From its murky origins in 2013, the Casco Bay Challenge has quickly grown to be an important race on the New England calendar. In theory, the course is dead simple: Proceed northeast from Willard Beach in South Portland 16.5 miles across Casco Bay to the Mere Point boat launch. In practice, picking out the optimal path amongst the dozens of similar-looking islands is no mean feat. On the positive side, Casco Bay encompasses only 958 square miles, so if you wander off course the Coast Guard will likely find you before the ice sets in (which would be in late August, I believe). Eric McNett and family would again be serving as our hosts.
On a sunny day with a moderate breeze on our hind quarter (very refreshing), 23 skis (including 5 women), a dozen outriggers, and a handful of SUPs would take this year’s Challenge. To supplement the local paddlers, a healthy contingent from the DC area was rounded up and shipped to Maine. A more nefarious crew of foreigners from the north also made an appearance.
A couple of years ago, while dabbling in black sorcery, Chris Sherwood inadvertently opened a portal to Halifax (which is about what you deserve when you substitute beaver for newt). Through this abominable Hal Gate climbed Tim Milligan. After this first sweet taste of freedom from the eternal torments of universal healthcare, civility in public discourse, and dangerously high syrup consumption quotas, Tim returned with his compatriot Dave Murray in 2014. And this year he’s also unleashed the fearsome Lang Twins on a slumbering country. Inexplicably separated by 30 years, Lang the Elder (henceforth Robert) is one of Canada’s premier marathon and wildwater kayakers, while the younger Lang (Neil, although his robust beard made it difficult to tell) is on the national sprint team. With Mario Blackburn slipping down from Quebec when nobody was looking, this qualified as an invasion. I called Homeland Security to warn them, but they told me that Maine wasn’t technically under their jurisdiction.
Before the race, Pam tries unsuccessfully to synchronize her internal compass with Robert’s.
A half hour after sending the SUPs off to almost certain exhaustion, Eric shepherded the remaining boats onto the water. Although few suspected it at the time, we were lining up for one of the most intriguing races in recent memory – chock full of back-and-forth tactical maneuvers (mostly back in my case) that would repeatedly scramble the order of the top seven finishers. A quick airhorn blast later, we were off. Jan Lupinski, who has more humorous kidney stone anecdotes than almost anyone I know, took the early lead. To my mind, he was the man to beat today, although with such a strong field there were certainly other contenders. By a couple of miles into the race I had worked my way into what was probably second place – it was difficult to tell because there was some action way off to my right.
Behind me Jim Mallory had locked onto my wash and swallowed the key. Although we’ve raced directly against one another, Jim and I do have a rivalry of sorts. For 4 of the past 5 years, we’ve competed in the same run-bike-paddle team triathlon – finishing as the fastest two kayakers each time. I would just leave it at that. A more conscientious writer might also mention that Jim beat me in those 4 races, but I’ll be damned if I contract scruples at this age.
After several unsuccessful attempts to shake Jim by working small runners, I eventually adopted a grind-him-down strategy, the primary component of which involved pretending that I was more fit than he. Through a concentrated application of willful ignorance, I had assumed that Jim and I were alone in pursuit of Jan. Five miles into the race, the sudden appearance of Neil passing close by at a phenomenal rate made me question that assumption. Post-race video analysis reveals that he had been lurking behind us for some time. Jim deftly hopped over to Neil’s draft and also slid by me. With an effort that left only a slight taste of blood in my mouth, I was able to clip onto the back of our reordered train.
Sure, it was a lot of work pulling Jim, Neil, and half of Robert. But I think they’ll agree it was worth the effort. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)
For some time, I had been monitoring Eric’s progress well off to our right. It soon became evident that he was going to pass us. I made the difficult decision to abandon my new-found foster home on Jim’s draft to see if Eric would take me in. Although Jim and Neil soon hopped back on my wash to provide moral support, I couldn’t seem to close the half-dozen boat lengths that separated me from Eric. To muddle matters further, Matt Drayer used an island skimming trajectory to drop in unannounced. Neil cut over to Matt, and together the youngsters pursued Eric while Jim and I dropped further behind.
Unable to narrow the gap myself, I appealed to Jim for help. Without hesitation, he leapt into action and surged forward. Sadly, I had neglected to take into account Jim’s power as a sprinter. Already bruised and battered from my tumble from 2nd to 5th position, I was too woozy to match his awesome acceleration. My only hope of catching the leaders evaporated as I lost my grip on Jim’s wash. He cast a rueful look back, but there was nothing he could do to arrest my fall. With a respectful tip of his cap (phenomenal ear control, that guy), Jim carried on to join Matt and Neil.
I was almost grateful for the clean break – there’d be no lingering suffering while I struggled in vain to keep up with those guys. My competitive fire was on the flickering edge of extinguishing itself when Robert Lang showed up with some kerosene and a bag of marshmallows. Engulfed by the newly stoked flames, I resigned myself to another hour of torment. Robert soon passed me, but not without picking up a nasty parasite.
Uh-oh. Things don’t look too good for Mary Beth. Stay tuned to this blog to find out if she pulled through. (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)
Eric is the butterfly of the surfski world. While he always knows where he’s going, his erratic fluttering to and fro makes him damn difficult to net (let alone stick a pin in). Eric’s wanderings had those of us behind him weaving drunkenly in an attempt to stay on line. Jan had been leading throughout from a line well to our left, but our meandering string of six skis proved an irresistible lure for him. Everyone loves a parade. He turned sharply to join the festivities, losing enough ground in the process that he lost his solo lead fell in with the head group.
I experimented with a downwind line (peer pressure) in hopes of getting by Robert and making up some ground on those ahead. I managed to pass and gap Robert, but soon enough he caught me and settled on my wash. Despite my incantations (OK, curses), I could not exorcise this Canadian demon. Up ahead, however, his bearded spawn was showing signs of mortality. Paddling alone for the last few miles, Neil appeared to be struggling with cramps. Taking advantage of his periodic stops, I gradually closed the distance between us until, with two miles left, we caught him.
It’s pretty obvious what I should have done at this point was to continue pushing by Neil (or at least try) – if we were even remotely close to one another near the finish, a 25 year-old national-caliber sprinter was probably going to win that battle. What I actually did was settle onto his wash, rationalizing that I’d just recuperate a little and then – after a half-mile or so – I’d make my move. Or maybe, since it’s pretty comfy back here, I’ll just nestle in for another half-mile. Seems a shame to make a move with a whole mile left, so perhaps… (at this point my reverie was momentarily disrupted by Robert passing us both) … I’ll just hang out here a little longer. And so on. Perhaps 200 meters from the finish, I made a token effort to overtake Neil – mostly because I thought he would appreciate the gesture. Of course, he brushed my attack aside effortlessly.
The lead pack of Eric, Jim, and Matt were too far ahead for me to pick out individuals but I’ve reconstructed the events through contemporary newspaper clippings and first-hand accounts from old-timers (I feel a little bad about that low blow, but you bastards should have thought of that before kicking my ass). Matt held a lead of several boat lengths entering Mere Point Cove, but couldn’t fend off a last minute attack from Jim. In a bang-bang-bang finish, it was Jim, Matt, and Eric in a 4 second span. 90 seconds later it was a pop-pop finish for Jan and Robert (2 seconds apart) and, in another 30 seconds, a pew-(pause)-pew end for Neil and me (6 seconds apart, but not nearly as close as that might sound). Even though I finished on the periphery of the action, it was perhaps the most exciting race I’ve been a part of.
In the women’s race, Pam Boteler beat Kathleen McNamee by 40 seconds for the win, with Sara Jordan placing third. Kai Bartlett dominated the OC-1 field, finishing nearly 20 minutes ahead of the next single-bladed competitor.
Jan’s happy place.
I was pleased to find that the post-race spread contained nearly every known recovery provision (although if you’re taking requests, Eric, I wouldn’t mind seeing some ambergris and tiger blood next year). Joe Shaw, fearing that someone in the crowd might have a deadly nut allergy, selflessly threw himself on the jar of peanut butter. Taking inspiration from his altruism, I guzzled the chocolate milk to protect the lactose intolerant hordes from themselves and scarfed bananas like ibuprofen to protect the accident prone (although the fiber blast from eating them whole made me subsequently regret that philanthropic endeavor).
Even Timmy’s high jinks couldn’t scour away the bitter taste of defeat (and banana peels). (photo courtesy of Kealani Kimball)
Eric presented the awards for the top paddlers in the various categories (some type of carved coaster I think – I was too far off the podium to see very well), then proceeded to draw for door prizes given to every participant. I won a cool Kai Wa’a sponsor shirt, a bottle of mouthwash, and a trial subscription to Southern Bride magazine – a pretty good haul. Thanks to the McNett clan and sponsor Adventurous Joe Coffee for a memorable time on Casco Bay.
We now have a long break to the Blackburn on July 25. Great. That’ll give Matt some extra time in the Salem League to undermine the crumbling foundation of my confidence.
Don’t miss these great photos from the race (courtesy of Kealani Kimball).
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