Paddling the Lupinski Way

After the 2014 Ride the Bull Race, Jan swatted a wonderful backhanded compliment my way.  I can't remember his exact words, but to paraphrase: "It's remarkable that you're doing so well this season given that your form is so terrible.  Just awful.  Worst stroke I've ever seen.  Seeing you paddle, I weep for our sport."  And so on.  He also made some gagging noises to underscore his disgust.  But I noticed the spark of an idea in his eyes.  What if he could provide a safe environment in which to mold the technique of once young paddlers?

So it was that the idea for Lupinski's Sleepaway Camp for Paddlers first took form.  Although it took Jan another year to work out the logistics and obtain the proper permits, he was able to open the camp just in time for our country's 239th birthday.  After getting the required inoculations and providing a list of food allergies, Mary Beth and I made our way to administrative headquarters at the home of Jan (and, from time to time, his wife Renata) on July 4.  Bruce Deltorchio and Timmy Shields arrived a short while later, after having first performed some ad hoc drag testing on roof-racked skis at high subsonic speeds (minor scorching was reported).  Once Jan had secured our blindfolds, we convoyed the short distance from HQ to the camp itself with surprisingly few fatalities.

The deceptively calm waters of Lake Sebago, beneath which lurks  an unspeakable horror.  Oh, wait.  No, that's just an oddly shaped rock.

Lake Sebago rests entirely within the confines of Harriman State Park.  The ACA owns a rustic camp on the lake from which a number of private canoe and kayak clubs operate.  The Rockaway Olympic Club is one of these.  Lupinski's Sleepaway Camp for Paddlers, Inc. is a wholly owned subsidiary of the Rockaway club.  It's technically registered with the state as a leper colony, but Jan assured us (from behind the surgical mask he was wearing due to his pollen allergy) that this was just for tax purposes.  Powerboats are not allowed on the lake, which makes it an ideal training destination.

After a brief orientation, we were assigned to our Polish-named camp teams.  Bruce and Timmy found themselves in Tribe Sokół while Mary Beth and I were Tribe Ogórek - the Falcons and the Warriors, respectively, Jan informed us.  Proud to be newly-annointed Ogórki (the correct plural form, we were helpfully told), we quickly mastered our fight song and secret warrior handshake.  We were ready to paddle.

Bruce and Timmy, having successfully scavenged discarded equipment from the dumpsters, prepare to set up camp.

For our first on-the-water instructional session, Sergeant Instructor Lupinski had us repeatedly paddle the length of the lake with prolonged pauses between each stroke.  Jan paddled behind or alongside each of us in turn, taking stock of our form with a discerning gaze.  With analytic efficiency, he identified our individual deficiencies and then - not being one to sugarcoat - lit into the worst offenders (that is to say, Timmy and me) with a little more enthusiasm than seemed necessary.  I'd say just two notches shy of sadistic glee.

Our instructor immediately noticed that Timmy's stroke was wildly asymmetric - while his paddle was getting a good bite on the left, it was barely skimming the surface on the right.  After several minutes of diagnostic observation, he ultimately determined that Timmy had been using a canoe paddle.  Mary Beth had some issues that many of us share - continuing the stroke beyond the hip, hands too low, and a tendency to hurt the ones she loves (so cruel...).  However, she responded quickly to Jan's suggestions.  Bruce has a fine and easy stroke, honed by compulsively watching videos of great flatwater paddlers (his collection of vintage paddling VHS tapes is legendary).  Not wanting him to feel like he wasn't getting his money's worth, Jan struggled to come up with critical comments, ultimately suggesting that Bruce "smile more".

Jan had previously established that he was no fan of my technique.  He now had the opportunity - by my own invitation, no less - to elaborate in great detail on just how much I was getting wrong.  Death grip on paddle.  Slouching in the bucket.  Elbows too high.  Hands too low.  Knees not together.  Poor rotation.  Choppy stroke.  Poor catch.  That covers about the first twenty seconds of his scathing critique, which was to continue virtually uninterrupted for the next hour and a half.  Having reviewed video of myself in the preceding week going full bore rather than at this controlled pace, I at least had the consolation of knowing that my stroke could be (and, in fact, was) worse.  I kept that to myself.

It's difficult to key in on the one element that bothered Jan most, but it was probably my screwy wrist action.  I've watched it in slow motion since, so I now understand why he had problems even determining what was going on.  I look like someone using a fork-lift after downing a half-dozen Red Bulls with a meth chaser.  Also, I'm chatting with the warehouse foreman in sign language.  His wife has been under the weather, but she's feeling much better now.  With all kinds of unnecessary wrist flexions, extensions, and rotations, it's really a wonder that my hands are still attached.   Jan did the best he could with me, but several years of muscle memory were fighting him at every step.

Timmy - ever the prankster - discovered that he could wriggle his way under Jan's skin by pretending that he was having trouble mastering the mandatory stroke-pause-stroke cadence.  Chuckling to himself, he'd intermittently shorten the pause to a mere flicker of delay.  At the beginning of the session, Jan would offer helpful aphorisms like "The sokół must know when to flap and when to glide".  After suggestions along these lines failed to change Timmy's rhythm, he gradually degenerated to frequent admonishments to "Pause!" and "Slow it down!"  By the end of 90 minutes, Jan was spluttering wild-eyed insults directed at Timmy's hearing, intelligence, and parentage, while Timmy himself tried desperately to keep a straight face.

While I can't doubt Jan's credentials, some of his instructions seemed a little suspect.  For example, am I really supposed to periodically spray WD-40 in my shorts to facilitate proper rotation?  And while I know a loose grip on the paddle is important, does it make sense to practice jazz hands even when not on the water?  And, finally, how could I possibly think about my stroke while training.  Crazy.

Tim wastes no time in pointing out the obvious.

We eventually called it a day.  After sopping up the gooey remains of my ego with some old towels, we made our way to the Tribe Sokół tent platform to relax for a few minutes before dinner.  Timmy had brought a tent formerly used by the Ringling Brothers, which he proceeded to outfit with an inflatable mattress that included mooring lines.  Poor Bruce was relegated to the small remaining corner of this hangar, where he was to spend a fitful night worried that Timmy would tumble off his lofty perch and (after achieving terminal velocity) crush him.  Oh, the humanity!

After enjoying a beer or two at the camp, we headed back to Jan's house for a traditional Polish dinner of kielbasa, beet-infused horseradish, ogórki kiszony (cucumbers soaked in brine - an unlikely, but delicious, concoction that someone really should consider selling stateside), and toasted Skittles.  Hold on a second.  Ogórki?  What the...  Oh well, I suppose it's a noble enough vegetable.  Returning to camp, Timmy and Bruce headed for the big top while MB and I settled in at the Tribe Cucumber cabin.

In the morning, we met Jan and Renata at Rhodes North Tavern for breakfast.  We were joined there by Tim Hudyncia and new paddler Jenifer Carter.  I had an omelet, but that has little bearing on this story.  Over our meal, Jan sketched out the day's activities for us - another training session in the morning followed by a 5K race in the camp's K-4s in the afternoon.  I also had juice.  We made our way back to camp, where we met Mark Ceconi pulling along a treasure trove of trial skis and stand-up paddleboards.  Mark ended up working harder than the rest of us combined, despite not paddling at all.  On the positive side, he did sell a couple of SUPs.

Jan reenacts his early paddling days in Poland.

Our morning training session would consist of a series of one minute resistance intervals.  We'd maintain the same stroke-pause-stroke cadence as before, but each stroke would involve maximum leg drive and torso rotation, with a special emphasis on maintaining good grunting form (guttural, from the diaphragm).  The resistance part of the training was provided by a short length of tubing Jan had us strap under our boats.  The session was less humiliating than Saturday's, but only because Tim and Jen diluted Jan's efforts.

The K-4s were so unstable that just looking at one caused Timmy to fall in.

By the time we had completed our resistance training, it was time for the race.  After establishing that we had enough people to outfit four K-4s, Jan proceeded to randomly assign paddlers to boats.  The NSA might want to get hold of his randomization algorithm for cryptography, because it defied all predictability and logic.  By the end of the process, I had been assigned to two different boats, had latrine clean-up duty, and was on a waiting list for a liver transplant.  Although light-drinking Tim seemed like an obvious donor candidate, by the time I had found a knife (more of a sharp stone, really) cooler heads had prevailed and four reasonably balanced K-4 crews were set.  Each boat would have at least (and at most) two experienced flatwater paddlers, with the balance (or lack thereof) made up of surfski "specialists".

Encrusted with muck after spending a year in outside storage, Timmy reluctantly agreed to clean himself up before the race.

With something just shy of balletic grace, I spasmed into the rear cockpit of my K-4.  After some initial jitters at launch, I settled in as we began to practice synchronizing our strokes.  Our kayak was helmed by an unfamiliar Russian paddler by the name of Rostock.  Occasional surfskier Yosef Dayan was in the second position.  Bruce was ahead of me in the third seat.  I'm not sure it was a great idea to have me batting clean-up, but I'd just have to close my eyes and swing away (the same"piñata strategy" I used in little league, much to my father's chagrin).

As the first boat on the water, we had sufficient time to try out a few standing starts and a turn or two.  As Yosef instructed us, if you just mirror the stroke of the person in front of you, everything will fall into place.  During warm-ups I mostly felt like we were doing pretty well - not exactly lockstep strokes, but a coordination that a generous observer might refer to as "not entirely haphazard".  However, whenever Rostock changed his cadence, our synchrony faltered as we struggled to adapt to the new tempo.  We'd eventually lock onto the beat, but only after a cacophony of arrhythmic strokes.

Mary Beth was surprised by how stable the boat was. Nobody had the heart to tell her.

Our rehearsal time was all too short.  The other three boats soon joined us on the water.  Tim and Jen were in a sleek Nelo captained by Jan.  Mary Beth was in a boat led by another Russian-born paddler named Ivan.  Timmy anchored a tippy Plastex boat driven by Alex Ambotas (who paddled a tandem surfski to a second place finish with Jan in last year's Blackburn).  Jan led us to the starting line and outlined the 5K course.  I can't say I understood where we supposed to turn, but if at any point I was in the lead, we would have more serious problems than remaining on course.

After mastering synchronicity in warm-ups, we concentrated more on mayhem during the actual race.

Jan counted us down and we struck out.  I was concentrating so intently on staying in sync with Bruce that I was mostly oblivious to my surroundings.  We seemed to be in the lead during the initial straightaway, but after the first turn Mary Beth's boat appeared 5 or 6 lengths in front of us, leading me to believe that they had turned on the wrong marker (that is to say, cheated).  Along with Alex and Timmy's boat, we slowly closed the gap to the scoundrels.  On the third turn, Mary Beth's and Timmy's boats got tangled up, forcing both to near-stops and sending the latter well wide.  By the fourth (and final, it seems) turn, we had pulled even with Mary Beth's boat.

We hadn't been paddling as smoothly as we had in warm-ups, perhaps because we were constantly changing cadence to accommodate the frequent 180 degree turns.  Nevertheless, we still seemed poised to win the race.  And then... Through a negotiation that involved a lot of emphatic Russian, the lead paddlers apparently decided to slow to allow Timmy's boat (pushed wide in the previous turn) to catch up.  Once the three boats were abeam, we commenced a straight-line dash for the finish.  This rapid change in cadence had a catastrophic impact on our shaky uniformity.

Only Mary Beth bothered coordinating her outfit with the boat color.

We tried desperately to hold it together, but when it became clear that this wasn't going to work it was every man for himself.  You'd think that coordinated strokes wouldn't matter that much.  After all, we were all still paddling in the same direction (OK, I'll admit that I did briefly attempt to back-paddle my way back into sync, but eventually gave that effort up as futile).  Not only did our flawless asynchrony slow us dramatically, it felt like the boat might shake itself apart.  Two lost fillings later, we hit the finish line, second behind Alex and Timmy's boat.

Out of respect for the drenched, I haven't mentioned the boat sunk by Jan, Tim, and Jen.  They were once so dry...  Because damp men tell no tales, only Jen remained to relate the sad story of the capsize of the Nelo.  Apparently traumatized by the experience, however, all she could do was rock back and forth while repeating "So wet.  So wet." Those four poor souls had peered into the abyss.  I only hope that someday they can find peace.

In much bigger races than this, there's no shame in fourth place.  Pretty good color coordination, though.

After cleaning up (and drying off), the surfski paddlers made formal apologies to the flatwater pros, who graciously lied about us not being huge disappointments to both them and our parents.  We're a gullible crew, so we grinned foolishly and toasted our K-4 excellence with some beers before returning to administrative HQ for the closing ceremonies.  After another Polish feast, Jan and Renata led us one last time in the mournful Lupinski Sleepaway Camp for Paddlers Hymn.  Tears in his eyes, Jan told us how proud he was... of Bruce.  The rest of us, he said unconvincingly, should "keep at it".  The campers then said their goodbyes, vowing to keep in touch and to sit up straight in the bucket.

I learned a lot at camp.  Keep my hands up and stop doing whatever it is I'm doing with my wrists.  Concentrate on burying the paddle blade before "yankin' it back" (Jan's paraphrased words, not mine).  Never investigate chattering noises coming from under the bed in the Ogórek cabin.  And, most importantly, don't get out in front of Jan in a future race unless you're prepared to weather a withering critique of your stroke.

Our final feast at the Lupinski's home took a strange turn when Mark announced that he was much taller than we had previously thought.

Despite the jokes at his expense, I'm very grateful to Jan for generously offering his time, resources, and expertise for our benefit.  He's an excellent instructor, even when a jackass paddler tries his patience by refusing to heed his suggestions (I swear, it felt like I was doing what I was told).  Although I may have hinted otherwise above (for alleged comic effect), the only monies collected were for race registration and the ACA camp use fees ($1,750 seemed a bit steep, but I guess insurance costs and such must be high in the area).  Thanks to both Jan and Renata for hosting this event while simultaneously dealing with a skateboard-induced family emergency.

Casco Bay Challenge: Tactical Maneuvers

From its murky origins in 2013, the Casco Bay Challenge has quickly grown to be an important race on the New England calendar.  In theory, the course is dead simple: Proceed northeast from Willard Beach in South Portland 16.5 miles across Casco Bay to the Mere Point boat launch.  In practice, picking out the optimal path amongst the dozens of similar-looking islands is no mean feat.  On the positive side, Casco Bay encompasses only 958 square miles, so if you wander off course the Coast Guard will likely find you before the ice sets in (which would be in late August, I believe).  Eric McNett and family would again be serving as our hosts.

On a sunny day with a moderate breeze on our hind quarter (very refreshing), 23 skis (including 5 women), a dozen outriggers, and a handful of SUPs would take this year's Challenge.  To supplement the local paddlers, a healthy contingent from the DC area was rounded up and shipped to Maine.  A more nefarious crew of foreigners from the north also made an appearance.

A couple of years ago, while dabbling in black sorcery, Chris Sherwood inadvertently opened a portal to Halifax (which is about what you deserve when you substitute beaver for newt).  Through this abominable Hal Gate climbed Tim Milligan.  After this first sweet taste of freedom from the eternal torments of universal healthcare, civility in public discourse, and dangerously high syrup consumption quotas, Tim returned with his compatriot Dave Murray in 2014.  And this year he's also unleashed the fearsome Lang Twins on a slumbering country.  Inexplicably separated by 30 years, Lang the Elder (henceforth Robert) is one of Canada's premier marathon and wildwater kayakers, while the younger Lang (Neil, although his robust beard made it difficult to tell) is on the national sprint team.  With Mario Blackburn slipping down from Quebec when nobody was looking, this qualified as an invasion.  I called Homeland Security to warn them, but they told me that Maine wasn't technically under their jurisdiction.

Before the race, Pam tries unsuccessfully to synchronize her internal compass with Robert's.

A half hour after sending the SUPs off to almost certain exhaustion, Eric shepherded the remaining boats onto the water.  Although few suspected it at the time, we were lining up for one of the most intriguing races in recent memory - chock full of back-and-forth tactical maneuvers (mostly back in my case) that would repeatedly scramble the order of the top seven finishers.  A quick airhorn blast later, we were off.  Jan Lupinski, who has more humorous kidney stone anecdotes than almost anyone I know, took the early lead.  To my mind, he was the man to beat today, although with such a strong field there were certainly other contenders.  By a couple of miles into the race I had worked my way into what was probably second place - it was difficult to tell because there was some action way off to my right.

Behind me Jim Mallory had locked onto my wash and swallowed the key.  Although we've never raced directly against one another, Jim and I do have a rivalry of sorts.  For 4 of the past 5 years, we've competed in the same run-bike-paddle team triathlon - finishing as the fastest two kayakers each time.  I would just leave it at that.  A more conscientious writer might also mention that Jim beat me in those 4 races, but I'll be damned if I contract scruples at this age.

After several unsuccessful attempts to shake Jim by working small runners, I eventually adopted a grind-him-down strategy, the primary component of which involved pretending that I was more fit than he.  Through a concentrated application of willful ignorance, I had assumed that Jim and I were alone in pursuit of Jan.  Five miles into the race, the sudden appearance of Neil passing close by at a phenomenal rate made me question that assumption.  Post-race video analysis reveals that he had been lurking behind us for some time.  Jim deftly hopped over to Neil's draft and also slid by me.  With an effort that left only a slight taste of blood in my mouth, I was able to clip onto the back of our reordered train.

Sure, it was a lot of work pulling Jim, Neil, and half of Robert.  But I think they'll agree it was worth the effort. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

For some time, I had been monitoring Eric's progress well off to our right.  It soon became evident that he was going to pass us.  I made the difficult decision to abandon my new-found foster home on Jim's draft to see if Eric would take me in.  Although Jim and Neil soon hopped back on my wash to provide moral support, I couldn't seem to close the half-dozen boat lengths that separated me from Eric.  To muddle matters further, Matt Drayer used an island skimming trajectory to drop in unannounced.  Neil cut over to Matt, and together the youngsters pursued Eric while Jim and I dropped further behind.

Unable to narrow the gap myself, I appealed to Jim for help.  Without hesitation, he leapt into action and surged forward.  Sadly, I had neglected to take into account Jim's power as a sprinter.  Already bruised and battered from my tumble from 2nd to 5th position, I was too woozy to match his awesome acceleration.  My only hope of catching the leaders evaporated as I lost my grip on Jim's wash.  He cast a rueful look back, but there was nothing he could do to arrest my fall.  With a respectful tip of his cap (phenomenal ear control, that guy), Jim carried on to join Matt and Neil.

I was almost grateful for the clean break - there'd be no lingering suffering while I struggled in vain to keep up with those guys.  My competitive fire was on the flickering edge of extinguishing itself when Robert Lang showed up with some kerosene and a bag of marshmallows.  Engulfed by the newly stoked flames, I resigned myself to another hour of torment.  Robert soon passed me, but not without picking up a nasty parasite.

Uh-oh.  Things don't look too good for Mary Beth.  Stay tuned to this blog to find out if she pulled through. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

Eric is the butterfly of the surfski world.  While he always knows where he's going, his erratic fluttering to and fro makes him damn difficult to net (let alone stick a pin in).  Eric's wanderings had those of us behind him weaving drunkenly in an attempt to stay on line.  Jan had been leading throughout from a line well to our left, but our meandering string of six skis proved an irresistible lure for him.  Everyone loves a parade.  He turned sharply to join the festivities, losing enough ground in the process that he lost his solo lead fell in with the head group.

I experimented with a downwind line (peer pressure) in hopes of getting by Robert and making up some ground on those ahead.  I managed to pass and gap Robert, but soon enough he caught me and settled on my wash.  Despite my incantations (OK, curses), I could not exorcise this Canadian demon.  Up ahead, however, his bearded spawn was showing signs of mortality.  Paddling alone for the last few miles, Neil appeared to be struggling with cramps.  Taking advantage of his periodic stops, I gradually closed the distance between us until, with two miles left, we caught him.

It's pretty obvious what I should have done at this point was to continue pushing by Neil (or at least try) - if we were even remotely close to one another near the finish, a 25 year-old national-caliber sprinter was probably going to win that battle.  What I actually did was settle onto his wash, rationalizing that I'd just recuperate a little and then - after a half-mile or so - I'd make my move.  Or maybe, since it's pretty comfy back here, I'll just nestle in for another half-mile.  Seems a shame to make a move with a whole mile left, so perhaps... (at this point my reverie was momentarily disrupted by Robert passing us both) ... I'll just hang out here a little longer.  And so on.  Perhaps 200 meters from the finish, I made a token effort to overtake Neil - mostly because I thought he would appreciate the gesture.  Of course, he brushed my attack aside effortlessly.

The lead pack of Eric, Jim, and Matt were too far ahead for me to pick out individuals but I've reconstructed the events through contemporary newspaper clippings and first-hand accounts from old-timers (I feel a little bad about that low blow, but you bastards should have thought of that before kicking my ass).  Matt held a lead of several boat lengths entering Mere Point Cove, but couldn't fend off a last minute attack from Jim.  In a bang-bang-bang finish, it was Jim, Matt, and Eric in a 4 second span.  90 seconds later it was a pop-pop finish for Jan and Robert (2 seconds apart) and, in another 30 seconds, a pew-(pause)-pew end for Neil and me (6 seconds apart, but not nearly as close as that might sound).  Even though I finished on the periphery of the action, it was perhaps the most exciting race I've been a part of.

In the women's race, Pam Boteler beat Kathleen McNamee by 40 seconds for the win, with Sara Jordan placing third.  Kai Bartlett dominated the OC-1 field, finishing nearly 20 minutes ahead of the next single-bladed competitor.

Jan's new happy place.

I was pleased to find that the post-race spread contained nearly every known recovery provision (although if you're taking requests, Eric, I wouldn't mind seeing some ambergris and tiger blood next year).  Joe Shaw, fearing that someone in the crowd might have a deadly nut allergy, selflessly threw himself on the jar of peanut butter.  Taking inspiration from his altruism, I guzzled the chocolate milk to protect the lactose intolerant hordes from themselves and scarfed bananas like ibuprofen to protect the accident prone (although the fiber blast from the peels made me subsequently regret that philanthropic endeavor).

Even Timmy's high jinks couldn't scour away the bitter taste of defeat (and banana peels). (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)

Eric presented the awards for the top paddlers in the various categories (some type of carved coaster I think - I was too far off the podium to see very well), then proceeded to draw for door prizes given to every participant.  I won a cool Kai Wa'a sponsor shirt, a bottle of mouthwash, and a trial subscription to Southern Bride magazine - a pretty good haul.  Thanks to the McNett clan and sponsor Adventurous Joe Coffee for a memorable time on Casco Bay.

We now have a long break to the Blackburn on July 25.  Great.  That'll give Matt some extra time in the Salem League to undermine the crumbling foundation of my confidence.

Don't miss these great photos from the race (courtesy of Kealani Kimball).

Ride the Bull: Returning to Form

Hubris, I've recently learned, is not a tasty Middle Eastern dish (which explains a lot about the odd looks I got when ordering Lebanese take-out the other day).  Turns out it's a virulent strain of cockiness that can be cured only by by being surgically cut down a notch or two (note to self - check to see if "hubris" has a Hebrew origin).  With Jan Lupinski, Eric Costanzo. and others doing battle at Eric's Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, and the generally confused conditions of the Narragansett Bay course likely to offset any threats from flatwater specialists, I haughtily assumed I'd be crowned Master Bull Breaker this year.  Bobbing beside my boat in the mouth of Mackerel Cove watching Jim Hoffman pull away, however, it was difficult not to think of myself as the clown of this rodeo.

Let's rewind to a time before my comeuppance.

With Northeast paddlers divided among two races (both of which are in the SurfskiRacing point series), attendance at the 3rd annual Ride the Bull race was down from last year's 21 paddlers to a cozy group of 11.  Designed to challenge our rough water skills by keeping us in the confused intertidal zone for a good fraction of the course, the race has a reputation for inducing DNFs and the occasional psychotic break.  Mary Beth had wisely borrowed a V8 for the day, leaving me free to choose my stability level (V10 or V10 Sport).  I've been training almost exclusively on a tiny lake so far this season, so I figured I was well-equipped to handle the refractory slop we'd be paddling through.  Strapping the V10 on the car, I just wished I had a V14 in the quiver.  Hubris in action, folks.

Although he's repeatedly asked me to stop calling him "swami', Tim remains in charge of my spiritual well-being.

I'd usually provide a thorough description of the course about here, but doing so would require that I stop bathing and take the next few days off from work.  During Tim Dwyer's extended pre-race briefing, three people had to be treated for scurvy.  Given the confusion over the such rudimentary concepts as clockwise and counterclockwise, I wasn't optimistic that we'd all be making it back for the awards ceremony.  More cake for me, I figured (that's not so much hubris as a misguided fixation on baked confections).  The gist of the course was that we'd head to Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then the House on the Rock, then back to Fort Wetherill.  If you weren't feeling dizzy from all the turns, you were definitely off track.  Jim Hoffman and Mark Ceconi arrived late to the party and would be forced to improvise their course.

Twenty minutes later, we were underway.  Wesley led the charge towards the first buoy, but I managed to pull ahead of him before we had to make the turn.  Conditions were a little sloppy, but they seemed manageable.  A few minutes later, as I rounded the rock that would slingshot me across the mouth of Mackerel Cove, I saw a tight knit pod of paddlers five or six boat lengths back.  I'd see this group of Wesley, Tim Dwyer, Chris Chappell, and Jim Hoffman whirling by hypnotically over the next few turns of this carousel of a course.

In the turbulent waters off the point that separates Mackerel and Hull Coves, I found myself reminiscing about that golden time (say, 6/22/13) when one could find Jan Lupinski floundering in mortal danger beside his boat rather than basking in glory atop the podium (say, 11/2/14, 4/26/15, 5/2/15, etc. - don't forget to check out Surfski America for all the latest race data!).  Reluctantly shaking myself free from my nostalgia for bygone days, I recommitted myself to winning a mercifully Jan-free race.

Sure, I lost a few tenths of a point for paddle entry angle, but I really nailed the dismount.

As I turned into Hull Cove, I scanned the waters off the beach in search of the orange turn buoy.  Always waiting for such an opening, the wily ocean took advantage of my momentary distraction to serve up a surprise wave from port.  It was more of a playful bump than anything malicious, but it was enough.  A ineffective last-second brace left my paddle buried deep below the surface.  At this point, the capsize was inevitable, but I first had to endure the slow motion unspooling of the process - much like when I'd ask a girl out in college and would have to wait out the laughter before the inevitable no (and/or slap).

After righting myself in the saddle, locating the turn buoy, and heading back out of Hull Cove, I spotted the same chase pack of four hunting me down.  It was tough to tell from a distance, but I'm pretty sure a couple were slavering.  Some cracks began to mar my veneer of confidence.  The trip back to the turn on the far side of Mackerel Cove was uneventful, but I did notice that conditions were getting increasingly messy as the afternoon wind picked up.  Turning back to retrace my strokes, Los Quatro Lobos were still on my heels.  I'm not sure how they managed to get matching leather jackets (embroidered with their toothy logo, natch) since the last turn, but they were looking sharp.  And hungry.

Back at the point between Mackerel and Hull Coves, the action was lively.  Choppy waters had already taken a toll on my paddling form, but now I had to completely disengage my core to daintily pick my way through the syncopated landscape of peaks and troughs.  As long as I concentrated and didn't push too hard I'd have no trouble staying in the bucket, but the knowledge that at least 3 of the Lobos were much better rough waters paddlers than I kept me on the edge of my seat.  Nor was the relentless baying doing any favors in keeping my calm.

If you had told me before the race that at some point I'd do a backwards somersault out of the bucket... I would have been a lot more prepared.

The waters smoothed out entering Hull Cove, providing a brief respite.  Repeating the turn, I was alarmed to see that an alpha wolf had emerged and was making a pursuit breakaway.  Jim had outdistanced the rest of his gang and was now close enough to smell my fear.  Panic rising, I retraced my steps back into Mackerel Cove somewhat less gingerly.  After a few close calls averted via last-second braces, I wasn't too surprised to find myself swimming again.  I blew my first remount, clambered clumsily back onto my ski on the second try, and found that I was now in Jim's clutches.  By now, however, he had slipped on his sheep disguise and was all "Are you OK?".  I warily assured him that I was, got myself together, bared my teeth experimentally (I have no lips, so this isn't easy for me), and slipped into my new role as predator.

For the next mile or so, as we periodically hit patches of relative sedate water, I'd nip at Jim's heels for a few minutes, only to fall back several boat lengths as we returned to more wobbly conditions.  If he was at all alarmed at being chased, he didn't betray his concern - he looked relaxed and steady.  And lost.  After leaving Mackerel Cove, it soon became apparent that Jim didn't know where he was going.  He was in danger of missing the next turn buoy unless I corrected his course.  My first instinct, of course, was to let him wander Narragansett Bay aimlessly while I stole the win.  My next instinct was to send him either further afield by slipping him false directions - as far as villainy goes, in for a penny, in for a pound.  Then I remembered Jim's kind heart, quick smile, and cinder block fists.  Reluctantly, I yelled that he should turn left.  Then, a few minutes later, that he should continue straight past the cove where we launched.  A pattern had been established.

Everyone tells me that I need to work on my paddling form, but I really think I've got it dialed in.

From a half-dozen boat lengths behind, I was shouting out instructions to my very own remote-controlled Hoffman.  If only I could maintain this sway after the race, think of what I could accomplish with my once-gentle giant!  I'd never again have trouble opening jelly jars, messing around with car jacks, or defending myself from enraged grizzlies.  With a stiff breeze making it difficult to hear and Jim constantly threatening to exceed maximum recommended range, reception wasn't quite 100% - but it was enough to keep us headed in the right general direction.

After maneuvering through a field of standing waves near the House on the Rock, I rounded the green channel buoy to find Jim awaiting further instruction.  Pulling alongside, I sketched a quick map and play-acted the final stretch for him.  The scene where I eked out the win in the last 20 meters was particular poignant - were those tears I saw in Jim's eyes?  We got underway again, heading back towards the finish.

I soon saw the remaining Lobos coming towards us - maybe 90 seconds behind.  Actually, I heard them before spotting them.  Chris - apparently not a fan of the capricious Ride The Bull conditions - was venting his criticism of the course in a stentorian voice that had tourists in Newport wondering who Tim and Wesley were and why exactly they deserved to be de-boned and stuffed with live crabs.  I made a mental note to scratch Chris from the invitation list to my inaugural "Slop, Chop, and Roll" race.

With my sensei-like guidance and encouragement ("Keep going!  Through the gap!  Sweep the leg!"), Jim finished strong.  Although I made a final push to pull within a couple of seconds of him at the end, he obviously would have gapped me long before had he not had to keep slowing to wait for directions.  It wasn't long before Tim arrived to claim the final podium spot, with Chris (who, having lost his voice, was now just muttering under his breath) and Wesley not far behind.  Tim Hudyncia, Bruce Deltorchio, and Mark Ceconi were the remaining XY finishers, with Mary Beth again dominating the XX field.  There was only one other swimmer on the day, and I'm sure Tim H would want me to point out that - defying all odds - it was not him.

Thanks to Tim and Wesley (and Jim) for a humbling day.  I'll try not to hold a grudge.

Sakonnet River Race: Winding Up

As the first open water competition of the year, the Sakonnet River race always attracts an enthusiastic group of paddlers anxious to frolic once again in the salt spray.  Twenty-some skis and assorted accoutrement festooned the beach at McCorrie Point, adding some color to the overcast and breezy morning.  This was to be the second of five planned Rhode Island races for the season.  A quick side note: Wesley and Tim have been directed by Providence to provide a clamroll, small drink and the key to the governor's private washroom to anyone who completes all the Ocean State races.  Plan accordingly - I hear they have one of those high-tech toilets that checks your blood sugar levels (ouch) and gives you financial advice.

Despite its mild-mannered appearance, the Sakonnet has been the site of a disproportionate share of weather-related drama.  From the palpable will-they/won't-they tension of the thunderstorm-plagued 2010 race, to the lamentable upwind grind of 2013, to the rain of hellfire in 2012 - it's been a meteorologist/theologist paradise.  While we wouldn't be risking lightning strikes or eternal damnation this year, we would have to contend with a small craft advisory ("For a festive day on the water, consider decorating your boat with stenciled flowers", I believe).  For the 3rd time in the past 6 years, Wesley would be tasked with concocting a new set of ambiguous waypoints to define a course customized for the weather conditions.  I'll grudgingly admit that the course was optimal, but I still maintain that instructing us to turn on the yacht "with a barnacle pattern that looks a little like my nephew Floyd" was vague at best and deceitful at worst (I knew Floyd.  Floyd was a friend of mine.  Collection of sessile suspension feeders of the infraclass Cirripedia, you're no Floyd).

The revised 9 mile course would take us upwind from McCorrie Point for 3 miles to the end of the Sakonnet, followed by a gleeful 4.5 miles downwind to Sandy Point, where we'd turn back towards McCorrie and commence cursing the 20 mph headwind for the final 1.5 miles.  Planning ahead, I brainstormed a series of expletive-laden oaths so that come crunch time, I'd have a range of vibrant options at my fingertips.  The ancient sea gods have pretty much heard it all (sailors...), so they appreciate it when you go the extra mile when blaspheming them.

Reactions ranged from bemused smiles to puzzled stares as I unveiled my new racing thong.

After his impressive K-1 showing on the Essex River, someone got the bright idea to put Mike Dostal in a ski.  Sure, he's personable, humble, and has a delightful accent - a real credit to flatwater paddlers.  But as we've learned from kudzu, Asian carp, and Independence Day, invasive species pose acute threats to delicate ecosystems.  With no natural predators, Mike is liable to irreversibly disrupt the innate balance of the ocean paddler environment.  But, as they say, you can't unring a bell.  Get used to the tolling (it is, after all, for thee).  The best we can do is try to contain the spread of the invasion.  As a first step in this direction, I recommend that we discourage Ben Pigott (Mike's fellow flatwater paddler) from upgrading his old Epic to a next generation ski.  What's that?  He's paddling a Fenn Glide today?  OK, new strategy.  Just cover your ears and pray that the end is quick and painless.

Wesley conducted a well-orchestrated rolling start just off the McCorrie Point beach and the 8th Sakonnet River Race was on.  Somewhat paradoxically, I've long since stopped commenting on my slow starts.  Roughly a dozen paddlers stood between me and the lead, including Jim Hoffman to my right.  It never says anything outright, but I feel like Jim's uncompromising posture has a sneering contempt for my lazy, dejected slump.  Jan Lupinski was to my left at the start, but quickly pulled ahead and worked his way to the lead.  Mike followed, handling the choppy conditions with aplomb (or possibly with equanimity - he was too far ahead to tell for sure).

Once I passed Andrius Zinkevichus to move into 3rd a mile into the race, twenty boat lengths or more lay between me and the lead pair of Jan and Mike.  I wasn't alone though.  Eric Costanzo had glommed onto my draft with both hands and a liberal application of pine tar.  As a rough water specialist, Eric was practically licking his chops for the second leg of the race.  Behind me, I could hear him sharpening the knives he'd use to filet me on the downwind run.  No matter what I tried, I couldn't generate enough speed to shake him.  I'd periodically throw a glance behind, catch a glimpse of his maniacal smile over the millstone I seemed to be dragging, and my hair would stand up on end (you know, like a phantom limb).

Approaching the lee provided by the north end of the sound, the water started to flatten.  I was now able to get some traction in my struggle to pull myself free from Eric, and with a great sucking sound, finally escaped his clutches.  After putting a few lengths between us, I surveyed my situation.  Jan and Mike were well ahead, but apparently didn't know Floyd from a hole in the wall - they were well off heading.  Perhaps I could make up a little time as they realized their mistake, but that alone wouldn't be nearly enough to catch them.  Of more immediate concern was Matt Drayer, who was looking strong paddling my traitorous old black-tip V10.

Allegations that I've rigged my ski with a propulsion device have, until recently, been unsubstantiated.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

Desperate to give myself as much of a head-start as possible over Eric in the mild conditions in the half-mile on either side of the upwind turn-around, I pushed so hard for the next 10 minutes that I was surprised to not be cradling a newborn afterwards.  I lost track of everyone behind me after the turn, so I had no idea if my labor had been in vain (insert rim shot here).   By this time, distance had dispersed the lee and I found myself in increasingly improving downwind conditions.  A blanket of calm descended over me.  The race was now out of my hands.  All I could do was wait to be overtaken by Eric.  While ranking my teeth from most to least favorite - had to pass the time somehow.

I'd never wish a fellow paddler ill unless there was a clear personal benefit in doing so.  It was therefore with a misguidedly clear conscience that I prayed that the downwind conditions would be Mike's undoing.  He'd obviously done fine in the bumpy upwind grind, so I wasn't particularly optimistic that he'd falter going the opposite direction.  And yet... he did seem to be slowing.  Since Mike was on an inside line while I stayed much further out, it was difficult to judge our relative positions.  Over the next 20 minutes, however, it became clear that he was falling more and more to my side.  And there eventually came a time when I looked to my right and couldn't spot his bright orange boat.  As I discovered later, he had at this point started falling more and more to his side. He had been baptized in the warm Rhode Island waters just off McCorrie Point, almost exactly where I had been similarly indoctrinated my first time in a ski five years ago.  With this new-found bond, a sudden realization came to me... Mike was no different from us.  I imagine a similar thought crossed the mind of the last dodo the first time he saw a human laying an egg.

Now it was only Jan ahead.  Way ahead.  He also was well to the inside of me, but no amount of absurd "yeah, but I'm on a better line" self-deceit could actually convince me that I would be catching him.  Conditions continued to improve as we progressed further down the Sakonnet, with the waves becoming larger, cleaner, and more predictable.  Even a downwind bumbler like me was able to link together some quality runs.  I still missed some good rides here and there, but for once I wasn't grappling in a life-or-death struggle with each wave.  Nevertheless, it wasn't until I was 50 meters from the end of the leg that I convinced myself that I wasn't going to be passed.

It was a tie for first, by the way.  Left lateral incisor and right 2nd bicuspid.

After an excruciatingly slow and wide turn at the final turn-around, I finally got a look at the field behind me.  Given that we had just completed 5 miles of open downwind, I was surprised to see how close the next 6 paddlers were clustered.  It looked like Eric, Andrius, Matt, Joe Shaw, Chris Chappell, and Bruce Deltorchio would be competing for (what I sincerely hoped would be) third place.  These guys were perhaps 90 seconds behind me, but unless I increased my upwind pace from "near-standstill" to at least "laggardly", that soon wouldn't be the case.  In the latter stages of the downwind leg, I had averaged something north of 8 miles per hour.  Struggling against the wind and waves, I was now barely breaking 5.

Eric, Andrius, Matt, and Joe vie for 3rd though 6th, apparently not understanding that there's a limit of one ordinal place per paddler.  (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols and SurfskiRacing.com)

There's a saying in my family: "Make Greg eat it."  That's not particularly relevant in this case.  Another saying is: "Nobody hates X as much as I do."  There's an implicit challenge there - "I dare you to say that you hate X more than I do."  Over the years we've ceded certain Xs to particular family members.  My mom has "hypocrites", a cousin has "snakes", and an oddly-specific racist aunt has "Samoans".  I have a lock on "the sun" and "garden hoses" (my blood pressure went up 20 pips just typing that out).  For 30 years, my father, my Uncle John and I have been arguing about who gets "wind".  I'm happy to announce that I've now unilaterally awarded it to myself.  During the upwind leg I achieved a medical grade purity of hatred - a poisonous knot of rancor that threatened to sear me from the inside out unless I spat out the excess venom.  Needless to say, I was grateful to have an assortment of scripted curses at hand.  A non-stop stream of profane invectives powered me through the last leg.  Wind power, I suppose.

For the fourth race in a row, Jan was the first ski to the finish.  As far as he's concerned, he should now consider me utterly bereft of fighting spirit.  A beaten man.  A demoralized husk.  In short, definitely not someone who would spend every waking moment over the next three weeks training to avenge his recent drubbings when we meet again at the Casco Bay Challenge.  So maybe it's OK for him to have a few extra cheeseburgers or to exchange an interval session for a bubble bath.

Jan collected his $50 hotspot winnings, only to squander it immediately on a generous charitable gesture.

Although Eric nabbed the final podium spot, he was frustrated by his less-than-optimal line to the down-wind turn-around.  I was pretty OK with it.  Andrius managed to hold off a hard-charging Matt for 4th, with Joe, Chris, Bruce, Tim Dwyer, and Wesley rounding out the top 10.  Positions 3 through 7 finished within the span of a minute.  Despite not being at the race, Mary Beth took the top female spot.  Mike and Ben both finished the race strong and upright - a non-trivial feat given the conditions and their lack of ocean experience.  Dave Grainger - who's comfortable enough in rough water that he's been known to nap during downwind runs - was having so much fun he immediately got back in line for another ride.  Many thanks to Wesley and Betsy for organizing the race and the post-race spread - great job as always.

The next race weekend will see our field split in two, as the folks in the New York area head to Eric's inaugural Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, while the rest of us Ride the Bull in Narragansett Bay.  The winners of the two races will then compete in a best-of-five rock-paper-scissors match at a neutral site to determine the week's Northeast regional champion.

Essex River Race: Cutting Corners

The start of the Essex River Race is 2.74 miles from our front door - close enough that the acrid stench of a defeat there would prevent us from opening any windows for the next month.  So it was with an increasing sense of panic that I surveyed the formidable field assembling at the Essex boat launch.  In addition to perennial thorns Jan Lupinski and Eric Costanzo, we were joined by Sean Brennan (unbeatable), Hugh Pritchard (inscrutable), Eric McNett (immortal), Mike Dostal (unknown), and Ben Pigott (ill-clothed).  I was intimately familiar with the 6 mile course around Cross Island and had been training hard, but could I avoid being skunked by these guys?  Maybe not, but at least I could take solace in crackerjack parking spot I had secured the night before.

Giving Bill a megaphone is like giving a bear a moped - you hope for the best but still prepare to dive for cover.

Impishly designed with an immediate sharp left after the start, the Essex River course is perfect for the kind of carnage that jaded spectators now demand.  However, the starter effectively sabotaged the carefully planned chaos by surprising some with a short countdown.  The net result was that the twenty-some skis started in tiers rather than all abreast, meaning that the progression around the turn was unsatisfyingly orderly.  I'm told that many in the crowd on shore demanded their money back, despite Sean's sacrificial effort to entertain them with an impromptu workshop on rudder line repair.

Even at low tide, the channel of the Essex River is sufficiently deep for large motor craft to navigate out the winding estuary to the open ocean.  This implies that - paddling in a rather high tide - we could have chosen a course through waters more than 15 feet deep.  Perhaps with disorienting flashbacks of the Narrow River Race clouding our collective judgement, we eschewed that option.  Instead, we cut every corner of the winding river in search of the shallowest suck water possible.  The mud caked on my paddle blade and the sea grass still wedged between my teeth are testaments to just how successful we were.

For the determined paddler, there are no obstacles.

After clearing the first turn, a pack of a dozen or so leaders settled into a chemically stable drafting matrix.  The horde remained in this attack formation for a unnaturally long period, with only slight perturbations in configuration.  Some have speculated that the shallow water made drafting easier, while others suggested that it was a misguided case of giddy esprit de corps.  Even a chain reaction of collisions caused by an unexplained swerve somewhere up ahead couldn't dampen our enthusiasm for solidarity.

Entropy, however, is implacable.  Jan and Hugh were the first to leave the union, their article of secession citing irreconcilable differences in target speed and in tariff policies.  Once the surface tension of our once tight-knit band had been violated, the resulting flood of deserters was inevitable.  Mike popped his K-1 into a new gear to try his luck alone, the entire Eric contingent splintered off to test the waters to the far right, and I made a move to hunt down Hugh.

Jan had managed to shake Hugh from his wake, and the latter now looked vulnerable.  Over the course of the next 5 minutes, I cut his 100 meter lead to a couple of boat lengths.  Perhaps he got wind of my pursuit (only a third of the way through the race, but I was already pretty ripe) because it took me another 5 minutes to close the remaining distance and finally settle onto his draft.  As we rounded the back of Cross Island to head back towards Essex, I gauged Jan's lead to be at least a dozen lengths.  In his black shirt and dark kayak, Mike was well-camouflaged for the overcast day.  I suspect he was at least that far again ahead of Jan.

Paddler X took advantage of his anonymity to taunt Ben and Eric with impunity.  Evaporation, however, would prove his eventual downfall.

I don't know Hugh very well.  I've met (and been soundly beaten by) him at a few previous races, but this was his first time competing in a ski (Stellar SES) rather than a racing kayak.  As such, he now merits further scrutiny.  Hugh is a quiet, reserved gentleman in person, so I had to resort to the Internet to unearth his squalid personal details.  Turns out he's the 73 year-old head of Comparative Plant and Fungal Biology at the Royal Botanic Gardens outside of London.  He's also a 21 year-old junior at Kansas State majoring in psychology and "partying down".  And, finally, a 32 year-old dog-walker in Sacramento whose hobbies include macrame and collecting fluorescent minerals (ask him about his clinohydrite).  He looks great for 73, but, quite frankly, gone a bit to seed for the other ages.  Regardless of his true provenance (based on his accent, perhaps China?), Hugh was 90% likely to beat me if I stayed behind him.

With a couple of miles to go, I centered myself, took a deep breath, and hurtled myself to Hugh's right.  I had hoped to shake him, but he locked onto my port side and held fast.  Apparently irritated by all the shallows and reeds, Jan had decided to take out his frustration on straight lines.  Weaving like a drunken toddler (perhaps in search of deeper water, but who can be sure?), he left the door open to those of us who still cling to Archimedes' tired old cliche about the shortest distance between two points.  We had been blasting through the shallows on the most direct route until then, I'd be damned if anything shy of an extended uphill slog was going to change my strategy.  We were closing the gap to Jan, but unless he helped us a little more (perhaps with some gentle loops), the course was going to run out before we caught him.

Over the past five minutes or so, Hugh and I had established an unspoken contract.  I won't bore you with all the undecipherable legalese, but the gist of it was "We agree that since we're both at 100% effort, there's no reason to push any harder".  Since I was in the lead at the time at which this sacred covenant was tacitly invoked, it stood to reason that this admirable status quo would be maintained through the finish line.

With a mile to go, Hugh wantonly breached our contract by accelerating ahead of me.  Whether he had misrepresented his previous level of effort or had managed to burst the shackles of mathematical limits (by 4 or 5 percentage points, I'd estimate) - that's a question for future generations of legal scholars.  Although confident that any subsequent result would be overturned on appeal, I slipped over to his wash in pursuit.  I'll deny it under oath, but I suppose I can admit in this forum that I had also maintained some off-the-books reserve.

With 3 bends of the river left before the finish, I started to think about passing Hugh.  That was such a pleasant thought, I savored it through another couple of turns.  With the final bend approaching, I made my move.  Some kind of tightly-calibrated laser measurement device might have been able to detect my progress, but it would have been impossible to see any advance with the naked eye.  Hugh slid over to provide enough room for me to pass on the inside of the curve.  While one might interpret this as a gallant gesture, I maintain that Hugh's confidence that he had nothing to fear from me in a sprint tends to undermine any (so-called) noble intent.  I did what I could with the opening he cynically provided, but I had to settle for the feeble moral victory of finishing with a sliver of overlap between our boats.

Giving Hugh a ski is like giving Bill a megaphone - you'd rather just see the bear on a moped.

Mike won the race handily in his K-1, leading to a cutthroat bidding war to lock him into a ski for future races.  Although we had managed to close the gap to Jan in the final couple of miles, he still ended up a half-dozen boat lengths ahead of Hugh and me.  With his third consecutive surfski win, Lupinski's reign of terror threatens to drain all joy from the world.  Don't be deceived by his mischievous smile, sunny demeanor and colorful tales - we will come to rue his dynasty.

In an ironic twist, a fully-covered Eric (McNett) edged out a shirtless Ben to take the 5th HPK spot.  Behind them, Eric Costanzo, Bruce Deltorchio, Andrius Zinkevichus, and Tim Hudyncia secured the next 5 positions.  Bob Capellini won the SS20Plus division in convincing style, while Mary Beth took the women's HPK title.  I don't usually comment on out-of-class competitors (it just encourages them), but rowers Patrick Riordan and Joshua Crosby piloted their sliding seat double to an astonishing 40:05 - the fastest time ever recorded on the Essex River.  Since Pat and I both train on Chebacco Lake, I claim a fair share of credit for their performance.

After the race, Hugh expressed some concerns about appearing in this blog.  I trust he has learned his lesson and won't make a habit of it in the future.

Having exhausted the inland waterways of New England, we're moving on to the open(ish) ocean.  The Sakonnet beckons.

Narrow River in Broad Strokes

Originally scheduled for April 4, the governors of the 10 mile Narrow River Race had granted us a stay of execution due to high winds and excessive whining about the excessive early-season length.  Having exhausted our appeals, however, it came time for our final paddle (with the exception of a sick Wesley, who exonerated himself half-way through the race).  Although the course stubbornly remained as long as ever, the three week reprieve at least supplied us with a pleasantly sunny day and a little extra time to fine-tune our pain thresholds.

Jan, Eric, and Tim - an inseparable trio I like to call the JET Pack.  What tomfoolery will they get into today?

The field was comprised of exactly the 14 paddlers that you'd expect at this race.  I proposed that we also just assign the finishing order that you'd expect and head straight to Oak Hill Tavern, but some reality-addicted sticklers insisted on empirical trials instead.  Wesley and Tim Dwyer called the skippers' meeting to order and supplied us with well-intentioned navigational tips, most of which amounted to variants of "watch out for the bottom".  We'd travel up-river 3 miles, head back down past the start to the mouth of the tidal river, and finish back at the start.  With some luck, we'd accomplish 90% of this afloat.

Via a progression of increasingly dire-sounding warnings about the impending start of the race, Wesley eventually counted us down to a rolling start.  Chris Chappell jumped out to an early lead, with Eric Costanzo in pursuit.  Jan Lupinski, leaving the gate as the favorite with better than 2-1 odds (I had twenty bucks on him myself), started conservatively on the left flank of the snarling pack.  Lacking torque at low RPMs, I eased up to race pace alongside Tim Dwyer.

Yet again, Tim lectures us on the importance of oral hygiene.

After clambering up several familiar rungs of the draft ladder, I was surprised to find myself grabbing hold of Bob Capellini's wake for a boost up to Wesley.  I figured Bob maybe knew something I didn't about an upcoming hotspot, so I ramped up my effort.  Off to my left, still well removed from the fray, I saw Jan moving like a tremendous machine towards the front.  I made a burst to pull past Wesley and hook onto Chris and Eric, with the hope that we three could hitch our wagons to Jan's runaway locomotive.

Recognizing Jan as a villain who must be fettered before he can do additional damage to our point series hopes, Eric Costanzo and I had discussed strategy before the race.  We developed a vigilante plan that was as brilliant as it was unreasonably optimistic:  Trick Chris into pulling us onto Jan's wash, discard him like an old air conditioner (after carefully draining him of environmental toxins, naturally), then work together to deliver a series of punishing intervals directly to Jan's ego.  Perhaps wanting to maintain plausible deniability, Eric didn't technically agree to any of this, but I could tell by the way his eyes glazed over during my Powerpoint presentation that he was on board.  Now we just had to execute.

All the way until mile 0.7, we were spot on plan.  As Chris settled in behind Jan, however, the unimaginable happened...  A catastrophic failure in the Eric-to-Chris latching mechanism left Eric and I to rely on our own over-taxed power plants.  I tried to stoke Eric into overdrive by shoveling derision on his fitness and stamina, but my position squarely behind him gave me no real moral leverage in this regard.  Eventually, a combination of guilt and desperation drove me to move ahead of Eric and take a turn pulling.  Jan eventually dropped Chris, but by that point the latter was at least a dozen boat lengths ahead of us.

Eric soon dropped off my starboard side, leaving me to reel in Chris on my own.  Not wanting to land him too green, I spent the next four miles patiently hauling in the big fella.  When I eventually pulled even with him, however, he still had quite a bit of fight left in him.  It took another mile or so before I could put him away - and even then, as I found afterwards, he lingered on just out of my periphery for another mile (while still keeping enough in the tank to beat off Eric in the final stretch).

I'd be remiss if I failed to address the most notorious characteristic of the Narrow River.  With the exception of a three mile up-and-back portion of the course when the river widens into a small lake, you could see the bottom sliding under your boat for vast stretches of the race.  So?  The water of Lake Tahoe (bear with me here) is so extraordinarily clear that you can often see objects on the lake bed even at depths of over 100 feet.  I can assure you, however, that were the water of the Narrow River miraculously replaced with Guinness, you'd still be able to see each and every pebble through the thin slick of delicious stout.  Also, the race would be a lot more popular.

Every few minutes, you'd hit a particularly shallow stretch of river, draining your speed and willpower in equal measures.  The first few times this happens you'll weave to and fro in search of an ever-elusive channel, but you soon realize that your energy would be better spent cursing Tim and Wesley.  Instead, you plow ahead through the morass - only changing course to avoid prospectors, imprudently discarded murder weapons, and the occasional bag of undrowned kittens.  With perseverance, you'd eventually return to water deep enough to wade in.

Chris and Eric play a medium-stakes game of cat and mouse (Photo courtesy Wesley Echols and SurfskiRacing.com).

With Chris behind me I could still see Jan far ahead, the distance reducing him to that awkward size somewhere between a mote and a speck.  Larger than a point, sure, but definitely smaller that a dot.  Not really mite-sized, but go ahead and use that as a point of reference.  Say 10% larger than a mite, but dressed in bright yellow.  In any event, I focused solely on Jan (without my glasses, I should point out, a mite-plus object is blurred to a subjective size of a diffuse splotch - but I recommend you stick with the objective reality of a mite-like Jan for your visualization purposes), letting Lupinski guide me through the twists of the Narrow River as it approached Narragansett Bay.  That's right...  I navigated by our Pole star.

I've been saving that one for years.

The final turn of the race is only marginally less notorious than the Narrow River's questionable legal status as a "navigable waterway".  Exhausted from 8 miles of racing, we're then asked to turn around a pole that's perilously close to the bank in the fastest-flowing part of the river.  I understand that the race organizers had originally wanted to place an osprey's nest on the pole so that we'd further have to fend off an enraged bird-of-prey, but the cost was prohibitive (call me next time - I got a guy).  Even knowing that it was unlikely that my eyes would be gouged out, I approached the turn with considerable trepidation.  Fortunately, I swung around the pole with no problems that you need to know about.

Mary Beth finished the way she started - mumbling something about the length of the damn race under her breath.

Although I seemed to have gained on Jan at the turn - knocking his lead to under a minute - the visions I had of hunting him down in the last couple of miles revealed themselves to be more of the "fevered" than "prescient" variety.  He steadily widened his lead in the final upstream stretch, ultimately finishing nearly 2 minutes ahead.  Behind me, a heroic battle for the final podium position was playing out as Chris successfully parried repeated attacks from a hard-charging Eric (check out Chris' video).  Bruce Deltorchio continued his strong early-season run by nudging out Tim Dwyer for 5th place.  Mary Beth remains unbeaten among women this season, but now owes Chris Sherwood a case of beer (you're a Schlitz man, right Chris?) for his untiring efforts on her behalf.

We're on my home turf next - the Essex River.  You may want to wear your goggles.  Remember... I got a guy.

Run of the Charles: Power Vacuum

With King Borys and Queen Beata having moved on to a better place, the Northeast surfski thrones sit vacant for the first time in many harvests.  With no heirs apparent, the upcoming season promises to be filled with deft strategic maneuvering, ferocious duels to the finish, and the occasional poisoning.  Fasten your footstraps.  Treacherous seas approach.

Just not literally.  The first full-field race of the post-B&B era would take place on the tranquil waters of the Charles River. (While the second race... well, that will also be on flat water.  But the third... uh, flat too.  We'll have to wait for roiling conditions until the fourth... unless of course the Sakonnet Race is glass-calm like last year.)  A crew of 25 skis showed up for the 6 mile course of the Run of the Charles - nearly all kayakers having sworn off the 9 and 19 mile courses as "too portagy".  Fresh off their impressive showings in Florida at the Shark Bite Challenge two weeks earlier, Craig Impens, Eric Costanzo, and Jan Lupinski were looking to devour a field of soft and pasty New Englanders - while those of us who stayed true to the North looked to defend our (until recently) frozen realm.

Rocky makes some last minute adjustments to what may be the world's oldest Huki.

The 6 mile down-and-back (followed by a little up-and-back) course would take us on a tour of the bridges of Suffolk County.  Wary of the Run of the Charles' tradition of snap starts, the veteran field loitered anxiously about the starting line waiting for the surprise countdown.  As a result, nearly everyone was facing the right direction when the 15 second warning was given.  Ten seconds later the contest was on.

In last year's race, I ruffled a few feathers while clawing my way to an advantageous position during a fevered initial sprint.  The ends may justify the means, but Machiavelli didn't have to race with the same set of guys week after week.  I took a more tactful (and less tactile) approach this year, starting out with a more measured cadence and vowing to work my way honorably up to the lead pack.  Finding myself momentarily trapped behind teenager Augstin Reboul and youthful-in-spirit Wesley Echols, rather than just muscling between them like I might have in the past, I instead muscled through while whistling nonchalantly.  That gives you blanket immunity.

Fortunately, we got started before Judgement commenced.

Once in clearer water, I caught a mild boost from Eric Schulz and a whopping assist from Chris Chappell (always one to pitch in a helping hand).  Chris managed to work us up to Eric Costanzo and an unfamiliar paddler in a classic V10L (that turned out to be Ben Pigott).  The lead pair of Craig and Jan had pulled away several minutes earlier, and Jan had managed to drop Craig sometime soon after that.  With Eric and Ben pulling, Chris and I hunkered in for a downstream ride.

As the field approached the final stretch to the first turn buoy, we saw two skis paddling effortlessly back upstream toward us.  It seemed inconceivable that anyone could have had such a colossal lead on us.  When I then discovered that the paddlers were Mark Ceconi and Sean Milano... I most definitely did not ramp my incredulity to flying-pig levels, but rather silently congratulated those illustrious fellows on their remarkable off-season improvements.  I later discovered that Mark and Sean weren't actually registered for the race, but were sent off early to clear the course of mines.

By the turn-around, it was pretty clear that unless Jan stopped for a picnic on the bank of the Charles, he had a lock on first place.  So you can imagine how dumbfounded I was afterwards when he told me that not only has he not been training, this was actually the first time he's ever even seen a surfski.  Craig was firmly in second place at the turn, but his lead over our little pack didn't look insurmountable.

Ben took the turn very wide and Eric made a tactical error by finding himself trapped on the outside of the turn.   After some maneuvering, I managed to gain a boat length and put myself in a position to get on Ben's stern wash.  I had spent the better part of the first half of the race drafting Chris, Ben and Eric, so it was difficult (but not impossible) to feel aggrieved when Eric leeched onto my starboard to catch a ride of his own on the way back upriver.  We had apparently dropped Chris before the turn.

I've read that the comfortable personal space distance varies considerably from culture to culture.  Evidently, New Jersey is one of those locales where that distance is - at least for someone with a more repressed upbringing - on the claustrophobic end of the scale.  Eric wasn't so much side-drafting me as initiating docking procedures.  I looked to my right a couple of times to discover that I had actually been paddling his boat.  I kept waiting to be boarded, just hoping that I wouldn't find myself in a "take no prisoners!" scenario.

In Eric's defense, I found later that he was experiencing steering issues due to improperly threaded rudder lines.  And, other than the mental anguish I suffered from being the ongoing target of a high-stakes game of "I'm not touching you...", I can't say that his close paddling had any impact on my race.

Sure, it can be a bit annoying to have Eric around all the time.  But he'd take a bullet for me.

About a mile back up the Charles towards the start, Eric whispered conspiratorially in my ear that we should work together to hunt down Craig.  I'm not sure why he focused on the guy who was two places in front of us rather than the one just ahead, but since Eric appeared to have enough cognitive function left to actually form a plan (fatigue had forced me to retreat into reactive lizard-brain mode), who was I to question his ingenious gambit?  We angled slightly away from Ben to take a direct line towards Craig, perhaps a half-dozen boat lengths ahead.

We were almost immediately separated by an oncoming pair of plastic kayaks (an impressive feat - akin to splitting the atom), and that set the tone for the rest of our short-lived and pathetic effort.  I managed to limp back onto Ben's wash, but it wasn't long before he dropped us.  A half-mile later, Eric slipped back from his outrigger position on my starboard side to latch on to my stern.  I checked back periodically to make sure he was comfortable until one time... sniff... I saw only my undisturbed wake.

Eric and I are comparable paddlers, although we have very different strengths in a ski.  Whereas I thrive on the delicate elegance of flat water racing, he's more comfortable in the bare-knuckles world of the open ocean - particularly if it's a downwind kind of brawl.  Last season I was faster when conditions were, say, "moderate" or better.  Eric was faster when things got any messier.  Based on his performance on the Charles, however, it appears that Lesher-Costanzo crossover threshold has shifted from "moderate" to "dead calm".

I spent the last mile and a half a steady 4 boat lengths behind Ben.  I was too exhausted from having dropped Eric to mount a serious challenge.  Ben wasn't going to catch Craig, and I wasn't going to catch Ben.  And Jan had already finished.  So that was the top 5: Jan, Craig, Ben, me, and Eric.  Bruce Deltorchio had a great race to finish 6th, followed by Chris, Tims Dwyer and Hudyncia, and Eric Schulz to round out the top 10.  Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell finished 1 and 2 in the women's division.  I was a little disappointed in missing the podium, but I found ample solace in the Capellinis' superb pulled pork and Chris Sherwood's delightfully hoppy coffee.

Tim may have taken this round, but from Wesley's expression I'm guessing he's working the long con...

Jan threw down the gauntlet with a decisive thrashing of the field.  Will anyone rise to his challenge?  Or will we meekly pick up his glove, dust it off, and apologetically return it with "I think you dropped this, m'lord."?  I don't know about you guys, but I've been honing my paddling skills for combat on the Narrow River.

I'm also preparing some House Lupinski banners.  Just in case.