Run of the Charles: A Full House

In days past, the 6 mile Run of the Charles race was a relaxing spring event.  A handful of paddlers would mess about on the lazy river for a while, then enjoy some crumpets and split a Zima.  The real competitors were doing the 19 mile race, lugging their boats down the leafy streets of Boston suburbs for most of that distance.  Times have changed.  In 2011, there were 4 skis in the 6 mile event.  This year 23 showed up for this race, including a large contingent of out-of-town luminaries.  Cue the nausea-inducing feelings of inadequacy.  With early season bragging rights on the line, this would be no Sunday in the park.  Well, sure, technically it would be just that.  But no crumpets.

The cold temperatures did little to quench the competitive fires of the paddlers, although I'm pretty sure mine would have been promptly extinguished if the bitter early morning rains hadn't stopped.   As we hopped about to stay warm and caught up with friends, I realized that I had made a tactical error in my Narrow River report by pointing out that "Mary Beth's boat" actually wasn't.  Not only are people now universally referring to the V10 Sport as her boat, they're also asking her when she's going to start racing in the V10 that she's so generously letting me temporarily paddle.  She's devious, that one.  Covetous too.

Mary Beth's quiver.

After the brief captain's meeting, I hit the murky waters for warm-ups in my borrowed (oh for Pete's sake!) boat, then paddled warily over to the starting line.  The combined talent of the field was truly formidable.   Apparently I passed out from anxiety just before the start, because when I came to, I found myself safely ensconced in the final third of the pack.  You might think that I'd grow accustomed to this, but just like you never get used to the unexpected sting of rejected grade school Valentines (Katie Bloom, did you have to write "return to loser" on the envelope?), I still found floundering in the backwash of 15 boats dispiriting.  However, there was nothing for it but to buckle down, grit my teeth, and commence feeling sorry for myself.

I can't be sure which paddlers took the immediate lead (other than Francisco Urena, who expends more energy in the first 30 seconds of a race than most people do in a season), but within a few minutes Jan Lupinski, Andrius Zinkevichus (in a K-1), and Flavio Costa had asserted control of the race, with Chris Chappell, Craig Impens, and Wesley Echols in close pursuit.  Borys Markin, having finished the 19 mile course about three minutes before the start of this race, was just too fatigued to stay with the leaders.  I jest, of course.  Borys was actually perfecting his needlepoint skills while chatting with Beata Cseke (who managed to make a pink-accented ski look downright menacing) and occasionally dipping a paddle in the water to arrest his god-given momentum.

I'm told the start went off without a hitch. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

As I started to work my way toward the front, I bobbed and weaved my way between boats, catching a useful draft here and leaving a disgruntled fellow competitor there.  Years of glue sniffing (mostly inadvertent) have taken a toll on my fine motor control.  That lack of steering accuracy, combined with wake turbulence and a casual disregard for those previous factors led to some reckless maneuvering.  There was some bumping of boats, some clashing of paddles, and some not unwarranted chiding.  Tim Dwyer - normally the sweetest-natured of fellows - threatened to unman me with a dull paddle blade if I didn't quit crowding him.  Point taken, guys.  Sorry about the sloppiness.

I apparently couldn't be trusted amongst other paddlers.  Chastened, I slowly distanced myself from the throng to a self-imposed exile in the gap between the colorfully-named lead trio of Jan, Andrius, and Flavio and the rest of the pack.  For a half-mile, I paddled with quiet introspection, far from the maddened crowd.   I found gratifying solitude in my reclusive position.  Eventually, however, the relentless isolation started to wear on my psyche.  I began to hear disembodied voices.  I turned back to see that they were, in fact, bodied by Chris and Craig, who were only a couple of lengths behind.  I renounced my imagined seclusion and pushed hard to catch the lead pack, joining up with them 1.5 miles into the race.

Jan was getting no reprieve from the pull he started at the beginning of the race.  With Andrius and Flavio trailing off his right flank and me on his stern, he continued his metronomic cadence while we others gave silent thanks for his philanthropic nature.  At one point, I managed to get my nose between Jan and Andrius in a misguided attempt to discover an inside passage.  Predictably, I got in the way of Andrius' whirring stroke and found myself apologizing for temporarily exempting both of us from the draft.  To my great relief, Andrius latched back quickly onto Jan.  With the first buoy turn-around approaching, I vowed to stop being a navigation hazard.  I hung behind the trio for the turn.

I took some retroactive comfort from the fact that Andrius and Flavio ran afoul of one another rounding the buoy, while I managed to skirt around without incident.  Heading back upstream, Jan continued the lead, with Andrius drafting on his left flank.  Flavio and I had fallen a couple of boat lengths behind, but a brief interval got me back on Jan's stern.  After a few minutes of this, our benevolent leader snapped sharply to the right in an attempt to shake his loyal followers.  Having pledged undying allegiance to Jan's wake miles back, I wasn't about to be thus dissuaded.  Shortly thereafter, however, Andrius proved more fickle - renouncing his oath and falling back to forge his own path to the finish.

Normally I'd put a video about here, but due to technical issues with my GoPro, I ended up with a whole lot of nothing.  I've instead inserted a great shot of Chris, who prides himself on his impeccable contrast and color saturation. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

After four miles of non-stop pulling, I sensed that Jan was tiring.  His Herculean efforts had not been in vain, though - his sacrifice had kept me relatively fresh.  I pulled alongside (willfully ignoring any comments Jan may have mumbled about "ungrateful bastards" - I knew that was just the lactic acid talking) for a few moments, then usurped into the lead.  A couple of intervals later, I was Jan-free.

Of course, I was under no pretense that I would win this race.  Borys was back there somewhere, and would eventually put the hammer down and start paddling instead.  I had been in this same position in a couple of other races, so when all grew quiet and I sensed an otherworldly presence behind me, I was able to skip right over the other likely explanations (angel of death, invading alien, plesiosaurus, etc.).  I had been reeled in.  Like that wee minnow that you never even knew you had on your line.  I was relieved to find, however, that he hadn't pulled any of his fishing buddies along with him.

Borys paddled alongside me for the quarter mile or so.  I could tell the strain of matching my speed was taking its toll - he's just not built for paddling in such a low gear.  It was just a matter of time.  When you're racing your 4 year old to the end of the driveway, you let the little tyke have a little lead to build his confidence before blowing by him in the last few meters - you don't want him to forget how much physically inferior he is, plus this gets you out of buying the ice cream you promised him if he won.  Fortunately, as in that analogy, as Borys and I get older our roles will eventually reverse.  Hold on.  That can't be right.

In the end, Borys and I just had to agree to disagree. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)

With about a mile and a quarter to go, Borys kicked it up a notch and started to pull away.  Already at my last visible notch, I was forced to jump blindly for a hypothetical ubernotch and hope that I could hang on.  For a miracle minute, I balanced precariously on Borys' draft.  I was doing it!  "It" being barely holding onto a guy who had already paddled 25 miles and was probably still only working at about 2/3 effort.  Still!  I've pulled helpless bear cubs from a raging cave fire, donated a kidney (not mine) to a dying friend, and recently discovered a cure for diabetes (all I can tell you now is that it involves pimentos), but this had to be my proudest moment.

I had passed my red line a while back, and was well into CGS (cataclysmic glycogen shock - I just made that up, but it should be something), when we reached the starting line and Borys stopped paddling.  Having never paddled the 6 mile course before, he didn't realize that we were supposed to continue upstream another half mile before rounding a turn buoy and returning to the start/finish.  I congratulated Borys and then, in the most nonchalant tone I could muster while gasping for air, added "I'm just going to warm-down a while at a level of effort that may appear somewhat excessive for a recovery paddle."  And then, of course, continued racing.

Top 5: Jan, Borys, Greg, Flavio, and Chris. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

At some point in the next 5 seconds Borys saw through my clever ruse, because 6 seconds later he was back beside me.  After the upstream turn-around, we repeated our dash to the finish line from the opposite direction, but with the same result.  Borys (49:45) had finished 3 seconds ahead of me for the second time that day.  Long-suffering Jan came in next (51:21), followed by Flavio (51:56) and Chris (52:10).  Beata led the women in at 10th place overall (54:12).  Tim Hudyncia has asked me to note that, in addition to having a good race (13th place, 55:08), he also had an uncharacteristically dry race (tied for first, 30% relative humidity).

I'd like to end this report on a serious note.

It's no secret that our New England surfski stronghold has been under relentless attack from New York and New Jersey paddlers*.  While we've weathered the occasional Glickman pillaging raid in the past, and have now grown accustomed to paying steep bi-weekly tributes to Borys and Beata, we are now in danger of being completely overrun by marauders.  Six of the top ten ROTC finishers hail from these nether regions!

We need to put aside our interstate rivalries in an effort to beat back the Metropaddler hordes.  Does it really matter that Connecticuters seldom bathe or that New Hampshirites can't quite grasp the concept of the silent "e"?  Who gives a fig if Rhode Islanders are prone to Twinkie abuse and Vermonters drive like addled goats?  In the end, even though Mainers eat their own young and Bay Staters are exceptionally handsome, aren't we all in this (sinking) boat together?  Legion of New England Paddlers, unite!  I call on those who have already been racing this season to double, nay treble!, their training.  And to those who have yet to make an appearance (McNett, McDonough, Cooper, Olsen, Kuklinski, Deltorchio, Pritchard, Shaw, ...), I appeal to your sense of civic responsibility.  Beat your plowshares into paddles and join us in defending the honor of our loosely amalgamated collection of states!

To Essex!!!

* A reminder that Bob Capellini, Steve DelGaudio, and Jim Hoffmann - while technically all from New York - have been granted dual citizenship.

Narrow River: Shiny New Boats

I have a soft spot for Rhode Island, and not just because it's the chock that holds Massachusetts in place.  Our most miniscule state hosts more surfski races per capita than any other, with one competition per 23 residents.  The Rhode Island season kicked off with the Narrow River Race this past weekend.  The Narrow River, so called because of its unrelenting shallowness, is a long tidal inlet that stretches north from its mouth near the opening of Narraganset Bay.  The race is most famous for being about 20% longer than you'd like it to be.

By the end of last season I'd complained enough about lugging around 33 pound boats and decided to put my money where Greg Barton's wallet is.  I ordered up an Ultra V10 and an Ultra V10 Sport as Christmas presents to myself, but I'd have to wait until Spring to take delivery from Ed Duggan.  The day before the Narrow River Race, I received the call.  The boats were in.

New boat.  Slightly older paddler.

Like kittens greedily lapping up the Baileys thoughtfully left out for Santa, we grabbed the new boats from Ed, applied a liberal coat of protective tape, then staggered over to nearby Chebacco Lake ("Now Only Semi-Frozen!") to moisten the skis prior to actually racing in them the next morning.  In the two short hours it took for Mary Beth to set her foot plate to the correct position on the Sport, I was able to get a good feel for my lightweight machine.  Depending on which source you listen to, dropping 5 pounds off your ski's weight will either cure lupus, shave 5-10 seconds off your mile pace, or just set you back an extra $1,000 for a boat that you could stick a pencil through.  In any event, it did seem peppier than my old boat, and I felt confident that my competitors would be gracious enough to respect that perception come race time.

Allow me to nip a common misconception before it congeals into cold, hard, what-the-hell-happened-to-my-ski fact.  Within minutes of arriving at the race, everyone was referring to the V10 Sport as "Mary Beth's boat".  No.  It's my rough water boat.  In the interest of clarity, I'm going to ask that everyone please instead refer to "the boat which Mary Beth happens to be paddling today, but might well not be using in the next race".  A little unwieldy, granted, but I think we can all agree that in the end, I'll be happier.

Winter has been tough to shake this year, but something shiny up in Newfoundland must have caught its attention on Saturday, giving us a chance to sneak in a quick warm-weather race while it was distracted.  We'd start the 9.7 mile course by heading upstream for 3 miles, then return back down past the start to the mouth of the river before turning once again and returning upstream to the finish.  The field was primarily composed of Tims, Bobs, and Chrises, with the token Jerry and Matt thrown in for diversity.

Tim the Elder called us in for a captain's meeting.  Start here.  Turn there.  Pass under a bridge close to this stanchion.  No firearms.  You know the drill.  However, he neglected to give the typical we're-all-in-this-together "if someone gets in trouble, your priority is to help them" speech.  I suspect this was because the average depth of the Narrow River is about 18 inches, but I filed this omission away, just in case.  We hopped in our boats for quick warm-ups and rejoined several minutes later at the starting line.

An inordinate amount of debate about the starting procedure had the desired effect - everybody was too befuddled by the process to jump the gun.  Chris Chappell got out to a quick start in his Mohican, with Chris Laughlin pulling a close second.  Wesley, Eric Costanzo, Tim Dwyer, and I locked into various drafting positions behind the leaders.  My particular position was about 3 inches to the left of where everyone else was depositing their used paddle water, which was the only thing that saved me from drowning.

Gradually, Tim, Wesley, and Eric fell off the pace.  Invigorated by my extended baptism, I jumped from Laughlin's draft over to Chappell's, then attempted to pass the latter on the left.  He swatted away my attempt effortlessly, so I peeled back onto his wash for a few moments before giving it another try on the right.  I pulled ahead a shade, but Chris C stuck fast on my left, his bright orange nose bobbing clownishly in my peripheral vision.  After a few moments of this, I decided to squeeze out a quick interval to see how Chris would react.

A successful interval is bittersweet - a lot like when you're 14 and you finally convince your parents to let you go to sleep-away puppetry camp, only to carry around the nickname Googly-Eye Greg for all of high school.  You reap what you sow, sure, but those confounded seeds all look alike.  Having opened up a gap on Chris, my body was now stuck with my mind's rash decision.  Not wanting to let myself down, I was forced to maintain a punishing pace to keep ahead.

I've had black-tipped Epics for so long that now when I look down at my deck, I wonder who's passing me.  (Thanks to Leslie Chappell for the photo)

For years now, the so-called "Markin Rule" has established that the leader of a race is free to deviate from the established course at his sole discretion, provided that he can trick the rest of the field into lemming-like pursuit.  I therefore made the call to shorten the course by a half-mile, turning prematurely back downriver around the wrong set of buoys, while throwing nervous glances over my shoulder to make sure that Chris and Chris would follow in my wake.  They complied, although perhaps a little grudgingly for my taste.

In my defense, the right set of buoys was more a figment of Tim Dwyer's mind that an actual concrete reality, and I didn't feel comfortable paddling in those deep and stormy waters.

After making the turn downriver, both the ebbing tide and a mild breeze were in my favor.  By staying in the deepest (ahem) part of the channel (ahem), you could take advantage of a current that in places approached 2 knots.  In many other places, however, you might easily find yourself glued to the mucky bottom.  I managed to keep at least a thin film of water under my boat for most of the trip back past the starting line, then down towards the mouth of the river.

The turn near the mouth of the Narrow River is undoubtedly the toughest maneuver in the New England race repertoire.  You have to swing your ungainly boat around 180 degrees in a stiff current, then slide through the narrow gap between a flagpole and the shore.  Failure to execute this turn means you will be swept out onto the Double Beaver course, where you won't be found until August.

Certain acts are meant to be private.  Just as you don't want anyone around when you delve into that stash of Too Close For Comfort VHS tapes you've hidden in the basement, you'd prefer to negotiate this hairpin turn free from the judgement of others.  Since pulling into the lead, my sole focus had been on getting far enough ahead of the pack to avoid disgracing myself publicly at the turn-around.  I wasn't positive that I was in the clear, but I held my breath, yanked back the rudder (I may be working that thing wrong), and took the plunge.  Unless you hear otherwise from another eyewitness, everything went swimmingly.  Fine.  I mean fine.

The trip back up to the finish line was relatively uneventful.  By staying out of the main current I managed to keep my speed safely in the range between "not backwards" and "utterly demoralizing", with occasional bursts up to "pathetic".  I saw Mary Beth pulling her boat (dammit, even I'm doing it) across a sand bar, but fortunately was too fatigued to follow through on my urge to yell "Don't scratch my boat!"  Head down, I kept pushing into the tide and wind.  The finish line approached timidly, eventually succumbing to my repeated assurances that I wouldn't hurt it.  Heck, I was as afraid of it as it was of me.

I had cut more than 10 minutes off of last year's time, which is exactly why I'll be running abridged versions of all the races this season.  Next in was Chris C, followed by Eric, Chris L, and Wesley.  I hinted earlier that I may have taken a swim (I probably did not), but one of our competitors did actually test the waters.  Tim Hudyncia, in his insatiable zeal for racing, doubled back after finishing and joined Chris Sherwood and Mary Beth in their final half-mile sprint to provide coxswain-like motivation.  And then he fell in.  I don't have a joke here.  I just figured Tim would want everyone to know.

As a show of solidarity, the top 6 finishers crossed the line together.  There were no winners and losers this day.  Just 6 guys measurably faster than the other 7 paddlers.  (Thanks to Leslie Chappell for the photo)

Before the awards ceremony, Eric provided us with T-shirts from Seas It - a charity founded by Eric's sister to support cancer recovery through recreation.  While the rest of us could enjoy a day of rest on Sunday (or, at least, a day of not racing), Eric was off to compete again the next day to promote Seas It.  Ugh.  OK, already.  I'll donate.  Tim D had us do something with Chinese finger traps that I expect we'll all come to regret, Wesley announced the times, and a good chunk of us retired to the Oak Hill Tavern for a well-deserved peanut overdose.

We're back on flat water at the Run of the Charles in two weeks.

CRASH-Bs: Rowing Without a Net

Let's review.  The CRASH-B race is the world indoor rowing championship.  That sounds impressive until you discover that the entrance criteria are limited to your ability to cough up $25 and to figure out what to put for "Affiliation" on the registration form (I went with "Blue Cross/Blue Shield", just in case).  More than 2,000 competitors met at Boston University's Agganis Arena for the event, rowing against themselves and their peers in a day-long set of 2K time trials.  Although these races are completed by most rowers in just 6 to 9 minutes, you tend to approach the event the same way a medieval peasant might view a trip to the dentist/barber.  But, like that irresistible urge to see if you can stand puddin thad eztra-strendth clodesbin on your dongue (yes!), we are slaves to our masochism.



The Concept2 rowing machine (the "erg", short for "aaaaaaergh"), when paired with a 2K trial, is an unrivaled weapon of self-destruction.  An LCD console keeps you appraised of your elapsed distance and time, your stroke rate, your current pace (given as a 500 meter split time), and your average pace.  During a race, experienced rowers can combine these values intuitively to determine how much pain they're probably in.  This is handy since after a certain point, your under-oxygenated brain can't be trusted to reliably decode your body's signals.  Last year, for example, 1700 meters in I distinctly recall hearing a prickly mauve scent.

Since one's natural tendency is to minimize suffering, you're allowed to bring a coxswain to the event (whose goal is, of course, to maximize suffering).  The cox sits behind you, helping to pace your race and urging you on to your best possible time.  Since they banned horsewhips and tasers in 2009, the cox must now resort to verbal flogging to achieve these objectives.  During the course of a race, a good cox will break you down into your component ingredients and rebuild you 5 seconds faster.  All while helpfully reminding you that you are "weak like baby" and questioning your mother's choice in breeding stock.  In my experience, they also spend a lot of time telling you to stop crying.  In short, they bring the S to the S&M rowing experience.

For last year's race, I had adopted a CRASH-B training plan best described as being somewhere between haphazard and Des Moines.  I spent a fair amount of time on the erg, but without much in the way of direction, I found myself carving lazy turns around the basement rather than plowing headfirst into the suffering of a strict training regimen.  Since Mary Beth had decided to compete alongside me this year, I applied myself to constructing a joint program.  I scoured the internet to find a framework on which to build our customized plan, quickly learning to avoid using the terms "stroke", "cox" and "buck-naked" in my searches.

Mary Beth scotched my initial draft, which largely consisted of me sitting in a beanbag, eating pie and criticizing her rowing form.  I still think she would have ended up with a better time, but whatever.  My next draft was pretty sophisticated, but relied heavily on the annexation of Bermuda.  Similarly nixed.  I eventually settled on a variant of the popular "Pete Plan", loosely derived from the University of Michigan women's crew training plan, which was in turn inspired by the torments endured in the fourth circle of Hell.  Wanting to keep a little in reserve for future years, I abridged the plan a little and eliminated the thumbscrew component.  We hit the erg three times each week starting in early December, balancing long rows of low to moderate pace with intervals of various durations and efforts.

Many experienced rowers recommend breaking a 2000 meter row into four blocks of 500 meters, each of which is rowed using a slightly different strategy.  Last year I had no place for such highfalutin tactics.  It was every block for itself, and I'm pretty sure there were at least six of them.  My ill-planned suffering convinced me that I needed a blueprint for this year's race.  I started work on a 4x500 scheme, but quickly realized this approach wasn't subtle enough to cover the shifting mental and physical terrain of the race.  I needed to radically rethink the problem.

I don't idly throw around the term "genius", but how else can I describe my magnum opus?  A loose-leaf binder with a page for each of the 224 strokes I'd need to cover 2000 meters.  Stroke 63, for example, was to start "smooth and powerful, pulled in the style of a young Burt Lancaster" while ending with "a surprising carnival-like flourish of the handle".  Of course, I didn't expect Mary Beth to memorize the entire race script.  Let me correct that.  I did expect it, but since relationships are all about compromise, I learned to settle for not getting stabbed in the thigh with a pencil.

Training seemed to be going well.  About two weeks before the race, I finally settled on the number that was to become my mantra.  My initial target 500 meter target pace.  1:38.  Once in my head, I obsessed over this number.  I found myself doodling "1:38 & Greg" enclosed in hearts on scrap paper.  I'd shout out "What is 1:38?" in answer to nearly every Jeopardy question.  If I could hold steady at this pace, I'd end up at 6:32.0.  Not only would that be a nice improvement over last year's 6:43.0, but it would be a tenth of a second faster than fellow paddler Joe Glickman's time from 2010.  Pretty much everything I do in life is done with an eye towards bettering Glickman.  He's my #1 target in every paddling race, even when he's not there.  Heck, when I eat breakfast each morning, I wonder if my toast is more evenly browned than Joe's.  Of course, I'm 0 for all time in my quest for success, but a kid can dream.

Just as our time on this planet inevitably winds down to its fiery conclusion, so does that halcyon period prior to the CRASH-Bs.  On race day, we arrived at the arena to find it alive with unitarded rowers of every imaginable shape and size, assuming your imagination leans heavily in the direction of Norse deities.  At registration we ran into the only other ski paddler who made it to the CRASH-B's this year, Tom Kerr.  Together with Mary Beth and the rest of clan Kerr, we found a place in the stands and began our ritual prayers for deliverance.

Rowing casually in the warm-up area soon after, I savored those last few moments before I'd be strapped into my designated torture device and put through its paces.  As the heat before the senior master group finished, the condemned and the damned shuffled gloomily to meet their fates.

With my entrails tying themselves in knots, I quizzed Mary Beth one last time on strokes 42, 103, and 211 before settling onto the erg I christened Doomslinger (you don't choose the name, it chooses you).  I took a few strokes to fine tune the damper setting.  The announcer instructed us to settle down to await the start sequence that would appear on our erg's console.  The previous year I had gotten a crash course in those 4 most dreaded words in the English language: Sit Ready.  Attention.  ROW.  Unaware of the details of the sequence, after "Attention" I had expected some kind of public bulletin, say about a red Buick with its lights on, or a special in aisle 7.  This year I'd be ready.

I coiled on my machine like a viper waiting to strike, all sinew and clamminess. Sit Ready.  I wondered if it was too late to abandon ship.  Attention.  Ooh, I wonder what announcement they'll have for us!  ROW.  What's that?  I said, ROW.  Me?  You mean me?  Yes, ROW.  My mind dulled by adrenaline, it took a while for the message to sink in.  I should probably ROW.  And so I released my pent up potential in a single mighty stroke.  An epic stroke likely to propel me through the first 100 meters in one blow.  A stroke so titanic... that I lifted off my sliding seat and landed with a painful thud on the rail behind the seat.  Man overboard!

With my feet strapped into the machine and my hands occupied by the handle, I wallowed backwards, trying fruitlessly to regain my equilibrium.  I could hear a collective gasp as the spectators realized the horror of the situation.  With the grace of an epileptic worm, I contorted my body hither and yon in a bumbling attempt to wriggle back onto the seat.  Just as the top rowers were finishing their races, I finally managed to remount and recommence mine.

My precious stroke plan!  I could hear Mary Beth behind me, rifling through the pages of the notebook in search of the appropriate contingency plan.  Alas, though there were neatly labeled tabs for what to do in the case of power outage, killer bees, or a severed toe, I had inexplicably left my coxswain rudderless in this circumstance.  Despite its virtual inevitability (see blog title).

Now lacking any coherent plan, I relied upon that oldest of strategic standbys.  I panicked.  In a frenzied attempt to make up lost time, I pulled at a pace that would quickly exhaust a jet-ski.  Everything was elbows, knees, and the angry whir of a flywheel about to melt its bearings.  After some seconds of this, I finally absorbed my coxswain's repeated calls to ease down.  I gradually settled in between 1:37 and 1:38 in the hopes of getting my average pace down to 1:38 by the 1000 meter mark.  As the meters accumulated (on the same approximate timescale as geological layers accumulate), I started to realize that the disastrous start hadn't completely torpedoed my chances at a good time.  It defied logic, but the cost of my derailment was apparently measured only in tenths of a second.

Although I took solace in this realization, I was starting to feel the impact of my pace.  Despite a growing discomfort located somewhere in the vicinity of my entire body, I managed to recall a snippet of my original plan.  And so on stroke 96 I dedicated 1.8 seconds of silent reflection in honor of those brave souls o'ertaken by the Visigoth hordes at the Battle of Adrianople in 378.  Tu pugnaverunt viriliter.

Having thrown "224 Strokes to Greatness" aside, Mary Beth ad-libbed and called for me to increase my pace from 1:38 to 1:37 at the 1000 meter mark.  Imagine you're nestled cozily in bed under a down comforter in a log cabin early one morning. And then imagine someone crabbily yells into your ear from about 5 inches away that you need to get up, go out into sub-zero weather, and chop some damn firewood.  You don't want to get up.  You want to stay at 1:38.  Better yet, throw on another comforter and ease back to 1:40.  Of course, this analogy may mildly exaggerate my comfort level at 1:38.  My coziness was in fact pretty severely compromised by the enraged badgers under the covers with me.

In any event,  I answered the call and upped my pace.  For about four strokes.  Then I dove back into bed with those furry balls of teeth, who now seemed more like lovable scamps.  Mary Beth tried to coax me out with the promise of cocoa, but I was already starting to take leave of this world.  The buzzing confusion of the competition floor gradually faded into misty oblivion.  I was alone with my 1:38 and an increasingly distressing level of physical misery.  I began to question the existence of a just God.

At 500 meters, from far away somebody made a ludicrous suggestion that I take it down to 1:36.  Heck, why not 1:26?  Evidently we were pretending that I wasn't hanging on to my current pace by a gossamer thread of resolve.  I decided (in a very loose sense of that word) to stand pat.  I entered this world of hurt at 1:38, and that was how I was going to go out.  Assuming that time didn't come to a thorough stop, as it was now threatening.

With 250 meters left, I depleted the last of my muscles' energy stores.  I was now powered solely by the barest wisp of pride, flickering uncertainly in the deep gloom of my soul.  An eternal sea of anguish stretched before me.  Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear the mournful howl of Mr. Flappers.  And then, as tends to happen despite any melodramatic posturing, it was over.  Time quickly spun back up to its normal pace.  It took a while to decipher the LCD display through my tears, but when the numbers finally swam into focus, they stood at 6:31.4.  I made a mental note to give a joyous whoop at some later date at which gaiety was again possible.

There was no time to savor my agony.  Mary Beth's heat immediately followed.  I dragged myself on leaden legs over to her assigned erg (Blisswagon) and collapsed onto the coxswain chair as she settled in to her saddle.  To our left was a real live German rower, with a German uniform and a gruff German coxswain.  See... world championships.  Let the fraukrieg begin!

Before we knew it, the start was upon us.  Apparently hopped up on the excitement of the race, Mary Beth peeled out at the start.  Once I finally caught up with her, I started gently urging her to ease back from her sub 2:00 pace.  My soothing voice had no apparent impact.  I was tempted to physically restrain her, but I was pretty sure that'd earn me a red card and black eye.  Eventually, she relaxed back to her 2:08 target pace and settled in for a well-deserved nap.  I was glad she didn't require much active encouragement at this point, because I was feeling decidedly green about the gills.

At 1000 meters, I suggested ever-so-casually that we were getting low on firewood.  To my surprise, Mary Beth leapt from her comfortable 2:08 pace and started chopping away at 2:07.  Clearly, she had been sand-bagging.  As 1500 meters approached, she started slipping unprovoked into the 2:06 range - her target finishing pace for the final push.  I tried briefly to steady her at this rate, but you can't get a caffeinated squirrel to lay off the acorns.  She had gone out too slow and was now bursting with energy.  In my excitement, I started yelling random interjections at the top of my lungs as she gobbled up the remaining meters with increasingly powerful strokes.  Go!  2:04.  Wunderbar!  2:01.  Howzah Zowie!  1:58.  It was negative splits on a stroke-by-stroke basis!

Mary Beth accelerated through the finish at 8:21.0, swerving at the last moment to avoid a couple of inattentive volunteers.  Next door, the Teuton kept rowing for another 15 seconds.  Having established world domination and shattered her goal of 8:30, Mary Beth hopped lightly off Blisswagon and cavorted a while to burn off excess vim.  I remained lump-like.

Feeling satisfied with our respective performances, we got cleaned up and settled into the stands to have those self-satisfied smirks wiped off our faces by the unreal times of the open class rowers who closed out the competition.  We did take some consolation from the fact that it's mostly just age, stature, musculature, genetics, pain threshold, training, and willpower that separate us from the elite.  I'm going to work on some of those for next year.  Probably concentrate mostly on age and genetics.

NE Surfski Downwind: Gulp...

With winds at 15+ knots from an unfavorable ENE direction, the Board of Trustees made a day-before decision to shift the NE Surfski Downwind course from its normal Kittery-to-York route down to the North Shore of Massachusetts.  We'd run 11 miles from Stage Fort Park in Gloucester to Lynch Park in Beverly, covering some of the same ground we'd paddled three weeks ago in the Kettle Island Run.  Unlike that day, however, the course wouldn't be pampering us with well-behaved waves, mild winds, and complimentary snacks.  Instead, we'd be careening through some of the biggest waters many of us have ever paddled.  If the Kettle Island Run were the dulcet tones of Perry Como, this race would be the take-no-prisoners delivery of Ethel Merman.  I'm nothing if not topical.

As the parking lot filled with familiar faces anxious to once again match their skills and conditioning against one another, a few surprise paddlers turned up to throw a monkey in the shower.  Sean Brennan took a break from the witness relocation program (testified in a controversial jay-walking case, I heard) to paddle in his first New England race in 18 months.  Fresh off her appearance representing the Stars and Stripes at the world marathon championships in Denmark, Alex McClain was ready to demonstrate that - given the right equipment - she hasn't completely lost her steering skills.  Pam Boteler and Mark Berry were prepared to brave the conditions, despite never having raced skis in Northeast waters.  Mark lives so far up in Maine that the locals speak a delightful combination of French and bear, while Pam traveled up from Virginia (which really leaves me nothing to work with).

By the time we left Lynch Park to head out to the launch at Stage Fort, Eric's trailer was bristling with skis.  Twenty-three of us would start the race.  After a brief captains' meeting (the gist of which was "go downwind until you see the finish", with a bracing dose of "you're on your own out there", and a pinch of "please try to wash up on shore"), we each signed a commemorative plaque destined to hang in New England Surfski headquarters in honor of the lost squadron.  A nice touch by Eric, I thought.  We hit the water with a true esprit de corps - fellow warriors united in our treacherous downwind mission.  We'd seize the beach back at Lynch come hell and high water.  Or get wet and nervous trying.

Kirk loosens a few straps for good measure.

Our course would take us out around a channel marker a quarter mile from shore in Gloucester Harbor, downwind in unprotected waters for 3 miles, then another 4 miles past a series of islands (Kettle, Egg, House, and Misery), ending with a 4 mile stretch within relatively protected Salem Sound.  Within that middle section, we were free to weave pell-mell among the islands as our whims dictated.

I reasoned that a route outside the islands would keep me clear from refracting slop, provide the most tidal assistance, and line me up for a final downwind stretch that wouldn't be in the lee of Misery Island or the mainland.  I was alone in this belief - much like during an embarrassing argument in 11th grade regarding Leprechauns.  Unlike then, however, the proof would be in the pudding - the pot of golden butterscotch pudding that I'd stashed at the finish and would be casually eating when the rest of the field staggered in.  I calculated that the outside route was maybe an eighth of a mile longer, but that'd be chump change given my astonishing velocity.

After sabotaging the boats, Kirk plays it cool by regaling the field with tales of derring-do.

Careful to avoid a pack of scuba divers who had inexplicably set up an underwater pumpkin carving station near our starting area (seriously, that's what they were doing down there), we lined up for the gun.  Sean and Borys Markin jumped out to an immediate lead, followed by Alex, Francisco Urena, and the entire field of Erics (McNett and Costanzo).  By the time we hit the turn buoy that would catapult us into our downwind run, I had passed Francisco and Eric the Elder.  Sean and Borys were headed out on a line that would eventually swing them by Provincetown.  Despite their grand tour of Massachusetts Bay, these fellows would end up finishing a convincing one-two (at 1:22:01 and 1:25:06).  Oops.  Spoiler alert.

A mile into the race, that cozy feeling of fellowship had been scoured away by the wind and waves.  It was every man for himself.  I started looking for a V8 to hijack, but realizing that I couldn't actually see any of the other competitors over the heaving seas, I reluctantly decided to stick with my V10.  I felt kind of bad later when I saw photos of Matt Drayer treading water while waiting for the boat hand-off that never came (that youngster's got enough esprit for the lot of us!).  As we approached Kettle Island, the condition continued to grow.

In open water, the 6 foot swell by itself wasn't that intimidating, although it did require a certain degree of vigilance.  When that same swell hit shallow water, rose up on its haunches and curled over to reveal its foam-drenched fangs, however, you started to question the chain of decisions that ultimately led you to wander innocently into its enclosure.  As the old adage goes, a journey of a thousand miles starts with a single surfski pitch from Wesley.  Having established the cause of my predicament, I started plotting my revenge. That kept my mind off the crashing surf long enough to sneak by the outside of Kettle Island without being mauled.

I'm the guy chewing gum.

The next few miles were the toughest of my voyage.  Despite being a good half-mile from shore and in deep water, there were enough shelves and shallows close-by that the seas were piling up around me in unnatural fashion.  Within this grotesque stew, the ocean swell was heading about 15 degrees from my preferred direction, while the wind was almost directly behind me.  I struggled mightily to get good rides, meeting with only modest success.

I classified the waves in four categories: (a) waves which there was no possible way I could catch, (b) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned balance first, (c) waves which I could conceivably catch if you'd just let me catch my damned breath first, and (d) waves which I caught but ultimately dropped because I lost my balance, breath, or nerve.  The a:b:c:d ratio was something like 25:10:5:1.  So every 40 waves or so, I'd catch a ripper, skim over the water with agile grace, then have an intermission of two-score waves to spit the seaweed out of my teeth.  Regarding the agile grace part - you can't really see that so much in the GoPro video below, but if you look beyond what appear to be frenzied strokes and desperate braces, you'll maybe get a hint of my effortless proficiency.  Helps to squint a little.  Have a couple-few drinks too.

Nearing House Island, my craft suffered a sudden and catastrophic rotation around its longitudinal axis, resulting in the captain calling for his crew to immediately abandon ship.  Having ensured that everyone was accounted for, I slipped into the roiling waters to see what could be done to repair my vessel.  Amazingly, the ski seemed in perfect working order!  It was clear to anyone with half a brain that my boat must have suffered an intermittent failure of the roll stabilization system, but those pencil-pushing nimrods at the Surfski Safety Alliance insisted on putting "operator error" on the cause-of-accident report.  That whistling sound you hear is my life insurance rates leaving earth orbit.

I remounted without issue and continued to pick my way tentatively through the stacks of waves.  I was now approaching Misery and Little Misery Islands.  These fellows are separated by a 75 foot gap that's usually quite navigable at mid-tide.  I briefly contemplated shooting this gap.  I certainly would have set a new personal speed record, but judging by the spray exploding 30 feet in the air, my ride would likely end in a personal deceleration record as well.  I therefore skirted the outside edge of Little Misery, still logging some of my fastest times of the day.

Within a quarter mile of clearing Little Misery, the conditions had mellowed considerably.  The other racers referred to this segment of a race as a slog to the finish, but I was still managing to get a reasonable boost on my outside line.  I doubt that much of the reasoning behind my grand navigation strategy was actually sound, but at least this one element was bearing fruit.

I started scanning the shoreline looking for paddlers who had taken the inner passage.  I live in constant fear of being overtaken by an unanticipated competitor (and not just during races).  Craig Impens struck from the blue in the Blackburn, while Joe Glickman did the same in the Lighthouse-to-Lighthouse.  This was my chance to deliver that stomach-turning bolt of disappointment (he thought, with undisguised glee).  Not until I was within a mile from the finish did I spot anyone, however, and the crushing letdown was to be mine.  The bright orange Mocke PFD I saw well ahead must surely have Eric McNett at its core.  By beating me, he would nestle comfortably into the penultimate spot in the point series, leaving me in third for the second year.

Perhaps because I was occupied howling my bitter lamentations heavenward ("Why, oh why, must bad things - well, not really bad, but say slightly off-putting - happen to good people - ok, good may be overstating it, but people who at least wouldn't deliberately swerve to hit a squirrel?"), I didn't notice until a few minutes later that I was rapidly converging with another paddler.  I couldn't figure who it was, but I seemed to be a few boat lengths ahead.  And so I did manage after all to deliver my own spirit-breaking message of "Surprise!  You're one place further back than you thought."  But my heart just wasn't in it.

Bob showing his new-found appreciation for dry land.

I pulled into the finish 15 seconds ahead of Alex, who turned out to be the mystery paddler - a great performance in conditions that couldn't be more different from those she trains in.  I received another disheartening blow when I saw Eric Costanzo waiting at the finish.  Beaten by every single Eric we had!  Eric McNett was nowhere to be seen - probably already strapping his boat onto the van.  Then, to my initial confusion, I saw McNett paddle around the point towards the finish.  Newton's controversial 4th law of motion - the Conservation of Erics - was finally proved to be true.  I was beaten by Eric C (who, it turns out, also was Mocke'd up), but had beaten Eric M.  The former Eric (he was so young...) really established himself as a force to be reckoned with and/or beat by.

Matt, Ken Cooper, Tim Dwyer, and Francisco rounded out the top ten.  Six paddlers wouldn't make it to the finish by water, but everybody arrived safely in some manner (hitchhiking with a 20 foot boat offers its own challenges).  As we shared our race experiences while waiting for the awards ceremony, we studiously (and uncharacteristically) avoided exaggerating our tales of wonder and terror, lest they sound just too outlandish.  I even knocked a couple of feet off some waves to make them more palatable to a dubious audience.

In addition to awards for the race, Eric handed out the point series trophies to Borys and Beata.  Despite living four hours away, this pair had showed up to nearly every race to take command of the series for the second year running.  A deserving Matt received a new spanking paddle for being the most improved paddler of the season.  Scratch that.  Spanking new paddle.  From Think.  Everyone who had completed at least six races in the New England Surfski series was eligible to win an Epic V12 via raffle drawing.  This inspired bit of promotion doubtless helped to drive participation this season.  Bruce Deltorchio was the winner.  He promptly traded the boat for a Fenn Swordfish, a Jantex paddle, and a carburetor for a 53 Chevy.

Many thanks to Eric (not you, Costanzo), Ed, and Ken for making all of this happen.  It was a great and memorable day.

Kettle Island Run: 15.3 Miles of Radiant Bliss

If you were going to schedule a race for the confused waters of Salem Sound, you probably wouldn't make it 15+ miles.  Or schedule it in late September.  Or choose a course almost guaranteed to beam slap you into submission.  That's why you'll never be Ed Duggan.  Ed once paddled shore-to-shore across the Bay of Fundy.  At low tide.  He's done the Blackburn course so many times that he lost count.  In a single day.  He's been known to... well, you get the idea.  My point isn't that Ed is a remarkably tough and persistent paddler who expects no less from participants in his race.  It's that he's just plain bonkers.  Hence the Kettle Island Run.

In last year's race, I went belly up two-thirds of the way through and had to be scooped out of the water by the rescue boat.  Conditions on that day weren't particularly big, but they were everywhere at once.  This year promised to be better behaved, with a light breeze, sunny skies, and mild temperatures.  Sixteen paddlers prepared to answer Ed's challenge.

Remember a time before GoPro when we had no lasting records of our most humiliating moments?  And before we had blogs to advertize these times to everyone?  A representative shot from last year's race. 

 The course is simple - start offshore of Lynch Park in Beverly, circle Kettle Island, and return to Lynch.  Kettle Island starts off at about 7.25 miles away, but quickly recedes to about twice that as you approach it.  An outgoing tide, a NNE breeze, and ocean swell from the SE meant that if you played your cards right... you'd fold and head for the craps table.  The house was going to win this one.  The best you could do was keep your head down and hope that, when you finally got back to the finish, your car hadn't been repossessed.  You probably weren't going to have trouble staying upright, but there'd be a fair amount of slogging involved.

In a competition that at most two people care about, Eric McNett and I are neck and neck in the New England Surfski point series.  Since Borys has already locked up the NESS series crown, Eric claims that he and I are competing for the first place loser spot.  I prefer to think of it as the penultimate position, because after six or seven beers, it starts to sound like that actually may be better than the ultimate spot.  In any event, a win by me in Beverly would make it very difficult for Eric to pry my grubby hands off of sweet penultimateness.

We lined up for an on-water start marked by what I believe was a rapidly drifting dodgeball.  Apparently there was a consensus that a race this long wasn't going to be won or lost in the first quarter mile.  After the start, I found myself in uncharted waters - in amongst the early leaders.  Thirty seconds in, only Chris Chappell was ahead of me.  That may have been in part because Eric and a few others forked off to the left, but nevertheless, I was only a single paddler away from open water.  As I prepared to pass Chris, I remembered the glassy-eyed zeal with which he had latched onto me after I pulled ahead of him at the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Kinda creepy, actually.  I had forgotten to renew my restraining order, so I gave him an extra wide berth as I passed.

Eric opted to forgo any help from the outgoing tide, tucking in close to shore to keep out of the breeze quartering from our left and stay in calmer waters.  It looked like several other paddlers had also decided to adopt the McNett Way.  Before the race, Mike McDonough and I discussed the relative merits of various lines and agreed that the tidal boost would be worth the downsides of staying further out in the Sound.  Eric's uncanny navigational skills usually makes you wonder what kind of deal he might have struck in exchange for his immortal soul, but this was our home surf.  I stayed way outside.

This year's race was slightly less horrific...

Throwing quick glances back I saw that I had some company, but couldn't make out who it was. I had assumed my stalker was Chris, but found out later that it had been a different mortal enemy - Jan Lupinski.  Apparently this perplexing reversal of wash-riding roles threw off Jan's stroke a bit, because after a couple of miles I managed to shake him off.  Meanwhile, Eric continued moving up the coast in parallel, having given the slip to his entourage as well.  With perhaps as much as a quarter mile separating us laterally, it was difficult to gauge who was ahead.

Some people argue that having a bailer instead of venturi drains reduces drag significantly.  Others claim that a well-designed venturi is inherently more efficient than an open bailer when conditions get rough.  What bailer proponents don't tell you, however, is how obsessed you become with the state of your bailer.  They also don't mention that you definitely won't capsize less because you have a bailer.  Most of the drama in the middle of my race resulted from fumbling attempts to open and close that sucker without subsequently examining it from the flip side.

After 7 miles of eyeballing each other from afar, Eric and I would finally converge at the north end of Kettle Island to compare notes on our trajectories.  I suspected I'd have the lead, but it certainly wouldn't be substantial enough to deliver the crushing psychological blow that I had been fantasizing about for the past few miles.  Sure enough, I reached the island perhaps a half-dozen lengths ahead of Eric.  Tentative in the sloppy conditions around the back side of Kettle, I could feel my lead and my confidence slipping away.  As we rounded the island and pointed our skis back towards the start, Eric pulled alongside with a casual ease that can only be adequately described as "malevolent".

Almost immediately after hitting open water, our paths diverged once more.  Eric took an inner line, while I stayed outside so that I could better experience the exasperation of not catching the ocean swell headed in our direction, while also struggling in wind and tide-driven slop from other directions.  I hadn't seen anyone else for a half hour, but as my speed continued to drop, I feared a sneak attack from behind.  The miles were ticking by slowly, with Eric gradually prying open a lead.

At one point a working boat decided to cross my path at a shallow angle and a velocity as closely matched to mine as he could manage - a classic case of WFO syndrome.  This yahoo has the whole darn ocean at his disposal, and he decides to provide me with another dubious excuse for why I couldn't catch Eric.  I did my best to serve up some choice gestures while still paddling, which, in retrospect, may explain why one of the crew asked if I was in need of emergency assistance.  Where's McDonough when you need him?  When it comes to indignant tirades directed at vessels several thousand times heavier than ours, he's in a class by himself (everyone else having graduated after passing their self-preservation exams).

I eventually crossed behind the irksome boat, failing even to wrestle a compensatory ride from the miserly bastard.  Eric was continuing to extend his lead.  With a couple of miles remaining, he was perhaps 30 lengths ahead.  At the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race a few weeks back, Eric had similarly passed me at about the halfway point, but had slowed dramatically near the end, allowing me to slip by in the last mile.  I needed a little déjà vu.  Tout de suite.

I made a few pathetic attempts to buckle down and interval my way up to Eric, but you'd be hard pressed to identify these microblips of effort on my GPS track.  I had not only hit the wall, but had slid down it like Wile E. Coyote, and then had it collapse on top of me.  My stroke resembled an educational video on what to avoid if you find yourself floating in shark-infested waters.  I should have been a little more specific with my ocean vu request - instead of the L2L I was reliving one of the many races in which I had watched impotently as Eric finished ahead of me.  My revised strategy was to buckle down and limp my way in ahead of Jan, who I assumed must be closing on me at breakneck speed.

Several days later, I finally spotted the traditional dodgeball finish marker bobbing in the sea.  I hadn't beaten Eric, but at least this year I had made it around the course with my dignity as intact as it was when I started.  Jan pulled in to take third, completing an Epic V10 podium sweep.  Wesley Echols and Ken Cooper - both of whom may have had their best races of the season - claimed the 4th and 5th spots, just 13 seconds apart.  Joe Shaw, Peter Kahn, Matt Drayer, John Mathieu, and Kirk Olsen rounded out the top 10, with Mary Beth nabbing the top women's spot.

Our race day was topped off with a tasty buffet at the Black Lobster in nearby Salem, at which I put a serious hurt on the world's supply of sesame shrimp poppers.  Awards were awarded.  Races were rehashed in stroke-by-stroke detail.  Someone was asked by the staff to empty poppers from his or her pockets, in what I found to be a less than cordial tone.  We hadn't seen the worst of the Kettle Island Run that day, but nonetheless, it had brought out the best in us.  That's what I might say in earnest tones if I was doing the voice-over for a video tribute celebrating Ed's mad genius.  As it is, perhaps I'll instead just thank him and his crew for putting on another great race.

Lighthouse to Lighthouse: Last Gasps of the Summer

In New England's relatively short but colorful surfski history (whatever happened to that that guy who used to paddle with a porcupine balanced on his rear deck?), this year's Lighthouse to Lighthouse may rank as the best ever all-around race.  It had a little of everything: most of the top competitors from the Northeast and Florida, reigning world champion Michele Eray, spectacular weather, a convenient and accommodating venue, plenty of green and black boats, great hosts in Wayne Lysobey and Gary Williams, and enough good food to choke a family of porcupines (right - now I recall what happened to that guy).  Best of all, however, was the smorgasbord of conditions out on Long Island Sound.  The downwind dessert was among the finest we've seen in these parts.  I could have done without the castor oil chaser of an upwind ending, but, hey, my dropsy has cleared right up.

If you laid all the skis at L2L end-to-end, well, that would be a little pointless.

As the East Coast Surfski Championship, with prize money donated by Stellar, the L2L attracted a record field of nearly 50 skis - more than twice the participation of last year.  Reid Hyle had made the trip up from Florida to challenge defending men's champion Borys Markin, with Michele an overall podium threat as well (even while paddling on a knife-edge Nelo 560 in sloppy water).  Joe Glickman, Jan Lupinski, Eric McNett, and Craig Impens (all of whom dusted me in the Blackburn back in July) also showed up to brawl.  It was going to be a fast day - or at least a painful one.

Gary briefed us on the race.  The 14 mile course starting at Shady Beach would take us out around Sprite Island, past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse to Goose Island, down Long Island Sound to Green's Ledge Lighthouse, then back again.  An incoming tide would be working against a moderate SW breeze, adding some technical challenges to the course.  There was protracted confusion about the starting order for some boat classes (generations hence, there will be entire symposiums where gray-haired scholars argue about out who exactly was supposed to go off in Wave 2), but anxious to get on the water I left before the fisticuffs.

Perhaps someone should have been paying a little more attention at the captain's meeting.

I've decided that getting off the starting line slow is my Signature Move.  It's neither flashy nor effective, but given that I apparently have the fast twitch muscle fibers of a geriatric sloth, I'm turning a liability into a brand.  So I Signature Moved the hell out of this race.  Jesse Lishchuk (member of the US Junior Men sprint and marathon teams) gave a picture-perfect clinic on disheartening one's puny opponents, leaving a trail of flames that put the Cuyahoga River to shame.  Fortunately, I could only see him for a few seconds - not because he was obscured by the smoke (although he probably was), but because I was being drenched by paddle spray.  I found myself wedged uncomfortably in the inundation zone between Beata Cseke and youngster Ryan Mechini, taking on a titanic amount of water.

I was just about to radio the Coast Guard for a rescue when things opened up a bit, allowing me to pull forward far enough to avoid the worst of the deluge.  I soon started clawing my way through the fast twitchers - Ryan, Beata, Kirk Olsen, Joe Shaw, Francisco Urena, Alex Ambotas, and a couple of other paddlers I didn't recognize.  I expected that when I got to Craig, he would either resist the pass or jump on my wash, but he seemed to be racing his own race - a strategy he used to great effect at the Blackburn.  I was also concerned by the absence of Eric, whom I hadn't seen since the start.  That guy thinks like the ocean, which means he spends a lot of time plotting ludicrously fast lines and worrying about his salinity levels.

Once clear of Craig, I could concentrate on what was happening ahead.  The trinity of Reid, Borys, and Jesse had scuttled off this mortal coil (no shufflers, they) to pursue glory in a realm more worthy of their talents.  Godspeed, I say.  And, also, holy crap.  A second trio of Michele, Joe, and Jan followed behind, hoping that in their passage to the undiscovered country, one of the leaders would get caught in a cursed vortex or lose his way in the Fog of Despair.

In making our way past Peck's Ledge Lighthouse and out around Goose Island, we were subjected to a light chop from our right.  I knew Joe would laugh off this threat, and that Michele had been granted full diplomatic immunity, but I had hoped the beam conditions might be enough to gum up Jan's machinery.  As I'd observe later, however, his rough water skills are improving at a truly offensive rate.  Show some respect for the process, man.  I remained a dozen or more boat lengths behind as we turned upwind for the long run towards Green's Ledge Lighthouse.

Several minutes later, it became apparent that the group ahead was separating - perhaps there was some schism over which hemisphere was truly right side up, or maybe one of the guys made some ill-advised springbok joke.  Whatever the cause, Michele began to distance herself from Jan and Joe.  Left behind on their own, they seemed suddenly vulnerable - abandoned kittens swimming feebly in dog-infested waters.  I slow twitched my way past Joe (adorable with his red bow) and set after Jan, who I eventually caught behind Sheffield Island trying to score some catnip.

With the island providing a break from the oncoming waves, I suctioned myself onto Jan's stern to wait for what I expected to be rougher conditions once we cleared the lee.  Sure enough, as we emerged from behind Sheffield to start an unprotected mile to the turn-around, the seas grew cranky.  I pulled alongside Jan, but was unable to break away.  As we neared Green's Ledge, someone started yelling at us in Swedish.  I'm a little rusty, but I believe that we were being told to avoid (or perhaps seek out) doing (or perhaps not doing) something (or perhaps nothing), which is pretty much what I had planned anyway.

Jan and I came around the back side of the lighthouse side by side.  This was it.  Halfway through the race, we'd now duel it out in beautiful downwind conditions - Mano a Jano.

To thine own self be true...

First things first, though.  If you call your blog Full Tilt and you don't have a second layer of meaning beyond "Look at me!  I'm pushing myself to the limit!", you're just being boorish.  Not having executed a race-day tilt of more than, say, 43 degrees this season, and the season winding down, I had a limited window to save myself from that particular flavor of obnoxiousness.  With this noble thought in mind, I seized the opportunity and threw myself upon the mercy of the sea.  I was a bit out of practice, but gravity walked me through the rotation process with a firm hand.

I had assumed that Jan would grant me a mulligan.  We'd just restart together from the lighthouse.  That seems fair, right?  After all, when he foundered off the rocks in Narragansett Bay, did I take advantage of his dire situation?  Well, technically, yes - I cackled maniacally and whacked him on the melon with my paddle for good measure.  But when his boat was filling with water in the Essex River, did I push ahead despite his handicap?  Again, yes, and with joy in my heart, but now you're quibbling.  How about that time when he mistakenly headed into the breakers at the mouth of the Narrow River?  Did I not call him back from certain doom?  Er... OK, you may have a point.  But whatever happened to letting bygones be bygones?

As you've perhaps guessed, Jan ignored my fevered pleas for a redo.  He shot off downwind while I executed an innovative (and yet incredibly awkward) new remount reminiscent of that used by mating elephant seals.  Once safely aboard my craft, I set off in wobbly pursuit of a rapidly receding Lupinski.

Winner of the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Wait, how'd this get in here?

Up until the lighthouse turn, I had been able to see Michelle in the distance.  After turning downwind, however, she disappeared completely - raptured into the firmament to join the other chosen paddlers, no doubt.  Ahead of me was only Jan, who was stubbornly refusing to adhere to my contention that I was the superior downwind racer.  And then, after a short while, Jan was joined by Joe, who was all too willing to adhere to the opposite contention.  Those soggy kittens I had encountered earlier were evidently cheetah cubs.  Ugh.  That was dreadful, but I was too wiped out to come up with anything better.

I was finally starting to get a better feel for the downwind conditions, stringing together some respectable runs and practicing my exuberant hoots.  In short - I was hauling.  I might not catch Joe or Jan, but sure as shootin', nobody else was going to pass me.  Through a sheer effort of will, I managed to maintain that conviction long after I had watched Eric slide effortlessly past on a far inside line.  Mind over matter.  I was pretty sure the race officials at the finish would see things from my perspective.

Once again, the seas had revealed their deepest secrets to the Ocean Whisperer.  Eric's a storied paddler, but even he couldn't skim across the water with such velocity without a little assistance from King Neptune (or, as Eric calls him, Chuck).  As I've seen time and again, he was on the optimal line while the rest of us were still sharpening pencils and looking for our straight edges.  And yet once more I mulishly showed a bull-like pig-headedness - refusing to adopting his path of least resistance, staying outside until I hit the left turn around Goose Island.

Even one who has the ear of a god (look carefully next time - left side) can occasionally falter, though.  Back in the beam chop, Eric slowed and I began to close the gap.  What was 20 lengths at Goose Island was 10 at Peck's Ledge Lighthouse.  By Sprite Island, I was just about to register for a draft when Eric stopped paddling for a moment to let me pull alongside.  Eric's a man of honor.  I figured he wanted to look me in the eye before cutting me down in the final half-mile. But no, that wasn't it.  "George," he said, "I've been at this many years."  I rolled with it. "I've grown weary of the endless toil and I wish to bequeath upon you my blessing as paddling heir."  He may have swallowed a little too much seawater while communing with the ocean, but who was I to ignore a delirious man's request?  "George," I thought, "let's make him proud!"

Looking back, it seems possible that I was the delirious one, but with Eric's benediction I found the strength to push through to a 7th place finish.  I'm sure he expected a lot better from his designated successor, but no take backs, sucker.  Much earlier in the day, Reid had beat Borys for the title, with Michele demonstrating why exactly she's the world's best by beating all the other gentleman.  Despite having limited rough-water experience and being younger than my current (and, alas, probably final) haircut, Jesse held on for 4th place.  Joe and Jan battled tooth and claw for 5th place, with Joe ending up 3 seconds ahead.  Eric coasted in behind me for 8th, Craig finished 9th, and Eric Constanzo took the final spot in the top 10. Bill Kuklinski and Timmy Shields put in another impressive showing to take the doubles crown.

The Lighthouse to Lighthouse ski champions, from left to right.

Despite the fact that she continuously badmouths other paddlers (you guys never see this side of her), Mary Beth had built up a store of good will and respect in the New England ski community by her dogged determination to run the true course at the Jamestown Double Beaver (unlike, say, the entire remainder of the field).  Apparently figuring that if a little extra work will win you esteem, a tremendous amount of extra work will get you a new patio furniture set, she paddled aimlessly around the Norwalk Islands to pad her reputation.  I clocked the sanctioned course at 13.3 miles.  With the Cockenoe Island (plus random channel marker) Extension, however, the course comes in at a robust 15.4.  She'd maybe like something in an Adirondack style.

Bob enjoys the thought that, for once, he won't be driving for the next 3 hours.

To top off a spectacular day, there was delicious beer, burgers, massages, dogs, chili and a broad assortment of mollusks.  Many of us lingered deep into the day at Shady Beach, catching up with our paddling buddies, reliving the key elements of our races, and wondering if poor Gary would ever finish giving out awards so that he could lapse into a well-deserved coma.  Congratulations to Gary, Wayne, and all the other race organizers for hosting the race of the season.