The Run of the Charles Canoe and Kayak Race
Saturday, April 30, 2011

Compromise can be a terrible thing. ‘I’m really not that far out of shape…’ ‘Four Guinnesses can’t be considered excessive; they’re half the calories of an IPA…’ ‘Stopping to search for seaglass on an 8 mile training paddle will suffice to prepare me for the 19 mile race on the Charles…’

The “Author” Drives through the Finish Line!!

The theme for this year’s 2011 Run of the Charles Canoe and Kayak Race might have been: ‘Races are won on the flats, and lost on the portages.’ Scott Stenberg posted this on a recent FaceBook thread. This was to be a self-fulfilling prophecy for me this year. The flat water bit went fine-it was the running (a very loose descriptor), that proved to be my undoing. And the 19 mile race has six portages  (say ‘por-taaa-jez’), the longest, ½ mile in length.  My race start began at Riverdale Park in Dedham, and wound its merry way to the finish line festivities approximately 18+ miles down this scenic river. When the smoke cleared, it was another exceptional day, for another exceptional race.

From the get go, it was going to be different from previous years. My buds, Jim and Steve, would both not be making it for this one. Thankfully, Tommy (Kahuna) Kerr would be, but my regular road trip companion would be driving up separately. Both Roger and I had braved potential rush hour traffic driving up to Wellesley, MA to rendezvous with Sean, my fast friend since waaaay back in high school, fellow racer, and host for the evening.  For the first time ever, we’d be catching a ride in the early AM from the finish, where we dropped our cars, rather than playing the inevitable automotive musical chairs, standard for any point to point race. We’d be ferried over by the good graces of Aims Coney, ski and canoe orienteer and all around outdoor athlete, and his wife Terry.  I sent my beloved Westside EFT with them, and hitched a ride with David Vandorpe. There was entertaining conversation on the way over-debating the merits of Cheerios in the blender as a training supplement, et al.

Upon arrival at the start area, whilst hunting down Aims and trailer, I discovered Rob Flanagan performing a melondectomy on the sidewalk outside Aims’ van-slicing up honeydew for our crew. Seems Rob had attempted the feat in transit, but wisely selected to wield his knife in public instead.

The staging area was the usual reconnecting with old paddling friends on the lawn and the Porta Potty line. (Sean was espousing the comfort advantages of the handicapped Port-a-Lets versus the standards (“There’s so much room in there…”), to which I reminded him of the little known 80’s ad campaign slogan: ‘Never set, in a Port-a-Let.’)  Turncoat Glicker shunned his kayaking brethren for a single blade in a C-2, and Chaz Ross and lovely bride made the long drive to again put in a strong showing in his V12 Elite. Longest trip of the day award had to go to S.S. Weyman, a Bermuda based surfski paddler who originally hails from South Africa. He also won the ‘savage tan’ award; us pasty New Englanders quite literally, paled in comparison.

For those who have never done the ROTC, there are 6, 9, and 19 mile races in addition to the 24 mile relays and Pro Am canoe races. The river itself meanders through Boston suburbs-it is quite scenic, and generally is accompanied by some current assist. Thanks to the efforts of the Charles River Watershed Association, the historic Charles is far cleaner than ever before, sporting wildlife up and down its banks. In addition to the six portages, the 19 mile race offers one mini rapid.

Borys Markin – 19 Mile Overall Winner by a Huge Margin

The starts were clustered tightly together this year. Our wave comprised open kayaks, K-1s, 2s, and fast touring boats. At the gun, we all shot off the line, several K-1s, and the formidable K-2 team of Quagliata and Spies among them, peppered with some open class skis and a Mohican or two (Ted and Dave).  I managed to hang with the front runners for the first mile and a half, riding wash behind Roger, Rob, and good friend Tim ‘Timo’ Dwyer, in his Typhoon. By mile two, they all began to pull away…

I was optimistic, though. I’d been in this place before-pop too soon and pay the piper later, so I settled in for the long haul, trying to keep my HR at 160. Like the proverbial tortoise and the hare, I hoped to benefit from pure attrition, without being one to succumb to this myself.

The five miles to the first portage drag on; the river’s wider and everyone’s still feeling fairly froggy, so you’re basically trying to keep tempo, and avoid being dropped. The initial portage is a wake up call. Envision timing your dismount as you coast smoothly into shore (Reality: Clip several rocks and get your rudder tangled in a bush before skittering up and over the steep, loose shale embankment.). You then leap out gracefully, simultaneously shouldering your feathery craft, and prance nimbly down the path. (Reality: Stagger awkwardly away, drinking tube coiled python-like around one leg, while clean and jerking your 40 lb. boat to one shoulder, the knife-like fiberglass coaming digging into your rotator cuff, neatly missing the padding taped to your pfd intended as a cushion.)

At this point I joined S.S. in his rented Epic V-10 Sport.  He had previously introduced himself at the start, recognizing my mugshot from the most wanted section of www.surfskiracing.com. We traded long pulls: 10 minutes on, 10 minutes off, and the miles dropped away. At some juncture we picked up a racer in a white Current Designs fitness boat, along with Mark Jacobsen from CRCK in his K-1, and had quite the little train going. I felt like Thomas the Tank Engine for a while there, a puffin’ and a chuffin’, but both of us were giving off a good head of steam, taking our turns, pulling hard.  The other two would open a gap on one of the portages. We’d reel them in on the paddling sections, but again they’d gap us on dry land. Eventually their gap stuck, and they held it into the finish.  That’s racing-smart tactics that played to their strengths.

The half mile long portage through Wellesley was nothing even approaching fun. Last year, it seemed to go mercifully quickly. This year, it was an eternity. Shuffling past the lines of carsß stopped by traffic officers, allowing racers to cross, I made brief eye contact with one driver of a minivan. He had an incredulous look on his face, as if he couldn’t comprehend why in heaven these kayak and canoe types would want to run with their boats down a city street.  I was right there with him.

This particular portage gave me insight to how butchers separate bones from joints, along with the tools of their trade. I believe they do so with carbon fiber and Kevlar kayak cockpit coaming, judging by the way my humerus was cleaving clear of my clavicle and scapula, shouldering my boat. I cursed everything: the developing dinner plate-sized bruise on my right love handle from banging the kayak up and down in the carries, people who drive the speed limit in the passing lane, God’s green earth, the light post I happened to be passing by at that particular moment…

But most of all, I cursed the invention of the wheel. Because, you see, dear reader, there is nothing worse than physically humping your kayak slung over one shoulder along a public thoroughfare, only to witness some wispy little runner-type tippy tap past you, effortlessly rolling his or her boat behind. The approaching rumble is the worst-you know they’re coming and, save a pathetically indignant little burst in what might generously be deemed a ‘trot,’ you’re literally a dead man walking.

So many went over to the dark side of wheels this year. My only consolation was that somewhere behind me, Sean was hefting his heavier ‘Stick o’ Buttah’ Futura II, balanced on his head. In the weeks leading up to the race, Sean attempted some shade tree mechanics of his own to cross over, sawing the wheels off a pram (That’s actually what he called it, a ‘pram’… as if the implied Anglophile status might somehow lend credibility to Rube Goldberg-esque style contraption that squatted in his driveway.), and attempting to lash them on to the Futura. He eventually settled on a heavily padded hat instead, serving to cushion his Fontanelle as he carried his surfski Nigerian water carrier style atop his cranium.

It was helpful to match strokes with S.S. over the miles-when my speed would drop off, he’d take a pull, and vice versa. I was dog tired, and called out to him several times that if he could go, then do it, as I was pretty cooked. “Stick a fork in me…” were my exact words.

The river narrowed, twisting and turning, doubling back upon itself, as the current quickened. As we neared the location of the rapid under the bridge, I called out advice to him, as to which line to take. He shouted back that he’d follow my line through, so I just put my head down and kept cadence until I could hear the rushing water and cheers of the spectators watching the swims.

Tom Walton, in his C-1, was just ahead of me here. I don’t know Tom, but now I do; he had his name written in large block letters on the back of his pfd. As I followed his line toward the rapid, I stole a quick glance behind me to be sure that S.S. was on my stern. And he was nowhere to be seen. Knowing I had told him which line to take, I fully expected both of us to punch through together, and he would collect me on the remaining 4-5 miles to the finish.

To call what lay before us a rapid is to be kind. ‘An energetic little set of riffles’ might be a more apt descriptor. However, it is a crafty little set of riffles. For those who’ve not done it before (and sometimes, even for those who have), the Charles lures you into thinking that river right is the best line. After all, it appears to be leading into it, the tranquil little eddy tucked alongside the more turbulent water to the far left. They would be wrong. What happens river right, is that you drop down into that seemingly placid little eddy, which immediately kicks you in the arse hard left into the turbulence, only by now you have broached, and are fast approaching the concrete bridge abutments… sideways. What generally ensues is the inevitable highside and ‘PLOOP!’ a refreshing little swim to check out the vastly improved water quality.  The best way through is river left, right down the center of the rapid. The current still kicks you hard left, but you thread the needle, cleanly missing the concrete piers.

Tom attempted the placid route, and I shot past him as he was spun in the eddy. Evidently, the same thing happened to S.S. here-he stayed upright, but saw quite a bit of scenery in one place as he was spun around as well. A number of folks swam at this spot, particularly those piloting more tender boats. The EFT was unfazed, in fact, I think the spectators above were disappointed at the lack of a show, and after one more portage, all that remained was the remaining slog to the finish.

In the remaining miles, the Charles opens up, from the overhanging branches and tree-shuttered, semi-darkness of the narrows, to the approaching metropolis of the city itself. You can feel the change in the river. It becomes bigger, broader, less suburban, more impersonal-citified. These, for me, are also the hardest miles. Compared to the forest glade feel of the earlier sections, replete with geese, ducks, swans, and the occasional great blue heron, this part is the ‘let’s get it over with’ part, standing in the way of the finish line barbeque and festivities. Last year, I unraveled in the closing miles here. I was tired, bone weary, ‘can’t raise my shoulders any higher’ tired, but it was that dull ache, that foretells the feeling like you’ve been hit by a minibus for a day or two afterwards. The white buoys (Or were they orange?) grew closer, the cheers grew louder, and I was done. Seven minutes slower than last year, but given my current state of fitness, and lack of preparatory training intensity, it felt like a gift to break the three hour mark with a 2:54. Nothing to write home about, but nothing to hang my head in shame over, either.

Many fellow competitors  had great races. Chaz rocked out loud in his V12, as did TK, paddling Greg Barton’s old boat, a Twogood Mako Pro. Timo had managed to avoid the fishing lines this year, but in a superb display of power and rotation, popped his seat cleanly out of his Typhoon, still managing an outstanding time. Dave Grainger, Rob…all put in great effort, with solid results.

Betsy Echols and Leslie Chappell were a warm, welcoming paparazzi, snapping away and cheering me in. Helen Parkinson, and son, Chris, were there too, more smiling faces to greet me. We stood on the banks watching the six mile race come by-Wesley, Chris, and Mike were in this one. In my addled state, I kept thinking I was seeing visions of Chris in his signal orange van Dusen Mohican. “Is that Chris?” I’d ask Betsy and Leslie, as a lime green plastic rec boat meandered by, piloted by a sixty-something year old, gray-haired woman. “No, Mark,” Betsy would answer patiently, “I told you; that’s not Chris.” I’d repeat this several more times. I think they thought I was joking.

Finally, it was Chris, powering strongly to a first place finish, trailed not far behind by Wesley, in his bumblebee yellow and black Stellar SES. The two had a bit of a friendly dogfight out there. Chris exploded off the line and Wesley worked hard to slowly reel him in. Chris then made a textbook tactical move in the wake of several C-2s, opening some daylight as Wesley tried to labor up and over their bow wakes.  He opened up a gap, and held it all the way.

Slotting into third was Bob Capellini, whose hair once again stayed perfectly in place during his strong effort. Francisco Urena, decorated soldier, and new to surfski racing, chased Bob in. I was pleased to be able to cheer them on, along with another good friend, Bruce Willis look alike, Mike Parkinson, and that always ready for a party, Boston firefighter, Timmy Shields, who had done the 9.

Pam Browning and Ted van Dusen graciously allotted some space in their waterside New England Canoe and Kayak Racing (NECKRA) tent and exhibit area to set up the barbeque grill brought in by Rob. Thanks, Rob! (It’s rumored he actually removed the wheels from his boat to wheel the grill in as well. I’d joke that he was on a roll, but puns are the lowest form of humor.)

It was the best of times, and it was the best of times. This was my favorite part of the event, gathering around the grill, drinking coffee from lidded travel cups, and sharing stories of our day’s efforts. I’m reminded of a song by John Prine, ‘Lake Marie’: ‘There were four Italian sausages on the outdoor grill, and they was ssssssssizzlin’…’  There was a sumptuous feast of steak, hotdogs, sausages, and kielbasa, with tables set up for snacks, Capellini pasta salad, and the infamous Dwyer magic bars. Wesley had all the shiny new Stellars arrayed on display. I particularly admired the absolutely stunning red and white custom painted one (smile). Evidently, there was a mystery theme to the afternoon as well, entitled: ‘The Case of Sean’s Missing Kielbasa,’ which went, half eaten, AWOL from the grille, where he had thrown it back on to warm it up. I told him that since dental patterns are so distinctive to the individual, there would be solid (or maybe not) forensic evidence. It was a good day.

All around the grounds of Herter Park, similar scenarios were reenacted. Racers clustered around the centrally located results board, small booths of sponsors and exhibitors plied their info and wares.  Good times and fast (quite literally) friends. Thanks to the CRWA and all their volunteers who lined the banks and takeouts to cheer racers on, and worked the tables at registration. Until next year…

Visit ROTC Site for 2011 Official Results