Blackburn Challenge: Mixed Blessings

While the Olympic athletes of the world held their collective breath to see if they'd be allowed to compete in Tokyo this year, Northeast paddlers similarly awaited news of the Blackburn Challenge.  Of course, there was one critical difference:  In our case, half the field was praying for deliverance from the three-hour sufferfest.  The City of Gloucester was understandably hesitant to permit a large race on her shores, especially given the degree of virus uncertainty at the time of initial planning.  The Cape Ann Rowing Club, on the other hand, was eager to resuscitate a 30-some year tradition of grim torment.  Through a series of extended negotiations - I'm imagining something on par with that of a nuclear arms reduction treaty, both in terms of scope and significance - Gloucester and CARC reached an agreement.  The compromise involved a raft of new restrictions: fewer participants, no first-time racers, no official timing, no after-party, no rafts, etc.  And then, in a last-minute twist, the race was rescheduled from mid July to early August.  Despite all of this, the call of the Blackburn proved irresistible.

The 19.5 mile course is easy to describe.  You paddle out the Annisquam River (actually a tidal estuary), then follow the coast of Cape Ann all the way around into Gloucester Harbor, finishing at the wooden structure known as the Greasy Pole.  You'll pass 5 lighthouses and innumerable miles (don't let the 19.5 fool you) of scenic shoreline, but you'll probably be in a head-down semi-conscious state of exhaustion for most of that trip, so try to pay particular attention to the first half-hour.  One of the fascinating features of the Blackburn is how the conditions vary as you progress around Cape Ann.  You get a little bit of everything: against the tide; against the wind and tide; against the homicidal boaters and wind and tide.  On this day, we'd be defending ourselves against a particularly virulent strain of tide.  On the positive side, the southeast wind would only be in the 7-10 knot range and the Boater Danger Rating wasn't expected to exceed Orange ("Seek immediate cover").

The late change of date and the added restrictions gave the field more of a local feel than usual.  It was a farm-to-table kind of event, stocked primarily with home-grown New England talent, but peppered with a few zesty competitors shipped in fresh from NJ and NY.  Chief among these, of course, was Rob Jehn.  Within a very short span, Rob has established himself as the alpha open-water paddler of the Northeast.  Sure, he might in turn bow to an international-caliber athlete like Sean Brennan, but you can't criticize the leader of the wolf pack just because he succumbs to a grizzly.  It's apples and demi-gods.  Other imports included John Costello and John Hair, who had both driven me hard at the Toms River Race a couple of weeks ago.  However, I figured my fiercest competition would come from a paddler born-and-bred not 5 miles from the starting line - Matt Drayer.  Beating Rob would be an "out-and-out fluke".  Beating Matt would fall somewhere between "in a blue moon" and "when pigs fly".  In the doubles field, out-of-towners Erin and Alan Lamb would face off against locals (and first-time tandem paddlers) Ryan Bardsley and Bernie Romanowski.

In these pre-race moments of quiet anticipation, it's impossible to imagine that just a few hours in the future, you'll be speculating on how much you can sell all your boats for.

Mr. Drayer and I have faced off in our Tuesday night league in Salem Sound a dozen times a season for the past 9 years, so we're now on a first-name basis.  Despite technically being his sensei (The League has some fascinating traditions), Matt's been breathing down my neck that entire time.  Which more and more often has involved a special apparatus of tubes and bellows that redirect his exhalations backwards.  Over the last couple of months, however, Matt has evolved to a new level.  He's started calling me "Grasshopper".  Fortunately, that means I'm no longer in his crosshairs.  He's out for bigger prey.  If I could be the remora to his shark, maybe I could slip by him unnoticed while he was picking Rob's splintered boat from his teeth.  To the extent that I had a strategy, it was to glue myself on Matt's stern, hoping that he could in turn keep a firm grip on Rob.

Wesley Echols had coordinated a mass start for the surfski field, after which we'd time ourselves.  We arranged ourselves in the customary Blackburn fashion, and Wesley counted us down to the start.  Earlier in the week, I had spent a half-hour on a pond in my ICF boat, joyfully pretending that I was in an Olympics 200m K1 sprint.  No matter how many times I tried, I was still finishing several seconds behind the slowest heat finisher in Tokyo (a dynamic young lady paddling for Algeria).  But perhaps this practice had honed my starting skills, because I leapt off the line smartly and was jockeying for a choice position behind Matt and Rob within the first 30 seconds.

John H apparently had the same goal.  He had the line on Matt's stern, but I was a quarter boat length ahead.  If we were walking together on the sidewalk and I suddenly shoved John into traffic, I probably wouldn't be getting any more Christmas cards from him.  What some sticklers might consider manslaughter in everyday life, in racing seems pardonable.  Acceptable, even.  In fact, let's go with inevitable.  Which is how John found himself on the outside, looking in.  Or rather, on the starboard side, looking over.  I was now safely ensconced behind Matt.  John told me after the race that I was probably his "best friend in the whole world" (he'd had a few IPAs), so all was apparently forgiven.

Intrigued by what he saw in the background of this pre-race selfie, John zoomed in and took another for blackmail purposes.  (photo courtesy of John Hair).

Sometimes I suspect that I'm not quite as cool as I think I am.  (photo courtesy of John Hair)

With John H, John C, and the two doubles fanned out behind, Rob led us up the Annisquam against a rapidly increasing tidal current.  I had hoped that Matt and I could use our local knowledge of the winding Annisquam to sneak by Rob, but it's a little tough to be furtive in fluorescent clothing on a narrow waterway.  Particularly when the opposing general has enough excess power and stamina that he can afford to stop, turn-around, stand up in his ski, and survey the battlefield.  Early on I attempted a few surprise attacks from the flanks, but Rob quickly identified and neutralized the threat.  Although Matt was initially smack on Rob's stern, he soon fell back a couple of lengths before locking in at that position.  I remained tight on Matt's draft.  In this configuration, we began to separate from the rest of the field.  I had little sense of what was happening behind our lead group (other than being utterly convinced that they would reappear beside me at any moment), but from GoPro footage and first-hand accounts, I gather that the two doubles, John H, and John C formed the primary chase pack, with a secondary pack composed of Tim Dwyer, Tim Hacket, and Nate Day.  Rob led the field out of the river and started down the coast towards Halibut Point.  Mercifully, once we cleared Annisquam Light, we had a respite from the tide.

About 5 miles into the race, let's say that my conscience finally got the better of me.  I had remained affixed to Matt's stern for 97% of this time.  And drafting his side wake for the other 3%.  With only 15 miles to go, it seemed a virtual certainty that I could maintain this position until passing him in a final sprint.  Matt had trained too hard to be beaten in such an underhanded way.  Don't put too much credence in those naysayers that claim that "by definition" you can't actually exceed your maximum heart rate.  I had been doing just that for the last 30 seconds - would another 2 hours kill me?  So I did the noble thing.  Like Jack slipping silently off that door in the North Atlantic, sacrificing himself so that Rose could survive, I slid off of Matt's stern.  There was a little more strangled gasping than you'd like for a nice clean simile, but I think we can agree that the eerie physical similarities between me and a young DiCaprio more than compensate for that deficiency. 

Rob was gradually widening his lead on Matt, and now the latter on me.  Reaching Halibut Point after about an hour of paddling, I suspected that someone was playing a trick on me.  Where were the confused waves that prowled these environs even on the calmest days?  The wailing of the damned, dashed on the rocks?  The lucrative bounty of salvageable flotsam?  Instead of all this, the surface of the ocean became increasingly smooth as I rounded the point and progressed into Sandy Bay.  Unaccountably, given the winds from the opposite direction, a continuous series of glassy waves arose - modest in size, but significant enough to gently nudge me towards Straitsmouth Gap.  Despite the nurturing sea, I was having trouble finding motivation - the continuing advance of Rob and Matt ahead was sapping my resolve.  Until...

In their double, Ryan & Bernie were akin to newborn giraffes.  When you first see them, they're just a pile of uncoordinated knees and necks, covered in foul-smelling goo.  But mere moments later, in defiance of all logic, they're wobbling to an upright posture.  And then almost immediately they're taking their first tentative strokes.  There's a brief period of playful exuberance as they experiment with their newfound balance and agility.  And finally, having mastered locomotion and with precocious poise, they sail by me in Sandy Bay with a loping gait.  I felt privileged to have witnessed this accelerated life cycle, and also more than a little pissed off that these long-limbed bastards were passing me.  Fortunately, I was able to channel that anger into a spirited (but futile) attempt to keep pace with the duo.  At least they had put enough air in my sails to whisk me from the mental doldrums.

Reaching the halfway point at Straitsmouth Gap, we started to clear the lee of Cape Ann.  Within a span of fifty feet, the formerly glossy surface of the sea was replaced by choppy nubbles.  Making our way around the rocky headlands over the next couple of miles, the southwest wind, the tide, and refracted waves colluded to throw paddlers off their rhythm, and in a few instances, their boats.  The culmination of the aquatic malevolence occurred while passing between Lands End and Milk Island, where I alarmed myself by pausing to have a gel.  Had I not narrowly averted a capsize from this foolhardy move, I'd likely still be untangling myself from a viper's nest of hydration tubes and bungee cords.  As it happened, however, I survived the misjudgment and wobbled through the last of confused waters to reach more predictable (but still unfriendly) conditions.

I continued to track Ryan & Bernie via the former's fluorescent yellow PFD and Matt via his vibrant orange torso (it's a genetic thing).  They were plying an outer line, presumably trying to escape any coastal currents.  Their approach seemed so extreme, however, that I eventually began to wonder if they were trying to reach international waters - perhaps to restock whatever pharmaceutical aids were propelling them.  I couldn't take any cues from Rob's line, since his more muted ensemble (and huge lead) rendered him invisible.  This was just as well, since a post-race analysis of his GPS track revealed that he had been engaging in "evasive maneuvers" to throw off pursuers.  He finished without being torpedoed, but logged almost a quarter mile more total distance than direct-line competitors.

Rob Jehn: The man, the myth, the posable action figure (coming soon!).  (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

Finding the occasional erratic wave heading diagonally shoreward, I decided to take an inner line that would have me making landfall much earlier than Matt.  My hope was that by hugging the coast I could both avoid the tide and perhaps find some rides from refracted waves.  The long open water crossing from Milk Island to the Back Shore had some of the earmark elements of a slog - wind and tide against you, choppy conditions, destination never getting closer - but the gods of mischief didn't seem to have their hearts in it.  I watched from afar as Ryan & Bernie passed Matt and receded over the horizon.  Amazingly, I seemed to be gaining on the latter as I finally approached landfall.  Perhaps he had hit a wall?  

Sure enough, I eventually pulled even with Matt.  As I chatted with him about the race and the latest developments in the Scottish independence movement (Alba gu bràth!), I came to the gradual realization that my conversation partner was not Matt, but some other person entirely.  In fact, this shameless imposter wasn't even in a surfski!  Apparently, my target acquisition software had errantly swapped one distant orange-shirted racer for another during the past half-hour.  Should the algorithm have picked up on the fact that the new target was rowing rather than paddling?  Probably, but given the general state of oxygen deprivation within the CPU, serious system faults were to be expected.  Scanning the zones far ahead, I reacquired Matt (Omega 23, Sector F) and nonchalantly sidled past non-Matt.  Mar sin leat, old friend.

I soon had the opportunity to beta test my coast-hugging strategy within a highly realistic environment.  I could almost feel the crash of the waves on the rocks and taste the salt spray.  I was able to find some decent rides on refracted waves, but I also had to contend with stretches of disorderly churn and make some sudden course corrections to avoid rock-bearing holes that yawned opened in front of me.  All in all, I'd characterize the experiment as a wash.  When I reached the breakwater protecting the harbor, Matt maintained a half Dog Bar lead.  I was tempted to continue close to the quarried rocks, but fear of being snagged by a camouflaged fisherman kept me a cast away.

For a small extra fee, racers were provided with an emotional support animal at the finish.  Unfortunately, nobody seems to have gotten a picture of me and my llama.  (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

Finally entering Gloucester Harbor, I now had the pleasure of feeling the wind at my back, with attendant waves heading in my general direction - roughly 30 degrees to starboard of the straight line to the finish.  The prudent paddler would partake of a few brief rides at a sitting before primly correcting his course, engraving a delicate zig-zag course on the water.  Imagine, if you will, you're a young debutante at an elegant garden party, urged by your genteel hostess to have another macaron.  You demur.  "Oh no, I couldn't possibly..." Next thing you know, security is roughly escorting you off the grounds as you struggle to choke down the dozen treats you've jammed into your pie-hole.  You barely have time to appreciate the fact that the ornamental pond boasts actual live flamingos before you find yourself wildly off-course to the right, in danger of crashing into Ten Pound Island.  Fortunately, I don't think anybody heard my cry of "You can keep your wreteched sweets!" as I sheepishly corrected my line, vowing to never again fall prey to the siren song of wayward waves.

I could make out Matt a quarter mile ahead, paddling towards the finish with something less than fevered zeal.  Like me, he appeared to have accepted his lot in life (or at least the race) and was now resigned to grinding through the remainder of the workday.  Rob completed the course in 2:50:15, while Matt and I clocked in at 2:55:31 and 2:58:05, respectively.  In the ongoing battle to decide who gets to keep the name, John H again clipped John C late in the race.  Down 0-3 this season, Costello should probably start fishing around for a new moniker.  I'd suggest something unique like Ezekiel or Ha'penny to decrease the chance that he'll have to refile all that paperwork again in 2022.  Tim D similarly moved by Tim H and Nate in the final leg of the race.  Hackett is also in a big hole at 1-4, but since "Hack" is a pretty cool nickname, he may just opt to go with that.  Mary Beth claimed her second Blackburn crown in the woman's field, making her that much more difficult to live with.  The double of Ryan & Bernie came tantalizing close to catching Rob, finishing slightly over 2 minutes behind for the second fastest overall time of the day.  The Lambs took the silver spot for doubles, just missing the 3:00 mark for the fifth best time.  Only 4 boats broke that goal, making this one of the slowest Blackburns in the last 20 years - the relentless tidal currents and choppy conditions exacted their toll.

The podium.  In an effort to make Matt look more exhausted than me, I had just told him that I had lost a contact. (photo courtesy of Andy Knight)

Thanks to the many CARC volunteers, with special gratitude to Chris Chappell, who recorded impressively official unofficial times for the entire field.  And congrats to the North Shore locals, who helmed 3 of the fastest 4 boats of the day.  Maybe if there's an asteroid strike or supervolcano eruption between now and the next Blackburn, we can put one of our own on the top step!

Toms River Paddle Race: Express Lane

(photo courtesy of  Mike Goodman)

Given the rich trove of surfski races within two hours of my home, I've been loath to venture outside of my regional comfort zone.  Sure, there have been the odd trips to alien waters, but these events have been "National" in character - The Gorge, Chattajack 31, US Surfski Championships, etc.  That is to say, big enough that a lousy relative performance would be lost in the noise.  Given the continuing influx of paddlers willing to make the arduous trek to New England from exotic locales, however, I felt obligated to reciprocate.  New Jersey's Toms River Paddle Race seemed like the natural choice.  Recently reinvigorated by director Melinda Edward (Schlehlein), this open water race promised the most impressive field of surfski paddlers in any East Coast competition this year.

The race portion of Toms River is mostly a broad tidal estuary that opens into Barnegat Bay.  Our out-and-back course would start near Mathis Plaza in the town of Toms River and take us 3.5 miles to where Dixon Creek enters the bay, turning on a inflatable marker to head back home.  Although the course starts and ends in relatively protected waters, conditions can get increasingly challenging as the estuary opens up and weekend boat traffic increases.

There's no rational explanation for why New Jersey is churning out so many top tier paddlers, although perhaps a desire to avoid the ever-present traffic explains their attraction to the sea.  Local surfskiers include Sean Brennan, Rob Jehn, Craig Impens, and Eric Costanzo, to name a few.  As if this wasn't a potent enough brew, they spiked the punch by enticing Ukrainian flatwater standout Andrii Monastyrskyi to resettle in the Garden State.  All of these paddlers were registered, although Craig and Eric would be sharing a boat.  After heated debate, they settled on using a double.  In a beautiful coincidence of timing, two outstanding Florida-based paddlers also happened to be in New Jersey.  Nate Humberston is one of the fastest all-around American paddlers, having represented the US at the World Championships.  Flavio Costa is best known (to me, at least) as someone who once was someone I could occasionally beat.  He might have been injured, though.

Based on past results, the buzz was around the Sean vs Nate vs Andrii contest.  I was guessing that Flavio, Rob, and the Eric-Craig double would be tight on their tails.  Given Rob's recent ascendency to the Next Level, I figured I'd spend most of my race tangling with the Triple-J threat - John Costello (another local), John Hair, and Jan Lupinski.  I've generally gotten the better of the Johns in the past, but the gap has been steadily closing as I get older and they auction off the dwindling remnants of their souls.  With all his recent travel, I didn't know how fit Jan would be.  He was recently disqualified from the Ocean Racing World Championships in the Canary Islands when stodgy officials determined that his cutting-edge boat-free technique violated pretty much all of the ICF rules.  Undeterred, he's currently petitioning to add a "surf bobbing" class to next year's race.  Formidable tandem paddlers Erin and Alan Lamb also figured to compete in our tier.

Roughly 40% the surfskis were disqualified due to illegal "cantilevered flotation attachments".  Just as well, though, since those competitors also coincidentally forgot half their paddles.

It started out with smiles and playful taunts.  It ended up with us bailing Nate and Flavio out of the pokey.

Those of us not confident enough to paddle their fastest boat in all conditions often suffer from crippling anxiety about which surfski to bring for the conditions.  Several forecasts were indicating 15 to 20 knot cross-winds, with substantially stronger gusts.  Playing it safe, I brought my V10 Sport.  In retrospect, I perhaps shouldn't have paid quite so much attention to the notoriously unreliable posts on the social networking app Tweather.

A few years back I started working on my own app that would tell which boat you should choose for a race.  I quickly became bogged down in simulating the myriad interactions between different boat, paddler, and condition parameters - tide, wind, hull shape, stroke rate, water salinity, cholesterol levels, etc.  To simplify matters, I transitioned to a multivariant temporal loop approach - you'd simultaneously race each of your boats in a different timeline, and "then" choose the best result.  As a bonus, you'd get really adept at winning lotteries.  Things looked quite promising, but it turns out that even the most powerful cellphones lack tachyon dynamometers and fall just shy of being able to provide the 1.21 gigawatts necessary to contort the fabric of space-time.  Plus if more than one competitor used the app, there was a 30% chance that the universe would implode.

I eventually settled on a more practical app that tells you which boat you should have chosen for a race.  Just before the start of the event, you enter 12 carefully chosen parameters.  The app then randomly selects one of the boats you left at home.  If you upgrade to the Pro version, it'll also loudly announce "You brought the wrong boat!"  Kinda wish now that I would've used the original prototype to decide if this whole tangent was worth it.  In any event, the app was undeniably correct this day.  The more extreme winds never materialized, meaning that the I brought much more stability than needed.  As it turned out, however, this poor boat choice had zero impact on my finish placement.

On the Friday prior to the race, Melinda had hosted a professional Zoom-based captain's meeting that resembled a Ted Talk more than an improvised PTA meeting - the vibe I'm more accustomed to.  So on race day we were able to proceed directly to the launch, where we underwent a brief screening for the required safety equipment.  The screener told me that the hard hat and fire extinguisher weren't strictly necessary, but clearly he wasn't familiar with my track record.

John H and I decided that lining up to the right would give us a shorter path to the first gentle bend of the river.  Almost everyone seemed to have a different opinion, but we pride ourselves as rebels who will stick to a hastily-contrived doctrine even if that means sacrificing valuable drafting opportunities.  A whistle soon signaled the start.  Andrii established an immediate lead, with Nate, Sean, and Flavio on his draft.  Eric-Craig and Rob were close on their heels.  After holding fast to a right-wing ideology for a solid 30 seconds, John and I abandoned our dogma and united with the leftists, joining them in a rousing chorus of L'Internationale.  John C was heroically pulling at the front of our collective, with Jan, the Lambs, John H, and myself on various drafts.  You might at first assume that we would rotate leaders in the spirit of contribution to our shared struggle, but... from each according to their ability, to each according to their need.  The drafters judged that John C had the ability and we the need.

Alas, our cohesion couldn't last forever.  John H and Jan had second thoughts about their commitment to the cause and veered off to pursue independent paths.  John C and I eventually had some ideological differences about the party line and similarly formed our own factions.  I kept the Lambs in the brokered settlement, but soon realized that they were wolves in sheep's clothing.  If I let them hang on too long, Erin and Alan would doubtless turn on me.  I made several unsuccessful attempts to shake them before finally breaking free.  I was now paddling roughly abreast of John C, who was 20 meters or so closer to shore.  I could see John H slightly off the pace, maybe 50 meters further out than me.

By this point, the leaders had broken into two groups.  Nate, Sean, and Andrii were at the front, with Flavio, Rob, and Eric/Craig now in pursuit.  However, when Andrii veered off-course on a passing boat wake, Nate and Sean wasted no time in dropping their aw-shucks, please-and-thank-you, why-no-I'm-not-a-dead-eyed-killer off-water facades.  Smelling the blood in the water, they thrashed forward with a merciless series of shared intervals, leaving behind the bloated carcass of Andrii awash in a trail of no-longer-needed hyphens (minus a few the ne'er-do-wells hung onto).  I don't know if the light chop and boat wakes were getting to him, or if he just decided to relinquish his powers to see what it was like to live as a mortal, but Andrii slowed dramatically and was passed by the second group.

Just before the halfway point Nate and Sean had finally managed to drop the jet ski. (photo courtesy of  Mike Goodman)

A half mile before reaching Long Point, where we'd angle north for a half-mile of downwind, I merged with John C.  After catching my breath on his stern draft for what I'd estimate to be no more than 15 seconds, I pulled alongside.  I figured our brief downwind would be my best chance to break free.  We caught Andrii (by all appearances paddling at about 10% capacity) just as we reached the point.  The lighter-than-expected wind wasn't exactly providing rip-roaring rides, but I managed to convince myself that I was milking each wave, leaving John wallowing in my spray.  Empirical evidence had convinced him otherwise, however.  Seeing John less than a half-dozen boat lengths at the turn, I was reluctantly forced to concede the point.

The return trip started mostly into the wind, swinging to a port quarter wind once we rounded Long Point.  With an incoming tide, it made sense to make for the channel.  I glanced back occasionally, using local John C's relative position as a gauge for my line.  I appeared to be prying open a little space between us, but I could also see John H, the Lambs, and Andrii in pursuit.  Apparently a pretty good battle was brewing amongst them until a large yacht wake tipped the balance.  And John C.  Despite a fast remount, the others took advantage of his upheaval to move ahead.

Sean and Nate enjoy that magical bonding time between finishing a hard-fought battle with a worthy competitor and once again being forced to rub elbows with the huddled masses. (photo courtesy of Mariano Elrick)

As I made continued my way up Toms River, naturally I was periodically monitoring my pursuers.  I could no longer see Rob, Flavio, and Eric-Craig up ahead, a fact I attributed to the winding estuary, despite the galling lack of any actual curves.  With just under a mile left, I judged that Andrii (in his recognizable red boat) was well over a minute behind - more than enough margin to secure my current 5th place position among the singles.  At seven-eighths of a mile, I figured he was perhaps a minute back.  At three-quarters of a mile, I started to panic.  By this point, I was really regretting that bloated carcass metaphor I had so blithely concocted earlier.  Apparently he took some umbrage.  Every hysterical glance over my shoulder revealed that Andrii had somehow jumped another half-dozen lengths closer.  It was like leafing through one of those animated flip books, but with 90% of the pages torn out.  And a lot more menace than whimsy.  Fortunately, before Andrii had the chance to reach maximum warp, the finish line intervened to save me.

Nate and Sean had both blistered through the course in less than 55 minutes, with Nate taking the crown by about 20 seconds.  In the 8 minutes longer it took me to finish, they had managed to once again camouflage their genuine natures beneath hail-fellow-well-met veneers, greeting me with their customary terrestrial bonhomie.  Of course, Flavio (3rd) and Rob (4th) had also completed the course well before me, posting times just under 57 minutes in the closest finish of the race.  Given that a couple of months ago I had been a mere half-minute behind Rob at the longer Sakonnet Race, the 5 extra minutes he put on me in NJ has left my faith in a benevolent deity shaken.  The women's race had an exciting finish, with Steph Schell and Mary Beth battling the entire course before Steph seized the lead for good.  Loukia Lili rounded out the podium.  The double of Craig & Eric battled with the singles of Flavio & Rob for much of the race, finishing about 15 seconds behind (5th overall).  Erin & Alan had a strong race as the second double (8th overall), finishing just ahead of John H and John C.

Paddler X asked that he not be identified.  His dominating sprint performance, distinctive accent, and Ukrainian name really gives him away though.

John was getting restless after the race, so we gave him an arts & crafts project to keep him occupied.

The day wasn't quite over.  Melinda had appended a knock-out sprint tournament to the race.  Sean and John C prepared the brackets and set up a 100 meter course in the protected canal adjacent to Huddy Park.  I found myself paired against Andrii in the first round of the sprints, swapping my V10 Sport for a Stellar SEA generously loaned to me by Dave Thomas.  Given that Andrii had recently put up a top five time at the 200m US Olympic team trials (as a guest international competitor), my only hope was that he would break a tie rod and crash into the canal embankment.  Sure enough, Andrii's starting strokes seemed more like a Special Attack from a fighting videogame (Windmill of Death?  Whirring Doom?) than anything an actual human could muster.  After accelerating through the first 25 meters he shut it down and popped his drag chute.  I had anticipated a fair fight, but hadn't taken into account my ingrained deviousness.  As he all-but-coasted toward the finish, I burst a few blood vessels trying catch him by surprise.  Of course, this didn't work, but if you only saw the last 10 meters of the race, it looked sorta close.  As expected, Andrii went on to win the tournament, with Alan (now in a K-1) making short work of his opponents before succumbing to the inevitable.  On the women's side, Steph and Mary Beth repeated their 1-2 finish.

The Toms River Race promised to be the most exciting of the season, and it delivered with a great field and a series of crackerjack head-to-head matches.  Many thanks to Melinda and her crew for ushering the race into an exciting new era.  She promises that next year she'll apply her considerable logistics acumen to taming the metro-area congestion.  For a more fact-based account of the race, check out Melinda's report.

She was too polite to say anything, but Melinda was disappointed that everybody else ignored the "casual elegance" dress code.

Steph, Mary Beth, and Loukia were gracious enough to pose for a podium picture.  The prima donna men demanded an appearance fee and 30% of any downstream revenues. 

Next up is the New England Marathon Paddlesport Championships in Hinsdale, NH on Sunday, August 1.  This is a 12 mile flatwater jaunt on the Connecticut River.  And, of course, the weekend after that is the Blackburn Challenge.  Although there won't be any official timing this year, Wesley Echols is organizing an informal time-yourself start at 8:00am for all surfskiers (see here for details).

Sakonnet Surfski Race: Head Start

The newly rechristened Sakonnet Surfski Race is the prescribed venue for New England paddlers to ease into the open water season.  It's much like the fable in which a frog won't notice he's being boiled alive if you slowly raise the temperature.  The Sakonnet is a skinny bay that might be called a "loch" or "fjord" in another land, or a "river" in the deranged mind of some 17th century cartographer.  In any event, the shore's never too far away.  And if the wind is from the south, like it was for the 14th running of Wesley Echol's classic race, in a worst-case scenario you'll eventually wash up on a sandy beach, complete with several seaside dining options.  Which is nice for the EMTs.

We'd be running a slightly modified version of the 2020 course.  From Island Park Beach, we'd chug 4.5 miles south to Sandy Point, where we'd turn 90 degrees counterclockwise around a mooring buoy, pointing us towards a red nun further away from shore.  Reaching this buoy, we'd turn another 90 degrees and head back to the start.  With a southerly breeze stiffening over the course of the race, we'd pay our dues during the first leg.  For those wise enough to set aside some reserve funds for the second half, the all-you-can-eat downwind buffet would be open.  The rest would be given a complimentary packet of oyster crackers and left to fend for themselves.

It's taken John years of trial and error to get just the right amount of tequila in his "margarition" (TM) system.

We didn't want Rob to feel bad, so we all told him it could happen to anyone.

When they arrived, the cops told us that someone had reported that "some creep was hanging out taking pictures".  They let me listen to the 911 call at the station.  Not cool, MB.

The field was popping with talent.  Despite the Sakonnet not being a loop course, standout NJ paddler Sean Brennan might well lap the field.  People think of Sean as enigmatic and brooding, so they're always surprised to find that he's actually mysterious and meditative.  Plus kinda goofy.  Since fellow Garden Stater Rob Jehn developed an unfortunate taste for New England glory, we've been unable to keep the pest away.  It's like if Brood X crawled out of the ground every 3 weeks.  The Three Johns (Hair, Costello, and Redos) brought their show (mostly puppetry, but also some mime work) on the road from Points West.  Local contenders included South African Gary Shaw (paradoxically), Matt Drayer, and Tim Dwyer, among others.  I expected we'd have a particularly dynamic race in which downwind specialists might zoom by less adept surfers who had made the mistake of getting to the red nun first.  With scores of Miller's Runs under his belt, Gary would be a huge threat on the downwind leg, regardless of how much of a head start he might spot me.  From past experience, I knew that I couldn't ignore Matt or Tim either.

Wesley walked us through the course at the captains meeting, stopping only when the water got over his head.  We'd have to figure it out ourselves past that point.  The 23 boat field soon lined up off the beach - faster paddlers stacked to the right - and was counted down to the start.  Sean roadrunnered off the line, leaving the rest of us in a cloud of mist.  I got out to one of my better starts, but was still unable to match Rob's initial sprint.  Gary managed to grab onto Rob's draft, but dropped off after a short while.  Unsurprisingly, John C, Chris Chappell, and Matt were also in the mix.  I was feeling strong, however, and managed to transition into 3rd position within the first couple minutes.  The field quickly began to string out as we pushed upwind.

This is why you should never talk politics at the captains meeting.  For every Kirk and Jeff on your side, there's an Andy and John left seething.

The last anyone saw of Sean.

Occasionally in a movie or TV show featuring a genius protagonist in dire straits, their problem-solving thought process will be dynamically superimposed on the screen - the complex series of glowing equations and diagrams needed to calculate, say, the trajectory of a thrice-ricocheted bullet into the forehead of Inspector Blanchard (don't feel bad, he was a double agent).  I had that kind of deal going as I tried to figure out whether it made sense to pull shoreward to tuck into the lee of McCorrie Point.  Except that my illegible computations were done in crayon, relied almost exclusively upon astrology, and included a pretty good drawing of a doggie.  My conclusions were muddled, but at least I now knew that it was an inauspicious day to start a new business venture.  Lacking any navigational insights, I decided the safest bet would be to average the straight line and shore-hugging paths.  Only in this way could I definitively eliminate the advantages of either.

It seems that roughly half the field followed the path of compromise, while the more stalwart paddlers (including both Sean and Rob) blasted straight from the start towards Sandy Point.  The general consensus among the faint-hearted was that while we may have been shielded from some waves, low-lying McCorrie Point did little to protect us from the headwind.  Once we had passed McCorrie, however, the westward curve of the shore afforded us more shelter (particularly from waves) on the way to the turn at Sandy Point.  Maybe.

As forecast, the wind was gradually increasing its intensity.  My GPS was dutifully recording the meteorological slow front as it passed through, dropping from 7 mph at the start to 5.5 mph (let's say) with a mile left to the turn.  I pulled up my mental whiteboard again to calculate if I'd actually be going backwards before reaching Sandy Point, but got sidetracked adding a doghouse for Mr. Flappers.  By this time, Sean was no longer visible.  Presumably he had completed his transition to pure energy.  Rob was clearly ahead of me, but the extent of his 15 boat length lead wasn't apparent until we converged for the turn.  I glanced back as I turned away from the shore, but didn't see anyone.  There were doubtless paddlers not too far behind me, but I didn't have the stomach to look too closely.

No special comment.  It's just nice to see a full field of paddlers again. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Wesley had assured us that after we turned 90 degrees clockwise at Sandy Point, we'd be pointed directly at the red nun that marked our next turn.  "You can't miss it" - his exact words, I believe.  You know how when a scientist is trying to convey how incredibly powerful the Hubble telescope is, they'll say something like "If it were in San Francisco, it could read the year on a penny in Philadelphia".  With de-orbiting costs what they are, seems like it'd be more cost-effective to just call up the guy holding the coin in Philly and ask him the year.  In any event, you see where I'm going with this.  The buoy was eminently miss-able, even if you happened to have a 2.4 meter parabolic primary mirror mounted on your boat (make sure you opt for the high volume ski - those things are heavier than you'd think).

I couldn't know if Rob had spotted the buoy or not, but he seemed to be paddling in a direction other than 90 degrees around the turn.  I never seem to have a protractor handy when needed, so I'll just estimate his angle more in the vicinity of 45 degrees.  Using Rob's heading as a cue, I adjusted my search grid.  After several unsuccessful scans, I finally spotted a tiny red dot that I'd characterize as "way the hell out" in the middle of the bay.   In Wesley's defense, he had said that the buoy was 0.3 miles from the turn, but how am I supposed to know exactly how miniscule a small navigational buoy would appear from more than a quarter mile away?  I mean other than the 15 years of ocean paddling experience.  Plus it was actually 0.4 miles.

After paddling directly upwind for the last 45 minutes, it took a few minutes to adjust to the quartering conditions we had to traverse to reach the turn buoy.  The waves looked promising for the downwind leg, however, so I didn't begrudge being tossed around a little.  I reached the turn still 15 lengths behind Rob.  This time I was able to spot 3 or 4 pursuers a couple minutes back.  Although I couldn't positively identify the individual paddlers, the ominous Terminator drumbeat was echoing in my head.  Gary's eyes were likely starting to glow at the prospect of hunting me down.  Wouldn't be surprised if Matt and Tim D weren't also feeling the blood lust.

For the first mile or so, the downwind runs were excellent.  I figured as long as I didn't miss a single runner and consistently linked each launching wave into at least a dozen more, I stood a fair chance (say 12%) of managing a podium finish.  Rob and I again took different lines - his ludicrously far to the left (from my perspective) and mine ludicrously far to the right (from his and my GPS track's perspective).  We quickly diverged to the degree that it became impossible to gauge relative progress.  Not having any reliable data on our relative downwind competence, I instinctively figured my superior skills were allowing me to catch and pass Rob.  This relieved me of some of the Gary-induced anxiety, since I'd still claim bronze even if overtaken by the South African menace.

As we progressed deeper into the bay, some combination of changes related to wind, tides, seabed topology, and Venus (it's in retrograde, after all) conspired to degrade the downwind conditions.  There were still plenty of rideable waves, but they lacked punch.  Although disappointing at the time, this probably played to my advantage.  Of course, I hadn't actually been working the conditions any better than Rob.  But, according to eye witness accounts from Matt and John H, Gary had been putting on a downwind clinic.  After the turn at the nun, he had quickly passed them, working diagonal lines to wring every ounce of potential from the waves.  But with the smaller conditions limiting the liquid energy available, and Gary feeling a little underconditioned himself, his comeback effort fell short.

With a mile to go, I reassessed my situation vis-a-vis Rob.  In good conscience, I could no longer maintain the delusion that I was catching him.  "Limit the damage" became my new mantra.  Not the most aspirational of mantras, perhaps, but given how drained I was feeling, I think I deserve some credit for not just going with "Screw it".  Rob finished 25 seconds ahead - damage that would have otherwise been 2 or 3 seconds less limited.  Sean had won the race, of course, but had the grace not to remind us that he was finishing while Rob and I were still in diapers.  Gary claimed the 4th position, but the highlight of the race came shortly after - Matt and John H surfing to the line on the same wave, with Matt nosing in just ahead.  A few moments later, Tim D. managed to get nearly his entire head in before John C and Tim Hacket.  Mary Beth claimed the women's title, in part due to her almost pathological adherence to navigational guidelines.

Maybe just a little less booze next time, John. (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Given that Leslie wasn't even in the race, she finished surprisingly well.  (photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

The post-race debrief continued on the beach for quite some time before migrating to Flo's Drive In, just a short walk away.  I must have had one too many stuffed quahogs, because I found myself trash-talking Rob.  Despite the fact that he's beaten me 5 of the 6 times we've raced, I made the assertion that under certain conditions (flat water, him in V12, me in V14) that I'd "wipe the course with him".  When making such an outrageous claim, it's a good idea to ensure that it can never actually be authenticated.  Unfortunately, the exact conditions of the challenge will be satisfied when we meet in September at the Great Stone Dam Classic.  Oops.  Yet another in a long series of mollusk-induced blunders.  Doubtless, Rob will spend his summer training for this meeting.  I, on the other hand, will spend my summer crawling through the underbrush in an attempt to contract Lyme disease.

Thanks to Wesley for an extremely satisfying race.  Having tuned our ocean skills at the Sakonnet, we're now ready to be thrown into the atonal waters of the Ride the Bull race on June 26th.  The race is free, but you must preregister at PaddleGuru.

Battle of the Bay: Fine Line

You might think that a race held in a gated community situated on a semi-private island within the genteel city of Newport would attract only the finest breed of paddlers - athletes with refined tastes, ivy league degrees, and the highest standards of personal hygiene.  But maybe by chance you'd overhear at a polo tournament or yacht christening that Tim Dwyer was hosting the event in question.  And then, of course, you'd rush home to safeguard your valuables before the hoi polloi invaded.  For the second year, Tim would be running the Battle of the Bay from his home on Goat Island in the mouth of Newport Harbor.  Although the race is usually held in July, the postponement of the Essex River Race left a hole in the surfski season too big for an opportunistic race director to ignore.

Wary of the cold ocean temperatures and unpredictable May weather, Tim had originally planned a conservative course that would keep us mostly within Newport Harbor.  With nearly no wind and temperatures approaching 70, however, he made the race-day decision to revert to the triangular course from 2020.  We'd start at the southern end of Goat Island, head out to buoy R12, return to the northern end of Goat Island, and follow the harbor-side coast of the island back to the start.  Two laps would total just shy of 6 miles.

As befitted the boutique nature of a Newport race, the field was small but eclectic.  In addition to a smattering of locals and regulars, Rob Jehn and Megan Pfeiffer made the long trek from New Jersey, flatwater specialist Mark Wendolowski decided to see what all the salt water fuss was about, Gary Shaw joined us from South Africa (not just for the race - he also was dabbling as an engineer on a sailing yacht while in the area), and fellow swan-attack victim Jeff Tucker (with chipped gel coat to prove it).  My principal concern was Rob, who had beaten me a few weeks before on the Quaboag River.  He'd be in a V12 rather than his customary V10, but it didn't look like the conditions would make him regret that decision.  Based on his country of origin, I had concerns about Gary as well, but he assured me that he was out of shape.  Which is exactly what the lion tells the gullible springbok at the watering hole.

Even on the water, we're slaves to our screens.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

After a captain's meeting that focused primarily on the rich naval history of Newport ("So, in summary, watch out for unexploded torpedoes!"), we launched a modest fleet to prepare for our brand of maritime skirmish.  Making a rare concession to tactical thinking (or, if you want to quibble, common sense), I positioned myself near Rob for the start.  Taking the next logical step, I was quietly lashing my boat to his when Tim's countdown rudely interrupted my efforts.  Rob's start was solid, but I was able to stay close enough to get the benefit of his draft.  Just to our right, Gary also got off the line well.  The remainder of the lead group consisted of Tim D, Mark, Wesley, and Tim Hackett.

Within the first 30 seconds, my tenuous link to Rob started to fray.  To legally preserve my privileged position in the general vicinity of his stern draft, I loudly called out "Dibs!"  Apparently this sacrosanct protocol doesn't carry quite the same weight in South Africa as it does here, because Gary scarcely hesitated before sliding into my rightful drafting slot.  The nerve!  [My live-in editor, who wasn't at the race and has never even met Gary, somehow intuited that this might be a case of unwarranted indignation.  Under enhanced interrogation, I cracked and revealed that I had fallen back an honest boat length before Gary's move.  Still... Dibs!]

I debated between Gary's port and stern drafts, ultimately letting my flagging speed settle the argument in favor of the latter.  In retrospect, this mistake cost me the race.  That's what I like so much about retrospect - it need not align with reality to any significant degree.  I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there were elves, unicorns, and affordable healthcare in retrospect.  Here's how my particular alternative history would have played out.  On Gary's side draft (with a better view of the situation), I immediately detect when he starts to fall off of Rob.  A short half boat length surge is sufficient to secure a spot just behind Rob.  I implausibly stick with him in this position for the next 5.5 miles.  You might think in my manufactured vision that I'd then sprint by Rob at the finish, but it turns out that's not within even my fictional abilities.  No, I'd only win after aggressively ramming his stern and forcing him into a piling.  So, perhaps better that things played out as they did.  

I like to poke fun at Tim, but the truth is that he's the kind of guy that you want around when things get rough.  That is, the kind of guy that really puts a premium on visibility.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

I'm just out of the frame.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Although Gary stayed with Rob for a couple of minutes, he eventually was unable to maintain the leader's pace.  I pulled around him and made what at that time felt like an all-out effort to catch Rob.  Given that I've lived to write the tale, however, in retrospect it seems I could have put a little more heart into it.  That particular timeline has me suffering a stroke at mile 4 and being air-lifted to the only available in-network provider, just outside Dayton.  Interestingly, though, the pilot was an elf.

Despite my best (?) efforts, Rob remained out of reach.  At this point he could have put the nail in my coffin by pulling further ahead into uncatchable territory.  Instead, the sadist elected to prolong my death throes (coincidentally, the exact term a dumbfounded Sean Rice once used to describe my stroke) through a fiendish combination of offsetting ploys.  First, he dialed his velocity to approximately 2% greater than mine.  Then to counteract nearly all the gains this should have garnered, Rob charted the kind of erratic lines seldom seen outside of a Jackson Pollock painting.  Given that this was a point-to-point course with highly visible landmarks and no consequential current or wind effects, you'd be amazed at how many times I had to restrain myself from shouting out course adjustments to the leader.  Fortunately, my innate sense of underhandedness made it relatively easy to keep my trap shut in the face of Rob's questionable route decisions.  Against my better judgement, however, after the race I gave him a crash course in Euclidean geometry.  You know... how the shortest path between two points is a semi-circle - not the milder arcs he had been experimenting with.

So Rob would steadily pull away on each of the triangular legs, only to sacrifice much of that effort when we converged at the next vertex.  My hopes of catching him would wane and wax accordingly.  The net effect, however, was that Rob's lead grew incrementally.  Any hopes that V12 instability would trip him up were dashed by a dearth of boat traffic, as well as by his deft handling of those wakes we did encounter.  My spirits waxed gibbous one final time at the second turn at R12, but quickly descended again into shadow as Rob's unconventional line back towards Goat Island actually reaped dividends.  On that course he was better able to leverage the long swell from a massive cargo ship that had entered Narragansett Bay some minutes earlier.  With a little over a mile remaining, I reluctantly transitioned from the pursuit phase of the race to the face-saving "minimize the damage" phase.

Rob finished 42 seconds ahead of me - safely within the not-at-all-arbitrary 45 second threshold that  I decided would allow me to look him in the eyes afterwards.  I'm disregarding the 30 or so seconds he probably could have added to that gap with better navigation, of course.  Gary pulled in a few moments later to claim the final podium spot.  Megan took the women's crown in her inaugural New England race.  Will Bomar was the SUP champion.  Afterwards, we all enjoyed the fine day, with marvelous panoramic views of the growing activity in the bay.  Thanks to Tim for having us over.

The bonhomie is what keeps me coming back.  Goes great on a cracker with a dash of paprika. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Safety first.  Despite the fact that the field was accounted for and on dry land, Dave remained suited up in case one of us needed rescue.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Next up is the Sakonnet Surfski Race on June 5.  After years of legal wrangling and ugly court battles, Wesley finally accepted a plea bargain, conceding that the former name ("Sakonnet River Race") comprised "grossly misleading nomenclature" that "willfully distorted the true nature of the venue".  To wit... it ain't a river.  Sadly, my broader case against the cartographers of the world remains unresolved.  Register at PaddleGuru.

Narrow River Race: Redux

After months of intensive lobbying of race director Tim Dwyer, I managed to have last year's Narrow River Race expunged from the records.  Delayed from April to October by COVID and subsequently capped at only 10 paddlers, one can hardly tolerate such an illegitimate farce disgracing the official annals.  I felt bad that Mike Florio's first-ever surfski victory would be coincidentally voided, but the common good must prevail.  He'd probably want his inaugural gold medal to be by more decisive a margin than a mere five and a half minutes anyway.

With less stringent gathering restrictions, it looked like the 2021 run of the Narrow River Race would be fully sanctioned.  Pending suitable results, of course.  Nearly the entire field of last year's pseudo-race responded to their summons for a rematch, to be joined by a dozen other paddlers, including the first ever C-2 entry.  Even though he was quick to play the "I haven't been training much" card (adding it to the growing pile), all eyes were on Mike.  Having worked out recently with Chris Chappell, I knew he'd be a serious threat as well.  Vibrantly named newcomers Loukia Lili, Josco Catipovic, and, er, Jeff Tucker chose the Narrow River for their first surfski race.  Loukia, a national-caliber amateur triathlete, celebrated her 40th birthday by driving 5 hours on a whim to compete with us.  That kind of vigor and enthusiasm might be inspiring to some, but sent several of the more world-weary competitors to pre-race naps in their cars.

Carole graciously offered to provide sign language interpretation, but Tim's gesticulations left no room for confusion.

After years of yoga and meditation, Wesley finally achieved inner bliss just moments before the race.  Unfortunately, he lost it 3 minutes after the start.

With the post time rapidly approaching, Tim called on us to "huddle up" for the captains meeting.  He made beckoning gestures with his open arms, but the rest of us collectively decided to maintain a reasonable social distance.  Because of the pandemic, we told him.

We'd be running the standard 8 mile course.  After heading upriver for 3 miles, we'd turn at a rowing club dock, reverse our way back past the launch, turn on some pilings a mile downriver, then finish back at the start.  With temperatures in the 50s and only a light breeze, conditions were perfect.  From the shore, it was difficult to tell whether the notoriously depth-challenged river contained enough liquid for safe passage.  For a change, I couldn't see any writhing fish struggling to keep their gills immersed, so perhaps we'd be OK.

I felt kinda bad for hazing Loukia by telling her that newbies were expected to perform an interpretative dance at the captains meeting, but she really knocked it out of the park.

We hit the water.  A nucleus of fast-twitch paddlers formed on the left side of the line, to be quickly surrounded by a buzzing shell of hangers-on attracted by the prospect of getting pulled along for the ride.  I chose a neutral path to the far right - too proud to wring ill-gotten gains from the sweat of my competitors.  That's how I'm couching my tactical positioning blunder, at least.  In the soothing tones of a time-and-temperature operator, Tim counted us down to an incongruously low-key start.  After a moment of disorientation, I shook the sleep from my eyes and launched immediately into a recurring nightmare.  You know the one: Everyone else is off to a great start, you can't remember how a paddle works, and you're pants-less.  In a horrific new twist, however, the velcro on one of my pogies had also come loose, leaving it free to slide up and down my paddle with every twitchy stroke.

As expected, Mike and Chris C led the charge on the left, flanked by John Costello in a boat several notches less streamlined.  Mark Wendolowski, Chris Quinn, Tim D, and Tim Hacket followed closely behind.  My vantage point from open water to the distant right provided a welcome detachment from the crushing sense of inadequacy I usually feel when falling behind early.  It was almost as if I was floating in my boat, watching the race from far away.  Lest I were to drift even further into reverie, I forced myself to focus (with a little help from those old friends, lactic acid and panic) and join the fray.  I angled alongside Tim D, and, after exchanging some pleasantries with our host, started to work slowly up the rankings.  I moved past Chris Q (uncharacteristically shirted) and Mark (not generally a saltwater paddler, but adapting well to the brackish conditions).  By this point, Mike was out to an 8 length lead over Chris C, with John now struggling to stay on Chris' draft.

While closing the 3 length gap to John over the next couple of minutes, I marveled at his power and efficiency.  Despite taking a single stroke for every 14 of mine (give or take), he was pushing a V10 Sport at practically the same speed as my V14.  I'm just hoping that restraining order against his beam remains in place at 19".  I tried to slip by John as quietly as possible, much as you'd tip-toe past a hibernating bear.  I made it by, but wouldn't really feel comfortable with him behind me until I had put a sacrificial offering between us.

After one too many close shaves with duck hunters, Chris now errs on the side of caution.  (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

It took me several minutes to catch Chris.  Since he had shown me such generous hospitality in the past, I figured on settling in the unused plot immediately behind him.  I'd squat there temporarily - at least until my application for permanent residency was approved.  Maybe I'd pop alongside Chris every now and again to borrow a cup of sugar, but mostly I'd just keep quarantined in my cozy new home.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when my hunkering was interrupted by sharp pangs of conscience.  My shame threshold is pretty high, so for feelings of guilt to reach the surface requires some truly disgraceful behavior.  Apparently, I'd be expected to show some integrity.  Frankly, the better angels of our nature can be a real drag.  Reluctantly, I abandoned my newfound shelter and tried to pass Chris.

We paddled side-by-side for several minutes as the Narrow River widened into a slightly less narrow lake.  Our race-within-a-race was soon embedded within yet another race, as we found ourselves unwitting participants in a pairs sculling contest.  Given that the other racers had cleverly devised a method of applying power simultaneously on both sides via a mind-boggling lever-and-fulcrum mechanism and managed to shoehorn 2 people in each boat, I didn't like our odds.  Chris and I leveled the field a little bit by charging down-course well before the starting gun, but within seconds the sculls had erased our handicap.  Fortunately, we were gently nudged to one side by the race director's bullhorn before the rowers were able to dismount us.  Twenty-five lengths ahead, Mike showed himself impervious to those same amplified commands, but his line to our turn-around naturally diverged from their course well before any blows could be exchanged.

During the interdisciplinary excitement, I managed to start pulling away from Chris.  I reached the turning point several lengths ahead, buoyed by the (quite possibly sarcastic) cheers from the crew club supporters lining the docks to applaud their racers.  Heading back down the lake, I saw John perhaps 15 lengths behind Chris, with Mark and Chris Q back again as far.  Now working against a light wind and mild current, my speed dropped a little, but not to the extent I had feared.  Based on a few quick glimpses of Chris back over my shoulder, I seemed to be prying open the gap.

I mentioned that I had suffered a catastrophic pogie failure back at the start.  For the last 30 minutes the partially attached pogie had been flapping against my left hand, but I couldn't afford to stop and remedy the situation.  It was becoming clear, however, that the situation had ripened from an annoying distraction to a life-threatening predicament.  Because of a genetic abnormality (self-diagnosed, but nonetheless completely not made-up), my skin lacks the polyproline IIIa collagen necessary to fend off minor abrasions and irritations.  I'm a very sensitive fellow.  In the absence of any more estimable character traits, my cruel high school classmates voted me Most Likely to Chafe.  Over the years I've been referred to a succession of specialists, all of whom strongly advised that I avoid any leisure activity that involved repetitive motions while clad in neoprene.  That kind of thing wasn't really my groove anyway, so I got into paddling.  Despite applying ample space-age lubricant, I've grown accustomed to the angry abrasions that circle my waist during the paddling season.  I'm happy to endure second-degree chafing over 30% of my body to secure a podium finish, but I was pretty sure that I could now see bone where the flopping pogie had rubbed the skin off my thumb.

Off the course... nicest guy you could meet.  On the course... diabolical supervillain.  Cool costume, though. (Photo courtesy of Bob Wright)

Having put some distance on Chris, I decided to risk a quick stop to salvage enough dermis to accept a graft (donations welcome).  I figured that removing the pogie entirely would be quicker than reattaching the loose side, but I hadn't anticipated that the remaining velcro would have the cohesive strength of welded steel.  Twenty-some minutes later, I managed to detach the cursed thing and fling it disgustedly in my footwell.  My lead on Chris had been reduced to a dozen lengths, but at least I'd managed to save my fourth most cherished extremity (list available upon request).

Progress downriver continued at a reasonable pace until I approached the launch area, where the river straightens and widens into a marshy stretch.  This revealed the extent to which the winding river had been protecting us from the growing southerly breeze.  More critically, however, with an expansive floodplain to enjoy, the water abandoned the constrictions of a navigable channel and kicked back in the shallows.  Knowing the suck water was coming, I braced for the sudden deceleration, making sure both knees were slightly bent to better absorb the impact.  Physically, I suffered only a mild case of whiplash and a couple of lost fillings.  But how does one measure the toll on the spirit?

I had suddenly lost about 15% of my former speed.  My energy and morale reserves were bottoming out (which was also a constant threat to my ski), but I eventually made it to the downstream turn.  Nearby, a couple of fisherman were standing in holes they had dug in the riverbed to try out their waders.  One needlessly apologized for casting in my general vicinity.  Given that he wouldn't be able to unsee the horror of my cross-current turn, I assured him that he was more sinned against than sinning.

Even after we explained the paradox to him, Bob insisted on trying to get a shot of himself finishing.

Clad completely in unbreathable fabric, Dave had limited options for shedding excess heat.

For the final mile back to the finish, I waited in vain for some help from what was now a stiffening tailwind.  The relentless pull from the shallows was trumping any assistance from wind or current.  Not until the final quarter mile was I able to loosen the shackles enough to exceed "brisk walk" pace. Although it was impossible to measure exactly how much earlier Mike had finished due to his warping of the space-time continuum, my best guess is that he was 5 minutes or so ahead - just off the course record he had set back in the fall.  Gold at last for Mike!  Chris C finished roughly a minute behind me, with John, Chris Q, Mark, and Tim following over the next few minutes.  First-timer Loukia broke her winless streak as the first female finisher, with Mary Beth taking second.

Since our normal post-race venue wasn't open for outdoor dining, we contented ourselves with hobnobbing in the parking lot.  At least until the vice squad showed up to break up the depravity.  Thanks to Tim for hosting another fine day on the water.

In a normal year, the Run of the Charles and the Essex River Race would be next on our agendas.  Due to COVID, however, the former is being run as a virtual race, while the latter has been shifted to early October.  The vacuum left by these changes has sucked Tim's Battle of the Bay from mid-summer to mid-spring.  The race will be held on May 15 at its new (as of 2020) Goat Island home.  Register at PaddleGuru.