Sunday, April  25, 2010

“Great weather,” Steve commented, as he arrived at the crack of dark (5:15 A.M.) to mount up my two Cliff’s ‘V’ racks to his vehicle for the drive up to our umpteenth running of the Run of the Charles. A cold rain was coming down, and it was hard to muster up enthusiasm for these conditions, paired with 19 miles of  ‘record low water levels’, according to the latest reports in the Boston papers. Still, the Run of the Charles might be my very favorite race, numbering with the Blackburn, the Mayor’s Cup, and the Lighthouse to Lighthouse. The twists and turns of the scenic Charles and the six portages involved, make for a long and rather grueling event. Best of all are the festivities to follow, conversations around the grill (Thanks, Rob!) with friends from MA, NY, RI, CT, and PA. We picked up Tom Kerr, a.k.a. ‘T.K.’ (Tommy Kahuna), up in Brookfield, and away we went.

Just outside of CT, at the tail end of I84, we outran the rain. Fingers crossed, we hoped it would hold. Cool and overcast would be just fine. Arriving at the put in, many familiar faces appeared. It was good to finally meet Chaz and Brad from upstate NY. Chaz and I have corresponded about all things surfski for some time now. Chaz was curious how they’d do against some of the familiar names in the NE race rankings. No need to be curious any longer guys; you rocked out loud. Got the hugest hug from Susan Williams. “Schmoopie Pie!” she exclaimed. Rob Flanagan and I briefly contemplated hiding T.K.’s boat behind a tree, but Mr. Suspicious was striding toward us, thwarting our  plan to blow off a little pre race nerves.

So, after the usual pleasantries and pre race debriefing, boats went into the water and we ‘warmed up’ in slow circles by the arched bridge. Steve had ferried Sean and Roger to the finish, as he was paddling the 6 miler. Roger was able to get back into the water in time, but it’s been rumored Sean was ‘indisposed’ at race start. Smile. We blasted off the line, jockeying for position-fast touring and unlimited boats together. The K-1s had gone off minutes earlier.

Mr. Lawry and Cindy in their tandem immediately set the pace, with a cluster of surfskis and the odd Mohican right behind. Finding myself gapped after attempting to avoid a collision with a boat cutting across the pack line, I watched the train slowly recede. I was hoping that since the race was a long one, I could make up time leading up to the portages. Patience, Mark, patience. I also was aware that my ‘running’ skills for the portages more or less resemble a labored trudge, so as Dave Matthew’s lyrics go, the ‘space between’ would be crucial. After mile 2 or 3, I fell in behind Rob Flanagan in his T-Bolt. We paddled together for quite a bit, calling out race strategy ideas to hopefully catch some of the lead group. Rob’s idea involved hammering the portages-the idea part sounding great until I heard that it was one that involved running. Knowing Rob just came off a strong showing at a biathlon, and eyeing his wheels mounted to the back, I am almost certain my face fell. My own personal opinion is that wheels mar the purity of the event. I feel the way I do because I do not own them.

Despite rumors that water levels were at record lows, and the occasional shallow bits, the current was advantageous. We were able to hold a decent pace. If we could keep this up, we’d likely reel in a few competitors. In a race of this distance, it’s very easy to go out too hard, too fast, only to discover your needle pegged on ‘E’ in the closing miles. The portages, although serving to break up the hours of just sitting in the boat, most assuredly tax the body, particularly the repeated lifts up onto the shoulder. The coffee cup saucer-sized bruise on the right deltoid bore this out.

True to form, at Portage #1, Rob enacted his evil plan for race domination, and was GONE. (Roger Gocking later told me he heard these frenetic footsteps coming up behind him. I can only imagine they sounded like a tap dancer on crystal meth.) I somehow managed to catch Roger on this portage, only to watch him paddle away on the flat sections, his trademark ‘digging for gold’ style powering him away through the shallow, suckwater bits. And so it went for the rest of the race, Roger and I trading off the lead, portage after portage. In one of the later portages, he was climbing out of the water, and I noticed his wheels dislodged from his EFT, just kind of lounging in the shallows. “Hey Rog!” called I, “Your wheels are floating away!” Frankly, I was shocked at the utterances that emitted from such a well spoken, educated, and articulate individual. Despite his retrieval of his wheelset, they were to eventually have a permanent burial at sea in one of the following portages, and I, for one, was happy to see the purity of the event reinstated.

At the long one, the half mile along a city street in Wellesley, I really began to feel the lack of preparation for such demands. Unlike previous years, little winter weight work meant that 40 some odd lbs. of boat on shoulder began to feel more like a couple hundred. At the end of the long carry, I was bent over like a comma. The Starbucks on the left with the inviting tables outside never looked so good.

At the last portage with the stone steps, I caught Roger again. Attempting to exit too soon, I took one step into the water, not realizing that it essentially dropped away, and went in almost to my chest, dipping the cockpit and filling the boat with water. The design of my EFT has a rear bulkhead, but none in front, merely a float bag to take up some of the space. I tell you here and now, the front of that boat can hold a whole lot of water, as I discovered attempting to lift it and empty. Just as I wrestled approximately three hundred pounds of boat to scapula to drain, three little girls, about 4-5 years of age, came down to the water’s edge to cheer me on, their parents volunteering at this portage station.  As I tipped the boat to empty it, all the water shifted, sending me careening toward shore, and straight toward the little girls. Do you know those news articles where a guy lifts a tractor trailer truck off a toddler courtesy of a sudden burst of adrenalin? Well, I reenacted that feat at that moment, cleaning my water-filled craft above my head, somewhat resembling the Grinch with the sleigh at the tiptop of Mt. Crumpet. Gallons of water cascaded down around my head and shoulders. And Roger was gone.

As we put back in, running down the grass towards the river, I could just see him, and again, managed to catch him as he ran into some trouble getting back into his boat.  Leaping back in, I put the pedal to the metal, knowing that there would be no more portages to give me any kind of compensation. The last stages of this race before the river opens up again are great fun. It meanders in narrow twists and turns. I was watching the G.P.S. read a steady state 9-9.5 mph. You can let the current kick your stern around, slingshotting around the corners to the Moody Street Dam where the rapid is.

The rapid under the bridge…always good for some swims each year. You can hear it and feel it before you see it-the current picks up, quickening and shooting you under low hanging tree branches. The river arcs right under the bridge and the current builds speed here, funneling through the piers. Due to this combination of factors, those in the know stay river left. Too tight a line to the right side will kick you hard left in a broach into the concrete abutment. This year there were two or three small standing waves to greet you in the chest. The spectators cheer, the photographers snap their shots from above, and you’re through. It’s short, but sweet. Then it’s three gradually widening miles to the finish at Herter Park.

Depending on the timing, it’s possible to miss the traffic jam that coincides with the start of the 9 mile rec canoe and kayak classes, then it’s a clear sail all the way to the finish. Roger and I, in our cat and mouse ordeal, were not quite so lucky this year. Their race had started, and we were forced to weave our way through clusters of 9 mile entrants. At one point, where the river narrowed considerably through a bottleneck, a rec C-2 seemed bent on a collision course with my boat. It was apparent they had the enthusiasm, just not the skills to keep it straight. Despite attempts to evade, the river wasn’t wide enough, and soon I had the bow of a canoe wedged in my left armpit, my wing paddle blade caught under their boat, as they careened like drunken sailors into me. It took dropping my left hand off the paddle shaft and a heady shove on their bow to clear us. “Sorry! Sorry!” they shouted, to which I replied, “No worries, but please, please hold your line!” And Roger was going away.

The last two miles had me realizing my lack of training longer distances at intensity. I was unraveling like the elastic in a cheesy pair of socks, trying desperately to catch Roger, and knowing I was hanging on without much left in reserve. I started to play this mental mind game, matching my stroke to naming the letters of the alphabet, along with an associated word, phrase, or concept. ‘A’ is for ‘anaphylactic shock,’ ‘B’ is for Barnaby Jones, ‘C’ is for ‘cumulonimbus clouds’, and so on.  I kept getting hung up on ‘Q’ as I ran through the alphabet 7 times to the finish. (Now I know my ‘ABC’s. Tell me what you think of me.)

It wasn’t enough to close the gap to Mr. Gocking. Thankfully, the finish buoys came up before I started an eighth round of the alphabet name game-I was, after all, worried about ‘Q’. Crossing the line amidst the cheers of spectators and fellow competitors, I was cooked. Tom Kerr was waiting for me on the bank, and smilingly commented: “Oh there you are. What took you so long?” Tom helped me make the last climb up the bank, by taking my EFT off my hands. He had a fantastic race, serving notice that he was locked and loaded for his Molokai trip. Timo Dwyer drifted up-he had an excellent race as well-then held up his foot. The man is a human lure. For the second straight year, he managed to snag himself on a fishhook, this time, speared through the heel of his water shoe. The year before, he trolled a fishing line from his boat, which continually wrapped around my paddle shaft as we neared the finish. Forget angling for Charles River shad, catching a Timo is far easier, and he’s well over the size limit. He’s a ‘keeper.’

Lots of folks had strong races that day. I briefly saw Dave Grainger at one point in his baby blue Mohican off in the distance, but could reel him no closer.  Rob Flanagan, I suspect, pulled a Rosie Ruiz somewhere along the course, electing to ride the ‘T’ then leap off and run the rest of the way.  The lovely ladies Helen Parkinson (Bruce Willis’s wife) and Lesley Chappell greeted me at the shore, all warm smiles and encouraging words.

TK and I deposited my boat up by his and headed back to the water to cheer our compadres in the 6 mile race on.  Chris Chappell in his orange Mohican took it going away, followed closely by Wesley (surfskiracing.com) Echols in his yellow-tipped Think Uno, then Steve Del in his EFT. Closing fast was Mike McDonough. Bruce Willis lookalike Mike Parkinson made a strong showing as well, and Big Jim Hoffman and daughter Emily raced the 6 in their Fenn Elite Double surfski. I had Emily in my class at school-how cool it was to see her and Dad running the Charles. Sean Milano finished up as well. Later he would proudly announce: “I finished thirteen minutes ahead of a guy on a stand up paddleboard!” Susan Williams in her Delphine also went the distance in that tippy, but oh so sexy, boat.

As paddlers finished, we claimed our ROTC t shirts, changed out of soggy attire, and pulled our coolers for the post race festivities. I was a little confused by the multitude of individuals running around in chicken suits flinging rubber chickens, thinking I might have been somehow teleported into a Spanish sitcom, or maybe a Japanese gameshow, until I realized the Guinness rubber chicken winging record attempt would take place in this very park.  Starving as I was, in my addled state, the chicken suit guys were starting to look edible. I pictured them served up with rosemary potatoes on the side. Thankfully, Rob had a grille cranking and TK threw on some steaks with gorgonzola melted over the top. we snacked on chips and some of the infamous Ancona’s cheese spread (as addicting as crack).

The afternoon was fabulous. Milled about over by the posted results. Gathered around the grille, paddling friends talked smack about their day, conversing for hours about events that took mere moments to unfold. Talked to Pam, Ted, Dave, Ellen, Rob, Susie Q, my peeps Sean, Jim, Steve, and Tom…so many good folks. Cliff was there in the tent next to us, with his trademark ‘V’ style racks on display. They are the bomb. As was the case in years past, it was a very good day. Already I’m thinking ahead to next year. I’ll have to consult my Magic 8 Ball to see if wheels are in my future; it’s good for life decisions.