to gain some advantage.  A superposition of our GPS tracks would resemble nothing more than a spirograph trace.

I took a hard look at my situation as I passed Annisquam Light at the mouth of the river.  Craig and Rob were each demonstrably faster than me on their own.  Having one another for drafting and motivation would only widen that performance gap.  If inspirational sports movies are to be believed, sometimes it's more about heart than strength, ability, or stamina. But in that regard I found myself lacking as well.  I'd be happy to win this thing, but I was too fundamentally lazy to do anything as taxing as bursting the shackles of physical limitations.  All that wasn't quite enough to cause me to abandon all hope, so I devised a couple of fictitious reasons to nudge me over that line - my rudder was jammed at full right deflection and I was born without any ribs.  Mission accomplished!  I could now coast around the remainder of the course (clockwise, luckily) with a clear conscience.  And little to impede torso rotation.

Would the leaders have been so poised and confident if they knew that... (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

... this guy was watching them steadily pull away? (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

A few minutes after arriving at this happy conclusion, the beaver of doubt began gnawing at my resolve.  Weren't there, at some previous point, surfskis in this race other than Craig, Rob, and me?  And if by some chance there were, mightn't some of these wispy memories be endeavoring to overtake me?  By following this impeccable chain of reasoning, I reached a terrible conclusion.  My race was not yet run.  Suffering and woe lay ahead.

While the fear of being overtaken by faceless pursuers was enough to kick me back into high gear (having been a recurring nightmare since hearing an old-timey radio horror show as a child that featured an antagonist with no mouth, nose, or eyes), I soon chanced upon a more concrete form of motivation that might be sufficient to keep me pushing through the finish.  Passing the double ski of Robin Francis & Igor Yeremeev (mercifully,with faces intact), I remembered that there were 3 more such doubles up ahead.  With a 5 minute head start (or even without), I might not catch them all, but at least I'd have specific targets to shoot for.

You know, it's not like I grew up in the 40s.  I need to have a talk with my parents about why I was listening to antiquated (and wholly kid-inappropriate) AM radio shows rather than playing Atari or grooming my pet rock.

Operation Treble Double was a success of sorts, although it developed at the same leisurely pace that ultimately put Kodak out of business.  I would invariably spot the next double from quite some distance behind, but given that my pace was at best a fraction of a mile per hour faster, it took some imagination to convince myself that I was actually in the process of overtaking them.  And inevitably, I'd become their motivational fodder when I appeared alongside,  As a result, I'd be unable to complete the passing operation until they achieved motivation-fatigue equilibrium.  I caught Ed Duggan & Bruce Deltorchio just before Halibut Point, Erin & Alan Lamb at Straitsmouth gap, and Bernie Romanowski & Andrew Metz without a nameable landmark in sight.  I passed so much time overtaking the Lambs that I'm now to be the proud godfather of their unwitting third passenger.

Actually, I already know the answer to the question.  I wasn't playing Atari because we didn't have one.  I asked for the game on my 11th birthday, but instead got a mustard-colored knock-off Pong console (made in Bhutan, if I'm not mistaken) with sliders rather than knobs.  And as for the Pet Rock, well, it was "too dangerous".  So I suppose old-timey radio was really my only entertainment option.

The next time I'm struggling to get out of bed for a morning workout, I'm going to remember Craig's savage grin at the finish.  And, realizing that I'm never going to match that intensity, hit the snooze button.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

By the time I had inched by Bernie & Andrew, roughly 5 miles remained in the race - a short enough distance for a go-getter like me to self-motivate through.  Water conditions had been neutral in the Annisquam, favorable to Straitsmouth, and mildly irksome since - a light headwind and current working against us.  Making landfall near Brace Cove, however, reflected waves and tidal eddies reformed the ocean surface into a nubbled canvas.  Some quirk of the wind then applied a glossy sheen, making it difficult to discern the irregular hills and valleys.  I found the experience to be much like attending an experimental theater production - you didn't really understand what was going on, you felt a little nauseous, and you were terrified that the next scene might include nudity and/or audience participation.  So I adopted a similar coping strategy - I kept my head down and repeated "it will soon be over" to myself until I emerged on the other side of the confusion, fully clothed and with a new appreciation for the avant-garde.

Needless to say, I was disappointed to discover that hang time wasn't factored into your final score.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

Approaching the final leg of the race, the ocean remained disgruntled, but in a more predictable way.  I kept well off the Dog Bar, fearing: instability-induced slowdown in the confused waters, catching my rudder on a stray fishing line, and being dashed to a pulp against the ragged granite (in no particular order).  I was able to catch a few decent waves out there, but marveled at how effectively an OC-1 I had previously been overtaking was now exploiting the rebound close to the rocks.  Clearing the end of the Bar and turning into the harbor, I finally took a good look behind to confirm that I could safely phone in the last leg.  Seeing nobody, I had just cracked open a Mai Tai (everything comes in a can these days) when I heard a little voice in my head saying "Greg... I'm gonna catch you."  That didn't make much sense since I generally refer to myself in third-person internal dialog as "Your Grace" (or "Melon Head" if I'm in a playful mood).  I glanced around again, this time catching the barest suggestion of a dark V12 moving silently along the Dog Bar.  The bright orange person sitting on top of it definitely helped.  Whether Matt had actually yelled out that taunt or my subconscious had generated it in response to some tickle of recognition after the first glance, only Matt can say.  And he says "You're an idiot, Melon Head."  Which I believe leaves some room for interpretation.

Matt, who I had assumed had been lost at sea a couple of hours ago, was actually perhaps only 15 boat lengths back.  Quickly chugging the remainder of my citrus cocktail to calm my nerves, I girded my loins (I'll let you know in a couple of days if duct tape was the smart approach) and pointed my bow towards home.  Although the tide was against us, there was a slight wind at our back and some incoming swell.  In a conversation I once had with Sean Rice, he said that every wave you miss in a downwind run is one your competition won't.  He was also somehow Foghorn Leghorn at the time, which makes me wonder if maybe this didn't occur in a dream.  Nevertheless... it rings true.  I took the giant rooster's axiom to heart, adding my own corollary - every wave I was on, my competition wasn't.  This doesn't make any sense, but I can't say that logic was a high priority at this point.  Doubly prompted, I drove myself to catch every little bump.  Thankfully, the girding held up under the strain.

Andrew struggled to disguise his grimace as a smile, but piteous moaning betrayed his fundamental misery.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

It's reassuring to know that Janda wasn't handed that sub-3 hour SS20+ time on a silver platter.  (Photo courtesy of John Costello)

Craig told me after the race that whenever Rob threw a look over his shoulder in the final stretch to check his lead, it fueled Craig's confidence that he could overtake Rob.  If that were likewise the case for Matt, he would have wagered his children against a fiver that he'd end up ahead of me. Halfway across the harbor, I figured it made more sense to stop glancing backward, and instead start glancing forward.  Even with near-constant surveillance of Matt, I oscillated between imagining (A) myself congratulating Matt for pushing me to the limit and expressing sympathy for just missing a medal and (B) Matt spitting contemptuously on me from the podium.  It was good to know that, regardless of the outcome, I would have been the more gracious winner.  As the finish line grew closer, however, option A seemed increasingly likely.  Or at least the part about me earning bronze.  I coasted in 30 seconds ahead.  Fortunately for Matt, I was too dehydrated to work up any condescending contempt.

As I alluded to above, after a spirited mano-a-mano brawl (alleged), Craig passed Rob in the final few hundred feet to take his third Blackburn title in 2:40:46.  The nine second gap between gold and silver was the narrowest margin of victory ever in a full-course Blackburn.  I finished nearly 5 minutes behind the leaders, but as a "fellow" podium dweller I was shielded by tradition from spittle.  Janda was successful in his bid to break the 3 hour mark in the SS20+ class, finishing 7th overall in a time of 2:55:46.  The top 6 have already conspired to exaggerate expected ocean conditions for the 2023 race in an effort to keep him in a fat boat.  On the women's side, Mary Beth chalked up her third HPK Blackburn title, but in a Janda-esque effort Beatrice Weinberger notched the fastest women's surfski time in winning the SS20+ class in 3:33:23.  Bernie & Andrew claimed double's gold in 2:53:58.

As in the race itself, I was asked to keep my distance from the leaders in the podium photo.

Thanks to the many volunteers from the Cape Ann Rowing Club and beyond who resuscitated the Blackburn.  To relive the excitement, check out the stunning photos of the race by John Costello, Mike Sachs, and Granite State Race Services.  As a bonus, if you step through John's 1,800+ pics at 24 frames per second, you can essentially watch a video of the event.

A slight pause in the New England ocean racing schedule will give us all plenty of time to formally withdraw our post-Blackburn renunciations of paddling.  Next up is the Paddle for Access in Newport, RI on August 20th (register at PaddleGuru), followed by the Nahant Bay Cup in Swampscott, MA on August 27th (watch for details).  If you'd like to decompress on some flatwater prior to those efforts, try NECKRA's New England Paddlesports Championship (register at PaddleGuru) on August 7th in Hinsdale, NH.