Salem League 6/4/13: Close Shaves

If you're looking for the Sakonnet River Race report, you can find it here.

On a beautiful night at Lynch Park, we gathered together to race course #1 - a simple out-and-back around Eagle Island.  This is the longest of the Salem League courses, totaling 6.2 miles.  It can also be one of the toughest since it takes us the furthest out into Salem Sound, with the rocky far side of Eagle serving as the perfect wave reflector.  With a mild NW breeze this night, however, conditions were benign.  Or so we thought!!!  No, wait, they were in fact quite manageable.  Or were they!?!  Yes, it was fine I tell you.

We had a good crew.  Chris made the trip up, leaving work at about 10:30 on Monday morning to beat the traffic.  He brought his Nelo up, but paddled Ed's red-tip V10.  In addition, we had me, Mary Beth (in a borrowed blue-tip V8), Francisco, Mike, Kirk, Bill, Matt, Ken, and Bruce (also in a borrowed blue-tip V8 while his black-tip is being repaired).

We lined up for a refreshingly short beach run.  Ed counted us down and we were underway.  As usual, Francisco had a great start and held a 3 or 4 boat length lead once everybody was on the water.  Matt also had a solid start, but in addition really kept the power going in his V8.  Given Matt's recent trajectory, it's clear that it won't be long before he's challenging for the lead in these races.  We've therefore equipped him with an early warning device that will always let us know when he's threatening to overtake.  I argued for something more like an invisible fence collar that would prevent him from overtaking, but there was too much paperwork involved.  So we stuck with an mp3 player with external speakers.

I sprinted and caught Francisco after a few minutes and settled in behind him to catch my breath.  Still struggling to hang with him ten minutes later, I realized that tonight oxygen wasn't a luxury I'd be able to afford.  I took one last deep breath that was going to have to last me the next 35 minutes, then made my passing move to the left.  The leftwardness of the move was much more pronounced than the passing aspect.  Over the next ten minutes I continued to drift further and further left.  I think I was also moving ahead of Francisco, but given our distance apart it was getting difficult to tell.

I've gotten some guff about my navigation.  Looking at my Garmin track for the night, I'll admit that I veered pretty sharply from a course that would have taken us counterclockwise around Eagle to one that would take us clockwise around Eagle and an imaginary aircraft carrier moored a quarter mile off the east coast of Eagle.  In my defense... stop following my course, lemmings!

I saw a large yacht heading towards us from the Beverly shore when it was quite a distance away.  With various people milling about on the decks, it seemed like some kind of party boat rather than a private vessel.  Based on its motion relative to the land behind, it was was clearly going to pass behind me.  Apparently the captain saw the strung out line of paddlers that he would have to pass through and therefore decided to change course in order to run down the lead boats.  I can only assume that he figured after cutting off the head of the pack, he could pick off the remaining boats one by one as they fled in panic.

I remember an instance from a couple of years ago in which Kirk stared down the replica fishing schooner Fame as it cut across our course.  I suppose figuring that he wouldn't live forever, he cut the crossing close enough to spit on the ship without missing a stroke (but possibly skipping a few heartbeats).  I wasn't looking for anyone to remember my name, but I also didn't want to sacrifice my thin lead on Francisco by giving way to this yahoo.  Not that I even knew how to get out of his way given his obvious blood lust.

As our paths converged it became evident that the captain had some qualms about dinging his boat.  If I kept paddling at pace I'd miss his stern by a dozen feet or so.  I was prepared to do just this until I got an eyeful of the churning wake that a boat this size throws up at 20 knots.  Unwilling to also get a mouthful and earful of that wake just to prove a point, I left off paddling at the last second and braced for impact.  Turned out not to be bad at all, although the aerated water immediately behind the yacht made for some mushy recovery strokes.  There were people on the deck yelling, but I couldn't tell if they were cheering me, taunting me, or really drunk.

So that was exciting.

As we rounded the island, I saw that Francisco was 3 of 4 boat lengths behind me.  The back side of Eagle was calmer than I've ever seen it, but I still threw a couple of half-braces to deal with phantom waves.  As we rounded the island to head back, I saw that we'd be paddling blind back to Lynch Park. We were heading into the low lying sun, the glare from which was wiping out all detail on the shore.  Mike later told me that I should have paddled 3 degrees to the right of the sun.  Forgot my sextant, so this advice probably wouldn't have helped me anyway.

The trip back to shore was one dominated by a growing sense of dread.  Five minutes after making the turn around Eagle, I spotted Francisco fifty feet over to the right.  I was still ahead by a few lengths, but any delusions about having dropped him evaporated.  This was going to hurt.  Having lost the first two races of the season to Francisco, I couldn't afford to slip another point behind him in the standings.  I pushed hard, trying to concentrate on maintaining good form, but watched helplessly as he continued to creep closer.

As we got closer to shore, I could finally make out navigational landmarks.  We needed to turn to the left, which worked in my favor since Francisco was still a good ways right of me.  As we corrected our courses and our paths converged, he was less than 2 boat lengths behind.  For the last five minutes, the offshore wind had been slackening as we entered more protected waters.  With my boat being the faster in flatwater, this worked to my advantage (or rather, decreased my disadvantage, since Francisco continued to gain ground).  We sprinted to the beach, where I managed to hold onto my slight lead and take the win.

Although the official time difference between Francisco and I was 2 seconds, I suspect the actual difference was less than that.  When I stopped right at the finish line rather than running through it, Francisco barely managed to avoid running through me.  I took advantage of being able to breathe once more by gulping in 30 minutes worth of air in 30 seconds.

It was a race of extremely close groupings.  Chris soon pulled in the V10 after having overtaken Matt on the upwind leg, with Matt just 20 seconds behind, and Mike 22 seconds behind him.  Ken and Kirk battled it out for the next two spots, with Ken ending up 5 seconds ahead.  Bill edged out Bruce by 25 seconds. Mary Beth was groupless, but beat her previous time for this course by over ten minutes.

Here are the results for the evening:

Greg Lesher	Epic V12	0:51:51	12
Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	0:51:53	11
Chris Chappell	Epic V10 (New)	0:54:40	10
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:55:00	9
Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:55:22	8
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	0:56:20	7
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:56:25	6
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	0:58:31	5
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	0:58:56	4
Mary Beth Gangloff	Epic V8	1:09:30	12

Salem League 5/28/13: Running on Empty

The second night of the Salem League dawned clear and pleasant, although after my warm-up the temperature suddenly dropped to single digits.  In addition to most of last week's attendees, we were joined by grizzled (but not yet drooling) veterans Mike McDonough and Kirk Olsen.  The field was: me, Mary Beth, Francisco, Mike, Kirk, Bill, Matt, Ken, Bruce, and Ciro.  Bill showed up with a new (er) life vest which proudly bears a label stating that "no rodents were harmed in the manufacture of this article".

We'd be running course 2 this evening, which would take us out of the harbor, around the granite pylon marking Bowditch Ledge 2.8 miles out, and back to the beach.  With a ESE breeze somewhere S of 10 mph, we'd be heading almost directly into the wind and waves (small, but well behaved) on the first leg, then downwind after the turn-around.

In an effort to improve my Le Mans starts, I've been visualizing the process, like a downhill skier might.  I close my eyes and picture the entire operation in vivid detail: the gazelle-like run down the beach, the effortless lift and carry, the elegant slide into the boat, and the powerful initial strokes.  That's how I visualize the visualization, at least.  In practice, even my mental imagery is plagued with false starts, face-first falls into the shallow muck, the crunch of smashed carbon fibers, and, in one instance, an indictment for tax fraud.

Perhaps having flushed out the worst case scenarios in my head, I managed a solid start.  Coming out of the gate, I stood in second, four or five lengths behind Francisco.  Taking advantage of the more protected waters near the start, I made up as much of that ground as possible before the rougher conditions of the open sound slowed me down.  I managed to catch Francisco several minutes into the race, with Mike close on our tails.

In our previous flatwater races this year, Francisco started out considerably faster than me, but I managed to catch and pass him after about ten minutes into the contest.  Unfortunately, the water wasn't flat.  And, more importantly, Francisco always gets much faster as the season progresses.  I pulled alongside, trying my best to ignore these two factors, but after struggling for five minutes to pass, I fell back onto his wash.

The remainder of the race to the Bowditch pylon was divided into a half-dozen cycles of me attempting to pass Francisco, and Francisco unilaterally decreeing that this wasn't going to happen.  After each failure, I'd return dejectedly to drafting.  I could only hope that the struggle was wearing out the big fish.  The one positive outcome of this duel was that with each attempt to pass, we would put more distance between ourselves and Mike.

With a quarter mile to Bowditch, I resigned myself to staying on Francisco's wash until we turned downwind, after which I would, uh, try to go faster than him.  The wind-driven waves weren't large enough to hook into any solid rides, but they were significant enough that when some help was offered, you'd feel like an ingrate if you turned it down.  My trip back to the beach was therefore a series of desperate five second sprints to wring every drop of support from the sea, punctuated by groans of protest from my overtaxed (and underpaid) cardiovascular system.

Although Francisco was generally ahead of me during this stretch, I'd occasionally catch a wave just right and ever-so-briefly take the lead.  As we neared the final point before the beach, however, I slid back, fingernails clawing at the cliff's edge to maintain contact.  Heading in towards the beach I was trailing by a couple of boat lengths.

At this point, we entered the half-marathon phase of the duathlon.  Francisco aced the transition and was halfway up the beach before I had changed into my running shoes.  Although the run to the finish was probably about 200 yards, it felt more like 50 people standing on my chest.  When I eventually arrived at the finish, I vowed to myself to stop procrastinating and finally do something about low tide.  Watch this blog for details on how you can help.

With a solid inaugural race, Mike came in 3rd, followed by Matt and Ken.  Here are the results for the evening (skis only):

Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	0:48:39	12
Greg Lesher	Epic V12	0:48:46	11
Mike McDonough	Huki S1-X	0:51:12	10
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	0:52:17	9
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	0:52:23	8
Kirk Olsen	Epic V12	0:52:47	7
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	0:53:13	6
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	0:54:12	5
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	1:08:00	12

With back to back wins, Francisco has established himself as the guy to trick into missing a couple of weeks.  Sakonnet River* Race up next, with plenty of warmth on the schedule.

* Product contains no actual river.

Salem League 5/21/13: The Race Is On

The 8th Salem League kicked off this past Tuesday with a solid field of 10 paddlers, including several first-time participants.  Besides myself and Mary Beth, we had Francisco Urena (warming down from his Molokai run on Sunday), Bill Kuklinski (after breaking through a PETA picket line), Ken Cooper, Matt Drayer, Bruce Deltorchio, Rick Stoehrer (the previous 5 paddlers all in V8's), Ciro de la Vega (in an FSK), and Rod McLain (in his trusty OC-1).  As always, Ed Duggan was serving as ringmaster of the circus.

For readers unfamiliar with the Salem League, here's a summary.  Each Tuesday over the summer we meet at Lynch Park in Beverly to race one of five courses (in the 5 to 6 mile range), chosen at random each week (with adjustments to randomness based on weather, tide, and sunlight conditions, as necessary).  The start is "Le Mans style" - we run a short distance down the beach, grab our boats from the shore, carry them out to deep enough water, hop in, and paddle.  The finish is likewise on land, requiring a refreshing run up the beach to cap off the evening.  Paddlers are awarded points based on their position for the evening, with points being tallied over the course of the season to determine the League champion.

That clinical description of the League omits the visceral component.  This ain't no bridge club.  You're struggling against the same set of relentless competitors week after week, in what amounts to a series of 45 minute sprints.  It's grueling and painful, but in an immensely satisfying way.  The League is just about the most fun you can have while dry heaving.

Based on my warm-up paddle, I sensed it would be a tough evening.  My strategy this season has been to concentrate on conditioning and form to prep for the early flatwater races.  Nearly all of my training has therefore been on lakes, rivers, and ergs.  After the Essex, I figured I'd ramp up my ocean workouts to get ready for the ocean races.  With only one ocean paddle before this race, it looked like I'd instead be cliffing up.  The moderately sloppy conditions weren't abnormal for Salem Sound, but they were sufficient to make me question my training methods.  I had made my bed, now it was time to sleep (with the fishes?) in it.

Because of the weather - the possibility of thunderstorms and limited visibility - Ed wisely kept us close to shore with a non-stop version of course #4.  We'd be heading 1.5 miles out of Beverly Harbor along the coast (into a 15 mph or so headwind), circle Black Rocks shoal, head 2.1 miles back into the harbor, circle a buoy (Red Nun #10 - also a fine Cabernet), then head the 0.9 miles back to the Lynch Park beach.

Like vegemite and self-flagellation, the Le Mans start is an acquired taste.  My race starts this year have been poor enough without adding running, toting, and mounting into the mix.  Despite many years of living and two years of practice in the League, I have yet to master any of these skills.  When the smoke (don't ask) cleared, I was 10 lengths behind Rod and Francisco, both notorious cheaters (but like any skilled con-men, adept at making it seem like everything is legit).  Most of the guys in V8's were also ahead of me, although I at least managed to slow down Matt with a well-timed paddle whack.

Battling upwind through uneven conditions, I slowly moved through the V8 squadron, then eventually passed Rod.  Francisco was still 8 or 9 lengths ahead, but I was making up ground despite feeling a little wobbly.  As we approached the turn-around, Francisco appeared to lose his bearings, looking back to reassure himself that he hadn't already past Black Rocks.  Even though we were a couple of hours from high tide, only a handful of the rocks were peaking out up ahead.  He quickly spotted them and continued onwards.

Rounding Black Rocks I was 4 or 5 lengths behind Francisco, but it soon became evident that I wasn't going to continue gaining in the downwind (ish) conditions.  Already feeling the effects of balance fatigue after our short upwind (ish) run, I started throwing braces like hand grenades.  Francisco started to pull away.  It was going to be second place for me, at best.  Then fortune smiled on me: I hit a floating two-by-four.  Although I didn't realize it at the time, that thump of lumber against my hull was actually the sweet sound of an air-tight alibi...  There was no way I could have won that race, officer!  My boat was compromised!

It was obvious that something was wrong.  Whereas before I had been flailing with a purpose, now I was just flailing haphazardly.  I couldn't stay on course.  At first I thought perhaps my rudder had been snapped clean off, although the collision hardly seemed violent enough for that.  It slowly dawned on me that the rudder had been bent slightly backwards so that it was wedged against the hull.  I had binary steering.  If I pushed the left pedal really hard, the rudder would eventually work free and swing to full left deflection.  Although my politics tend in that direction, I prefer a more centrist position for racing.  I'd therefore lean on the right pedal to restore my middle-of-the-road course, ultimately resulting in a swing to the far right as the rudder again would stick on the hull momentarily before bursting free.

After struggling with deviant navigational behavior for a couple of minutes, I realized that I'd finish dead last unless I could fix the problem.  I performed an intentional dismount (for those cynics inclined to scoff at this assertion, I have semi-controvertible video proof) and made my way back to the rudder, where I struggled to get enough leverage to loosen the bind.  While enjoying the soothing Atlantic waters (53 degrees), Rod, Matt, and Ken passed me.  No matter, I thought.  With restored steering, my V12 would assert its extra 4 cylinders and I'd quickly catch Matt and Ken.  And with only one blade and not a single V, what hope would Rod have?

After a blown slow-motion remount, I was in my boat again.  I had fixed the problem and was back in business.  Unfortunately, I had forgotten that while the faulty rudder had exacerbated my difficulties, I had been operating in the red even before the crash.  I was misfiring every few strokes, counteracting most of the speed advantage my slender boat was providing over the slower vessels.  I slowly gained ground, but it wasn't until we were nearly at the second turn-around that I managed to get back into second place.  Catching Francisco was never an option.

There was some confusion about which buoy to turn around, in part because the target nun was screened behind a couple of moored boats (as is her habit).  I saw Rod peel off around the first nun, but confident that the peek-a-buoy was hiding somewhere up ahead, I kept my line, with Matt and Ken following.  Sure enough, the buoy leaped out from behind the boats at the last possible second, setting me up for an overly wide turn.

Heading back to the finish, I could hear Matt revving close behind me.  Although we were in the relatively protected waters of the harbor, I was having more trouble than ever maintaining a steady stroke.  After each frequent brace I expected to see his V8 pull alongside and then inexorably drop me into third.  Fortunately, I was able to hold on just long enough, squeaking out a 14 second advantage over Matt, with Ken just 7 seconds behind him.  Here are the results (skis only)...

Francisco Urena	Stellar SE	41:26	12
Greg Lesher	Epic V12	42:58	11
Matt Drayer	Epic V8	43:12	10
Ken Cooper	Epic V8	43:19	9
Bruce Deltorchio	Epic V8	44:52	8
Bill Kuklinski	Epic V8	46:37	7
Rick Stoehrer	Epic V8	49:44	6
Mary Beth Gangloff	Huki S1-R	58:42	12

It was an exciting opening night, despite the absence of some of the stalwart League paddlers from the past couple of years (Mike McDonough, Kirk Olsen, and Graeme Rockett).  I'm looking forward to another great season of masochism and camaraderie.