“Death, therefore, the most awful of evils, is nothing to us seeing that, when we are, death is not come, and, when death is come, we are not.”

― Epicurus

What is an eclectic collection of 200+ man and woman-powered watercraft in the beginning of May, dorys and work boats and outrigger canoes and paddleboards and touring and surfski kayaks and…?  It is the Essex River race, 20 miles northeast of Boston.  I still have visions of shapely tattoos on a paddleboard flexing in my head.  Smokin’!

In 2013 Essex was my first race of the year, and my first surfski race.  It was an excessively wobbly, gimpy and solitary fling, and I finished in 59:48, two days behind Borys and one behind Lesher.  I only remember this because evil people remind me, and because it’s archived on the Surfskiracing.com website.  This year I finished in 50:44, the last in a four-man train (Chris Chappell, Tim Dwyer, Kirk Olsen, me).  It was fitting that I finished sucking exhaust, since that’s what I did, hmm, let’s see, uh, the entire race, and not because I like being a leech, mind you.  Simply put, it was all I could do, and not a bit more.  Believe me, I tried.

Tim H watching Chris S. getting his surfsk ski ready.

Tim H watching Chris S. getting his surfsk ski ready.

I tried after my best start ever, when Matt Drayer was kind enough to give me a ride on his wash from mile .5 to 2.5, with a little unidentified wash and Francisco-wash tossed in for good luck.  When I tried to come around Matt my heart rate hit the ceiling (~178), and I fell back in flames.  Man’s got to know his lactate threshold, eh?  Thankfully, Captain Kirk Olsen tolerated my limitations from mile 2.5 to the finish (mile 5.7).  In trying to come around Kirk, or just close down opened gaps, my heart rate hit ~178 ten times over three miles.  That’s acid territory for me, the territory that vaporized me in the middle of the ROTC two weeks previous.

Lawn of Boats

Lawn of Boats

Aside from Kirk’s shapely rhomboids, fruity cologne, and excessively pleasant demeanor, it was a pretty uneventful journey until a very determined mate closed in on us.  One mile to go.  Even closer.  .75 miles.  Closer still.  .67 to go, and I identified the overtaker (undertaker?) as none other than the Jamestown Jiant, more commonly known as Tim Dwyer.  I liked his effort, and so I signed a waiver releasing myself from Kirk’s care and jumped on Tim’s wash only to find that I had developed a stronger attachment to Kirk than I had previously realized (cologne?), and so back to the Captain’s wash I went.  What waiver?  Actually, there was something about the choppy water created by Kirk on the left and Tim ahead that made me uncomfortable in my state of nearly perfected fatigue.  As well, I liked how this was unfolding.  Kirk would fall in behind Tim, Tim would pull us to Chris, and then I would unleash a sprint that even Beata would notice to overtake Chris, Tim and Kirk at the line.

Well, it all went exactly as planned.  Tim pulled us to Chris, and when I reached in my closely guarded bag of tricks my sprint wasn’t friggin’ there!  Bob Capellini (aka B-Cap) and I shared the Shamrock Suite the night before, so the best I can figure is that B-Cap stole my mojo.  Gotta watch those New Yorkers!  Or was it that my heart rate had been at 182-185 for four minutes before we reached sprint-o’clock?  Most likely the latter, because B-Cap is one of the nicest guys you’ll meet on the water.  True story.

I hear the Sakonnet calling, gotta go work on my downwind skills, and see if I can find a sprint.