Ride the Bull: Running the Gauntlet

Just moments after we pulled into our driveway after returning from the Sakonnet River Race, it was time to turn around and head back to the state affectionately known as "Massachusetts's Dewlap" for Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race.  After underbidding all other syndicates, we had been awarded the lucrative contract to transport Ryan Bardsley (with "associated racing paraphernalia transportee deems necessary") to Jamestown.  This necessitated installing an additional rack on our car.  Through a series of miscalculations and engineering blunders, this process involved stripping our Subaru down to a bare chassis before reassembling it to a rough approximation of its original state.  But with a third V rack.  As long as Mary Beth kept her seat belt on and I wasn't too aggressive on left-hand turns, I figured there'd be at least an 80% chance of her remaining in the passenger seat the whole trip.

With race-time winds of 15+ knots from the SSE, the normal Ride the Bull course was likely to be a mix of significant beam waves and frothing clapotis (second in severity only to dysentery among incontinence-related afflictions).  Although the race was expressly designed to test our resilience against scrapes, fractures, and contusions while being pounded against the picturesque rocky shore, Wesley and Tim decided that the lamentations of the guilt-ridden survivors might draw unwanted attention from the authorities.  Tim claims to have some powerful local connections, but even James Taylor would have trouble making multiple manslaughter charges go away.

Despite strict warnings against conviviality, pockets of amicable conversation kept flaring up. (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

We forgot to tell our car-pool passenger about the carbon monoxide leak in the back seat, but Ryan eventually recovered enough of his cognitive abilities to solve this conundrum.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Putting their heads together (in a Laurel and Hardy fashion, while simultaneously leaning forward to study a chart of Narragansett Bay - at least in my imagination), a slightly concussed Wesley and Tim devised an alternative loop course in the bay to the east of Jamestown.  We'd first slog upwind 1.5 miles past the House on the Rock to round Bull Point Rock, then head on a glorious 4.5 mile downwind to the north end of Gould Island, then claw our way the 3 miles back to the start, realizing that we had flagrantly misused the term "slog" on that initial leg.  The new course would virtually eliminate any chance of being dashed against rocks, while ensuring that we'd instead be run down by the hundreds of predatory sailing vessels on the bay.  Of course, this shifts the liability for any "accidents" from the race coordinators to the offending boat captains.  Don't feel too bad for the yachtsmen, however - they doubtless can afford lawyers good enough to get any charges reduced to "depraved indifference" with a slap-on-the-wrist $50,000 fine.

A good portion of the usual gang showed up - Timmy, Jacko, Rotgut, Li'l Slipper, The Fez... hold on, that can't be right.  Probably shouldn't be half-watching the Jimmy Cagney marathon on TNT while I'm writing this.  Sixteen paddlers would be racing.  We would have had one more, but Chris Chappell showed up, took one look at the swarms of sailboats on the bay, and rushed over to Newport to get in on the betting for who'd rack up the highest tally.  Since the 2nd through 4th finishers from the Sakonnet River Race couldn't suit up for this race, three equally robust threats were subbed in as replacements - Jan Lupinski, Chris Quinn, and Chris Laughlin.  Given the conditions, I was particularly worried about the renowned skills of these gentlemen in rough-water handling, downwind paddling, and collision-avoidance.

Melissa and Jim wisely chose the "toe-to-head" carry to prevent any cross-brand funny stuff.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

We milled about for a 1 p.m. start, paddling slowly upwind amidst the moored boats while awaiting the start signal.  On another day, I might have joined Kirk Olsen in his playful pre-race antics - leaning forward to fiddle with your foot-strap until you topple off your ski is right up my alley - but figured I should save my energy for less frivolous remounts.  Soon after Kirk regained his bucket, Wesley counted us down to the gun.

Split up by obstacles in the mooring field, Jan led one small group to the left while Chris L spear-headed the main push closer to land.  Pushing through the chop, I soon found my way abreast the latter, casting wary glances to my port to assess the relative progress of Jan.  As our lines inevitably merged, Lupinski assumed a half length lead while Laughlin dropped slightly back.  To maintain the proper Chris equilibrium, Quinn moved in to take his place.

Five minutes into the race we encountered our first significant hurdle, our path taking us right through the gyrating core of a fleet of 35' sailboats jockeying for position prior to their own regatta.  Like the puffer fish inflates itself to fool its predators into thinking it's larger and fiercer than it actually is, I huddled close to Jan in an attempt to deceive the fast-moving craft.  I fear this may have back-fired, as several boats veered our way to attempt a two-fer kill.  Fortunately, our pack made it through unscathed.  Physically, at least.  As for the rest of our field, I just hoped our crazed dash through the gauntlet had distracted the sailors long enough to allow their safe passage.

Let the culling begin!  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining upwind trip was uneventful for me, largely because Jan acted as my coal mine canary, plotting a path through the shoals near the House on the Rock and helpfully identifying some tidal eddies by spinning out in front of me (with a little help from me pushing his stern, natch).  As we transitioned to the downwind portion of the race at the back of Bull Point Rock, Chris Q and I pulled even with Jan.  That arrangement lasted all of 45 seconds, at which point Jan's superior downwind skills asserted themselves and began to pry him inexorably from our grasp.  I never saw Chris L on the downwind leg, but based on the results, he couldn't have been too far behind.

I began calculating how much of a lead I might be able to overcome going into the upwind return leg, but my math (and grammar) must be rusty because I kept coming up with the same disheartening answer: none lead.  Jan had paced me (some might say pulled me, but that's just quibbling) on the opening upwind leg, so what made me think I could beat him in similar conditions over the final few miles?  Hubris, sure, but I couldn't figure out how to shoehorn that factor into the computation.  Looked like I'd just have to get out front by the end of Gould Island.

Never a team player, Jan didn't appear down with the plan.  For the next few moments he continued to pull away from Chris and I.  His lead grew to about 10 lengths, but at that point the gap stabilized.  We'd accordion back and forth as we caught different waves, but the net effect was a wash.  This delicate equilibrium reigned for a couple of minutes, but then I started to pull Jan back.  A key component of this transition was recognizing that we weren't "surfing" so much as "paddling in the direction of the waves".  I'm clumsy and inefficient at the former, but... marginally less so at the latter.  Once I stopped consciously trying to read the marginally surf-able waves and just started putting one blade in front of the other (on alternating sides, I eventually figured), that's when I started to make progress and identify bumps to boost me along.

The waves were offset by a few degrees to the east of our straight-line direction to Gould, so the three of us swung wide into the center of the bay.  Maddeningly, this is where some pasty-faced bureaucrat (who wouldn't know a fo'c'sle from a bosun) chose to randomly place the shipping channel.  Race officials must have radioed in our course, though, because commercial traffic gave us a wide berth.  I lost track of Chris as I closed the gap on Jan, but felt reasonably confident that he hadn't passed me.  About a half-mile before reaching the Newport Bridge, I moved into the lead.

Taking a cue from the "invasion stripes" painted onto Allied planes for D-Day, Tim decorated his boat with a predetermined pattern to eliminate friendly fire incidents from his sailboat skipper cronies.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

I understand that every Zen boat comes with a personalized mantra to repeat while paddling.  Based on what I heard from Wesley at the end of his race, he got "Uuuurgh".  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

The remaining downwind portion went by too quickly.  With a mile left, I had started preparing myself mentally for the grind lurking at the north end of the island.  So when the GPS gleefully started blurting out speeds 2.5 mph slower (I knew putting AI in those things was a bad idea), my bow began slapping over the waves, and my paddle fluttered in the wind, I was only 90% demoralized.  I had gotten a vague glimpse of a group of 2 or 3 paddlers perhaps a minute behind at the turn, but that'd be the last chance I'd have to check on the competition - an over-the-shoulder glance might well transform into an over-the-gunwale tumble.

You don't realize just how big the Newport Bridge really is until you watch it not get any bigger while paddling interminably towards it.  Eventually, however, the bridge started to loom.  I took this as a strong indication that I might actually reach it.  My hopes were not unfounded.  After passing under the bridge and then cursing through a long half-mile into some particularly obnoxious gusts, I finished the race.  Providing empirical evidence that my calculations regarding our relative upwind performance were spot on, Jan pulled in 70 seconds later.  Chris Q nipped Chris L a half-minute later to nab the final podium spot.  On the women's side, Melissa Meyer took the win.  Although Mary Beth had arrived at the finish almost an hour earlier, under cross-examination she cracked and revealed that she had skipped half the course because "riding back home with Greg will be enough drudgery".  I'm going to interpret that as an implicit aspersion on our passenger, Ryan.  Burned, buddy!

Paddlers anxiously await their relay partners.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Max Yasochka generously handed out alfajores - a traditional treat from his an ancestral homeland, Argentina.  (Photo courtesy of Olga Sydorenko)

Thanks, Wesley and Tim, for your work as co-directors.  Most paddlers figured the downwind leg of the race was ample compensation for the bookend slogs, although I'd have felt a little better about it had the guys slipped us each a crisp $20 bill to cover pain and suffering.  Something to think about for next year... 

For those rattled by the boat traffic in Narragansett Bay, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.  With zero verifiable strikes logged this past weekend, the yachtsmen "kill pot" carries over to the Jamestown Double Beaver on June 29.  Register at PaddleGuru for your chance to lose!  Like war-time medics steel-wooling the red crosses off their helmets, you might want to consider toning down those fluorescent PFDs.

For more of Olga's great photos, see here.

Sakonnet River Race: Right Tool

The Sakonnet River Race is traditionally the first rough-water race of the New England season.  After careful consideration, however, race director Wesley Echols made a tough game-day decision.  We  had a handful of flatwater races under our belts, but given our collective performance at the most recent outing (three players with a half-dozen errors between them - myself included) he decided that we weren't ready for the majors.  We'd paddle the traditional course (12.6 miles round-trip from McCorrie Point to Third Beach, by way of Sandy Point and Black Point), but Wesley would use his administrator privileges to override the defaults and dial conditions down to "Mill Pond" - giving us one last shot to prove ourselves.

MB wouldn't be attending.  My helpmeet needed a little time away from home to "reevaluate her options", in large part because I insist on introducing her as my helpmeet.  Instead I'd be accompanied by my compeer, Bob.  [touches imaginary earpiece] Erstwhile compeer, I'm just being told.  He now prefers "acquaintance".  We carpooled down with my surfski catechumen, Janda.  [earpiece again] I see.  Is "fellow human" acceptable?  Good.  In any event, we three frabjous popinjays wended our way... [and again] Balderdash! [extended tinny harangue, audible to bystanders]  My apologies, folks.  I've been informed that the whimsical use of bygone vocabulary for humorous effect is no longer sanctioned.  [continued tinny denunciations]  Was, in fact, never sanctioned.  Oops.

A healthy quorum of regional paddlers met us at McCorrie Point Beach.  In addition to the cast of repertory players, we were joined by recent ski convert Andrew Metz and first-time racer John Litherland.   I figured my main competition would come from Matt Drayer (well-known by the Swampscott police from all those pre-dawn 911 calls regarding a wetsuit-clad prowler on the beach), Mike Florio, and Janda Ricci-Munn.  With flat conditions forecast, I felt comfortable bringing my V14, but Mike was playing it safe in his V10.  Ryan Bardsley, despite temperatures in the high 60s, was also playing it safe by dressing in head-to-toe neoprene.  Nobody was sure what the flash point of human flesh is, but we'd likely find out prior to the end of the race.

As Ryan is about to discover, Janda's bear hugs lie in that gray area between collegial bonding and stranger danger.

I tried to get Igor to share his larval hash with me, but turns out it was just cold risotto.  Blech.  No thanks!

You may have already noticed that the photos are better than usual.  Acquaintance Bob foolishly agreed to act as race photographer, not realizing that by borrowing my camera he had entered into an implicit licensing agreement that would prohibit him from sharing the profits I'd make from the lucrative surfski photo resale market.  He did get a free trip to Rhode Island out of the bargain, so he's really got nothing to complain about.

We find ourselves in the midst of a dangerous, bank-busting arms race.  I believe Tim got the ball rolling with his black-and-white Elite V10 3G last season.  Bruce Deltorchio followed suit earlier this year with the same boat.  And Matt showed up to the Sakonnet with an Elite V12 2G so new that its gelcoat was still tacky.  That's 63 feet of carbon hull between those three boats, the total probably weighing in at less than the first kayak I owned.  Of course, Wesley had gone nuclear long ago.  He just had the cunning to choose brands that don't broadcast their firepower by color.

"And if you'll just direct your attention this way..."

"...you'll be able to add the yellow-banded paddle stork to your life list.  No, stork.  S. T. O. R. K."

Soon enough the 23 skis were on the water setting up for another battle.  Wesley bellowing "Hold the line!" as he coordinates our rolling start has become something of a Rhode Island tradition.  I don't know about the others, but it makes me feel like we're not fooling around - there's really something at stake.  In an inspired twist, this year Wesley shamed a creeping scofflaw by name.  Wasn't me, but I won't rat out the weasel.  You can clearly hear in the first few seconds of my video, but even that doesn't remove all ambiguity.

We take turns so that he doesn't get suspicious, but every race someone mentions to Chris Chappell that there's a substantial payout for the first paddler to the 500 meters hotspot.  It's tough to maintain a straight face after all these years, but poor credulous Chris bites hard every time.  Once he's taken the bait, we let him make his run before reeling him in and breaking the bad news.  No, no, it was 1000 meters, not 500.  Or 2000.  Or whatever it takes until someone finally gets in front of him.  We then make sure that whoever that is flashes around a wad of twenties after the race to help perpetuate our cruel ruse.

Opening day of ocean ski season brought out quite the crowd.

Naturally, Chris rabbited to an immediate lead while the rest of us snickered behind his receding back.  After a start on the Essex that would charitably be described as "anemic", I vowed to at least splash around more at the onset of the Sakonnet.  My sound and fury approach appeared to be working, although I suspect it was just because everyone missed a stroke or two while glancing over to see who was being attacked by geese.  Within a minute I had caught Wesley, Tim Dwyer, and Ryan (trying to achieve ignition temperature right out of the gate, apparently) to move into second place.  A minute later, I passed Chris.  For the first time ever, I may have legitimately stolen the hotspot from him.  While abreast of Chris, I noticed that we were skimming through maybe a foot of water.  I made a mental note of how shallow it was 50 meters off of McCorrie Point and filed it under "Facts to Soon Be Forgotten" for safe-keeping.

After years of working on my start, I finally discovered the key to success was cropping technique.

As promised, conditions were ideal for a lightning fast initial leg.  The previous Tuesday, Matt had dismantled my carefully arranged Salem League winning streak in convincing fashion, and now here he was in a faster, lighter boat.  Besides that, Iron Mike was finally in a ski he could hammer away from.  If those motivating factors couldn't push me to record speeds, then what could?  Hmm?  What's that?  Glass-flat conditions and a ripping tide propelling me along?  Well, agree to disagree.

Over the first several miles, I was pushing within a few tenths of 9 mph.  My hard training had finally paid off.  Like Bruce Banner or Peter Parker, all the disciplined hours spent in the "lab" had unlocked my latent abilities!  The sudden increase of 1 mph in my cruising speed was no surprise.  One expects such discontinuities in performance.  Pete didn't go through a phase where he could "kinda" hang upside-down from his fingertips.  During the early phase of flexing my new paddling muscles, I discovered that I grew even more proficient the more towards the center of the bay I tracked.  This correlation perplexed me for a while, until I figured out that dry land must be my (Uh-oh, should have thought my metaphor out a little better.  Oh well...) kryptonite.

I've written myself into a corner here, so I'm going to use my first "Get Out of Contrived Fantasy Free" card to snap back to reality.  Ish.  I did spend the first half-mile or so in awe of my ability to maintain such a blistering pace.  But as my speed continued to increase, it gradually dawned on me that a humdinger of a tidal current was mostly responsible.  Once I had made this realization, I could start properly obsessing over exactly how far out from shore I should be to optimize the speed-distance trade-off.  And, on the flip side, worrying about how much shore-hugging to do after the turn.

Shortly after passing Black Point, some unwelcome texture started to appear on the water.  Although you would be hard-pressed to categorize the subtle ripples as waves, I share no such compunction.  As far as me and my V14 were concerned, conditions transformed from calm to rollicking.  I didn't feel compelled to abandon ship and swim for shore, but I was destabilized enough to throw off my finely-tuned flat-water stroke (stop smirking, Jan).  My speed started dropping, a trend that was exacerbated as I moved out of the tidal current - edging shoreward in preparation for the turn-around off of Third Beach.

I always suffer from navigation anxiety when trying to identify the correct mooring buoy at the Sakonnet, despite Wesley's detailed instructions on triangulating a course using a house-less chimney, a lifeguard chair, and a cormorant.  My brain was too oxygen-deprived to pull up the specifics, but I did recall that the buoy was numbered 114.  In 8 point font.  Slipping on my reading glasses, I scrutinized each buoy in the bay until finding the correct one and turning for the return leg.  I could now see that Matt trailed by about 90 seconds, with Mike maybe half that far behind him, and Janda a comparable distance behind Mike.  With a sizable gap to the next paddler, it seemed like the podium we be drawn from us four.

Only after the fog lifted did Matt and I realize that we had been circling one another for the past twenty minutes.

I kept along the coast until reaching Black Point - a no-brainer since this was both the shortest path and avoided the outgoing tide.  After that, however, I had to choose between a straight-line course and a more circuitous track that would have me dipping into each bay between me and McCorrie Point.  Clearing Black Point, it was obvious that the once-friendly tide had turned openly antagonistic.  And, in bald-faced defiance of all meteorologists, a playful headwind was also greeting me.  Not knowing how much current the coastal route would avoid, I decided to choose the devil I knew.  For most of the remainder of the race I would only see 7 mph when an anomalous mini-wave happened to be heading my direction.  I nervously monitored the inner passage to make sure that nobody was zooming up the shore, but since I still had my reading glasses on, they would have to be waving giant fluorescent banners for me to actually spot them.

Given what I wrote a few paragraphs ago, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I'd soon be crashing into the rocky bar off of McCorrie Point.  That was misdirection.  I didn't, in fact, forget how shallow it was off the point.  I forgot how far off the point it was that shallow.  As a result, I swung ridiculously wide, setting up a half-mile in advance for a sweeping turn that would have allowed a supertanker to skirt the point unscathed.  Only to find criminally inadequate docking and off-loading facilities.  One port-a-john for a crew of 27?  Oof.

Although Matt swears by the express route he took along the shoreline, the proof is in the plodding.  My path may have been slow-going and tedious, but it ultimately got me to the finish first.  Matt pulled in shortly after to claim silver, with Mike outlasting a hard-charging Janda for the final podium spot.  In the women's race, Leslie Chappell took the crown, followed by Melissa Meyer and Jean Kostelich.  These three paddled together for the first leg of the race, but Leslie had another gear when she needed it.

How is it that Timmy is smiling in every photo?  It's starting to get a little creepy.

All those clinics have done wonders for Bruce's technique.

Thanks to Wesley and Betsy for hosting the race.  I wouldn't miss it for the world.  Unlike, say, Mary Beth.  Just something to think about after she trades up and you need to choose which of us to remain friends with.

We've seen a whole lot of flat this season, but rest assured that this is about to change on June 15 at Wesley and Tim's Ride the Bull race.  Should there be not a breath of wind, should all other boats be banned from Narragansett Bay, should the moon be reassigned to another planet to stanch the tides... we'd still be bouncing around while cursing the diabolical duo that created this abomination.  Probably also a little concerned about the ecological and political chaos associated with the moon thing, but there'll be plenty of time to fashion our paddles into weapons after the race.  Please register at PaddleGuru.  Don't forget to indicate your blood type and post-apocalyptic tribe preference.

Essex River Race: Winner to Swimmer

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.

Run of the Charles: Course Adjustment

(Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

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 increased bridge 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.

Narrow River: Sweet Release of Depth

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.

All is vanity.