Ride the Bull: Doubled Down

Somehow my name still appears as co-director of the Ride the Bull race, despite the repeated cease-and-desist letters sent to actual sole-director Tim Dwyer.  I could no longer afford the astronomical insurance premiums associated with sending paddlers careening back-and-forth amidst some of the most notoriously confused waters in New England.  If just one competitor splattered against the rocky coast, my priceless Hummel collection would be in real jeopardy.  Fortunately, conditions for this year were mostly benign.

Although a couple of intimidating registrants had bowed out - probably due to cowardice and/or an aversion to driving 3+ hours for a 75 minute race - the field was still rife with dangerous competition.  Since he clearly established himself as the regional Alpha at the Sakonnet last weekend, I now have to carry all of Matt Drayer's equipment, and I'm no longer allowed to meet his gaze.  However, even my Beta status was clearly on the line, with Tim Dwyer fresh off a Gamma finish, and perennial challengers John Hair and Jan Lupinski making for a veritable Greek salad of contenders.  There was also a wild card.  Although a Massachusetts native, youngster Rob Foley has been refining his abilities in Hawaii.  Like a migratory great white, he'll be prowling New England waters for the summer.  This would be our first chance to see how much carnage he'd be leaving in his wake.  In the doubles category, the formidable team of Mary Beth & Kirk Olsen would be giving the singles a run for their money.

Eager to avoid direct confrontation, I always taunt remotely.

I have to hand it to John.  A full hour before the race, he's priming us for a subsequent cramping excuse, wailing "My hammy!" and writhing theatrically.

I'd review the byzantine course with you, but as was the case when Tim attempted the same at the captains meeting, it would just end with tears of frustration, bitter recriminations, and a lot of indecipherable scribbles on scrap paper.  Suffice it to say that we'd be covering 8.8 miles over 2.2 laps of a roughly triangular course defined by an island in Mackerel Cove and bell cans G7 and G11.  I always tell fellow competitors that it's a foolish waste of a short life to get wound up in navigational details when you're paddling in such a spectacular setting.  And, you know what?  It's even more spectacular over there, which is not technically on the course, but you won't want to miss the view.

A fleet of 15 boats lined up in West Cove.  I was pleased to see several were toting their easels and oil paints, while others had opted for tripods and telephoto cameras.  With a light wind from the north and sunny skies, they'd have perfect conditions to capture the majesty of Narragansett Bay.  Tim soon counted us down.  I decided my best chance at a good start would be to expend at least 80% of my entire race energy quota in the first quarter mile.  That didn't put me out front or anything, but it at least kept me relevant.  Naively assuming that we wouldn't let him stray too far from the course, newcomer Rob wasn't afraid to take point from the get-go.  Jerry Madore, Tim, Matt, John, and I pursued.

What golden-tongued orator could command such rapt attention?

Tim.  Huh.  Maybe his co-director warmed up the crowd.

Two minutes into the race, a pecking order had already emerged.  Rob and Matt were clearly the cocks-of-the-walk, strutting away from the field.  With our dull plumage and bedraggled wattles (that's right, someone let turkeys into this mixed metaphor), the sorrier specimens started stringing out behind - me, John, Jan Lupinski, Tim, and Jerry.

By the time we had reached the first turn within Mackerel Cove, the lead had stretched to the better part of 10 lengths.  My vision of making up time in the beamy conditions to the G7 turn was not prophetic, nor was the "good feeling" I had after turning upwind for the subsequent leg.  I'd not be threatening to push Rob or Matt from the top of the podium, but at least I was a virtual lock for bronze.  That thought persisted for a solid 20 seconds after the G7 turn, at which point I noticed John's red-nosed Epic perhaps 20 seconds back on an inside line.

At the G11 turn, I verified that the Epic was now only a half-dozen lengths astern, with a dusky boat that could have only been Jan's about twice that distance again behind.  I made may way back towards the start, completing the first lap with the assistance of some small runners.  My unerring sense of hysteria should have been sufficient to verify that John was gaining steadily on me, but I nevertheless felt the need to goose my panic level by throwing quick half-glances behind.  With each hurried turn of my head, I confirmed that another half-length of my advantage had evaporated.  As I started the turn into Mackerel Cove, I glimpsed the bow of my tormentor pulling even with my bucket.  I could put it off no longer.  I turned my head completely to confront my demon face-to-face.  Hmm.  Odd.  Seemed like more face-to-face-face.  Where I expected to see the beastly visage of John (no offense, buddy), I instead saw the beatific countenance of my life partner.  And also Kirk - who himself has his own kind of non-John charm.  As you've probably surmised, my cursory scans had only registered the Epic-ness of my pursuer, while missing certain other superficial details.  In any event, I can truthfully say that I'd never before been so happy to see Mary Beth.  

Energized by my reprieve (because... out-of-class, out-of-mind), I matched the pace of the double for a while before they began to inexorably leave me behind.  At the Cove turn-around, I got a better view of my actual pursuers - Jan back the better part of a minute, with John several lengths behind him.  Over the next few miles, I concentrated on minimizing the disadvantage Mary Beth & Kirk were inflicting on me - a motivational gimmick that was largely responsible for keeping me ahead of my own pursuers.  I kept tabs on the latter at the turns, noting at some point that Jan had fallen behind John - weeds being one factor in this positional swap (if the be-weeded party is to be believed).

I'm told that "aloha" can be used as greeting or farewell - a duality that Rob exploited with clinical efficiency in his first area competition. (Photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

I often hold court after the race, regaling my loyal subjects with tales of derring-do.  Because these adventures often involve paddling in strong winds, many affectionately call me "Lord Blowhard".   (Photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

As we had feared, Rob made short work of the mild New England conditions to claim the crown at an even 1:15:00, although Matt kept him honest (and on course) by finishing less than 90 seconds behind.  Having little incentive (or ability) to push Matt, I cruised in another 275 seconds back.  If you do the math and round aggressively, that's only like 3 minutes behind the winner, so I'm pretty happy with my race.  Let's say that Mary Beth & Kirk finished "comfortably ahead" of me to take the doubles crown.

Thanks to Tim and, I suppose, to myself, for throwing a fine race with zero fatalities.  Next up is the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29, run by Tim and only Tim.  Register at PaddleGuru (for free).  In an effort to promote tandems in this race, anyone paddling a double in the Double Beaver will be rewarded with 36% more fun for 23% less effort!  Your mileage may vary.

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Toil Rewarded

Ocean racing season doesn't officially open until Wesley Echols counts us down to the start of his Sakonnet River Race in Portsmouth, Rhode Island.  I've competed on the Sakonnet in a ski more times than I have any other race.  This would be my 13th iteration.  That got me thinking about the storied history of the race, so I visited the local library and used my journalist credentials ("I got a blog, see?")  to access to the archives.  After donning a pair of cotton gloves, I was allowed to leaf through yellowed copies of the Portsmouth Courier.  There, in sepia tones, were photos of the elder giants of our sport from the earliest days of the race.  Names like Dwyer, Grainger, and Chappell.  It sent chills down my spine to think that descendants of these storied paddlers - grandchildren, perhaps? - were registered to carry on the tradition in 2024.

There was no shortage of competition at this year's race, but I chose to focus on two recent rivals - Joel Pekosz and Matt Drayer.  Like a supervillain you keep enclosed in a copper sphere suspended by carbon fibers over a sea of lava to neutralize his powers, we've been vigilant in keeping Joel at least 100 miles from the ocean, lest the salt water cause his evil surfski skills to blossom to their full potential.  Here he was, though - peaked to bloom.  Matt and I have been battling for supremacy in our Tuesday night league for more than 10 years.  He shows no signs of giving up, despite my increasingly drastic acts of sabotage on his boat and safety equipment.  

As usual, Wesley monopolized his own Q&A session.  (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

Wesley briefed us on the 12.5 mile course.  From our start just before McCorrie Point, we'd head southward to the open ocean, passing Sandy Point and Black Point before angling towards Third Beach for our turn-around on mooring buoy 114 (which, in my mind at least, we were told was "literally impossible to miss").  Conditions at the start were calm, but with a 10-15 mph wind from the SW, might just liven once we mounted up.

Jerry Madore broke first off the line, followed closely by Chris Chappell and Tim Dwyer.  In an attempt to heed Wesley's dire warnings about the sand bar off McCorrie Point, the field crowded left, resulting in the kind of jostling you might expect in a log jam, not in a wide-open ocean race.  I was on the verge of standing astride a few boats to pry them apart when the bind resolved itself.  Joel and Matt had started at my pace, but quickly built momentum to pull into the lead.  By the time I had picked my way past the other paddlers, they enjoyed an advantage of several boat lengths.

Conditions had started out benign, but began to build as we progressed southward.  I caught the leaders and took turns drafting off them for a mile or so, until the three of us separated to take our preferred lines.  In my case, "preferred" makes my navigation sound a lot more reasoned than it actually was.  I couldn't decide whether to stay out to utilize the outgoing tide or tuck shoreward to escape the SW headwind, so I just followed my boat's lead.  The three of us pounded forward into an increasingly stiff breeze.

John and Emerson started out reluctant to join the pre-race hootenanny, but by the end they were a-hollering and knee-slapping with the rest of us.

Joel and Matt opened a gap on me, but I was able to limit their advantage to 6 or 8 boat lengths.  Nearing Black Point, Matt took a swim.  This wouldn't normally slow him down.  I've witnessed him remount without missing a stroke - much like a Mongol horseman raiding a village might lean over and scoop up a terrified toddler while simultaneously dispatching his father with a sabre.  Before you accuse me of anti-Mongol bias, you should know that the villagers really had it coming.  Just awful people.  And that boy was fully adopted into the Horde, despite missing a few fingers.  Look, you're swinging that sword around and grabbing up kids at a full gallop, accidents are gonna happen.  In this case, however, Matt's experimental new leash attachment put a hitch in his remount.  While he sorted things out, I toddled past over the liquid steppe.

The gradual turn into Third Beach apparently caught Joel by surprise.  He continued pursuing the tidal current on an outer line well past when he should have started angling shoreward.  Since he was too far away to hear any corrective suggestions, I found myself in the enviable position of being able to enjoy the navigational blunder of a fellow competitor without having to also feign guilt over failing to do anything about it.  Win-win.  Joel eventually noticed me pulling rightward and revised his course accordingly, but the extra distance traveled allowed me to move into the lead.

Within a few minutes, Joel pulled onto my draft.  Knowing that I was familiar with the course, he seemed content to follow me to the turn-around buoy.  A solid strategy in theory, but as Mary Beth is fond of saying - I never fail to disappoint.  If buoy 114 was actually out there (and most of the field assures me that it was), I couldn't find the elusive bastard.  I led Joel and Matt in a tour of the mooring field, eventually circling enough random buoys to achieve a 95% confidence that 114 was among them.  The next two paddlers (Chris and Eli Gallaudet) shared a similar adventure, after which Tim and subsequent paddlers keyed in on the correct target.

I've found that, more often than not, there's a marked asymmetry between the misery experienced during an upwind toil and the joy felt on the return trip.  You'd think that these reciprocal journeys would be in karmic balance - a zero-sum game of pleasure and pain - but I'm usually left substantially in the red after the exchange.  Today, however, the downwind leg didn't disappoint.  The first couple of miles after the turn were especially exhilarating, with well-formed waves cradling your boat along.

Early on our voyage back, I caught a glimpse of Joel much further out, back perhaps a half-dozen lengths.  Matt remained more elusive, but of his nearby lurking presence I had no doubt.  I continued to work the waves, occasionally linking together a few runs with a solid C performance.  If I can occasionally be described as "minimally proficient" without exaggeration, I'll take it.

Although the evidence is mostly circumstantial, it seems that around 8.5 miles into the race, Matt passed me to move into the lead.  He didn't slip by hidden along the shore or pass so wide he wasn't visible.  No, one moment he was behind and the next he was miraculously 10 lengths ahead of me.  And the next after that, 20 lengths.  From my backwards-facing video, I found a single frame that could conceivably be interpreted as showing the blur of a passing black boat, but that's the only indication that Matt's overtaking actually consisted of a continuous motion.  In the remaining third of the race, he'd increase his lead to more than 4 minutes.  By my calculations, this means he was traveling 17 miles per hour faster than me.

I asked Mary Beth if she was planning on doing a little gardening later.  She replied that this was exactly the kind of smartassery that leads her to paddle doubles with Chris, Bill, Kirk, Robin, Igor, etc. (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

I suspect Matt's high-speed pass left a vacuum in its wake, into which my confidence was suctioned away.  I started missing rideable waves, struggling to maintain pace, and questioning my line.  I resigned myself to being caught by Joel, who had surely witnessed this ego-thrashing and would be keen to exploit my depleted spirit.  Indeed, this would have been the case had he not succumbed to a case of late-race balance fatigue.  After navigating 10+ miles of lively seas with aplomb, he contracted a nasty case of the Wobbles and limped to the finish, dropping several places along the way.  He'll certainly build up an immunity, so I can't count on such luck in future races.

Of course, not knowing of Joel's struggles at the time, I spent my remaining race in white-knuckled panic.  Surely he would be passing at any moment.  I took some solace in the fact that at least a podium place was assured, since back at the turn there seemed to be no imminent threats.  Turns out I had been needlessly unconcerned about paddlers other than Joel.  Turning to look back after finishing, I was surprised to see a steady stream of competitors alarmingly close behind.  Third place was claimed by Tim (less than 30 seconds back), followed by Chris at roughly the same distance behind.  Mary Beth & Chris Sherwood claimed the double's title.  Given the challenging conditions, I was impressed by the overall level of competence and fitness exhibited by the field - nearly everyone finished within a tight 15 minute window.

Amazingly, Tim was also on the podium in the inaugural Sakonnet Race back in the 30s.  (Photo courtesy of Kendra Lassor)

Thanks to Wesley for throwing a wonderful race on his home course.  We're in the prime of Rhode Island race season now, with Ride the Bull this coming weekend (pre-register at PaddleGuru) and the Jamestown Double Beaver following two weeks later (also at PaddleGuru).  If you can only make just one of these two... well, I'd recommend you shuffle around your commitments to fit both in your schedule.