Ride the Bull: Returning to Form

Hubris, I’ve recently learned, is not a tasty Middle Eastern dish (which explains a lot about the odd looks I got when ordering Lebanese take-out the other day).  Turns out it’s a virulent strain of cockiness that can be cured only by by being surgically cut down a notch or two (note to self – check to see if “hubris” has a Hebrew origin).  With Jan Lupinski, Eric Costanzo. and others doing battle at Eric’s Seas It Downwinder in New Jersey, and the generally confused conditions of the Narragansett Bay course likely to offset any threats from flatwater specialists, I haughtily assumed I’d be crowned Master Bull Breaker this year.  Bobbing beside my boat in the mouth of Mackerel Cove watching Jim Hoffman pull away, however, it was difficult not to think of myself as the clown of this rodeo.

Let’s rewind to a time before my comeuppance.

With Northeast paddlers divided among two races (both of which are in the SurfskiRacing point series), attendance at the 3rd annual Ride the Bull race was down from last year’s 21 paddlers to a cozy group of 11.  Designed to challenge our rough water skills by keeping us in the confused intertidal zone for a good fraction of the course, the race has a reputation for inducing DNFs and the occasional psychotic break.  Mary Beth had wisely borrowed a V8 for the day, leaving me free to choose my stability level (V10 or V10 Sport).  I’ve been training almost exclusively on a tiny lake so far this season, so I figured I was well-equipped to handle the refractory slop we’d be paddling through.  Strapping the V10 on the car, I just wished I had a V14 in the quiver.  Hubris in action, folks.

Although he’s repeatedly asked me to stop calling him “swami’, Tim remains in charge of my spiritual well-being.

I’d usually provide a thorough description of the course about here, but doing so would require that I stop bathing and take the next few days off from work.  During Tim Dwyer’s extended pre-race briefing, three people had to be treated for scurvy.  Given the confusion over the such rudimentary concepts as clockwise and counterclockwise, I wasn’t optimistic that we’d all be making it back for the awards ceremony.  More cake for me, I figured (that’s not so much hubris as a misguided fixation on baked confections).  The gist of the course was that we’d head to Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then Hull Cove, then Mackerel Cove, then the House on the Rock, then back to Fort Wetherill.  If you weren’t feeling dizzy from all the turns, you were definitely off track.  Jim Hoffman and Mark Ceconi arrived late to the party and would be forced to improvise their course.

Twenty minutes later, we were underway.  Wesley led the charge towards the first buoy, but I managed to pull ahead of him before we had to make the turn.  Conditions were a little sloppy, but they seemed manageable.  A few minutes later, as I rounded the rock that would slingshot me across the mouth of Mackerel Cove, I saw a tight knit pod of paddlers five or six boat lengths back.  I’d see this group of Wesley, Tim Dwyer, Chris Chappell, and Jim Hoffman whirling by hypnotically over the next few turns of this carousel of a course.

In the turbulent waters off the point that separates Mackerel and Hull Coves, I found myself reminiscing about that golden time (say, 6/22/13) when one could find Jan Lupinski floundering in mortal danger beside his boat rather than basking in glory atop the podium (say, 11/2/14, 4/26/15, 5/2/15, etc. – don’t forget to check out Surfski America for all the latest race data!).  Reluctantly shaking myself free from my nostalgia for bygone days, I recommitted myself to winning a mercifully Jan-free race.

Sure, I lost a few tenths of a point for paddle entry angle, but I really stuck the dismount.

As I turned into Hull Cove, I scanned the waters off the beach in search of the orange turn buoy.  Always waiting for such an opening, the wily ocean took advantage of my momentary distraction to serve up a surprise wave from port.  It was more of a playful bump than anything malicious, but it was enough.  A ineffective last-second brace left my paddle buried deep below the surface.  At this point, the capsize was inevitable, but I first had to endure the slow motion unspooling of the process – much like when I’d ask a girl out in college and would have to wait out the laughter before the inevitable no (and/or slap).

After righting myself in the saddle, locating the turn buoy, and heading back out of Hull Cove, I spotted the same chase pack of four hunting me down.  It was tough to tell from a distance, but I’m pretty sure a couple were slavering.  Some cracks began to mar my veneer of confidence.  The trip back to the turn on the far side of Mackerel Cove was uneventful, but I did notice that conditions were getting increasingly messy as the afternoon wind picked up.  Turning back to retrace my strokes, Los Quatro Lobos were still on my heels.  I’m not sure how they managed to get matching leather jackets (embroidered with their toothy logo, natch) since the last turn, but they were looking sharp.  And hungry.

Back at the point between Mackerel and Hull Coves, the action was lively.  Choppy waters had already taken a toll on my paddling form, but now I had to completely disengage my core to daintily pick my way through the syncopated landscape of peaks and troughs.  As long as I concentrated and didn’t push too hard I’d have no trouble staying in the bucket, but the knowledge that at least 3 of the Lobos were much better rough waters paddlers than I kept me on the edge of my seat.  Nor was the relentless baying doing any favors in keeping my calm.

If you had told me before the race that at some point I’d do a backwards somersault out of the bucket… I would have been a lot more prepared.

The waters smoothed out entering Hull Cove, providing a brief respite.  Repeating the turn, I was alarmed to see that an alpha wolf had emerged and was making a pursuit breakaway.  Jim had outdistanced the rest of his gang and was now close enough to smell my fear.  Panic rising, I retraced my steps back into Mackerel Cove somewhat less gingerly.  After a few close calls averted via last-second braces, I wasn’t too surprised to find myself swimming again.  I blew my first remount, clambered clumsily back onto my ski on the second try, and found that I was now in Jim’s clutches.  By now, however, he had slipped on his sheep disguise and was all “Are you OK?”.  I warily assured him that I was, got myself together, bared my teeth experimentally (I have no lips, so this isn’t easy for me), and slipped into my new role as predator.

For the next mile or so, as we periodically hit patches of relative sedate water, I’d nip at Jim’s heels for a few minutes, only to fall back several boat lengths as we returned to more wobbly conditions.  If he was at all alarmed at being chased, he didn’t betray his concern – he looked relaxed and steady.  And lost.  After leaving Mackerel Cove, it soon became apparent that Jim didn’t know where he was going.  He was in danger of missing the next turn buoy unless I corrected his course.  My first instinct, of course, was to let him wander Narragansett Bay aimlessly while I stole the win.  My next instinct was to send him either further afield by slipping him false directions – as far as villainy goes, in for a penny, in for a pound.  Then I remembered Jim’s kind heart, quick smile, and cinder block fists.  Reluctantly, I yelled that he should turn left.  Then, a few minutes later, that he should continue straight past the cove where we launched.  A pattern had been established.

Everyone tells me that I need to work on my paddling form, but I really think I’ve got it dialed in.

From a half-dozen boat lengths behind, I was shouting out instructions to my very own remote-controlled Hoffman.  If only I could maintain this sway after the race, think of what I could accomplish with my once-gentle giant!  I’d never again have trouble opening jelly jars, messing around with car jacks, or defending myself from enraged grizzlies.  With a stiff breeze making it difficult to hear and Jim constantly threatening to exceed maximum recommended range, reception wasn’t quite 100% – but it was enough to keep us headed in the right general direction.

After maneuvering through a field of standing waves near the House on the Rock, I rounded the green channel buoy to find Jim awaiting further instruction.  Pulling alongside, I sketched a quick map and play-acted the final stretch for him.  The scene where I eked out the win in the last 20 meters was particular poignant – were those tears I saw in Jim’s eyes?  We got underway again, heading back towards the finish.

I soon saw the remaining Lobos coming towards us – maybe 90 seconds behind.  Actually, I heard them before spotting them.  Chris – apparently not a fan of the capricious Ride The Bull conditions – was venting his criticism of the course in a stentorian voice that had tourists in Newport wondering who Tim and Wesley were and why exactly they deserved to be de-boned and stuffed with live crabs.  I made a mental note to scratch Chris from the invitation list to my inaugural “Slop, Chop, and Roll” race.

With my sensei-like guidance and encouragement (“Keep going!  Through the gap!  Sweep the leg!”), Jim finished strong.  Although I made a final push to pull within a couple of seconds of him at the end, he obviously would have gapped me long before had he not had to keep slowing to wait for directions.  It wasn’t long before Tim arrived to claim the final podium spot, with Chris (who, having lost his voice, was now just muttering under his breath) and Wesley not far behind.  Tim Hudyncia, Bruce Deltorchio, and Mark Ceconi were the remaining XY finishers, with Mary Beth again dominating the XX field.  There was only one other swimmer on the day, and I’m sure Tim H would want me to point out that – defying all odds – it was not him.

Thanks to Tim and Wesley (and Jim) for a humbling day.  I’ll try not to hold a grudge.