I hold the Essex River Race responsible for getting me in a surfski. When I first wondered "what is that?" while racing in a sea kayak in the early aughts, who knew that I'd end up spending my final years obsessing over loggerhead shrikes and red-winged scrub jays! I'm assuming that I'll eventually move on to a new hobby. For now, however, the ERR holds a place of honor in my heart. And owes me about $25K in accumulated ski reimbursements. Wesley, you can probably expect to be named as a co-defendant in the forthcoming lawsuit.
The race is a 5.75 mile out-and-back lollipop course with Cross Island as the delicious candy treat (not lime, obviously, which would make it neither delicious nor a treat) and the Essex River as the unusually sinuous stick. This year, there would be 25 skis sharing the winding river with 100 other self-powered watercraft of varying descriptions (with "ponderous" and "unsteerable" being two of the more worrisome). You gotta be able to bob and weave your way out of trouble, but you better also have a good corner-man ready to clean you up after taking an unseen oar to the noodle. With perennial thorn-in-my-side Jan Lupinski making his New England season debut and Mike Florio reprising his role as a somber reminder of lost youth (not mine specifically, as he highlighted by paddling shirtless, but someone's), the non-lethal competition was also intimidating. And there's now also this other guy...
A couple of years ago, I received an email out of the blue from a young kayaker who had seen some of my race reports and was looking for some advice about getting into a surfski. Obviously he hadn't read my blog too carefully, or he'd have known that my true expertise lies in getting off of a surfski. Nevertheless, I responded to "Janda Ricci-Munn" (the humorous pseudonym he had chosen for himself ) with a few tips and a liability waiver. If only I had read the signs and instead answered with a rude dismissal! Instead, I unknowingly invited into our midst the fiend who may one day destroy us all.
Janda was a national-caliber 70.3 (Half-Iron) triathlete with a PR of 3:57:53. For context, that's slightly less time than it takes me to get out of bed most mornings. After retiring from triathlons a few years back, however, Janda let his fitness level slide from inhuman to merely superhuman. Searching for an outlet that would combine fitness, the outdoors, and friendly competition, his unwavering gaze eventually settled on surfskis. Think Sauron, but more personable and with an actual body. He's committed, hyper-fit, knows everything there is to know about training, and won't rest until the Fellowship is broken.
Of course, once I realized my mistake in opening the portal to our doom, I did everything I could to mitigate the damage. To myself, I mean. In exchange for periodic demonstrations of paddling mistakes to avoid, Janda has guided me through the physiological underpinnings of effective training techniques. Despite his hurtful jokes about my "VO2 Min", he's been the best lactate consultant I could ask for. And, in return, I expect he lays much of the credit for his success in last year's Blackburn (3:00:20 - in a V7, for the love of Pete) on not doing those things that I painstakingly showed him. He'd be churning through the field on a V10 Sport for his first race of the season.
Ryan's outfit is the primary reason we find it difficult to attract young paddlers to the sport.
At low tide on the estuary, wind speed would be immaterial to stability - waves can only get so big over a fetch of 40 feet. And most boats would be firmly grounded anyway as they searched fruitlessly for the even narrower channel. At high tide, however, the river converts into a featureless expanse with enough fetch to make for choppy conditions. Not exactly rough water, but syncopated enough to throw my carefully calibrated V14 stroke into arrhythmia. With a forecast for winds out of the northwest at 12 mph with gusts in the 20s, I agonized over which boat to bring, then finally threw my V10 on the car and headed to the start. At the last moment, I remembered that Mary Beth would probably want a ride too.
I'd spend the next couple of hours second-guessing that boat choice as the forecast mellowed, trying to decide if I should make the 5 minute drive home to swap boats. Finally, with Bruce Deltorchio assuring me that the estuary would be "smooth as gravy" (weird, but whatever), I dashed back to the house and grabbed the 14. After launching and warming up, I ran into Bruce on the water. He was shocked that I had switched boats given that it would probably be "loose and wavy" out there. Nobody believes me when I tell them how devious Bruce is, but surely this embellished example must finally convince them. I only had time for four more trips home before ultimately settling back on the V14.
We all mocked Wesley, but ended up feeling pretty foolish about 36 days later. 38 for Chris.
Unbeknownst to me, the minute immediately preceding the start had been shortened to 30 seconds - some type of leap-half-minute clock correction, probably. As a result, I found myself a few boat lengths behind the line as the starter announced 5 seconds left. Unsure of the protocol regarding running starts, I took a series of nothing-to-see-here half strokes during the subsequent countdown in an attempt to casually close my pre-start deficit. I shouldn't have bothered, given that my post-start acceleration was so anemic that I actually experienced a few seconds of zero-g weightlessness. With an immediate bend in the river compacting the group in front of me, I found myself squeezed between Mike and Janda. My execution was appalling, but you have to admire the dedication - during the middle of a race providing another instructive example of lousy paddling. I slipped up a bit though by eventually doing the right thing - easing back and ceding the right-of-way.
In the ensuing straightaway, I managed to swing wide of the pack and start working my way up toward the leaders. Chris Chappell had vaulted to an early lead, with Jan and Mike in pursuit. As I eased past Ryan Bardsley, 18 inches to his starboard, we showed off some of the exquisite paddle synchronization that saw us through the first three rounds of America's Got Talent. I'd had limited rehearsal time with Tim Dwyer, Mike McDonough, Wesley Echols, and Timmy Shields, however, so I gave them a much wider berth. A half-mile into the race, I was clear of the main pack and in pursuit of the lead trio. I cued up some motivational music in my head, but the ripples from the boats ahead caused the track to repeatedly skip back to the beginning. Gotta update that technology so that I can finally find out who's peekin' out from under a stairway and calling a name that's lighter than air.
Just joking. Everyone knows it's Windy. On an unrelated note, my advertisers have asked me to target a reader demographic that hasn't yet been involuntarily committed to assisted living facilities. If anyone has ideas along this front, please shoot me a telegram. Or whatever it is the younglings are using to communicate these days. A Grindr poke, maybe?
A couple of minutes later, I passed Mike and latched onto Chris for a breather. These being my home waters, I had a pretty good idea of the course I wanted to navigate through the river bends. Apparently, so did Chris. I base this assumption on his uncanny ability to block me from my preferred heading without ever even looking back to see where I was. If I wanted to go left, I somehow found myself on his starboard side. If I wanted to head right, he'd magically appear on that side to corral me like a stray dogie. And if I wanted to pass him on a straight-away, Chris stubbornly insisted on going faster than me.
Eventually I thought about going one direction and then juked the opposite way. This mind-feint threw off his ESP long enough for me to pull even with Chris before he could steer me back into the fold. He appeared surprised when I triumphantly taunted him with "Where's your prescience now?" which just underscores the extent to which his supernatural abilities had been compromised.
We've barely heard a peep about Jan thus far. This uncharacteristic reserve from one of the biggest personalities on our stage is starting to make me nervous, so let's catch up with his shenanigans. While I was trying to out-maneuver Chris, Jan was soldiering along to our left, paying absolutely no heed to the thrilling game of cat-and-mouse that I imagined was going on. The lack of drama coming from his direction was deafening. After a few moments of this eerie impassivity, I couldn't take it any more. Swerving to avoid some weedy shallows (Chris' oaths from behind revealing that he'd utterly lost his gift), I threw in an interval to separate myself from Jan and the others.
Like Old Faithful, I can be expected to go off at regular intervals.
The tide-enriched river opened into a marshy lake devoid of navigational landmarks. Fortunately, the reconnaissance heats we had sent out in advance had heroically sacrificed their times sussing out the shortest navigable path. By following the string of paddlers ahead, I was able to skirt the shallows. Despite their critical service spotting obstacles from high altitude (up to 6 feet, in some cases), I couldn't help muttering curses at the SUP corps as they zig-zagged randomly into my path. I know that they also serve who only stand and wade, but couldn't they do it somewhere else?
Once I had cleared the tide-induced chop near Conomo Point, the remainder of the course was relatively smooth sailing (although, in my defense, I also threw in a few strokes from time to time). The primary challenge was maneuvering around all the slower craft once I was back in the river proper. I'm referring, of course, to the motorboats returning to Essex. Constrained in speed by no-wake rules (with varying degrees of compliance) and in course by the channel, I'm sure they were muttering their own curses as I zig-zagged across their paths. It all comes full circle.
I made it back to the finish without being shot by an irritated yachtsman with a flare gun, taking my first win of the season. A few moments later, Jan and Janda arrived just four lengths apart to claim the other podium spots, with Mike only 15 seconds back despite having stability issues behind Cross Island (not a euphemism). In the women's race, Leslie Chappell pulled ahead at Conomo Point and never looked back. If she had, she'd have seen Mary Beth shaking her fist in fury and vowing revenge in the next race. MB then continued paddling to take second prize, with Jean Kostelich in third. Gary Williams and Robin Francis seized the double's crown, and refuse to give it back until their demands are met.
Ja! Jan, Janda und Greg.
Oui! Leslie, MB et Jean.
Back in 2016, I managed to tumble from the bucket of my V14 just seconds before the start of the Essex. I'm proud to announce that I've now book-ended that feat by capsizing just minutes after the finish. While the boat was stable enough for the race, it's apparently not quite a secure enough platform to turn my head to answer a question while stationary. Assuming there will now be a betting pool on when I'll take a swim during the race itself, put me down for $100 on 2020.
With an assist from the finest weather of the spring, the Cape Ann Rowing Club threw another crackerjack race. Thanks to all the volunteers for their devotion to providing the rest of us with a memorable day. And pizza.
If you're going to do just one race on a "river" this year, why not make it at the Sakonnet River Race on June 1? Wesley has assured me that by the time of the race, the Sakonnet will be piranha free! He actually said 95% free, but what's a toe or two? You must preregister at PaddleGuru. If you live within reach of Beverly, MA, you should also consider joining us on Tuesday nights for the 14th season of the Salem League races. As the old adage goes... there's no better training for ocean racing than listening to Bill Kuklinski grumble about ocean racing.
We may need to rethink our post-race party. This photo was taken Tuesday morning.
For many New England paddlers, the Run of the Charles is the first race of the season that is commonly referred to by acronym. Besides that important distinction, the 6 mile ROTC is also one of the largest flatwater races in the area, drawing 20-some skis in the past few years. A week and a half ago, Mary Beth and I greased a few of the right palms and weaseled a pair of coveted invitations into that pack. I was surprised at the $700 "expedited entry fee" that organizer Mark Jacobson asked for on a shady bank of the Charles a month earlier, but I guess that's the going rate.
Between Mary Beth's recent retirement and my need to stay one step ahead of federal mail fraud investigators (there's some debate about the technical definitions of "non-profit" and "miracle hair growth lotion"), we've been forced to spend a lot of time away from home. It's tough to find time to craft a finely honed race report when you're jet-setting around the world. And, apparently, also when you're lounging on your parent's couch in Western New York, trying to figure out if you can stuff yet another slice of banana bread into your pie-hole. The answer is always yes, by the way. So that's why this report is less than timely.
Those years of working car shows really paid off for Andrew.
Veteran racers of the 6 mile course are as familiar with the 5 bridges on the route as they are their own remaining teeth. Eliot, Anderson, Weeks, Western, and Cambridge. For some, this was just never enough - especially with the BU bridge looming tantalizingly close to the downstream turn-around. After years of ignoring relentless demands from an anonymous participant, the Charles River Watershed Association finally acceded to my appeals. We'd now pass under the BU span! And in a move clearly designed to eliminate any future crayon-written screeds about the meager bridge count, the organizers sweetened the deal by adding an unnamed railroad trestle. That's 40% more bridges, folks! Even without counting the return trip.
Unlike previous years, in which the 6 mile race involved downstream and upstream turns, the newly bridge-enriched course had a single downstream turn. We'd proceed 3 miles towards Boston, round an inflatable orange marker, then return to the start. Perhaps due to the increasedbridge permit costs associated with the shorter race, the 19 mile course was eliminated, replaced by a 12 mile race with a dozen fewer overpasses. Here's hoping they save up that surplus for deployment down the road.
You! Hey! You with the camera! For the last time... please put on some pants.
While John and the rest of the paddlers listened with grim determination to the course instructions, Sam burst into giggles every time the race director said the word "abutment".
God only knows what would have happened had Leslie not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo.
From rereading past reports, I find that we've occasionally had nice weather on the Charles. That won't dissuade me from affirming that it'll be a cold day in Hell when they finally choose a warm day for the race. But I suspect they'd then relocate to that nether realm to maintain their unbroken tradition of frigid races. I'll admit that my perspective on this year's temperature may be skewed by an unanticipated dipping of my own nether realms when I slipped on a mossy rock while launching and took a clumsy seat in the river. Fortunately, I already had my GoPro turned on to catch my manly squeal of shock. I can affirm that it's not the lack of heat that gets you, but the humidity.
Despite persistent rumors that Chris Quinn would show up at the last moment to break my spirit, he was nowhere to be seen as we jockeyed for starting position. ROTC mainstay Craig Impens was also conspicuously absent. Despite my best efforts to pretend Mike Florio didn't make it either, however, he bobbed next to me at the line. As the starter counted us down from shore, Mike seemed a little twitchy. I couldn't tell if his slight wobbles were a sign of nerves, instability, or one too many of whatever adrenaline-laden drinks he secretly quaffs to maintain his boundless energy. To be safe, I helpfully reminded him to watch out for abutment eddies (distant snicker from Sam), tidal standing waves, and rabid beavers. It's the seasoned racer's duty to destabilize the confidence of younger paddlers. If you can also throw a few "I'm just adjusting my seat pad" waves their way as you spasmodically rock your boat, so much the better. In fairness, I should probably point out that Mike made his way into a V14 about 6 years sooner into his racing career than I was able.
Twenty-four skis started the race, but only six would finish without wondering how the wind could be against them both ways. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)
Hank Thorburn, shaking off a long winter's hibernation in Maine, exploded off the line like an ebullient bull moose. Feeling a little woozy after this initial effort, however, he quickly snuck back to his burrow for a nap. Hank was never very good at zoology. Chris Chappell also started fast, but eased off the accelerator earlier than we're used to seeing from him. This left two unknown paddlers in the lead - an orange Stellar SES and a vintage Epic V10L. The former soon dropped off, but the latter continued at an unrelenting pace.
I discovered that the leader was youngster Augustin Reboul, who would go on to have been the 2017 ICF Junior World Wildwater champion from France (while the orange Stellar was powered by his father, Pierre). At the time, however, he was just some dumb kid who had more youthful exuberance than sense. He'd fold after a half-mile and limp through the remainder to the finish in 23rd place. As luck (or destiny, if you insist on accuracy) would have it, I had chosen the wrong day to make baseless assumptions about an unknown paddler. I was working as hard as I dared, but Augustin's lead slowly grew as the bridges ticked by. As a defense mechanism, I was forced to recategorize the kid as an "Elite" paddler, which allowed me to jump suddenly to the lead of the "Normals". Mike had been on my draft for a few minutes after the start, but he had dropped off some ways back.
I had a brief moment of classification doubt as Augustin attempted to round the downstream buoy. As he started to turn he came to the kind of unnaturally abrupt halt usually reserved for long-suffering cartoon coyotes. From 20 lengths back, it was difficult to make out exactly what happened, but I believe his squared-off bow caught the buoy's anchor line. That felt more like something I'd do than would an implacable paddling machine, so despite my best intentions, hopes for a second-half comeback rose. By the time Augustin recovered from his stumble and regained his accustomed pace, I had closed a depressing number of lengths. Let's be generous and say that number was 5. Those fickle hopes - already dimming.
Starting back upriver a few moments later, I patted myself on the back for deftly avoiding the buoy. I saw Mike maybe a minute back (nervously glancing around for foam-mouthed aquatic rodents), with Chris and Doug Howard back again about the same distance. Doug isn't allowed out of Vermont very often, but appeared intent on making the most of his paddling furlough. John Costello, Tim Dwyer, Wesley Echols, and Pierre were chasing.
You'd think that Augustin would have the decency to at least pretend to be working hard for the win. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)
They were neck and neck coming into the finish, but Chris was able to out-grimace Doug at the line. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)
God only knows what would have happened had Mary Beth not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo. Kind of a wasted opportunity. I definitely would have deleted it, Sweetie.
The trip back to the start was uneventful. Even with the rush of excitement provoked by the extra bridges, I couldn't muster any additional speed. I lost not only the ground gained on Augustin at the turn, but ceded a vast expanse of additional territory under his ruthless advance. Unconditional surrender was my only option. Although I pushed hard through the finish, I was only fighting to maintain second place. Mike came in a couple of minutes behind me, followed a moment later by Chris and Doug. In the women's race, an evenly-matched Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell escorted one another for the entire course before deciding via rock-paper-scissors who would take the honors at the finish. That's what MB is making me write, at least.
Just as polar bears are gradually adapting to the loss of sea ice (mostly by eating unsuspecting eco-tourists - a truly self-sustaining industry), ROTC paddlers must come to terms with the increasingly erratic presence of Bob Capellini's pulled pork. Once a dependable staple of the post-race party, the crop has now failed in 2 of the past 4 years. Bob probably has had solid excuses for not making the 4+ hour drive, but given that FedEx now offers special same-day delivery rates for barbecued meat products, it's hard to see why we have to continue to suffer.
For a moment it appeared that the tragic rift between Phil and Chris would finally be mended, but after silently staring at each other for several moments, each turned and walked away, dark glasses hiding their tears. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)
Don't forget to register for the Essex River Race, held on May 18. This is our hometown race, so please remember to treat Mary Beth and I with appropriate deference on the course. While not strictly prohibited, passing without curtsying would constitute a serious breach of etiquette. Paddlers of all ilk are invited to stop by our place after the awards ceremony for beverages and snacks. However, we do ask that SUP-ers provide a note from their physician indicating that they're no longer contagious.
As all locals are aware, Rhode Island is the epicenter of surfski racing in New England. As inexorable as gravity, the wee state draws in paddlers from hundreds of miles away. Mary Beth and I took advantage of this mysterious attractive force to grab a couple of extra hours of sleep as our car autonomously made its way to the Narrow River Race, gently guided around obstacles like Boston by the deep grooves we'd previously worn in the roads leading from home to Rhode Island. We awoke to find ourselves among the single largest fleet of skis to ever to grace this waterway. With 28 paddlers milling about (including 4 supplemental kayakers - just in case we needed to call in some reserves), race organizers Wesley and Tim had a difficult time providing personalized course instructions. They eventually abbreviated their spiels to a series of brisk arm gestures. I was called for intentional grounding and high-sticking, but others didn't get off so lightly.
We'd be running a slightly abbreviated version of the race, heading upriver for 3 miles, reversing our course downriver a mile past the start, then finishing back where all the pointless back-and-forth began. In the absence of any buoy to mark the upstream end of our spawning run, we'd be performing a rare outside turn on a rowing club dock. Wesley told us that we should pass close enough to touch the dock, with our conscience serving as an unblinking witness to our honor. I immediately revised my race plan such that I'd arrive at the turn alone. My conscience is no narc, but the other paddlers... they'd sell out their children for an extra point in the race series.
While I'm sure he appreciates the instruction, I can't help but think Forrest is a little irritated at constantly being referred to by Chris as "my Padawan".
Don't get Chris started about the differences between the Braca XI and the Braca XI right next to it.
The Narrow River is best known for being so shallow that the race itself technically qualifies as a single 8 mile portage. This year, however, the river has achieved new depths of shallowness. Wesley and Tim briefly considered dropping the PFD requirement in favor of mandatory helmets, given that a capsize would more likely result in concussion than immersion. If nothing else, we'd all at least be getting some solid resistance training.
I had been hearing alarming rumors about the Drago-like training program that locals Chris Quinn and Mike Florio had been putting themselves through in order to break the degenerate outsiders. I checked on YouTube for montages of the pair hooked up to fancy electronics and snapping paddles during sprints, but got side-tracked by some funny walrus videos. Given that Chris was regularly beating me at the end of last season and Mike was a frequent threat in 2017, the prospect of these hyper-fit guys stepping up their game had me desperately looking for a crotchety old-timer to provide the requisite motivational speech. Unfortunately, Bill Kuklinski wasn't able to make the race. Sorry for that, buddy. Maybe next time you'll show up to defend yourself.
Cheerfulness like this should be reserved for Christmas and donut-time. Pre-race? Come on.
Seriously?
Nope. Ugh. Everyone is doing it wrong.
The organizers had decided to continue an experiment from late last season in which self-selecting slower paddlers would start in an initial wave some minutes before the remaining field. I suspect the original goal of this strategy was to provide a sacrificial offering to wrathful sea gods, but in more benign conditions it also serves to provide more mid-race contact between paddlers of disparate abilities (subject to community standards, of course) and consolidate the finishers. Wesley launched the first wave of 10 racers, who at least made it around the first bend without being devoured by Neptune's pack of sea wolves. Truly an auspicious omen for the rest of us!
After finding individual pockets of water deep enough to float our boats, the second wave lined up for a rolling start - complete with the usual bickering and archaic race-baiting ("Why you scurrilous Irish claim-jumper! Hie yourself back behind the line!"). Wesley counted us down and - as unanimously agreed upon beforehand by the racing subcommittee - Chris Chappell assumed command. My start was relatively unembarrassing, but that was probably because half the field hadn't yet been in a boat this year. At least, that was their story. Chris Q and I matched one another for the first minute or so before I settled into third place on his starboard draft.
The first wave bravely forges ahead to face their destiny.
Even though Chris C proved himself a fair and capable leader, Chris Q apparently decided that the next generation deserved its turn. Since I've always considered myself hep to the latest fancy of the young 'uns, I figured I'd come along for the insurrection. About a quarter mile into the race, our youthful crew moved into the lead. As the slightly more experienced paddler, I felt a duty to continue to hang back on the draft in a supervisory role. Chris didn't require much tutelage, although from time to time I had remind him to slow down lest he inadvertently drop his mentor.
I had expected Mike to be vying for the lead (and also in need of unsolicited kibitzing), but he remained conspicuously absent. A quick backward glance, however, revealed that he had also passed Chris C and was now only a half-dozen lengths behind. Apparently he had some trouble getting clear of other boats off the line, but was now intent on rectifying that stumble. As Chris led us through the twists of the river, I tracked Mike's progress as he methodically closed that gap. By the time we had entered the lake-like portion of the course, he had halved his deficit.
Perhaps due to concern that I'd be mistaken for a free-loader (as opposed to a nurturing starboard presence), shortly after the river broadened I took a turn at point with Chris on a port draft. We continued in this formation as the upstream turn-around approached. In my mind, I had plotted out a graceful clockwise arc that would have me tangent-ing neatly alongside the dock before curving back the way we came. It quickly became apparent, however, that I shouldn't have left my compass and protractor in the car. I started the turn too late. And then corrected too late. To my credit, however, I panicked at just about the right time. My tangent threatening to become an intersection, I leaned on the rudder and narrowly avoided ramming the dock. Chris, who had been drafting on what became the outside of my turn, had wisely began dropping back as my collision-course trajectory became increasingly apparent, but still hit the corner of the dock bow-first. I was not, as Mary Beth accused after the race, attempting to "rub out the competition". However, after due consideration of maritime law and sporting regulations, I'm prepared to accept 23% of the blame for the incident due to gross navigational incompetence.
After visually verifying that Chris' boat remained sea-worthy (it suffered a divot above the waterline), we continued our way back towards the start. It seemed that Mike had dropped back a few lengths over the past 15 minutes, but he was still close enough to qualify as "lurking". Surprisingly, a significant tidal current was now helping us along. As we passed the first wave paddlers, Chris continued to hang doggedly on my draft. Based on past experience, I doubted that I'd be able to drop him with random intervals, so figured my best hope would be to grind him down with a punishing sustained pace. Lacking the ability to manage "punishing", I settled for "mildly taxing" - paddling as hard as I could manage for the next 3 miles. Chris refused to succumb, although I like to imagine that his heart blipped a couple of beats above resting rate.
For most of the race I had been warily watching the riverbed to make sure that it stayed safely below the water surface. Approaching the first bridge past the start, this relative positioning threatened to reverse itself. I was thrown temporarily off-balance as my paddle blade struck the bottom. I flattened my stroke to avoid dredging a channel that Chris might benefit from, but he had already made his move off to my left. We took separate lines under the bridge and over the ensuing sheen before rejoining just prior to the downstream turn-around. Chris was now in the lead.
I stayed on the draft as we worked back upstream through the shallowest sections, daintily dabbing at the water to keep our strokes wholly liquid. Once we hit slightly deeper water after the bridge, I knew it'd be a half-mile sprint to the finish. I didn't like my odds starting that dash from a length behind, but I couldn't work up enough gumption to pull even in the shallows. Sure enough, as soon as we had cleared the sandbar guarding the bridge, Chris surged ahead to increase his lead by a length. Although I managed to stop the bleeding, I was incapable of closing the gap. Chris finished 5 seconds ahead of me. Mike came in a scant 20 seconds behind to complete the V14 podium sweep. Chris C and Kurt Hatem rounded out the top 5. On the women's side, Mary Beth looked strong, outpacing Leslie Chappell and Jean Kostelich for the win.
Kurt finishes strong with Wesley and Tim in chase.
If you didn't know any better, you might think Tim was kind of a cool guy.
Having now been beaten by Chris in four consecutive head-to-head matches, I'm realizing that my only hope is playing to my strength. He's bested me in flatwater and rough seas, and showed superiority in both upwind and downwind conditions. My only real hope is an endurance situation. I just have to find a race that's so long that his commitment to his young family prevents him from actually competing.
Thanks to Wesley and Tim for throwing yet another in a long string of entertaining races. And for convincing our post-race party venue (the Oak Hill Tavern) to drop the more serious charges. We're back on flatwater for the Run of the Charles on Sunday, April 28. I'm trying to convince Chris that they're trying out a new "24 hour paddle" format, but I'm not sure he's buying it.
Paddling 31 miles down the Tennessee River isn't everyone's dream, but veterans of the Chattajack 31 are relentless in trying to convince you that it should be. The camaraderie of shared suffering! The pre-dawn muster! The fully-trained medical staff! How could I resist their rabid proselytizing? I registered in early May, not realizing that I'd then spend the better part of the next six months training for the race. Probably should have consulted the calendar first. Having now completed the Chattajack, I must join the chorus of advocates. However, I might choose to highlight different factors - the clockwork organization, the fascinating people (probably at least half of the 600+ paddlers), the beautiful course, etc. Despite being in only its 7th year, it's a can't-miss classic.
Fair warning. An epic race deserves an epic report. Since that was clearly out of reach, I settled for the poor man's version - an interminable report. Remember about the shared suffering. If you haven't finished by the 8 hour cut-off, officials will yank you out of the article.
We set off for Chattanooga on the Wednesday before the race, whiling away much of our 18-hour drive playing roadkill bingo. Unfortunately, somehow I ended up with a card from the Australian edition. Not only did I have to play with the antipodean sheet upside down, precious few wallabies and cassowaries had been careless enough to end their lives on the shoulder of the interstate. With Mary Beth gleefully chalking up squares with groundhogs, porcupines, and prairie dogs (we may not have taken the most direct route), I was - as MB kept smirkingly reminding me - in serious danger of being skunked. Finally, somewhere around the Tennessee border I recognized the tattered remains of a spotted quoll. Rather unsportingly, I think, MB chose to use one of her discretionary challenges. Subsequent DNA analysis proved inconclusive - mainly because the lab insisted that it couldn't test a "ratty old sweater". Amateurs.
Through a series of complicated transfers usually reserved for laundering mob money or smuggling endangered amphibians into the US, we'd be delivering a Think Uno from Massachusetts to Tennessee for mid-westerner Greg Greene. Greg is my college roommate's wife's sister's husband's brother, so we're practically family. He lives in Wisconsin, so we don't get together often enough to reminisce about the one person in the middle of that connective stream who we both actually know. We managed to get the boat to Greg without mishap, although he should probably check the footwell for dwarf splayfoot salamanders.
This year she just watched, but I predict next year she'll listen too.
We pulled into Chattanooga Thursday afternoon. Never having paddled an inland waterway south of the 40th parallel, I hit the river to recalibrate my boat. Some WD-40 and a few well-placed hammer blows later, I was ready to get cleaned up and hit the town. We met up with our Northeast friends, Jean Kostelich and partner Alex, for dinner, where we saw some appropriately gruesome pre-Halloween pictures of the remains of a V8 Pro that had flown off their rack on the way down. That's something you can't unsee. Undeterred, they simply returned home, picked up a replacement boat, and completed the trek to Tennessee. Jean is my new hero. Afterwards, we headed to the Chattanooga Brewing Company for a shindig hosted by convivial locals Ted "Theo" "No, Ted!" Burnell and wife Cindy. Ted was kind enough to provide a plethora of valuable racing tips and course notes, nearly all of which evaporated with my first stroke on Saturday. Next year, tattoos.
What are the odds that I'd come to Ted's costume party as him, and he as me?
With three previous Chattajack wins under his belt, including a record-setting sub-4 hour time last year, Erik Borgnes was the hands-on favorite to leave the younger members of the surfski field wondering when they too could finally be 53. I, for one, look forward to my domination in 2020. Some months before the race, Erik had expressed interest in recruiting an elite cadre of paddlers to work together as the lead pack. I'd always wanted to be part of a cadre. If he was willing to relax the "elite" requirement, I was in. We haggled over a substitute qualifier, eventually settling on a non-committal "scrappy". When Flavio Costa's name appeared on the registration list, I was worried that Erik might eject me from the cadre and revert to his original, uncompromised vision. Fortunately, he seemed committed to an egalitarian approach - if you could hang with the group, you were sufficiently scrappy. Based on their results from 2017, I thought perhaps Scott Cummins, Murray Hunkin, or Terry Smith might become de facto cadre members.
I was particularly looking forward to dueling with Flavio. The last time we competed head-to-head, we were practically both in diapers (in my case, an unfortunate side-effect of an ill-advised visit to the all-you-can-eat shellfish buffet at a Sizzler). I doubted I could keep with him in a shorter ocean race, but hoped that the long flatwater distance might allow me to grind him down.
Perhaps the most interesting race of the day would be between the power tandems of Matt Skeels & Neil Fleming, Nate Humberston & Bruce Poacher, and Morgan House & Stanton Collins. Paddling V10 Doubles, it seemed a lock that at least one of these boats would break Nate & Bruce's all-around course record of 3:53:54, set in an Epic 18X Double. To add a little spice to their battle, they'd be competing for overall honors against an OC-6 stacked with legendary talent.
The staging area the afternoon before the race. Later on, we'd celebrate Chattajack Eve here - singing traditional paddler shanties and eating Moon Pies.
The race starts at the Market Street Bridge in downtown Chattanooga and winds 32 miles down the Tennessee River to finish at Hales Bar Marina in Nickajack Lake. Hence Chattajack 31. Perhaps market research revealed that using the actual distance would frighten off too many competitors? Using that same line of reasoning, I suggest that they instead advertise the straight-line start-to-finish distance of 13 miles - maybe skimping on details of the 12.7 miles of portage.
Book-ended by the Chickamauga and Nickajack dams, the river current is determined solely by the sadistic whims of the Tennessee Valley Authority (ostensibly with some token concern for power generation and water level remediation). The day prior to the race, the TVA provided a tantalizing preview of what might be. Watching SUPs inch upstream against a terrific flow (after which, presumably, they'd mate and die), between chuckles I estimated the current at 1.5 knots. That astonishing degree of assistance would surely... What's that? We'll have a quarter of that on race day? And a head wind? And somehow the fundamental physical properties of water will be changed so that it's stickier? Oh TVA, you old rascal.
They're fellow New Englanders, but somehow everyone in Chattanooga seemed to know Team Ide. The Electron and the Sphinx. That's the title of the upcoming Netflix series about their antics.
Women's champion Pam Boteler before the race. I can't be positive, but I'm pretty sure she has a kite-boarding rig hooked up in her footwell.
Having stowed our boats in the riverside staging area the night before, there was considerably less pre-race rigmarole than you'd expect for a race with nearly 500 watercraft. Paddlers quietly outfitted their boats and selves for the upcoming expedition. The temperature hovered around 50 with a moderate breeze from the west. The first wave of paddleboards, kayaks, and canoes got off without a hitch (but with a ceremonial bagpiper) and it was time for the skis and OCs to get on the water.
I opted to start somewhat to the right of river center, away from the 140-boat throng that would doubtless be clamoring to swamp me in their initial zeal. As a result, I got off the gently drifting line cleanly at the gun and managed to keep clear of virtually all traffic through the opening minutes. As I settled into my pace, I surveyed the field. It was easy to identify Flavio, leading all solo craft in his vibrant pink Nelo, but the rest of the cast ahead remained indistinguishable. I was relieved to find that after the first mile, all of the OCs (with the exception of the Star-Studded Six) were safely behind me - I was worried that I might be tangling with multi-person outriggers for the whole race. Eventually I was able to spot Erik's all-white ski in third position, chasing a blue ski with an all-Murray core.
I was already exhausted by the time the first wave finished passing the staging area.
The only other ski ahead of me was Scott, whom I'd never met but recognized from photos I had chanced to see... pinned prominently on the "Hit Wall" of our den (in the "Scott? William?" column). I introduced myself from alongside after catching him, neglecting to mention that I had an unhealthy obsession with finishing ahead of him. We paddled together for a few minutes in pursuit of Erik, until I managed to open a small gap. I eventually reached Erik (who, if I'm not mistaken, tapped his watch impatiently to indicate his frustration at my lollygagging) and Murray. The latter relinquished his pull and I took point to track down Flavio and absorb him into the cadre.
I suspect that Flavio was already kicking back just waiting for the gang to show up, but it still took me a mile to close the gap. When we finally merged, I eased off and slid back into the rear of our fresh diamond formation. Despite now sitting in the lap of luxury, however, I had difficulty adapting to the easy life. If there were a wash-riding licensing board, they'd have revoked my draft card long ago. I can muddle through a simple single-boat stern draft, but in any other configuration the appropriate combination of position, rhythm, and stability eludes me. I'm doubtless still getting significant benefit, but drafting too often seems like more of a chore than a respite. Fortunately, Murray resigned from our diamond after a mile or so, meaning that my blessed turn to pull would come that much more frequently.
More than 300 boats had started in the heat before us, with the vast majority of those being SUPs. We'd be passing virtually all of those paddlers at some point - a fact that more than one race veteran reminded me of with a shell-shocked glaze in his eyes. Not only would we have to plot a course through the semi-random meanderings of the more inexperienced stand-up paddlers, we'd suffer through a never-ending barrage of congratulations and encouragement. Couldn't these people see I was in no condition to acknowledge or reciprocate their heart-warming support? I occasionally issued an appreciative grunt between wheezes, but mostly just hoped that Erik and Flavio's good-natured banter would compensate for my apparent surliness. As to the navigation challenges, I take pride in never once yelling "Try a straight line, blockhead!" Mostly because of the wheezing, but still...
Relinquishing the pull to one of my cohorts.
About 7 miles into the race, I finished a stint pulling and decided to power up with a gel. I had taped a virtual magazine along my gunnel for rapid-fire access. Although I had been drilling with just such a set-up, the unexpected discontinuation of PowerBar Gels meant that I'd be working with untested ammunition during the race. It's a controversial stance, but I'm of the opinion that an energy gel should have at least a vaguely gel-like consistency. I discovered that Clif Shots are at least an order of magnitude more viscous than any self-respecting gel should be. More of an energy spackle, really. In any event, in trying to squeeze the dry paste into my maw, I fell behind the leaders by a few costly lengths.
For whatever reason, I spent the next 3 miles trying to claw my way back to Erik and Flavio. Yes, we know that my sprint speed is only 3% faster than my cruising speed. And sure, we're aware that even the mild turbulence kicked up by a couple of skis 15 meters ahead can compromise my questionable V14 stability. OK, it's also clear that a wild-eyed panic never helped anyone's stroke. But the specific reason for my drawn-out return to the fold is unclear. One unfortunate byproduct of my dilly-dallying was that as we passed the first spectator viewpoint at Suck Creek Boat Ramp, Mary Beth had to witness my desperate "little brother tries to keep up" act. I could hear the mixture of disappointment and pity in her cheers.
Given my recent struggle, I wasn't optimistic about my ability to stay with the leaders once I had caught them. But over the next few miles, I became more comfortable on the side draft and felt strong on my pulls. Flavio no longer felt compelled to talk me through relaxation exercises. The miles started to flow by. Perhaps I really did belong up front with these guys! Having watched us pass the Raccoon Mountain and Sullivan's Landing viewpoints in crisp formation, MB later reported that my sudden display of competence made her question the fundamentals of her world-view.
I had been scrupulously watching my GPS speed as we traded pulls, mostly so that when I was out front I wouldn't disgrace our clan. With varying headwinds and tailcurrents, we spent the majority of our time in the 7.7 to 8.2 mph range. If you're more accustomed to metric units, be a pal and just multiply by 2 to get the kph values. For the most part, we had been trading off 10 minute pulls. Metric folk, that's roughly 18 demiquavers. Around mile 24, however, Flavio had a short pull at sub-average speed (1.54 tick-tocks at 85 uph). My heart leaped. Was this the first symptom of terminal fatigue? We were bucking a stiff breeze in the shallower waters on the inside of a long bend, so it was impossible to make a definitive prognosis.
It's taken more than 50 years and thousands of photos, but I finally found a shot in which I don't look like a doofus.
I took the next pull. Evidence continued to mount, as Flavio appeared to struggle on my port wash, ultimately falling back to a stern draft. I thought perhaps he was merely trying to duck out of the wind, but as my shift up front ended and Erik slid into the lead, he told me that he thought Flavio was "done". Glancing back, I finally noticed that the pink Nelo had dropped back a couple of lengths. If Erik and I could keep working together, it felt like maybe we could cement the top two spots. The fundamental flaw with this strategy, however, was that Erik had probably cemented the top spot just by showing up in Chattanooga. His motivation for keeping me seemed pretty weak.
As he started our reduced cadre's pull, Erik repeatedly tried to relay some message to me. I had difficulty hearing over the wind, paddle splashes, and moaning. All I caught distinctly was "I can drop you anytime I want", delivered in an icy monotone. I suppose it's possible that he was actually talking about our new strategy and I was just picking up the subtext, but he sure nailed the menacing intonation.
Despite the implied threat (slash indelible truth), I stuck with Erik until it was my turn at the front. Finishing up my shift at around mile 26, I was starting to feel a little anemic. I warned Erik that I was going to grab a spackle (weird look) and he graciously slowed to let me recharge. With this tacit acknowledgement that we'd continue paddling together for at least another pull or two, I could practically feel the weight of the silver medal around my neck. Sure, Flavio was a much better sprinter and a more accomplished rough water paddler, but I'd be finishing out the remaining miles on flat water with at least some portion on Erik's draft. How could I not beat him?
And that's how my glorious Chattajack 26 ended - a well-earned second place finish just seconds behind Erik.
The ensuing Chattajack 5, however, started with an embarrassing debacle and went south from there.
While energetically trying to coax a Clif Shot out of its protective pouch, I lost my balance and tumbled off the ski. Typically in this situation (and there have been enough similar instances to establish statistically reliable trends), I'd let loose with a string of obscenities so foul that they'd leave an expanding oily slick on the surface of the water. To punctuate the sudden (I was tempted to use "unexpected", but see previous parenthetical) turn of events, I decided to concentrate my rage and frustration into a single mighty expletive, potent enough that seismic tsunami warnings were triggered off the Pacific coast. Awkwardly scrambling aboard my treacherous craft, I watched as Erik moved on without me, perhaps with a lone tear running down his cheek.
By the time I got back to paddling, I was a dozen lengths back, with Flavio doubtless smelling blood in the water. It quickly became apparent that catching Eric would be difficult - he had evidently taken my capsize as a signal to make his push for the finish. More concerning, however, was the degenerating conditions. We had encountered spells of irritating headwinds accompanied by some minor chop, but as the river turned west and widened into Nickajack Lake, some quirk of topography funneled a gale our direction. Within a few minutes of paddling, it seemed as if an entirely different course had been spliced into our race, replete with short-period two-foot waves jacked up by the wind-against-current clash.
My pace slowed dramatically as I struggled to stay upright in a boat that had never seen conditions a quarter as hectic. Erik had long ago pulled far enough ahead that he changed from being an aspirational target to a receding rebuke to my prowess. As he moved further to river right, he mercifully disappeared from view in the maelstrom (cut me some slack on the embellishment - I'm about to take another swim). Now topping out at 6 mph, I was just starting to build up a stomach-churning anxiety about getting passed by Flavio when I toppled over. Never having imagined I'd be paddling my V14 in anything other than serene conditions, my rough water remount practice had been limited to a handful of nightmares of the "forgot about the geometry mid-term" variety. And those had not gone well - I kept sliding off on tangents. In real-life, however, I vaulted side-saddle into the bucket, teetered precariously there for a half-hour, then slid my legs in and restarted the upwind slog. I was cold, demoralized, and "sitting on my hydration tube" (despite the misleading quotes, not a euphemism). During the excitement, Flavio had passed me in spirited fashion - rocketing by along the left shore so adroitly that I was saved the bother of drumming up any reckless hope of catching him.
I managed to keep within 30 degrees of vertical through the next ten minutes of paddling, although collapse seemed imminent several times. With two miles left, the rollicking surface of the river flattened again. The accumulated miles and rough water had taken their toll on my strength, balance, and willpower, however. I wasn't quite bonking, but I was definitely bonk-adjacent. My race was over, but I still needed to finish the sucker. It seemed like each stroke was slightly more difficult than the one before, my arms getting progressively heavier. The final turn at the old dam building provided just enough of a morale boost to propel me through the last couple hundred meters. I even managed a smile-adjacent grimace when Mary Beth confirmed that I had held on for a third place finish.
When Hollywood finally get around to making a movie in which an intrepid surfski paddler must rescue a bunch of orphans from the flooded ruins of a post-apocalyptic Manhattan (only to discover, tragically, that they're flesh-eating mutant orphans), they could do a lot worse than Erik.
Flavio, on the other hand, may be more suited to a rom-com in which a carefree paddler must rescue a misguided SUP lass from a life of single-bladed toil (only to discover, tragi-comically, that she's only a recreational paddler)(and also his sister)(and, in a post-credits twist, a zombie).
Erik had pulled in (yet again) as the first solo competitor 6 minutes earlier, with Flavio finishing 1:15 ahead of me. Scott and Murray took the 4th and 5th spots. In the women's race, Pam Boteler easily grabbed gold in one of her few surfski races this season. Matt & Neil edged out Nate & Bruce for the tandem surfski crown, both shattering the course record, with the lead OC-6 just a few seconds behind the latter. Click for the overall results or the division results. Congrats to all finishers of this rewarding race.
After weathering a brief breakdown onshore (thanks to MB and Flavio for preventing me from going into the light) and getting my core temperature back into the 90s, my subconscious got busy revising memories of the last five miles to make them more palatable. Within an hour of finishing, I had convinced myself that the race was wholly enjoyable and was eager to sign up for 2019. The festive tent celebration that evening did nothing to dissuade me. There were free donuts, for Pete's sake! Let's end the report, and the season, on that happy note.
The inexorable march of time has once again made fools of us all, drawing another New England paddling season to a close despite our frequent mid-race assertions that "This duck-slapping debacle is never going to end!" Fortunately, Wesley had negotiated a one-week extension by dusting off an unused standby course in Narragansett Bay, re-christening it the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race, and tacking it onto the end of our schedule. Some might argue that we don't need a sixth competition in the Ocean State, but those people obviously aren't planning on running for state senate or taking advantage of Rhode Island's liberal paddler-in-residence grant program.
I figured Tim was lost in a moment of quiet reflection... until he started snoring.
Any hopes that the top regional contenders would skip a race so late in the season were ill-founded. Chris Quinn would be defending his recent Narragansett Bay win at the Jamestown Double Beaver. Recovered from an early season back injury, Mike Florio was back from his half-year hiatus, as fit and competition-hungry as ever. With Chris and Mike sporting the latest fashion in obscene muscle tone, the rest of us scrambled to change into loose fitting clothes. For the comfort and range-of-motion, of course. Well, everyone except Kurt Hatem's race-day alter ego, who wore only those ripped purple jeans he's so fond of (supplemented by some green body-paint). I'd put those three guys up against Thanos any day of the week. Particularly if it meant they'd be off fighting him rather than racing me.
The cast prepares for its ground-breaking presentation of Our Town.
As Wesley pointed out during the captain's meeting (with a little too much glee, I thought), my days atop the SurfskiRacing point series are numbered. He graciously omitted the fact that said number is already negative. Chris has beaten me the last three times we've raced. And it doesn't take much extrapolation of first-year paddler Kurt's season trajectory to see that he's going to be a serious contender for next year's crown. If Mike stays healthy, I expect he'll be crashing the podium regularly too. I welcomed change for the first few years of my surfski career, but with the wisdom of age has come the realization that we should probably stick with rerunning the 2016 season in an endless loop. Just in case my recommendation isn't approved by the committee, however, I sat the youngsters down and explained the changes that they'd be experiencing as they matured. It was about as awkward as you'd imagine, but better they hear it from a creepy old-timer than learn about it on the sea.
"He just never stops talking about paddling! Well, paddling and 15th century French composer Johannes Cesaris. I can't take it anymore!"
In addition to seasoned paddlers and bothersome upstarts, our 18 boat field included two open-water race virgins - Sam Duffield and Forrest Horton. With these youngsters joining us and (geez, Bill, I honestly feel terrible about this) Kuklinski a race-day scratch, I'm pretty confident our average age set a record low for New England surfski racing. Don't get me wrong - we still collectively qualified for an AARP discount at the restaurant afterward, but at least this time we had enough sharp eyes to read the menus for us.
Wesley explained the course to us. Starting just off the beach, we'd skirt marker G1 in the mouth of Wickford Harbor, pass outside of Fox Island, round the titular lighthouse (which, fortunately, is free-standing in the bay), and then retrace our steps back to the beach. For a race-weary field, the relatively modest 8 mile length may have been the primary reason for attending. Attired in such a varied array of shoulder-season outfits (ranging from shorts to drysuits, with outliers at either end) that our hypothetical spectators must have wondered if we were planning to scatter to the ends of the earth, we strode/waddled/clanged down the beach for our water start.
Wesley informed us that, regrettably, rather than racing he'd be starting on his unsupported trek to the North Pole.
We were off. Although there were several people still technically ahead of me, after adjusting for low start expectations, I had a substantial lead a hundred meters into the race. A half-kilometer later, the handicapped and "real world" orders were brought into agreement as I passed Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Chris Chappell to move into the actual lead. There was some confusion as a paddler behind me shouted something about a rock pile up ahead. I immediately started evasive maneuvers to avoid crashing into the pile, cranking the tiller (a custom innovation I've been dabbling with) hard-a-starboard. Additional instructions from my unseen personal navigation system, conveyed now with the flagging patience usually applied to a dim-witted toddler, eventually made it clear that the rocks weren't an obstacle, but rather the base of our first turn - marker G1.
Progressing south after the turn, we gradually emerged from the wind shadow of the mainland. Although technically on a downwind leg, the short-fetch waves were more annoying than helpful. Occasional glances backwards revealed that Chris was hanging on my stern, with Mike several lengths behind him. We had been warned by Wesley not to skim too close to Fox Island lest we shear off our rudders. Although I was a good 50 meters off shore, native Narragansett paddler Chris had me second guessing whether I had provided enough clearance. He had veered off my stern and was now shadowing me half again further from the island. I kept waiting for the sudden grounding that would provide me with an unimpeachable excuse for losing this head-to-head, but I remained regrettably afloat [shakes fist at abstract concept of buoyancy].
Most of the way to the lighthouse, Chris remained back a couple of lengths on an outside line. As we neared the turn, he pulled closer and threatened to pass. Desperately wanting to be able to claim that at least I had led at the half-way point, I made sure (by signing certain dark covenants in blood) that I was the first to turn back upwind. Shortly thereafter, however, Chris pulled alongside and nosed ahead. Totally worth it, though. Did you hear? At the half-way point I was leading!
Rounding the lighthouse, we had a modest lead over Mike and Kurt. Definitely not enough to feel safe about. I'll be generous - both to Chris and to myself - and assume that Chris wasn't just toying with me as we paddled side-by-side back to Fox Island. Heading into a surprisingly stiff breeze, neither of us got more than a foot or two ahead before the other would counter and pull even again. This constant sparring certainly made the upwind slog more bearable, and probably helped to separate us from our pursuers. At Fox Island, however, Chris landed a few unparried blows and threatened to leave me behind. Woozy from all the blood loss (those contracts were in triplicate), I was tempted to throw in the towel, but managed instead to lunge onto his stern draft and cling there while the ref tried to separate us.
It seemed highly likely that if we stayed in this configuration until a final sprint that Chris would take the win. I was perfectly willing to take that chance and maintain the status quo for the next couple of miles. Why rock the boat? Chris apparently didn't subscribe to this philosophy. He seemed intent on shaking free of my clutch immediately. Over the next mile, he threw in random bursts of speed, which I was just barely able to counter, thanks to his significant drafting (water and wind) disadvantage. With a half-mile to go to the G1 marker turn, Chris finally appeared to resign himself to my original plan - beating me in the sprint after the turn. As we slowed to a brisk canter, I felt the satisfaction of a cowboy who has just broken a wild stallion. Until I realized that I'd soon have to dismount and race the damn horse on foot.
No surprise - as we completed our turn, Chris charged pell-mell towards the finish. Before I could hit my own stride he had already pulled 3 boat lengths ahead. I had held out some hope that the calm waters in the lee of Poplar Point would provide me with a slight edge. In retrospect, I'm not quite sure why I would have entertained that notion. For a brief moment, I thought I might be closing the gap, but it soon became clear that there was a new status quo. I finished about 10 seconds behind Chris, yet it somehow still felt like a definitive thrashing. Kurt pulled in a few moments later to take the final podium spot, with Mike and Tim claiming 4th and 5th positions. Mary Beth was the top woman. As she always is, of course, in my book (I've found that if you butter up the editor a little, she'll ease up a bit on the pun-shaming).
PaddleGuru's Clipboard App offers state-of-the-art race timing. Probably should've sprung for the water-resistance upgrade, though.
In a fitting piece of symmetry, we jaded vets celebrated the season-ending race at the Oak Hill Tavern - the same venue that hosted our pack of wide-eyed innocents after the season-opening Narrow River Race. Book-ending the library of New England races in this delightful manner felt so much like the inception of a time-honored tradition that I've already started pestering management to add a "Surfski Special" menu item. They're willing to consider it if Wesley and Tim get "Oak Hill" neck tattoos and the rest of us commit to 20 years of patronage. Done!
Feels like I might have one more good race in me this season. Since I'll be paddling in it anyway, sure hope it's the Chattajack 31.
