Chattajack 31: Togetherness

When Mary Beth told me back in May that she wanted to paddle the Chattajack 31, my initial reaction was “Great!  I can reciprocate the dedicated support she provided me in last year’s race.” Fortunately, before that thought had sufficient time to bubble through my brain and rashly express itself verbally, I had already gotten Jan Lupinski to sign a single-race contract to paddle with me in a double.  We had never paddled together, neither of us owned a tandem ski, and we have fundamentally different paddling styles, but this was obviously a smarter move than schlepping all the way down to Tennessee just to watch someone else paddle.  Probably for the best that I don’t have kids, right?

Once we were committed to the Chattajack, it was just a matter of trudging through an entire season (of nearly 20 races) while maintaining at least a modicum of motivation for a late-October competition.  By August I had burned through 80% of my gumption (I expect at about the halfway point of this report, you’ll have pretty much the same feeling).  But Mary Beth was just hitting her stride come mid-summer.

A few years back, four-time Chattajack champion Erik Borgnes published a side-splitting satirical piece purporting to be a detailed training plan for this race.  Widely regarded as a masterpiece of absurd exaggeration and whimsy, it contains such comic gems as a five hour paddle, fully half of which consists of brutal 0.9 miles on, 0.1 miles off intervals.  With zero calorie intake!  Unfortunately, not everyone was in on the joke.

Mary Beth, as evidenced by her stone-faced demeanor while editing my race reports (not to mention the pathological eye-rolling in response to my comic antics around the house), was born without a detectable sense of humor.  As such, she failed to recognize that Erik’s treatise was a parody.  Perversely, she adopted his ridiculous program as her gospel.  A religious adherence to the Word of Erik meant that by September, MB would head out for her weekly long paddle at 6am on Monday and wouldn’t return until late afternoon on Thursday.  For weeks at a time, she’d eat nothing but pistachios and mustard.  She wore only corduroy and slept in a homemade sensory-deprivation tank.
Amen.

By comparison, my Chattajack training was feeble.  Taking inspiration from the proverb about not needing to run faster than the bear, I carefully tracked Jan’s fitness level throughout the season.  Blessedly, a flurry of late season travel kept him from hitting the water as often as he otherwise might.  I adjusted my sessions accordingly, aiming for that sweet spot where I was 5% better conditioned than my paddling partner.  I’d occasionally see Mary Beth out on the water, her corduroy paddling outfit zsh-zsh-zsh’ing away in swishing condemnation of my lackadaisical approach to training.

During the summer, Jan had unilaterally resolved the most significant hurdle to us paddling together by purchasing a ski equipped for such a shared endeavor – a Carbonology Blast.  It seemed wise to actually put in some bucket time together before the race.  However, paying particular attention to the adage that familiarity breeds contempt, we decided that a single hour-long session would be more than sufficient.  We met at a neutral location on the Connecticut River.  As was apt, Jan took the pole position.

Our paddle wasn’t utterly disheartening, but it was clear that I had a lot to learn about paddling clean-up in a double.  My natural race cadence is around 104 strokes per minute, while Jan’s is under 90 spm.  Furthermore, while Jan has a metronomic left-pause-right-pause cadence, I rush my right stroke, leading to an asymmetric left-right-pause-left-right-pause pattern.  As a result, I had a pronounced tendency to get ahead of Jan, particularly on the right side.  But how hard could it be to suppress millions of strokes worth of muscle memory for the four hour duration of the race?  I had a more pressing concern to worry about.

Even on the narrowest of skis, I’m an inveterate knuckle-whacker.  At some point during an early-season training session, I’ll eventually strike the gunnel of my ski hard enough to tear the skin off the knuckles of my ring fingers.  These open wounds then persist for the remainder of the season, such that I’d embark on each subsequent paddle dreading the unavoidable, excruciating pain that the next careless mis-stroke would bring.  As you may already know, in 1591 Pope Innocent IX explicitly banned knuckle-whacking as an acceptable interrogation method of the Inquisition.  Not only were the torturers complaining that it was too cruel, they found the heretics would inevitably just double-down on their blasphemies between sobs.  Although the Blast is a narrow double, from the rear seat it felt like I was wearing a barrel.  By the end of our short paddle, I’m pretty sure I could see bone.  Fortunately, I had taped the gunnels beforehand, so there wasn’t any permanent discoloration from the blood.

Arriving in Chattanooga the day before the race, we were confronted with a heavy rain that lasted through the night.  By the morning, it had tapered off to a gentle mist – just enough moisture to make it impossible to tape anything to your boat.  Temperatures would be in the 60s.  Presenting a virtually unanimous front, 97% of climatologists agree that dressing appropriately for the Chattajack is infeasible, regardless of the forecast.  I was originally going to go with a  short-sleeve top only, but Mary Beth convinced me to add some shorts to my ensemble before the cops could arrive.

There were more than 100 surfskis racing, including 20 doubles (although, disappointingly, no others in the men’s Tandem Surfski class).  Nate Humberston was clearly the man to get beaten by, and an impressive roster of paddlers accepted the challenge.  My choice to repeat as silver medalist was Flavio Costa, who had been electrifying at the Lighthouse to Lighthouse race 6 weeks earlier.  Flavio would be joined by fellow top-five L2L competitors Vadim Lawrence and Chris Norman.  Relative to that race, Vadim would probably benefit from the flatter conditions and longer course.  Chris was a bit of a wildcard, but paddled the L2L with ever-increasing vigor.  Nobody was worried in the least about Ryan Petersen, mostly because he had apparently popped into existence just moments before the race started.  That’s a little unfair.  Ryan had made a trial appearance in our plane of reality at the 2017 USCA Nationals in Dubuque, finishing a close second behind legend Mike Herbert before blinking back into the void.

The deceptively named Kayak class, which would start 30 minutes before the Surfski class, was in truth composed mostly of lowercase surfskis.  I assume that Epic must have included a free Chattajack registration with every V8 Pro sold in the US, because they were all there, joined by a healthy collection of wider entry-level skis.  There was no consensus on best-in-class, with Justin Schaay, Terry Smith, Morgan House, John Wellens, and Bruce Poacher each featuring as the betting favorite at various points.

Jan and I watched the first wave start, then launched from the floating docks.  As we made our way upstream to join the second wave throng, I was feeling pretty optimistic.  I wasn’t expecting a walk in the park, but certainly it’d be better than last year’s swim in the maelstrom.  There’s not much that needs to be said about the course.  You snake your way 31 miles down the river, mostly staying near the center to take advantage of the current.  Other than some weeds and suck-water near the shores, and some hapless SUPs mid-river, there are no real hazards.  We turned downstream to await the start from a conservative position outside of the bulk of surfskis and outriggers.  With the on-water bagpipes in full lament, the gun sounded to start our long ramble.

I always start slow, but it’s not generally because I want to.  Perhaps figuring that gradual acceleration would promote synchronization, Jan eased us into the race so gently that it took us several minutes to catch up to a branch that happened to be floating by at the gun.  The Queen Mary departing her jetty into busy harbor traffic would seem spry in comparison.  If I provide petty criticisms of my skipper here, it’s only so that my later incompetence stands out the more in contrast.  With that in mind… Jan told me 15 seconds before the start that our initial stroke would be on the right, then proceeded to do the opposite.

Our measured tempo slowly increased over the first few minutes until we reached a comfortable cruising pace.  There were about 20 boats ahead of us at this point – single and double skis plus a few tandem outriggers – but it was obvious that we would soon overtake most of these rabbits.  By mile 1.5, we had slipped by all but the first four skis.  Nate and Flavio appeared to be exchanging pulls in the lead, with an unknown paddler keeping pace several lengths behind (the semi-mythical Ryan, as it turned out), and Vadim back another dozen lengths or so.  Thanks to occasional bursts of stroke harmony, we were slowly reeling them all in.

I knew that Jan wouldn’t lead our craft by quiet example.  As he explained before the race, if a drill sergeant molly-coddled his inept recruits, they’d later be coming home from war, hopelessly intermingled, in a single pulp-filled body bag.  I’m paraphrasing, because Jan went into a shocking level of graphic detail, but you get the picture (as did I, thanks to a set of disturbing illustrations that accompanied his presentation).  On the water, I was subjected to a stream of verbal rebukes, with varying degrees of vehemence.  I should note that while a few of these were delivered with noticeable impatience and frustration, Jan remained remarkably polite with his wayward pupil.  Nevertheless, you can only hear the directives “Together!” and “Relax!” so many times without starting to take umbrage – no matter how warranted the remarks.

My only hope was that Jan would eventually realize the futility of his coaching, enter into a despondent funk, and let me single-handedly destroy our double rhythm in peace.  It took longer than I anticipated, but we eventually got there.  At this earlier point, however, he was in full disciplinary mode.  Over one stretch of the river, Jan’s instruction regarding my timing was so unrelenting that, looking around, I noticed that all the paddlers within earshot had unconsciously fallen into perfect synchrony with him.  That momentary diversion of attention on my part was, of course, sufficient to throw our boat into near-catastrophic arrhythmia.

At mile 3 we picked off Vadim, who would later demonstrate his fitness and fortitude by passing Flavio and moving to within 30 seconds of “Ryan”.  We moved adjacent to the three leaders in the next few minutes, but stalled there in our progress.  Having caught up with the slowest SUPs from the first wave, we fell back a half-dozen lengths while navigating through those meandering craft.  The densest concentration of paddleboards coincided with the narrowest part of the river, which made for some excitingly close encounters.  As a passenger in my vessel, I was able to watch with detached curiosity to see if we’d collide – like it was happening to someone else.  Based on his angry mutterings up front, Jan seemed a little more, uh, personally engaged.

Just shy of an hour into the race, we noticed that Nate had managed to shed Flavio.  The three leaders were running near the left bank at that point, while we were on a more fortuitous line in stronger current.  After miles of unproductive pursuit, we now swiftly moved past both Ryan and Flavio.  Only Nate separated us from my quest for the fastest time of the day.  I say “my quest” because Jan seemed to be more of the “just happy to participate” mindset before the race.  But perhaps being so close to glory would ignite his competitive fire.

Like a couple of hard-nosed thugs tailing the prosecution’s key witness in the hopes of offing him in some secluded byway, Jan and I tracked stealthily behind Nate at a comfortable stalking distance for miles.  I was the rash loud-mouth – “Come on Loop-man, let’s ice this rat!” and “We got him!  We got him!  Pull the trigger!”  Jan was the oh-so-cool voice of reason – “Gregory, what the hell are you talking about?”  No imagination, that guy.  Despite our furtiveness, Nate told us afterward he was well aware that we were skulking abaft (peculiar verbiage, I agree, but that’s how he talks).  In any event, I spent several happy miles imagining that the combined vigor of two challengers would soon overwhelm that of the lone paddler ahead.

I can’t say for sure if the deciding factor was Nate’s superior skill and athleticism, or the deleterious effect that changing conditions had on my tandem paddling competence, but once he started to pull away at mile 13, any fanciful delusions of offing him to take the top overall spot were immediately dispelled.  Nate would end up finishing 8 minutes ahead of us, shattering the singles’ course record and beating his closest in-class competitor by nearly a quarter of an hour.

The night before the race, participants received a safety advisory email warning us of windy conditions in the low teens, with gusts of 35 mph.  The wind had been negligible in the morning, but according to the forecast, 90 minutes after our start the shock wave of the impending front would reach us and we’d be blown clear of the river.  It wasn’t quite as dramatic as that, but rounding a curve at mile 13, the conditions rapidly changed.  We’d paddled the first part of the race in glassy water, but now we were bucking a blustering headwind.  And (as Jan helpfully pointed out) most of that bucking was coming from back seat asynchrony.  The marginally rougher conditions were enough to further degrade my internal timing mechanism.

After three and a half miles of gusty winds, we rounded another bend and abruptly found ourselves back in placid conditions.  I’d like to say we took full advantage of this magical deliverance to return to semi-competent form, but the damage had been done.  Our best days were behind us, with only a gradual decline into chaos and incivility ahead.  Jan’s frustration at my inability to match his tempo, combined with my frustration at his inability to drop the obviously fruitless verbal guidance ultimately led to some regrettable sharp words.  By me only, I’m embarrassed to admit.  Despite being by far the less aggrieved party.  It’s proper that complaints should only be directed up the chain of command, so I’ll assume that Jan only held his tongue to avoid punching down.

Despite our difficulties, we had passed the halfway point of the race in well under 2 hours.  For most of the journey thus far we had benefited from a robust current, with our average speed in the mid 8 mph range.  As we got further from the outflow of Chickamauga Dam, however, we progressively lost that boost.  A long stretch of shallows further compromised our speed.  So it was with great relief that at mile 24, we came around yet another bend to find a helpful breeze at our back.  The wind-funneling effects of the Tennessee River gorge are inscrutable, but usually in the sense of “In sweet Jesus’ name, how can we be heading upwind again?”  To suddenly find the wind working in our favor – that was a truly unexpected bounty.  Except…

We soon found ourselves in legitimate downwind conditions.  With rideable waves.  That sounds great, in theory.  In practice, the next five miles were the most vexing of our race.  With zero experience together in a relatively narrow tandem, stability was a factor.  We weren’t in danger of going over, but there were enough wobbles, corrective strokes, and outright braces to compromise our forward power.  Much worse, however, was the impact the downwind conditions had on our rhythm.  By necessity, Jan was varying his stroke timing and rate in response to individual waves.  My natural impulse was to do the same, as if I were in a single.  Despite knowing intellectually that I should focus solely on mirroring Jan’s stroke, I kept subconsciously reading the conditions for myself and anticipating the strokes.  The result was disastrous.  By the end, I was ecstatic if I was at least anticipating on the correct side of the boat.  Not only were we missing rides, the boat was jolting back and forth like a furious rodeo bull.  And the clown in the back seat was just enraging him further.

What should have been the fastest part of the course was, for us, the slowest.  Thankfully, with a few miles to go we rounded a left bend and the wind tapered off.  We were back in mostly flat conditions.  The downwind fracas had apparently broken Jan’s spirit, because he suffered through the last stretch in silent judgment of my inadequacy.  In the other half of the boat, I was feeling jubilant – partly because in a few minutes we’d have successfully completed the race, but mostly because I knew that I’d never have to paddle a double again.  In one final indignity to Jan, I let that jubilation drive my stroke during the timed sprint at the end, ensuring that the enduring image of our race together would be that of two single paddlers, surprised to find themselves somehow in the same boat (as seen here).

We finished in 4:01:37 as the second fastest boat of the day.  That sounds pretty good, unless you happen to know that last year’s best tandem time was 3:48:25 – and that was with less favorable conditions.  I feel that Jan and I probably do have a better Chattajack in us.  Where, by mutual consent, it will remain forever nascent.  Nate won the Surfski class with a time of 3:53:53, with Ryan and Vadim filling out the podium.  In the battle of the V8 Pros within the Kayak class, Justin won handily in 4:22:38, followed by Terry and Morgan.  The women’s Kayak podium contained Julieta Gismodi, Kim Schulte, and Julie Mitravich.

After last year’s race I dissolved into a quivering blob, incapable of speech or deliberate movement for the next half-hour.  I felt much better this year.  Refreshed after a quick shave, haircut, and pedicure in Jan’s well-outfitted van, I made my way to the finish dock to await Mary Beth’s arrival.
When I saw her round the Hales Bar Power House just a few moments after I had joined the other spectators (a half-hour sooner than she had expected), I was thankful I hadn’t opted for the Lupinski Deluxe Spa Package.  Someone’s gotta tell Borgnes his lunatic training plan actually works!  Mary Beth finished at 4:58:35, second in women’s Surfski (and 15th overall in the class).  Sara Jordan had taken the crown some minutes earlier with a powerful showing, while Holly Hall claimed third less than a minute behind MB.

I’m proud to say that I remain friends with Jan to this day.  I thank him for showing me the ropes, and for resisting the urge to wrap them tightly around my neck.  Thanks also to Renata for providing transportation support.  And to the dozens of Chattajack volunteers who make the race possible.  But most of all, thanks to Mary Beth.  Not for being an incredible training partner, calming influence, and all-around boon to my life (although maybe someday I’ll get around to expressing my gratitude for those things), but rather for suggesting just before we launched that I lengthen my paddle to preserve my knuckles.  The race was whack free!

You can view scads of race photos from Deb.S and Rick White.