A one-week delay imposed by fickle spring weather had given us that much extra time to work ourselves into a collective tizzy about the grand opening of the surfski race season. Like gleeful orphans on an early January Christmas morning, we gathered excitedly at the Narrow River, each wondering if race directors Tim Dwyer and Bob Wright would leave them a shiny medal or a lump of coal. Tim's sooty face and surly demeanor did not bode well, however, nor did the mysterious absence of "good elf" Bob. Oh, well. At least the race itself would be marginally more enjoyable than another 14 hour shift at the textile factory.
After the briefest of greetings and perfunctory life updates upon arrival, competitors threw themselves energetically into the complex social dance known as "training one-downmanship". Bobbing unsteadily with an anemic torpor, racers took turns regaling one another with tales of bed-ridden COVID recovery, unrelenting work travel, and recent amputations. Chris Sherwood proudly showed us the possum nest in his footwell, although this excuse was somewhat compromised by his heavily bandaged feet. It appeared that Sam Duffield might emerge the champion - after all, who else could credibly claim that they couldn't get on the water because of spending the last 90 days in the brig? The details are very hush-hush, but something about taking the Alabama out for a joy-ride. But when Wesley revealed that he had only been born last week, dropping his pants to show off his Huggies, we grudgingly agreed that he was the least trained of us all.
 |
| It was disappointing when prize money was discontinued back in 2017, but at least the champion still gets something to show off. |
 |
| After all the bad press and constant hounding by paparazzi, it was only a matter of time before Tim snapped. |
With Mike Florio winning the last 4 races held on the course (including the inaugural 2022 fall race - "2 Narrow, 2 Shallow"), Tim and Bob were determined to find a way to reintroduce an element of surprise and spontaneity. After months at the drawing board and an uncountable number of crumpled iPads, they emerged with a design for a revolutionary new class of boat that might just level the playing field. The "woggler" would sit sideways on the craft, gripping a network of lines in each hand, moving their arms hither and yon (Bob really argued for thither, but yon won the day) - propelling the boat forward via a series of pulleys, sprockets, and cantilevered woggles. However, when the prototype quickly burrowed itself under the riverbed like a spaghetti-armed quahog instead of moving forward, the remaining race director decided that he'd instead just recruit a pair of expert rowers to give Mike some competition - New England standouts, Dan Gorriaran and Betsy Harling. I was hoping to play second fiddle to Mike in the paddler's ensemble, but knew that Chris Chappell, Jerry Madore, Tim, and a dozen others were eager to steal that seat for themselves.
We'd run the now-standard course - up the Narrow River 3 miles to an on-your-honor turn-around at a dock, back 4 miles past the start to a turn on a mid-river piling (no honor needed there - a nearby "fisherman" in waders was clearly a narc), then back a final mile to the start, for a total of what feels like somewhere between 14 and 37 miles, depending on how successfully you didn't train. Tim patiently outlined the course for each of the new participants individually, after which the veterans took them aside and thoroughly erased his verbal sketch via clever misdirection and, in my case, dangerous navigation recommendations and outright lies. I'd be surprised if Chris Sousa managed to finish the race still in Rhode Island.
 |
| The level of pre-race excitement was off the charts. |
 |
| The best drone shot is the one that leaves you questioning whether it was just taken by a tall guy holding the camera over his head. |
It was soon time to start the race. After traipsing around the river for several minutes in search of the odd depressions deep enough to float our boats, we were counted down to the start by Tim. Fortunately, Dan had no need to deploy his advanced anti-surfski weaponry to cut down the number of competitors. Although most of us would have voluntarily avoided the semi-circular exclusion zones around him anyway, he removed any "wonder what would happen" knife-in-the-outlet temptation by briskly separating himself from the field. Betsy was slightly behind me, so I can't say definitively how the paddlers in her vicinity fared, but I'm pretty sure I would've heard the tell-tale squelching of a decapitation. Or at least noticed afterwards that, say, Dave Grainger was unusually quiet.
Mike started well to the right of the main pack, moving smartly into the surfski lead (henceforth, "the lead", because if we start treating rowers like real people, we may never see the podium again). On the left, I went out with Jerry, Tim, and Wesley, with Chris even further inside to set up for the first gentle bend of the river. Getting ahead of Tim and Wesley, I veered over to get on Chris' side draft, misjudging the angle and crowding him unnecessarily. Although he had previously been skimming by the protruding docks, he apparently wasn't interested in actually scraping off his gelcoat on them. A missed stroke and an accusatory half-glance backwards were sufficient to express his umbrage, so the bloody hatchet I found that night under my pillow felt like overkill.
I corrected my course and managed to pull ahead of both Chris and Jerry - neither of whom apparently wanted to be too close to the guy crazily swerving over the center line. Mike is more of a super-charged tortoise than a hare, meaning that (a) he hadn't yet receded out of range and (b) I was unlikely to sneak by him napping at the turn. By channeling my own inner hare, I managed to put together a twitchy surge that culminated in a string of mini-strokes. And an unsteady perch on, uh, that guy's draft - you know the one, the guy I had been chasing, starts with some letter, maybe an Ω? I had hoped for a long ride, but it was so taxing to maintain Mike's pace that when the 8 second horn finally sounded, I was happy to hop off the bull and catch some shut-eye.
 |
| Although it's not the best photo, I spent over a week hiding in the rushes to get just the merest glimpse of this reclusive fellow. |
Apparently I was sleep paddling again (which wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't also prone to sleep capsizing) because when I roused myself 15 minutes later, I was emerging into the widened lake-like portion of the river. Mike was a solid 90 seconds ahead, with Dan stroking away perhaps half that distance further along. Without the meandering shore to provide some wind protection, nor the incoming tide to give us a boost, we were completely at the mercy of an unrelenting Beaufort force 3 headwind. As you can imagine, the subsequent battle to the turn-around a mile later was nothing short of a waking nightmare. OK, so a 3 is technically categorized as a "gentle breeze", but I assure you there was nothing "gentle" about the smooth caress of that placid zephyr!
Despite my grumbling, I was rubbing my hands for the expected downwind bonanza (which doubtless contributed to my lack of upwind progress), but as quickly as the gale picked up in my imagination, it died down in reality after the turn. I did get a burst of motivation from seeing Betsy, Chris, and the Jerry-Tim train in close pursuit, though. Of course, this didn't keep Dan and Mike from further increasing their leads as I made my way down the lake.
Normally I'd insert a video of the race here - to many, the high point of the report, at least in terms of scrolling speed. Due to sabotage or operator error, my GoPro had been maliciously reconfigured to take a sequence of stills at half-second intervals. So rather than a video I have 10,550 individual pictures. I've printed them all out and put them in old-school photo albums. Let me know if you'd like a limited edition 44 volume set for your records. Shipping and handling charges apply.
 |
| Just a taste of what you might expect in the other 10,549 frames... |
I was not looking forward to re-entering the river proper, and my apprehensions soon revealed themselves to be be well-founded. Between the opposing tide and the relentless suckwater, I would have made faster progress by getting up and punting. Unfortunately, I had left my striped blazer and straw hat in the car, and the United Fellowship of Punters & Gondoliers doesn't take livery violations sitting down. After half-heartedly exploring various alternative navigational options (cutting corners, taking corners wide, hugging the shore, getting crosswise to the flow and just paddling back and forth between shores, etc.), I resigned myself to lumbering up-tide, nervously eyeing my waning GPS battery level and being passed by the occasional wading egret.
By this point, I probably shouldn't have been surprised when the downriver turn yielded no significant improvement in my speed. And yet there I was, shaking my fist at the heavens (again, not helping the pace) and launching into an obscenity-laden tirade about the vagaries of winds, tides, and the commodities market (what the hell is going on with molybdenum futures?). I vented the majority of my spleen in that outburst, but left enough in the tank to get me through the final leg to the finish, muttering invectives as necessary. I cursed my way over the line roughly 7 minutes behind Mike. In a just universe, they'd cut the lower steps off the podium, ban the rest of us from the sport, and crown Mike as Eternal God-Champion. Because racing results are graded on a curve, however, my next-day finish was good enough for surfski silver. Woohoo?
Dan was the overall winner. Given the mechanical advantages of rowing - sliding seat allowing for fuller use of legs, application of power via a fulcrum, built-in cup-holders - it's truly remarkable that Mike finished scarcely a minute behind one of New England's premier scullers. Competing back-to-back, neither Betsy or I had a solid read on how close we were to one another, but she pulled in less than 2 minutes behind to claim the 4th overall spot. Tim took surfski bronze, although he insisted that Jerry be awarded an assist - completely ceremonial and destined to soon be forgotten, naturally. Leslie claimed her 3rd Narrow River title, with Mary Beth taking her 5th 2nd (to go with her 5 previous wins, I'm told I better note).
 |
| I know you're wondering why Jerry is dressed in a bear suit and Wesley is wearing a mask stitched together from human flesh, but sometimes it's best not to ask. |
Tim congratulated the podium finishers, shaking his own hand a little more vigorously than was comfortable for we spectators, and dispensed raffle prizes supplied by Epic. Once the on-site festivities were concluded, we retired to the Oak Hill Tavern to resuscitate ourselves with post-race gruel.
As many of you have heard by now, the Charles River Watershed Association has permanently discontinued the Run of the Charles. Apparently it was "not aligned with our core mission" and "had too many yahoos showing up for a footrace". You didn't hear it from me, but there are rumors of a spontaneous gathering on Sunday, April 30 at 10am at Christian Herter Park. I'm not sure of the purpose, but maybe bring your boats and watches. And your lucky racing hat! I've... said too much.
