In days past, the 6 mile Run of the Charles race was a relaxing spring event. A handful of paddlers would mess about on the lazy river for a while, then enjoy some crumpets and split a Zima. The real competitors were doing the 19 mile race, lugging their boats down the leafy streets of Boston suburbs for most of that distance. Times have changed. In 2011, there were 4 skis in the 6 mile event. This year 23 showed up for this race, including a large contingent of out-of-town luminaries. Cue the nausea-inducing feelings of inadequacy. With early season bragging rights on the line, this would be no Sunday in the park. Well, sure, technically it would be just that. But no crumpets.
The cold temperatures did little to quench the competitive fires of the paddlers, although I’m pretty sure mine would have been promptly extinguished if the bitter early morning rains hadn’t stopped. As we hopped about to stay warm and caught up with friends, I realized that I had made a tactical error in my Narrow River report by pointing out that “Mary Beth’s boat” actually wasn’t. Not only are people now universally referring to the V10 Sport as her boat, they’re also asking her when she’s going to start racing in the V10 that she’s so generously letting me temporarily paddle. She’s devious, that one. Covetous too.
Mary Beth’s quiver.
After the brief captain’s meeting, I hit the murky waters for warm-ups in my borrowed (oh for Pete’s sake!) boat, then paddled warily over to the starting line. The combined talent of the field was truly formidable. Apparently I passed out from anxiety just before the start, because when I came to, I found myself safely ensconced in the final third of the pack. You might think that I’d grow accustomed to this, but just like you never get used to the unexpected sting of rejected grade school Valentines (Katie Bloom, did you have to write “return to loser” on the envelope?), I still found floundering in the backwash of 15 boats dispiriting. However, there was nothing for it but to buckle down, grit my teeth, and commence feeling sorry for myself.
I can’t be sure which paddlers took the immediate lead (other than Francisco Urena, who expends more energy in the first 30 seconds of a race than most people do in a season), but within a few minutes Jan Lupinski, Andrius Zinkevichus (in a K-1), and Flavio Costa had asserted control of the race, with Chris Chappell, Craig Impens, and Wesley Echols in close pursuit. Borys Markin, having finished the 19 mile course about three minutes before the start of this race, was just too fatigued to stay with the leaders. I jest, of course. Borys was actually perfecting his needlepoint skills while chatting with Beata Cseke (who managed to make a pink-accented ski look downright menacing) and occasionally dipping a paddle in the water to arrest his god-given momentum.
As I started to work my way toward the front, I bobbed and weaved my way between boats, catching a useful draft here and leaving a disgruntled fellow competitor there. Years of glue sniffing (mostly inadvertent) have taken a toll on my fine motor control. That lack of steering accuracy, combined with wake turbulence and a casual disregard for those previous factors led to some reckless maneuvering. There was some bumping of boats, some clashing of paddles, and some not unwarranted chiding. Tim Dwyer – normally the sweetest-natured of fellows – threatened to unman me with a dull paddle blade if I didn’t quit crowding him. Point taken, guys. Sorry about the sloppiness.
I’m told the start went off without a hitch. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)
I apparently couldn’t be trusted amongst other paddlers. Chastened, I slowly distanced myself from the throng to a self-imposed exile in the gap between the colorfully-named lead trio of Jan, Andrius, and Flavio and the rest of the pack. For a half-mile, I paddled with quiet introspection, far from the maddened crowd. I found gratifying solitude in my reclusive position. Eventually, however, the relentless isolation started to wear on my psyche. I began to hear disembodied voices. I turned back to see that they were, in fact, bodied by Chris and Craig, who were only a couple of lengths behind. I renounced my imagined seclusion and pushed hard to catch the lead pack, joining up with them 1.5 miles into the race.
Jan was getting no reprieve from the pull he started at the beginning of the race. With Andrius and Flavio trailing off his right flank and me on his stern, he continued his metronomic cadence while we others gave silent thanks for his philanthropic nature. At one point, I managed to get my nose between Jan and Andrius in a misguided attempt to discover an inside passage. Predictably, I got in the way of Andrius’ whirring stroke and found myself apologizing for temporarily exempting both of us from the draft. To my great relief, Andrius latched back quickly onto Jan. With the first buoy turn-around approaching, I vowed to stop being a navigation hazard. I hung behind the trio for the turn.
I took some retroactive comfort from the fact that Andrius and Flavio ran afoul of one another rounding the buoy, while I managed to skirt around without incident. Heading back upstream, Jan continued the lead, with Andrius drafting on his left flank. Flavio and I had fallen a couple of boat lengths behind, but a brief interval got me back on Jan’s stern. After a few minutes of this, our benevolent leader snapped sharply to the right in an attempt to shake his loyal followers. Having pledged undying allegiance to Jan’s wake miles back, I wasn’t about to be thus dissuaded. Shortly thereafter, however, Andrius proved more fickle – renouncing his oath and falling back to forge his own path to the finish.
Normally I’d put a video about here, but due to technical issues with my GoPro, I ended up with a whole lot of nothing. I’ve instead inserted a great shot of Chris, who prides himself on his impeccable contrast and color saturation. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)
After four miles of non-stop pulling, I sensed that Jan was tiring. His Herculean efforts had not been in vain, though – his sacrifice had kept me relatively fresh. I pulled alongside (willfully ignoring any comments Jan may have mumbled about “ungrateful bastards” – I knew that was just the lactic acid talking) for a few moments, then usurped into the lead. A couple of intervals later, I was Jan-free.
Of course, I was under no pretense that I would win this race. Borys was back there somewhere, and would eventually put the hammer down and start paddling instead. I had been in this same position in a couple of other races, so when all grew quiet and I sensed an otherworldly presence behind me, I was able to skip right over the other likely explanations (angel of death, invading alien, plesiosaurus, etc.). I had been reeled in. Like that wee minnow that you never even knew you had on your line. I was relieved to find, however, that he hadn’t pulled any of his fishing buddies along with him.
Borys paddled alongside me for the quarter mile or so. I could tell the strain of matching my speed was taking its toll – he’s just not built for paddling in such a low gear. It was just a matter of time. When you’re racing your 4 year old to the end of the driveway, you let the little tyke have a little lead to build his confidence before blowing by him in the last few meters – you don’t want him to forget how much physically inferior he is, plus this gets you out of buying the ice cream you promised him if he won. Fortunately, as in that analogy, as Borys and I get older our roles will eventually reverse. Hold on. That can’t be right.
In the end, Borys and I just had to agree to disagree. (Photo courtesy of Leslie Chappell)
With about a mile and a quarter to go, Borys kicked it up a notch and started to pull away. Already at my last visible notch, I was forced to jump blindly for a hypothetical ubernotch and hope that I could hang on. For a miracle minute, I balanced precariously on Borys’ draft. I was doing it! “It” being barely holding onto a guy who had already paddled 25 miles and was probably still only working at about 2/3 effort. Still! I’ve pulled helpless bear cubs from a raging cave fire, donated a kidney (not mine) to a dying friend, and recently discovered a cure for diabetes (all I can tell you now is that it involves pimentos), but this had to be my proudest moment.
I had passed my red line a while back, and was well into CGS (cataclysmic glycogen shock – I just made that up, but it should be something), when we reached the starting line and Borys stopped paddling. Having never paddled the 6 mile course before, he didn’t realize that we were supposed to continue upstream another half mile before rounding a turn buoy and returning to the start/finish. I congratulated Borys and then, in the most nonchalant tone I could muster while gasping for air, added “I’m just going to warm-down a while at a level of effort that may appear somewhat excessive for a recovery paddle.” And then, of course, continued racing.
Top 5: Jan, Borys, Greg, Flavio, and Chris. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)
At some point in the next 5 seconds Borys saw through my clever ruse, because 6 seconds later he was back beside me. After the upstream turn-around, we repeated our dash to the finish line from the opposite direction, but with the same result. Borys (49:45) had finished 3 seconds ahead of me for the second time that day. Long-suffering Jan came in next (51:21), followed by Flavio (51:56) and Chris (52:10). Beata led the women in at 10th place overall (54:12). Tim Hudyncia has asked me to note that, in addition to having a good race (13th place, 55:08), he also had an uncharacteristically dry race (tied for first, 30% relative humidity).
I’d like to end this report on a serious note.
It’s no secret that our New England surfski stronghold has been under relentless attack from New York and New Jersey paddlers*. While we’ve weathered the occasional Glickman pillaging raid in the past, and have now grown accustomed to paying steep bi-weekly tributes to Borys and Beata, we are now in danger of being completely overrun by marauders. Six of the top ten ROTC finishers hail from these nether regions!
We need to put aside our interstate rivalries in an effort to beat back the Metropaddler hordes. Does it really matter that Connecticuters seldom bathe or that New Hampshirites can’t quite grasp the concept of the silent “e”? Who gives a fig if Rhode Islanders are prone to Twinkie abuse and Vermonters drive like addled goats? In the end, even though Mainers eat their own young and Bay Staters are exceptionally handsome, aren’t we all in this (sinking) boat together? Legion of New England Paddlers, unite! I call on those who have already been racing this season to double, nay treble!, their training. And to those who have yet to make an appearance (McNett, McDonough, Cooper, Olsen, Kuklinski, Deltorchio, Pritchard, Shaw, …), I appeal to your sense of civic responsibility. Beat your plowshares into paddles and join us in defending the honor of our loosely amalgamated collection of states!
To Essex!!!
* A reminder that Bob Capellini, Steve DelGaudio, and Jim Hoffmann – while technically all from New York – have been granted dual citizenship.
(Reprinted from Full Tilt)
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