Battle of the Bay: The Other Half

A key component of Rhode Island's virus mitigation plan has been restricting surfski races to one per month.  The legislature was thrilled that in addition to drastically reducing COVID transmission, this mandate has resulted in improved water quality, 70% fewer stabbings, and the virtual eradication of chlamydia.  For July, Tim Dwyer was cleared to run the Battle of the Bay.  Traditionally, this race is held in conjunction with instructional sessions by a Rice brother.  The opportunity to race against an international champion has always been a drawing carb (I beg of you, don't judge me by my worst pun).  For the first time ever, we'd have to soldier on without a top tier athlete.  In fact, we'd forego the first six or seven tiers.

Since the last Battle of the Bay, Tim had inexplicably passed the rigorous screening required to live within the private community on Goat Island - just a stone's throw from downtown Newport.  As could be read in the distrustful eyes of the other inhabitants, however, his acceptance among them was provisional at best.  Lest any undesirable associates of Tim slip into the compound, racers were subjected to extraordinary security measures at the front gate.  I couldn't argue with the logic behind the background check or extensive blood work, but was the hernia test really necessary?  I'm pretty sure that itself a COVID transmission vector.  Fortunately, the guard gave me a clean bill of health, stamped our papers, and ushered us into the inner sanctum.

Tim's all-garlic diet is tailor-made for social distancing.

A solid crew of a dozen or so paddlers assembled at the gazebo on the southern tip of the island.  I think.  I've been practicing extreme social distancing and forgot my glasses, so from 60 feet away it was difficult to make out individuals.  I spent a good twenty minutes talking with Jan Lupinski before realizing he was actually a fire hydrant.  Jan had registered for the last two races, but "got up too late" to make either.  Ever the softy, in actuality he probably just didn't have the stomach to bear my sobbing lamentations from behind him.  I expected my toughest competition would come from Tim and Kurt Hatem.  Tim had finished barely a half minute behind me at our only other race this season.  And as race chairman, he might well wield his absolute authority to assess arbitrary time penalties, capriciously DQ paddlers, or have rivals keel-hauled.  I wasn't sure of Kurt's fitness level, at least until he paddled nonchalantly into the venue from some undisclosed location over the horizon.  If nothing else, his mind game was impeccable.

We'd be paddling a two-lap triangular course totaling 6.1 miles.  This would be the sixth new course in the 7 year history of the race - sixth-and-a-half if you count Jan's free-form route improvisation from 2016 (taking Newport's rich jazz history to heart, evidently).  From the southern tip of Goat Island, we'd head northwest to bell buoy R12, where we'd turn east and head to the northern tip of Goat Island, finishing the lap by passing through the GI Tract (as the inner harbor is called, or at least, should be).  With a light breeze forecast, the only significant waves we'd likely see would be from boats.  Of course, given Narragansett maritime traffic, that's like telling someone there's no need to worry about killer bees... what with all the murder hornets around.  We'd also need some luck to avoid those swarms of sailboats that spontaneously appear in flash mob regattas.

Before every race Mary Beth and I like to get advice from our magic katydid, Cletus.

We told Tim that there was no need to set up accommodations for out-of-town paddlers, but he insisted that cashing in his 401k and selling a kidney was "no problem at all".

After a brief captain's meeting, we assembled on the water, and Tim counted us down to an orderly start.

Like an airline pilot prepping for take-off, I go through a pre-race equipment checklist before throttling up.  I can hear what you're thinking: "Then how come you always neglect to disengage the brakes first?"  Funny.  The brakes are off, smart ass, but you don't just drop the clutch on a finely calibrated transmission like this.  Anyway, the list.  Paddle at 214.5 cm and feathered to 60 degrees?  Check.  Footplate locked in place?  Check.  Pogies installed?  Check (hmm... might need to make some seasonal list adjustments).  Hydration system properly secured and positioned?  Hold on, let me... 3 ... just ... 2 ... put ... 1 ... uh-oh ... Go!  I'm not a big in-race drinker (which perhaps explains why the paramedics always have so much trouble finding a uncollapsed vein for the intravenous saline drip afterwards), but I like to take a few slugs before getting started.  If the water tube isn't readily available during the race, that's acceptable.  Not acceptable - a loose tube draped over my upper arm where every stroke sends it flying through a jaunty arc.  Although it would occasionally settle into a semi-stable position over my shoulder, the flapping tube was a repeated source of irritation.  It does liven up my GoPro video a little, I'll admit.

I got off to a good start, managing to keep Tim, Wesley, and Kurt abeam - as long as we stretch the definition to include even the minutest degree of overlap.  Plus maybe a few feet of gimme.  By halfway through the first leg, I had pulled into a tenuous lead.  As expected, there was a fair amount of boat chop in the Bay.  Occasionally a wake would line up in the direction you were heading, but roughly 90% of those potential rides would be contaminated by suspiciously coincidental counter-wakes.  I don't yet have enough concrete evidence to bring a class action suit against the power boaters of Rhode Island, but all the signs point to vast conspiracy to piss me off.  Huh.  Now that I think about it, there seem to be an abundance of such malicious players in my life.

As a good will gesture, I like to position my hydration tube so that anyone passing can take a quick sip.

Dave and his boat were well-primed for the race.  I can't wait to see the finished paint job.

I reached the first turn at clanging R12 several lengths ahead of Tim, followed in turn by Wesley, Kurt, and Forrest Horton.  I was pleasantly surprised to find a nice wave train heading my way back towards Goat Island, but quickly revised that opinion after discovering that I was being whisked along at all of 4 mph.  The fickle tide (someone should really try to nail down a schedule) had established a field of standing waves between the buoy and nearby Rose Island.  After a few moments of comical teetering, I managed to wallow myself out the other side and continue on back towards Newport.

Plunging into the north end of the GI Tract, I threw enough of a glance back to see that Tim and Kurt were in pursuit.  Not right on my tail, but close enough to qualify as nettlesome.  With the modest breeze now blocked by Goat Island, I realized just how warm the day was growing.  I couldn't wait to be expelled out the bottom end of the Tract back into the open Bay.  Starting the second lap, I was surprised at how much choppier it had gotten in the half-hour since the start.  Apparently once word of a paddle race got out, the locals wasted no time in mobilizing every craft in the motor pool.

The course was liberally spattered with moored and docked mega-yachts.  Despite his status as a recent immigrant to Newport, I assumed that Tim had applied his unique charms to provide us with access to these mobile comfort stations during the race.  A few palms greased, some tactical flattery, and perhaps a dash of casual blackmail and voila - we've got a half-dozen convenient sites to grab Gatorade, replenish our caviar stocks, and set up offshore account (to hide our race earnings).  There must have been some kind of misunderstanding, however, because when I tried to clamber onto the dive platform of one of the floating palaces for a quick pedicure, I was repeatedly beaten back by two nattily attired goons wielding riding crops.  When I saw one of them grabbing for a polo mallet, I decided I could live with unkempt feet.  Based on the fresh bouquet of orchids festooning Wesley's boat and Mary Beth's newly exfoliated skin after the race, it seems that other racers had better luck.

By the way, if Tim tries that greased palm trick with you, don't fall for it.  He's just trying to throw off your stroke.

At the second turn on R12, I saw that Kurt had broken away from Tim and was perhaps a minute or so behind.  Since our last visit, the tide had doubled down on the standing wave field.  I staggered drunkenly through without losing a man, but the harrowing experience compelled me to add a "Not suitable for younger viewers" tag to my YouTube video.  The remainder of the race was relatively uneventful, although by the end the pervasive smell of cooked flesh was making me ravenous.  I finished about a minute and a half ahead of Kurt, with Tim seizing the final podium step 30 seconds later.  Mary Beth took the women's crown (and sixth overall), with Robin Francis finishing second.

While Tim and Wesley laugh it up, Forrest quietly plots his revenge.  (Photo courtesy of Igor Yeremeev)

The new course was judged a worthy addition to the growing Battle of the Bay anthology, although that may just be the relaxing after-race bay-side gazebo-hang talking.  Many thanks to Tim for welcoming us to his exclusive enclave.

Through some odd tidal anomaly, you'll find that if you launch your ski anywhere in northeast coastal waters, within a week it'll be sucked into Narragansett Bay.  Since you'll be in Rhode Island anyway, why not race the Jamestown Double Beaver on August 8?  Please preregister at PaddleGuru so that Tim knows how many personalized race bonnets to make.  With the cancellation of the Nahant Bay Cup, this is the last ocean race in New England until late-September.  With that in mind, Jan would appreciate it if everyone would give him a 3:30 a.m. wake-up call on the 8th.

Ride the Bull: Back At It

While the rest of us have been comfortably lounging in our homes with nary a care, Wesley and Tim have been busy worrying about how to salvage the lucrative Rhode Island racing circuit without killing off their best customers.  A plan to quarantine all paddlers at Wesley's house for the entire season was scrapped when we realized that youngster Sam Duffield would probably make us all listen to music made sometime after 1987.  After some tense negotiations with the paddlers' union, an agreement was reached on an abbreviated five-race season with some minor schedule adjustments.  Of course, appropriate social distancing protocols would also be in place, including a temporary ban on snuff and chaw.  Looking on the bright side... we'll save a small fortune on spittoon rentals.

Usually by the time the Ride the Bull race rolls around, we've had a chance to gradually build up a tolerance for open-water ocean conditions.  Starting with true flatwater venues (Narrow River and Run of the Charles), we progress through a slightly more temperamental estuary course (Essex River), and complete the acclimation process on a protected saltwater inlet (Sakonnet "River" - damn the name).  All of these preliminary races were cancelled.  Without our standard regimen of rough-water inoculations, we'd be thrown directly into the deep end without a net.  Uh-oh.  Similarly, without my warm-up race reports, there was no opportunity to work out the kinks in my metaphors.

The forecast was for excellent swimming weather.  At race time, the wind would be around 15 mph from the SSW.  Every motorized watercraft within a hundred mile radius had been requisitioned and duly scheduled for wake generation duty.  The settings on the rocky shoreline were dialed up for maximum wave reflectivity.  In 2019, Governor Raimondo mercifully stepped in to move the race further into Narragansett Bay, citing the cruel and unusual punishment that would be inflicted upon the field should the race be held in its normal region (the so-called "Carnage Zone").  Given my limited rough-water experience this season, I prayed in vain for a comparable last-minute pardon.

John came prepared for almost any eventuality.  It's just a shame he didn't have a chance to break out his beekeeping suit.

Anxiety levels were a little lower than I anticipated.  We ultimately had to poke several people awake with extended paddle jabs.

Given the dearth of racing opportunities, RTB lured in an impressive set of paddlers from well outside New England.  Ed Joy and John Hair drove in from Central New York, Eric Costanzo and Rob Jehn narrowly escaped from New Jersey, and Rick Carter pulled a trailer of boats up from South Carolina.  This group was supplemented by a scruffy crew of suspicious locals, warily eyeing the exotic headdresses and gaudy pantaloons of the interlopers.  Doubtless we were all thinking of the enigmatic prophecy that I had intoned a few minutes earlier while in a trance-like state: "Those bastards are going to take all our hardware."

As the paddlers trickled into the parking lot (understandably, we all wanted to avoid the virus-laden surfaces of the port-a-johns), some semblance of normalcy was restored to our quarantined lives.  Our unpracticed social-distanced greetings were occasionally stilted and embarrassing (apparently wrapping your head and torso in a space blanket, dousing yourself with bleach, and chest bumping your buddies hasn't yet caught on), but everyone was excited to reconnect after the unnaturally extended off-season.  Dr. Costanzo, straight from the front-lines of intensive COVID care was positively giddy at the prospect of socializing in a wholesome outdoors setting.  Perhaps less so about being chased around the parking lot by a blind, silver-shrouded idiot.

Once the congregants had all arrived, Wesley convoked the captain's meeting and led us in a solemn prayer.  Actually, he mainly just droned on about the race while I got in touch with my spiritual side - making binding contracts with various deities, saints, djinns, fiends, and saboteurs.  Every one of them a charlatan, as it turns out.  Just as well.  I already had six or seven reverse mortgages out on my soul.  The current RTB course has been tweaked to perfection over the past several years through a sadistic process of trial-and-terror.  Starting from West Cove, we make our way upwind to Mackerel Cove, round a mooring buoy several hundred meters into that bay, and head out to channel buoy G7.  From there we head less-than-more downwind past the House on the Rock to buoy G11, then back past West Cove for a second lap of the same course.  As a final slap in the face, we then slog through a bonus leg directly back to G7, rounding that to finish back in our launch bay.

The course map does a pretty good job of weeding out color-blind paddlers.

Even after Wesley's detailed instructions, there was a fair amount of confusion about where exactly to go.

While awaiting the start, I weighed my chances against the competition.  Ed would undoubtedly thrive in the breezy conditions, having cut his teeth paddling in Hawaii.  He didn't actually move to the Aloha State until middle age, by which time he already had realized considerable success in New England (as attested to by his 4 Blackburn titles).  So I supposed it was more of a sharpening than a cutting.  Rob and I had traded head-to-head wins in the Blackburn and L2L last year, but an unusual reverse anonymous tip from Craig Impens on Facebook alerted me that somebody was putting up gaudy training stats.  Under intense grilling, Rob cracked and revealed that he could have been somebody.  John has been participating in the same virtual race series as I have, putting up comparable times but in a slower boat.  Jim Hoffman was always a threat in rough water, although social distancing had eliminated one of his key assets - the spine-cracking bear hug that he greets his rivals with.  Chris Quinn wasn't actually present, but his last-minute appearance was as inevitable as his shirtlessness.

Anticipation grew to a frenzied peak as Wesley counted us down to the first start of the season.  And then it waned as he was forced to scrub the launch at T-minus 15 seconds to accommodate Quinn and a couple of other stragglers.  I took the opportunity to redistribute some combustible gases prior to the clock reset.  Shortly thereafter we were streaking out of West Cove.  I started to the left to avoid being squeezed against the rocky island at the entrance to the cove, which gave me an excellent view of the two-thirds of the field ahead of me at that turn.  Smelling the podium from the get-go, Ed, Rob, and John seized immediate control of the race.  Within the first quarter-mile, the radiant elites had already separated themselves from the squalid underclass (their term for us, I'm betting).  Eric led that chase group, with Chris Q, Tim, Wesley, Jim, and me in active pursuit.  By the time we had reached the entrance to Mackerel Cove, I had dropped the others and pulled within a couple lengths of Eric and Chris.  Based on the gap the leaders had on us in the first ten minutes, it seemed like we were already racing for 4th.

I made the right turn into Mackerel Cove a little more exciting than was strictly necessary by cutting inside of Eric and Chris.  With quartering port waves pushing me towards the rocks and reflected slop compromising my ability to navigate a straight line, I meandered drunkenly in the confused waters, narrowly skirting several outcroppings.  As we subsequently headed towards the turn buoy in calmer conditions, a surprise appearance by Tim's bow alerted me that he hadn't been quite as dropped as the previous paragraph indicated.  The four of us made the turn within a couple of lengths of one another and headed out towards G7 on a beam run.

Within the first few minutes of the race, I had assumed a paddling posture best described as a "defensive crouch".  Back hunched.  Head down.  Shoulders forward.  Hands never more than a foot from the torso.  I recently watched Ivan Lawler's excellent six-part YouTube series on paddling techniques and off-water exercises.  Ivan conveyed an overwhelming amount of information.  But if you remember just one thing from those two hours of instruction... well, that's one more that I can now recall.  Maybe something about dots lining up on your shirt?  Oh, yeah!  Also, don't wear socks.  So the take-home message was mostly sartorial advice.  Despite some fogginess on the content, I'm positive that Ivan said nothing about the critical role of the defensive crouch.  I'm assuming this is because he's concentrating on flat-water paddling, where the danger level rarely exceeds "aggressive otter".  In big conditions, however, the crouch puts you that much closer to your safe space - the fetal position.  If things get too hairy, you just armadillo up and wait for the coyote to tire itself out.  In this metaphor, the coyote is the entire atmospheric-oceanic system, so be sure to bring plenty of snacks.

Although I was ready to spring out of action at the first sign of danger, I still managed to maintain a reasonable pace during this leg.  I reached the G7 turn ahead of our gang of four.  I was looking forward to the run to the final turn of the first lap, but knew that I'd have to work hard to stay ahead of the skilled downwind paddlers just a couple of lengths back.  Sure enough, it wasn't long before I watched Eric pull even (OK, maybe slightly ahead) on an inside line.  Just a moment later, however, I watched him tumble into the sea - an uncharacteristic gaffe for such an accomplished rough-water paddler.  Given that Eric hasn't had much opportunity to train - what with literally putting his own life at risk to help hundreds of seriously ill COVID patients - maybe I'll give him a pass on being a bit rusty.  It's a shame, because I was lining up a pretty good joke at Medicine Boy's expense.

That's right, Doc - smirk it up while you can.  You got your one free pass.  Next race there's gonna be a punchline with your name attached.

I quickly calculated the absolute minimum amount of concern I needed to demonstrate for Eric's safety.  He hadn't immediately sunk out of view, was clearly conscious, and both Tim and Chris had slowed up right behind him.  Right.  So... two concerned looks over the shoulder, five missed strokes, and a slightly guilty expression - that oughta cover it!  I was back on my way, no worse for Eric's wear.  Incidentally, he ultimately finished the race, so apparently his remount was a success.

The area adjacent to the House on the Rock is renowned for its wacky tidal currents, imposing standing waves, and boat-swallowing vortexes.  I entered this area with some degree of trepidation and involuntary clenching, but was surprised to find the conditions quite manageable.  Pleasant, even.  I was able to get a good read on the leaders starting back upwind, still holding together and now perhaps 90 seconds ahead.  Finishing my own turn on G11, I estimated that my lead over Chris and Tim was now halfway between marginal and tenuous.

I struggled during the long trip back to Mackerel Cove.  I didn't feel so much "unstable" in the conditions as I did "uncoordinated".  Given the peerless grace I generally evince these days, it's probably difficult for recent acquaintances to believe that I went through an awkward phase in my youth.  I was gawky and bumbling, with a real knack for accidental pratfalls (that is, falls) and spontaneous injuries.  For a brief span - not much more than a half-century, tops - I was a master of self-imposed physical humiliation.  Ever since whacking myself in the head with a strap buckle the morning of the race, I had figured those days of gangly ineptitude were long behind me.  But here I was struggling to put together three recognizable strokes in a row.  The worst part is that it wasn't that rough - several other RTB and Double Beaver races had more challenging conditions.

Despite my bungling, I reached the entrance to Mackerel Cove ahead of Chris and Tim.  Having learned my lesson during the first lap (that lesson being: "It's possible, by sheer happenstance, that you will survive taking hare-brained risks"), I proceeded to again cut the corner amidst jacked-up waves and find myself dangerously close to the rocks.  I made it through.  Now that I'm 2-for-2, I can safely substitute "probable" for "possible" in my lesson plan.  I made the buoy turn and headed back out to G7.  Conditions seemed to have worsened since my last visit to this leg.  Near the mouth of the cove, I swamped my boat and narrowly avoided inversion.

I found myself in similar situations a few too many times for comfort.

At this point, you're doubtless wondering how Hall of Fame pitcher Satchel Paige might be relevant to my race.  Thanks for asking.  If Paige hadn't been denied access to the Majors until 1948 (when he was 42), we wouldn't have to spend half of each captain's meeting arguing about whether the best league pitcher of the 1930s was Mel Harder, Red Ruffing, or Lon Warneke.  Paige knew a thing or two about aging gracefully - pitching into his fifties - and blessed us with six keys to keeping young in his autobiography.  The most famous of these is "Don't look back.  Something might be gaining on you."  This is particularly pertinent to surfski racing in sloppy conditions, where a glance over my shoulder inevitably results in competitors gaining on a now-swimming me.  Another apt rule is "Avoid fried meats, which angry up the blood."  It was only after I got off the schnitzel that I started to see podium finishes.  For this race, however, I concentrated on Satchel's third key to longevity - "Keep the juices flowing by jangling around gently as you move."  I don't know what went wrong.  I was jangling all over the place, but watching the leaders pull further ahead, I couldn't shake the feeling of being over the hill.  A close review of my GoPro video afterwards revealed the problem.  I don't know if you'd categorize it as floundering or flailing, but my crazy marionette moves sure as heck weren't jangling.

The half-mile (with liberal rounding) trip to G7 took a couple of hours.  My reward for this toil was a whack-a-mole downwind leg in which I managed to miss 95% of the available rides.  Ahead, the leaders had achieved moteness.  At the G11 turn, Chris was perhaps a dozen lengths back, with Tim about the same behind him.  I felt fairly confident about being able to hold them off, but I wasn't looking forward to it.

On the upwind leg of the first couple of laps, there were some clandestine waves travelling against the prevailing runners.  They were lightly encrypted, but the system administrator neglected to change the default password so it was easy enough to break the code and find some modest reprieves during the headwind slog.  Unfortunately, there must have been a North Korean hacker scare prior to the final leg back to G7, because any countervailing waves were now protected with some kind of flux-inverted quantum encryption.  On the off-chance that the admin had left some kind of back door password, I tried every expletive permutation I could think of.  No dice.  Fatigued and dispirited by the relentless grind through lumpy seas, my ragged stroke degraded further.  At random intervals I would tentatively pluck the water with a paddle blade, like a kitten lazily batting at a ball of yarn (but with considerably less power).  My Garmin was technically still indicating a positive velocity, but "zero" also fell within the GPS margin of error.

Despite my worst efforts, I managed to reach G7.  My attempt to round the buoy was flattened out considerably as I misjudged the approach and was nearly side-swiped into the can by a broaching wave.  I briefly considered vaulting out of the cockpit, clambering up onto the green platform, and there napping away the rest of the afternoon.  Catching a glimpse of Chris and Tim just a few lengths back, however, I abandoned my dream and recommitted myself to limping home ahead of those heel nippers.  It's a bell buoy anyway.  I'd have never gotten any decent shut-eye.

The waves on the final leg lined up pretty cleanly with our destination, so I actually experienced a few instances of joy in my final moments.  I had held onto 4th place.  Ed convincingly took the crown, finishing two-and-a-half minutes ahead of Rob, with John less than thirty seconds further back.  I was [redacted] minutes behind John.  It was a tough race.  I clocked at least six capsizes (including a rare triple by one paddler), but nobody got in any real trouble.  There were three DNFs, although all of them seemed to be of the "screw this noise" variety, rather than an inability to complete the course.  All in all, a bracing day on the Bull.

There were more racers, but we were careful to comply with Rhode Island's strict 12 person per photo coronavirus restriction.

Thanks to Wesley and Tim for getting us out of our houses and back onto (or into) the water.  Next up is Eric McNett's Casco Bay Challenge on July 4th.  There's no pre-registration this year - just find a shady looking shirtless guy on Willard Beach, slip him a wad of bills, and he'll set you up.  A week later (July 11th), why not return to Rhode Island for Wesley's Sakonnet River Race?  Register at PaddleGuru.  Note that the race will start at Island Park Beach rather than at McCorrie Point.

Virtual Racing: Dry Run

With the cancellation of all the early season races, there's been a grassroots campaign for a virtual race report.  It's been subtle and almost entirely unvoiced, but I can't resist this clandestine groundswell of support.  Who amongst us hasn't pondered over the philosophical puzzle about The Sound of One Man Clamoring?  I'm no Zen master (any longer), but I can provide you with the answer to this riddle (which is why those close-minded Buddhist bastards kicked me out - like magicians, we're not supposed to give away our mystery-of-the-universe secrets).  It sounds exactly like the bing of a text from my Uncle John, wondering whether I had thought about writing a quarantine blog entry rather than peppering him with pyramid scheme opportunities and conspiracy theory emails.  I realize that some of you might consider this a pretty low bar for a clamor, but that's exactly why the monks passed you over in all sixteen rounds of their biennial reincarnation draft.  And also because you look terrible in orange.  In any event, how can I begrudge my loyal fan?

I realize now that there may be some confusion about a "virtual" race report.  For those hoping that you could knock off early and just imagine how exciting the report might be, I have some bad news.  First, blog technology simply hasn't yet advanced that far.  You'll have to slog through the old-fashioned way.  Second, you're aiming way too high with that "exciting" expectation.  Dial that back about 85%.  Third, it's a "virtual race" report.

In the absence of in-person racing, several paddling organizations are hosting time trials in which you run a course of a given length (starting and finishing at the same location) and then submit GPS data to substantiate your time.  I've participated in the weekly Social Distance 6 (sponsored by Newbury Canoe and Kayak) and the one-time Breakout Virtual Paddlesport Race (sponsored by NECKRA).  These are both 6 mile races.  To the extent that I inadvertently hew to the facts in this report, I'll be referring to the Breakout race.  I've been doing the other trials in my ICF boat rather than the V14, and I'm just not stable enough in the former to safely write about it.

In my past reporting, I haven't been squeamish about naming names when it comes to embarrassing foibles.  In fact, tossing a Kuklinski or a Dwyer under the bus every so often has become something of a signature move.  Nobody gets hurt, and I know I'll always be able to hear the creaking and wheezing well before the aggrieved parties get within retribution distance.  Given the delicacy of my current living situation and the intensely personal nature of this report, however, I've decided to use pseudonyms to protect the anonymity of the characters.  In particular, I'll refer to my housemate as Embeth and our pet as Benedict.  One or both of these may actually be fictional or composite characters.  I'll probably stick to convention and mostly refer to myself (or ourselves) using pronouns, but if forced unexpectedly into third-person, his/her/its/their pseudonym will be Dennis.  Don't read too much into the names.

We're healthy, don't have to worry about food or shelter, and in anticipation of some day being trapped 24/7 with them, made the wise decision to forego children (and also, just to be sure, got old enough that if some unexpectedly did show up, they'd no longer be minors and we could legally turn them away).  So it's callous and tacky to complain about my privileged lockdown experience.  In that spirit, let's get started!

Since Embeth's retirement last year, we've grown accustomed to spending 95% of our time together in the house.  So you'd think a few more minutes a day wouldn't put much stress on our relationship.  However, we've been operating within extremely tight tolerances.  It's like that pile of old plutonium chunks you keep piled in the back of your closet.  They're sub-critical in their current configuration, but one day you forget and carelessly toss your beryllium bowling ball in there and BLAMMO!  Embeth goes nuclear.  I've begun to surreptitiously bury all the knives and scissors around our property, but I have to start preparing for gorier scenarios.  While watching TV the other day (12" B&W with rabbit ears - we're prepping for when things really go south), Embeth innocently asked where we kept the circular saw.  "Just in case."  Might be time to dig some unmarked graves for the power tools also.  I don't see what I can do about the nearly endless variety of household objects that could be used for fatal bludgeoning, however.

Several weeks ago, we hit the end of Netflix.  We'd been greedily lapping up the dregs from those hard-to-reach sub-genres for the last few weeks, but I had to draw the line once we got to "Car 54, Where Are You?" episodes and Pia Zadora movies (I've been advised by my editor to keep my joke references hip and topical).  Since then, there's been a lot of drinking and reminiscing about that one time when we went to the Yarn Barn.

I've been hearing a lot about Zoom meetings to alleviate social isolation - virtual happy hours, game nights, extended family dinners, etc.  I must have accidentally signed up on the video Do Not Call Registry, however, because my screens have been devoid of other humans.  The Registry must also affect outgoing calls since my parents don't seem to have received any of my Zoom invitations.  In the face of this deprivation of outside contact, I'm afraid Embeth is cracking up.  She's taken to locking herself in the spare bedroom with her iPad and a bottle of wine for hours at a time, where I hear muffled sounds of gaiety as the poor thing carries on imaginary conversations with herself.  I've reacted in a more rational manner, spending most mornings entering random Zoom meeting IDs and passwords in the hopes of video bombing a live one.  Thus far I've managed only one success - I was able to crash a third grade geography lesson in Kokomo.  Although the authorities ultimately accepted my explanation and decided not to press charges, I learned a valuable lesson: If you forget to get dressed before starting a game of Zoom roulette, don't call attention to it with a "south of the border" joke.  And probably stay out of Indiana for a while.

Another unanticipated side-effect of the quarantine is that Benedict the Pet has realized that I am not only superfluous, but flat-out vexing.  Never mind that I'm the one that feeds and cleans up after the ingrate.  If his claws need trimming, who dons the padded armor and wields the bolt-cutters?  That's right, me.  When his feathers lose their luster, is it Embeth who licks them back to an iridescent shine?  No, that's me too.  And God knows, those musk glands don't milk themselves.  Now that Embeth is available around-the-clock for cuddling, however, I'm as uninteresting to Benedict as his recently sloughed-off carapace.  I was utterly ignored by the Judas I had personally delivered from the egg sac.  The real knife (spike, technically) in the back came just three days ago, though, when I received official notice from the Massachusetts Probate & Family Court accepting Benedict's Petition for Partial Emancipation.  The physical wounds will heal - well, probably not the missing fingers - but this betrayal's going to linger.

Now that we've established my fragile mental state, let's start moving towards the water.  I get the impression that most participants aren't taking the virtual races too seriously.  They're casually showing up at the beach, paddling out and back 3 miles, and submitting whatever the hell time they happen to clock.  I wouldn't be surprised if they were whistling a jaunty tune during the trial.  Phooey.  Aren't these races supposed to be about doing everything possible to unfairly stack the odds in your favor?  While the chumps are out having fun in their boats, I'm combing through maps searching for the best flatwater venue within 300 miles, checking barometric pressure every 20 minutes, and shaving my arms to minimize drag.  To save weight, I've pealed the Epic labels from my ski and cut the handle off my toothbrush.  A Beaufort wind classification of "calm" is one "dead" qualifier short of being placid enough for me to run a time trial.  In short, I did everything but falsify my GPS records to game the system.  The $30 I paid for that useless Garmin Hacker Toolkit was a complete waste.

Much as keeping current with the latest virus news, eating healthily, and bathing, my motivation for training has taken a significant hit.  Without the incentive of racing, most of my paddles have degenerated into the on-water equivalent of a morning constitutional.  Load the CamelBak with coffee, take a brisk loop or two around the lake, and then its back home for a well-deserved lie-down.  Intervals?  Long slow paddles?  30/30s?  Nope.  We're all in this together.  No need to raise the mean of our shared suffering.

OK, I'll admit to some scattered Fartleks, but those were mostly involuntary.

The announcement of the first virtual race didn't exactly light a fire under my ass (thank God), but it cornered my ego in a dark alley, slapped it around a little, and threatened lead-boot humiliation unless I paid off those outstanding fitness debts.  My pride can take a hint, but spelling it out in 1s and 0s on a web page always helps to underscore the intimation.  Reluctantly, I dialed up the training intensity in the hopes of saving face at post time.  Not having a solid conditioning base to work from, those post-paddle lie-downs suddenly transformed into full-blown comas.  Through the marvel/curse of Garmin Connect, I was able to cross-reference my progress against the previous decade's worth of work-outs.  Happily, my vision blurred with tears before the full scope of the ongoing 2020 disaster could be revealed.

On the day of the trial, I faced a significant hurdle before I even left the house.  In an attempt to out-Wesley Wesley, last year I'd taken to putting on my PFD prior to the short drive to our local lake.  This minimizes the time from parking to launching, while simultaneously cementing my reputation as the neighborhood eccentric (a foundation I had carefully started pouring years ago with some unorthodox - and quite frankly, unsanitary - gardening practices).  Unfortunately, my Vaikobi vest zips up the front.  Not having worn actual pants for the past month and a half, I spent several minutes looking for the PFD drawstring before realizing I'd have to dust off my atrophied zipper skills.  As you'd expect, I pinched my tongue a few times before working out the kinks in my rusty technique, but eventually was safely ensconced in my fluorescent cocoon.  After the time trial, I'd probably be too fatigued to figure out how to reverse the process, but figured that Embeth could cut me free.

I can't say for sure that the PFD saved my life on the subsequent drive, but there's no doubt that my head stayed above water.

The lockdown has reshaped the recreational profile of our lake.  The rowing teams that usually train in the early mornings and evenings are gone, presumably after attempts at manning multi-person boats with skeleton crews got the Pirates of the Caribbean copyright lawyers involved.  Although we generally get along, I must say that it's more peaceful on the water without the incessant ponderous beat of the drums and the occasional panic-inducing cries of "Ramming speed!"  Unfortunately, the rowers neglected to take along their yappy little pest of a mascot, who patrols the docks and adjacent shores like Cerberus, noisily warding off visitors from his hellish little bay.

Of course, you can only defy the natural order of things to a certain point.  The law of Conservation of Watercraft remains in effect.  What we've lost in rowers, we've made up for by a bloom of Homo cabelas - more commonly known as the North American kayak fishermen.  These gentle critters are at least as scared of us as we are of them.  And with ample reason.  With their muted color palette, low profile, and quiet demeanor, they quite literally blend into the background.  Combine their accidental camouflage with the blinkered intensity of a frenzied interval, you have the perfect recipe for me terrorizing the poor souls.  I live in fear of the inevitable lawsuit when one of them fails to dive clear in time.

A sidebar.  Like most people, I imagine, the greatest moments of joy in my life have stemmed from entering a preposterously specific question into Google and getting an exact result.  I'm talking queries so detailed that you can't even come up with a reasonable set of search terms, so you literally just type out the entire question.  Every year on February 27, for example, our household celebrates the time I Googled "How long would it take two bowling balls one meter apart in space to collide from gravity?" and was whisked off to a page with almost that exact title. Just under 10.5 hours, you'll be excited to know.  The problem is, you can't yet reliably count on such gems.  For every winner, there are dozens of disappointments like "Who is the actor that looks just like a jowly Jason Bateman but with a larger forehead and maybe his last name starts with an R?" or "So... animals that aren't birds but have beaks.  What's the deal?"  My point is, you can't build a joyful life around lucky hits on obscure Google searches.

Fitness paddling, however, provides me with almost daily bursts of euphoria.  It's not about a transcendent connection to the water.  Nor entering that flow where each stroke propels you along an almost pre-ordained glide.  And it's not even about that tingly feeling you get from your spandex shorts when you forget your underwear again.  No.  It's more primal than any of those.  As you've probably deduced by now, I'm referring to the smug satisfaction that comes from launching and retrieving your surfski - from car to water, and vice versa - in roughly one-hundredth of the time it takes any other boater to get on and off the water.  I've trained myself to pull into the lot and start paddling in one continuous motion.  I didn't buy Goodboy V-bars to safely transport my boats.  I got them solely for rapid deployment.  If I can leave one shore-side sea kayaker (strapping down a spare paddle) in open-mouthed stupor, one fisherman (sorting tackle) wondering what the hell just happened, one pleasure boater (trying to get his boat centered on the trailer for the twelfth time) grinding his teeth in envy...  Well, that's what it's all about, isn't it?

Sitting on the water prior to the start, I found it difficult to build up the level of pre-race anxiety to which I've grown accustomed.  Keeping in mind the maxim that you shouldn't change anything on race day, I considered running home and gulping down some rancid meat smothered generously with a laxative gravy.  At least that way I could approximate my typical belly-state.  With darkness threatening to cut my trial short, however, I decided to gut it out as is.  I did manage a few reassuring dry heaves of anticipation, at least.

The Hamilton-Wenham Gun Club is situated quite close to our lake, so I didn't have to wait long for the blast of the starter musket (those guys are old school).  Fully engaging my core, I made a powerful lunge forward.  Abdomen and shoulder muscles burning from the effort, I just barely managed to stretch enough ahead to start my foredeck-mounted GPS.  Time to get paddling!  With a series of dainty strokes, I eased into the race.  Although I've requisitioned a lake with a simpler geometry, the one I'm currently stuck with is amoeba-shaped.  Meticulously following the curves of each pseudopod would yield a turn-heavy 4.5 mile loop.  I've therefore designed a friendlier two-lap 3 mile course that maximizes straightaways.

In virtual races, most people make the mistake of shooting for the best time.  Mistake.  Through trial and error (and spreadsheets), I've discovered that there's an inverse relationship between average speed and finish time.  The implications are staggering.  I haven't worked out the exact math (or grammar) yet, but in layman's terms: "Faster are better time".  This insight has unshackled me from the tyranny of the clock.  No more seeing 34:21 on the GPS and wondering if I can just hold it there until I'm finished.  It's now simply a matter of maintaining a target speed.  Even if you slip off the pace, you're almost guaranteed to end up with a time after the 6 miles are up.

Not counting yappy dogs, there are three primary time trial enemies: fatigue, wind, and wakes.  As the ancient Sumerians already knew, there's nothing to be done about the first.  We're each bestowed our daily allotment of vital humors, and once those are exhausted we fall limp until the sun god Utu refills our reservoirs at daybreak.  Sure, you could sacrifice your charred foreskin to all-powerful Enlil in the hopes of getting an extra half mina of juice, but you've only got so many penises to burn.  Maybe even none.  And in all probability, mischievous Ishtar would swoop down, make some hurtful wisecracks about your still-smoking manhood, and steal off with that hard-won supplemental humor.  Embarrassing.  So for all practical purposes, fatigue is an immutable constant.

That brings us to wind.  Surprisingly, also immutable.  Around 80% of your trial will be into a stiff breeze.  In theory, you could also appeal to a higher power for becalming as well, but the cost of influencing an intrinsic natural element like wind is going to be much higher than just a modest burnt offering.  Unless you have a pool of virgins on hand (with signed and notarized consent forms, of course), let's stick to secular work-arounds.  We've been hearing a lot about letting science drive our decisions.  To the vexation of phrenologists and astrologists everywhere, it turns out that meteorology does technically qualify as a science.  I've read that a modern five-day forecast is as accurate as the one-day forecast from 1980, so at the very least meteorologists have an excellent PR firm.  I'll concede that their predictions are occasionally better-than-chance.  When it comes to forecasting the wind at our lake, however, they might as well be throwing darts at my head.  I nevertheless continue to heed their prophecies when scheduling workouts, despite being deep into "shame on me" territory.

Finally, we have wakes.  Of course, there may also be wind-driven waves, but in that case the savvy time trialer knows to curse the parent, not the child.  Later in the season, we'll have to contend with the wakes of water skiers and their hillbilly cousins, tubers.  At least those boaters have a clear purpose.  At this time of year, though, it's just a grab-bag of morons, each of whom needs to rapidly get from A to B for some inscrutable reason.  And in the absence of a known motive for their journey, I'm forced by Occam's razor to ascribe the most likely one: They're just trying to piss me off.  You might argue that they're probably applying the same argument to the idiot paddler always putting himself directly in the path between A and B, but allow me to correct the error in your logic.  They're barely smart enough to drive a powerboat let alone carry on abstract reasoning such as this.  I've found it best to keep all of this to myself because, even though they're not very bright, it turns out they have extraordinary hearing.

I can tell I'm out of practice.  My pacing is way off.  I've barely started writing about the actual race and  the "wrap it up" light is already flashing red.  Before the band starts up and they cut off my keyboard feed, I hope I'll have time to convey the full excitement of the virtual race.

I paddled alone for six miles.

Whew.  Just under the wire.  Thanks everyone!

Chattajack 31: Togetherness

Given enough photos, there was bound to be one that made us look good.  See other great race pics from Deb.S Action Photo.

When Mary Beth told me back in May that she wanted to paddle the Chattajack 31, my initial reaction was "Great!  I can reciprocate the dedicated support she provided me in last year's race." Fortunately, before that thought had sufficient time to bubble through my brain and rashly express itself verbally, I had already gotten Jan Lupinski to sign a single-race contract to paddle with me in a double.  We had never paddled together, neither of us owned a tandem ski, and we have fundamentally different paddling styles, but this was obviously a smarter move than schlepping all the way down to Tennessee just to watch someone else paddle.  Probably for the best that I don't have kids, right?

Once we were committed to the Chattajack, it was just a matter of trudging through an entire season (of nearly 20 races) while maintaining at least a modicum of motivation for a late-October competition.  By August I had burned through 80% of my gumption (I expect at about the halfway point of this report, you'll have pretty much the same feeling).  But Mary Beth was just hitting her stride come mid-summer.

A few years back, four-time Chattajack champion Erik Borgnes published a side-splitting satirical piece purporting to be a detailed training plan for this race.  Widely regarded as a masterpiece of absurd exaggeration and whimsy, it contains such comic gems as a five hour paddle, fully half of which consists of brutal 0.9 miles on, 0.1 miles off intervals.  With zero calorie intake!  Unfortunately, not everyone was in on the joke.

Mary Beth, as evidenced by her stone-faced demeanor while editing my race reports (not to mention the pathological eye-rolling in response to my comic antics around the house), was born without a detectable sense of humor.  As such, she failed to recognize that Erik's treatise was a parody.  Perversely, she adopted his ridiculous program as her gospel.  A religious adherence to the Word of Erik meant that by September, MB would head out for her weekly long paddle at 6am on Monday and wouldn't return until late afternoon on Thursday.  For weeks at a time, she'd eat nothing but pistachios and mustard.  She wore only corduroy and slept in a homemade sensory-deprivation tank.
Amen.

The TV in our hotel wasn't working, so we passed Friday evening the old-fashioned way.

We brought clothing and equipment for pretty much any contingency, but perhaps could have left the crampons at home.

By comparison, my Chattajack training was feeble.  Taking inspiration from the proverb about not needing to run faster than the bear, I carefully tracked Jan's fitness level throughout the season.  Blessedly, a flurry of late season travel kept him from hitting the water as often as he otherwise might.  I adjusted my sessions accordingly, aiming for that sweet spot where I was 5% better conditioned than my paddling partner.  I'd occasionally see Mary Beth out on the water, her corduroy paddling outfit zsh-zsh-zsh'ing away in swishing condemnation of my lackadaisical approach to training.

During the summer, Jan had unilaterally resolved the most significant hurdle to us paddling together by purchasing a ski equipped for such a shared endeavor - a Carbonology Blast.  It seemed wise to actually put in some bucket time together before the race.  However, paying particular attention to the adage that familiarity breeds contempt, we decided that a single hour-long session would be more than sufficient.  We met at a neutral location on the Connecticut River.  As was apt, Jan took the pole position.

Our paddle wasn't utterly disheartening, but it was clear that I had a lot to learn about paddling clean-up in a double.  My natural race cadence is around 104 strokes per minute, while Jan's is under 90 spm.  Furthermore, while Jan has a metronomic left-pause-right-pause cadence, I rush my right stroke, leading to an asymmetric left-right-pause-left-right-pause pattern.  As a result, I had a pronounced tendency to get ahead of Jan, particularly on the right side.  But how hard could it be to suppress millions of strokes worth of muscle memory for the four hour duration of the race?  I had a more pressing concern to worry about.

Even on the narrowest of skis, I'm an inveterate knuckle-whacker.  At some point during an early-season training session, I'll eventually strike the gunnel of my ski hard enough to tear the skin off the knuckles of my ring fingers.  These open wounds then persist for the remainder of the season, such that I'd embark on each subsequent paddle dreading the unavoidable, excruciating pain that the next careless mis-stroke would bring.  As you may already know, in 1591 Pope Innocent IX explicitly banned knuckle-whacking as an acceptable interrogation method of the Inquisition.  Not only were the torturers complaining that it was too cruel, they found the heretics would inevitably just double-down on their blasphemies between sobs.  Although the Blast is a narrow double, from the rear seat it felt like I was wearing a barrel.  By the end of our short paddle, I'm pretty sure I could see bone.  Fortunately, I had taped the gunnels beforehand, so there wasn't any permanent discoloration from the blood.

After spending 45 minutes trying to get the SUPs to spell out "Chattajack" marching band style in the background, I finally gave up and just took the damn picture.

I figured if you ended up needing the PFD all that badly, you probably should have been wearing it in the first place.

Arriving in Chattanooga the day before the race, we were confronted with a heavy rain that lasted through the night.  By the morning, it had tapered off to a gentle mist - just enough moisture to make it impossible to tape anything to your boat.  Temperatures would be in the 60s.  Presenting a virtually unanimous front, 97% of climatologists agree that dressing appropriately for the Chattajack is infeasible, regardless of the forecast.  I was originally going to go with a  short-sleeve top only, but Mary Beth convinced me to add some shorts to my ensemble before the cops could arrive.

There were more than 100 surfskis racing, including 20 doubles (although, disappointingly, no others in the men's Tandem Surfski class).  Nate Humberston was clearly the man to get beaten by, and an impressive roster of paddlers accepted the challenge.  My choice to repeat as silver medalist was Flavio Costa, who had been electrifying at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race 6 weeks earlier.  Flavio would be joined by fellow top-five L2L competitors Vadim Lawrence and Chris Norman.  Relative to that race, Vadim would probably benefit from the flatter conditions and longer course.  Chris was a bit of a wildcard, but paddled the L2L with ever-increasing vigor.  Nobody was worried in the least about Ryan Petersen, mostly because he had apparently popped into existence just moments before the race started.  That's a little unfair.  Ryan had made a trial appearance in our plane of reality at the 2017 USCA Nationals in Dubuque, finishing a close second behind legend Mike Herbert before blinking back into the void.

The deceptively named Kayak class, which would start 30 minutes before the Surfski class, was in truth composed mostly of lowercase surfskis.  I assume that Epic must have included a free Chattajack registration with every V8 Pro sold in the US, because they were all there, joined by a healthy collection of wider entry-level skis.  There was no consensus on best-in-class, with Justin Schaay, Terry Smith, Morgan House, John Wellens, and Bruce Poacher each featuring as the betting favorite at various points.

 Remember when Jan and I were inseparable?  We got over that.

Jan and I watched the first wave start, then launched from the floating docks.  As we made our way upstream to join the second wave throng, I was feeling pretty optimistic.  I wasn't expecting a walk in the park, but certainly it'd be better than last year's swim in the maelstrom.  There's not much that needs to be said about the course.  You snake your way 31 miles down the river, mostly staying near the center to take advantage of the current.  Other than some weeds and suck-water near the shores, and some hapless SUPs mid-river, there are no real hazards.  We turned downstream to await the start from a conservative position outside of the bulk of surfskis and outriggers.  With the on-water bagpipes in full lament, the gun sounded to start our long ramble.

I always start slow, but it's not generally because I want to.  Perhaps figuring that gradual acceleration would promote synchronization, Jan eased us into the race so gently that it took us several minutes to catch up to a branch that happened to be floating by at the gun.  The Queen Mary departing her jetty into busy harbor traffic would seem spry in comparison.  If I provide petty criticisms of my skipper here, it's only so that my later incompetence stands out the more in contrast.  With that in mind... Jan told me 15 seconds before the start that our initial stroke would be on the right, then proceeded to do the opposite.

Our measured tempo slowly increased over the first few minutes until we reached a comfortable cruising pace.  There were about 20 boats ahead of us at this point - single and double skis plus a few tandem outriggers - but it was obvious that we would soon overtake most of these rabbits.  By mile 1.5, we had slipped by all but the first four skis.  Nate and Flavio appeared to be exchanging pulls in the lead, with an unknown paddler keeping pace several lengths behind (the semi-mythical Ryan, as it turned out), and Vadim back another dozen lengths or so.  Thanks to occasional bursts of stroke harmony, we were slowly reeling them all in.

I knew that Jan wouldn't lead our craft by quiet example.  As he explained before the race, if a drill sergeant molly-coddled his inept recruits, they'd later be coming home from war, hopelessly intermingled, in a single pulp-filled body bag.  I'm paraphrasing, because Jan went into a shocking level of graphic detail, but you get the picture (as did I, thanks to a set of disturbing illustrations that accompanied his presentation).  On the water, I was subjected to a stream of verbal rebukes, with varying degrees of vehemence.  I should note that while a few of these were delivered with noticeable impatience and frustration, Jan remained remarkably polite with his wayward pupil.  Nevertheless, you can only hear the directives "Together!" and "Relax!" so many times without starting to take umbrage - no matter how warranted the remarks.

My only hope was that Jan would eventually realize the futility of his coaching, enter into a despondent funk, and let me single-handedly destroy our double rhythm in peace.  It took longer than I anticipated, but we eventually got there.  At this earlier point, however, he was in full disciplinary mode.  Over one stretch of the river, Jan's instruction regarding my timing was so unrelenting that, looking around, I noticed that all the paddlers within earshot had unconsciously fallen into perfect synchrony with him.  That momentary diversion of attention on my part was, of course, sufficient to throw our boat into near-catastrophic arrhythmia.

At mile 3 we picked off Vadim, who would later demonstrate his fitness and fortitude by passing Flavio and moving to within 30 seconds of "Ryan".  We moved adjacent to the three leaders in the next few minutes, but stalled there in our progress.  Having caught up with the slowest SUPs from the first wave, we fell back a half-dozen lengths while navigating through those meandering craft.  The densest concentration of paddleboards coincided with the narrowest part of the river, which made for some excitingly close encounters.  As a passenger in my vessel, I was able to watch with detached curiosity to see if we'd collide - like it was happening to someone else.  Based on his angry mutterings up front, Jan seemed a little more, uh, personally engaged.

Just shy of an hour into the race, we noticed that Nate had managed to shed Flavio.  The three leaders were running near the left bank at that point, while we were on a more fortuitous line in stronger current.  After miles of unproductive pursuit, we now swiftly moved past both Ryan and Flavio.  Only Nate separated us from my quest for the fastest time of the day.  I say "my quest" because Jan seemed to be more of the "just happy to participate" mindset before the race.  But perhaps being so close to glory would ignite his competitive fire.

Like a couple of hard-nosed thugs tailing the prosecution's key witness in the hopes of offing him in some secluded byway, Jan and I tracked stealthily behind Nate at a comfortable stalking distance for miles.  I was the rash loud-mouth - "Come on Loop-man, let's ice this rat!" and "We got him!  We got him!  Pull the trigger!"  Jan was the oh-so-cool voice of reason - "Gregory, what the hell are you talking about?"  No imagination, that guy.  Despite our furtiveness, Nate told us afterward he was well aware that we were skulking abaft (peculiar verbiage, I agree, but that's how he talks).  In any event, I spent several happy miles imagining that the combined vigor of two challengers would soon overwhelm that of the lone paddler ahead.

I can't say for sure if the deciding factor was Nate's superior skill and athleticism, or the deleterious effect that changing conditions had on my tandem paddling competence, but once he started to pull away at mile 13, any fanciful delusions of offing him to take the top overall spot were immediately dispelled.  Nate would end up finishing 8 minutes ahead of us, shattering the singles' course record and beating his closest in-class competitor by nearly a quarter of an hour.

The night before the race, participants received a safety advisory email warning us of windy conditions in the low teens, with gusts of 35 mph.  The wind had been negligible in the morning, but according to the forecast, 90 minutes after our start the shock wave of the impending front would reach us and we'd be blown clear of the river.  It wasn't quite as dramatic as that, but rounding a curve at mile 13, the conditions rapidly changed.  We'd paddled the first part of the race in glassy water, but now we were bucking a blustering headwind.  And (as Jan helpfully pointed out) most of that bucking was coming from back seat asynchrony.  The marginally rougher conditions were enough to further degrade my internal timing mechanism.

After three and a half miles of gusty winds, we rounded another bend and abruptly found ourselves back in placid conditions.  I'd like to say we took full advantage of this magical deliverance to return to semi-competent form, but the damage had been done.  Our best days were behind us, with only a gradual decline into chaos and incivility ahead.  Jan's frustration at my inability to match his tempo, combined with my frustration at his inability to drop the obviously fruitless verbal guidance ultimately led to some regrettable sharp words.  By me only, I'm embarrassed to admit.  Despite being by far the less aggrieved party.  It's proper that complaints should only be directed up the chain of command, so I'll assume that Jan only held his tongue to avoid punching down.

Despite our difficulties, we had passed the halfway point of the race in well under 2 hours.  For most of the journey thus far we had benefited from a robust current, with our average speed in the mid 8 mph range.  As we got further from the outflow of Chickamauga Dam, however, we progressively lost that boost.  A long stretch of shallows further compromised our speed.  So it was with great relief that at mile 24, we came around yet another bend to find a helpful breeze at our back.  The wind-funneling effects of the Tennessee River gorge are inscrutable, but usually in the sense of "In sweet Jesus' name, how can we be heading upwind again?"  To suddenly find the wind working in our favor - that was a truly unexpected bounty.  Except...

We soon found ourselves in legitimate downwind conditions.  With rideable waves.  That sounds great, in theory.  In practice, the next five miles were the most vexing of our race.  With zero experience together in a relatively narrow tandem, stability was a factor.  We weren't in danger of going over, but there were enough wobbles, corrective strokes, and outright braces to compromise our forward power.  Much worse, however, was the impact the downwind conditions had on our rhythm.  By necessity, Jan was varying his stroke timing and rate in response to individual waves.  My natural impulse was to do the same, as if I were in a single.  Despite knowing intellectually that I should focus solely on mirroring Jan's stroke, I kept subconsciously reading the conditions for myself and anticipating the strokes.  The result was disastrous.  By the end, I was ecstatic if I was at least anticipating on the correct side of the boat.  Not only were we missing rides, the boat was jolting back and forth like a furious rodeo bull.  And the clown in the back seat was just enraging him further.

What should have been the fastest part of the course was, for us, the slowest.  Thankfully, with a few miles to go we rounded a left bend and the wind tapered off.  We were back in mostly flat conditions.  The downwind fracas had apparently broken Jan's spirit, because he suffered through the last stretch in silent judgment of my inadequacy.  In the other half of the boat, I was feeling jubilant - partly because in a few minutes we'd have successfully completed the race, but mostly because I knew that I'd never have to paddle a double again.  In one final indignity to Jan, I let that jubilation drive my stroke during the timed sprint at the end, ensuring that the enduring image of our race together would be that of two single paddlers, surprised to find themselves somehow in the same boat (as seen here).

Mary Beth finished with gusto.  Or perhaps it was brio.  One of the Os, anyway.

We finished in 4:01:37 as the second fastest boat of the day.  That sounds pretty good, unless you happen to know that last year's best tandem time was 3:48:25 - and that was with less favorable conditions.  I feel that Jan and I probably do have a better Chattajack in us.  Where, by mutual consent, it will remain forever nascent.  Nate won the Surfski class with a time of 3:53:53, with Ryan and Vadim filling out the podium.  In the battle of the V8 Pros within the Kayak class, Justin won handily in 4:22:38, followed by Terry and Morgan.  The women's Kayak podium contained Julieta Gismodi, Kim Schulte, and Julie Mitravich.

After last year's race I dissolved into a quivering blob, incapable of speech or deliberate movement for the next half-hour.  I felt much better this year.  Refreshed after a quick shave, haircut, and pedicure in Jan's well-outfitted van, I made my way to the finish dock to await Mary Beth's arrival. When I saw her round the Hales Bar Power House just a few moments after I had joined the other spectators (a half-hour sooner than she had expected), I was thankful I hadn't opted for the Lupinski Deluxe Spa Package.  Someone's gotta tell Borgnes his lunatic training plan actually works!  Mary Beth finished at 4:58:35, second in women's Surfski (and 15th overall in the class).  Sara Jordan had taken the crown some minutes earlier with a powerful showing, while Holly Hall claimed third less than a minute behind MB.

We told everyone that we had plenty of goodies in the van, but only Flavio took the bait.  Say... what ever happened to that guy?

I'm proud to say that I remain friends with Jan to this day.  I thank him for showing me the ropes, and for resisting the urge to wrap them tightly around my neck.  Thanks also to Renata for providing transportation support.  And to the dozens of Chattajack volunteers who make the race possible.  But most of all, thanks to Mary Beth.  Not for being an incredible training partner, calming influence, and all-around boon to my life (although maybe someday I'll get around to expressing my gratitude for those things), but rather for suggesting just before we launched that I lengthen my paddle to preserve my knuckles.  The race was whack free!

You can view scads of race photos from Deb.S and Rick White.

Nahant Bay Cup: Sprintacular

By shifting the Nahant Bay Cup from its traditional slot in August, director Mike McDonough imbued his race with a certain late-season wistfulness.  Although there a couple more New England races this fall, another paddling year is winding down.  Unless you happened to think back in April that it'd be a good idea to register for a 31 mile end-of-October race, in which case you have five more weeks of training to suffer through.  What I'd give to be wistful!

As a general rule, an article about an event shouldn't be longer than the actual event.  While there are allowable exceptions - it's tough to summarize the first action-packed femtosecond of the Big Bang in less than a quadrillionth of a word, for example - I'm told that a 26.5 minute surfski race doesn't qualify (despite being of comparable importance).  In short, I'll be brief.

Hurricane Humberto had passed offshore a couple of days earlier, leaving behind a significant lingering swell.  From Fisherman's Beach in Swampscott, we could see that in Nahant Bay itself the impact of the swell was negligible (outside of the well-behaved rollers sweeping into the beaches deeper in the bay).  However, from a couple of miles away we could see the waves exploding on the rocky shores of Egg Rock and East Point - waypoints along the typical open-ocean course.  Wary of losing some of the valuable 50+ demographic, Mike decided to change the race format to something more palatable to his core audience.

The calm waters of Nahant Bay belie the tempest thrashing in the hearts of the paddlers.  Except for Mary Beth.  She was pretty chill.

Unfortunately, Mike neglected to take into account the cantankerous nature of his constituency.  Rather than laying down the law on an alternative course, he opened the floor for discussion.   Some wanted to run the traditional course, others wanted to incorporate the beach surf, while a few just packed their gear and headed home.   At one point Matt Drayer was arguing for a "Last Man Standing" scheme in which we'd tightly circle Egg Rock until there was but a lone survivor.  Paddlers regularly stormed away from the debate muttering in disgust, only to rejoin the exuberant fray a few moments later.  Actually, that was mostly just Bill Kuklinski.

Eventually we settled on a lap course in front of the beach that would have us rounding a red nun at one end and a dedicated turn buoy on the other.  The plan was for Mike to drop that buoy close enough to Kings Beach that we'd be able to surf into it for that turn.  The field paddled together to the beach to reconnoiter, but lost our focus upon arriving - gleefully doing out-and-back runs on the eminently rideable waves.  Mike was probably getting increasingly aggravated at our lack of discipline in getting the race started, but that's just a guess.  Every time he'd try to get my attention I'd pretend I didn't see him and launch out after another ride.  After a half hour of frolicking, we eventually tired enough for Mike to corral the herd.

The shallow slope of the beach and the notable discrepancy in the size of the incoming sets meant the location of the surf zone varied wildly.  Mike ultimately decided to drop the buoy well outside any possible breakers, which meant that we probably wouldn't do much surfing to the turn.  It would essentially be a flatwater paddle.  We lined up for what would consist of two-and-a-half laps followed by a final spur over to Fisherman's Beach (up-back-up-back-up-side).  Mike counted us down to the start.

When I belatedly realized that I hadn't gotten a pre-race shot of Mike pointing dramatically, I took matters into my own hand.

Since the field consisted mostly of paddlers from our Tuesday night Salem League, I had a pretty good sense for the competition.  For example, it was a safe bet that Matt would try to win.  And sure enough, my prediction was spot on.  He took the immediate lead off the line, but I managed to keep on his port draft as we separated from the other paddlers.  We maintained this formation until the first turn, where we jointly demonstrated a lack of maneuverability generally seen only in monorails.

After completing the first leg to the red nun, my GPS was indicating that the race would be much shorter than we had anticipated.  By my math, it would come in around 26 furlongs.   I knew I shouldn't have bought that cheap Garmin knock-off.  The only other unit settings are angstroms, parsecs, and kilometers (the most unfathomable of them all).  At my current pace - somewhere between a trot and a canter - the whole thing would be over in less than a half-hour.

On the way back to the start buoy, I took the lead from Matt with an ease that suggested he wasn't that reluctant to yield it.  For the short-term, at least.  I suspected his long-range goals weren't as generous.  I thought I gapped him over the next few minutes, but at the buoy turn he pulled stubbornly back into view.  For the next few legs, he would never fall back more than a length or two, inevitably nosing into my periphery at each broad turn.  At the final buoy turn (with only a half-turn at the nun towards the beach remaining), Matt executed a masterful move, driving past me on the momentum of a small ride to retake the lead.

With 16 trillion angstroms (damned GPS) remaining in the race, it was now clear that the remainder of that distance would be spent in extreme discomfort.  We were both all-in for the pudding.  Not sure that's actually a saying, but you get the gist.  Matt and I paddled side-by-side toward the nun, pushing progressively harder but holding just shy of red-lining.  Matt helpfully reminded me that I would be on the outside of the final turn, gradually pushing us both wide to amplify his advantage.   Finally rounding the nun with a 0.0000209 nanoparsec (oh for Pete's sake) sprint ahead of us, I found myself behind by a half-length.

In the past, a justifiable fear of expiring has kept me from starting my final sprint too early in a race.  But if Matt was going to beat me today, at least my kinfolk would have the satisfaction of knowing that he'd feel so guilty over my demise that he couldn't truly savor the win.  I punched in the override codes to disable all safety mechanisms and set off in reckless pursuit.  Pulling alongside Matt once again, I tried to maintain a demeanor of steely-eyed determination.  Difficult to pull off with those eyes threatening to bulge free of your head, but I think he bought it.

Skirting the shallows off Lincoln House Point, we were both able to catch some small runners that were wrapping around towards the finish.  Largely by happenstance, I happened to get on a slightly more productive bump and moved a few feet ahead.  I maintained this slight lead as the waves tapered off, leaving us to fend for ourselves in flat water for the final 200 meters (having given up on the GPS, I was eyeballing it).  Perhaps not realizing that I was teetering on the verge of catastrophic system failure, Matt seemed to concede the victory.  I hit the beach a boat length ahead and stumbled across the finish line at 26:31.  In a cruel twist of fate, I had missed the record for fastest time in any New England surfski race by a mere second.  Two years earlier, Jan Lupinski had edged me out at 26:30 on a very similar course.  A proficient nemesis finds a way to antagonize you even when he's not present.

Shortly after Matt and I finished, the age-before-beauty tandem team of Bill and Mary Beth pulled in to take the third overall spot, with Kirk Olsen pocketing the solo bronze.  Afterwards, we finished a delightful day with a lunch spread supplied by Carol and Mike.  Many thanks to the McDonoughs and to timer Bill Baumann.

We're down to our final two ocean races of the season, so make 'em count.  In Maine on October 5 we have the Glicker Downwinder (register at PaddleGuru).  And on October 19 is Rhode Island's Plum Beach Lighthouse Race (register at PaddleGuru).  See you there.  And there.