Narrow River Race: New Order

The Narrow River Race typically serves as a gentle introduction to the New England racing season – a controlled opportunity for us to get our feet wet.  Indeed, the winding tidal estuary is so shallow that it’d be impossible to get any other part of your body wet without lying down and rolling in it.  But as if in fulfillment of some arcane prophecy (“That which was first shall be last…”), this year’s race was mystically displaced from early April to Halloween.  I suspect that co-directors Tim and Wesley are responsible, but for liability reasons, they deny all involvement.

On the eve of the race, Rhode Island’s governor slashed the state’s outdoor gathering threshold from 15 to 10 – mostly in response to complaints about rowdy surfski gangs (“fetid hooligans” in the press release) terrorizing local boaters.  Wesley scrambled to cull the field, deftly finding volunteers willing to sit this one out in lieu of “future considerations”.  The more canny ex-participants, realizing they had some leverage, managed to extract more concrete guarantees.  So we can expect (for example) to see Dave Thomas pipping Tim at the line to take bronze in next year’s Ride the Bull.  Congrats on that podium finish, Dave!

As an aging competitor, I must rely more upon wits than vigor to have any hope of restoring the vibrant hues of my faded glory.  Quibblers will point out that – at best – I peaked at mauve.  Even so, to certain species of bees I was dazzling to behold!  In any event, a key strength these days is a network of informants who keep me apprised of the latest paddling scuttlebutt.  Since late spring, alarming reports about Mike Florio’s training had been flowing in from my snitches, filled with adjectives like “hell-bent”, “maniacal”, and “chiseled”.  Results from virtual races during the summer revealed that his work ethic was paying handsome dividends.  Although we’ve had quite a few close races, I’ve always managed to finish ahead of Mike.  Like any self-respecting coward, I naturally prayed that I’d be able to avoid in-person confrontations this season.  Mike could beat me from here to next Thursday in theory, but nobody will remember hypotheticals when they’re poring through results 100 years from now. 

With all the shoulder season flatwater races cancelled, it looked like I might slip through the year without losing to Mike – open water isn’t exactly his kryptonite, but when he wants to temporarily feel like a human, that’s where he heads.  The announcement that the Narrow River Race would be rescheduled for October therefore came as quite a blow.  Fortunately, it came early enough for me to ramp up my training.  Each day I would stretch Mike’s imagined victory gap a littler further, thereby gradually extending my tolerance for obsolescence.  With any luck, this enhanced flexibility would prevent my ego from snapping on race day.

The 8 mile course was familiar.  We’d head up the Narrow River for 3 miles, reverse back down a mile past the launch, then turn and finish back at the start.  The downstream turn would be around a buoy, but the upstream turn would be at a rowing club dock.  With a particularly high tide, most of the course would remain moist enough to qualify as liquid.  Although we had received 6 inches of snow the previous day at home north of Boston, we’d be racing under sunny Rhode Island skies with temperatures in the 40s.

After a cursory captain’s meeting (“Everyone cool?  Cool.”), we hit the water and warmed up.  My only real chance at beating Mike was to latch onto his wash and hope he snapped a rudder cable just before the finish.  I hoped to use Chris Chappell’s typical explosive start to launch myself into Mike’s orbit.  I’d hitch a ride with Chris until this first stage ran out of propellant, then switch neatly over to Mike as he rocketed by.  Wesley counted our intimate group down to the start and we were off.  Before I managed to finish my first stroke, Chris had already thrown cold water on my ambitious drafting plans.  I had neglected to observe the clearly marked “Blast Zone” demarcations and thus found myself immersed in Chris’ waste-water torrent.  Sputtering under this chilly dose of disdain, I watched helplessly as my booster pulled away without me.  On the far left of the line, Mike had also got out to a strong start.  I briefly jockeyed with Wesley and Jerry Madore before breaking free to pursue the leaders.

It looked like Chris might grab onto Mike as their paths converged, but years of lifeguarding had left the latter with a permanent sheen of glistening sunscreen – the guy is as slippery as a greased eel.  Chris lunged at his wash, but came up empty handed.  I needed to generate a revised action plan.  I can usually think quickly on my feet, but that seemed inadvisable in theV14.  The best I could come up with from the safety of the bucket was to catch Chris and then work together to reel in the rapidly receding upstart.  It took a half mile to accomplish the first part of the strategy, the effort of which made me abandon the second part as a foolish fantasy.  Mike had already left the stratosphere.  I settled in behind Chris as we wended our way upstream.  

Entering the lake-like section of the course where the Narrow River isn’t, I finally pulled even with Chris and prepared to drop him.  We’d had a good thing – perhaps a bit one-sided, sure – but it was time to move on.  I planned on letting him down easy – you know, “It’s not you, it’s me.” and “I need some time off to work on myself.”  I didn’t have the guts (or balance) to look him in the face while I delivered my spiel, but I said my piece and ramped up the effort.  Although he didn’t reply vocally, Chris’ actions categorically stated that no, we were going to remain joined at the gunnel until he decided otherwise.  Although he appeared to have reality bolstering his argument, let’s just say we agreed to disagree about our continued relationship.

Last year I miscalculated my arcing approach, botching the turn so badly that a drafting Chris Q nearly went down in the Narrow River annals as its first-ever maritime disaster.  Quinn was too polite to remind me of my role in the near-catastrophe before the race, but at the starting line I couldn’t help but notice the crude repair of the divot in his V12’s bow – a silent rebuke to my incompetence.  Wary that a repeat performance – even with a different Chris – might lead to a post-race censure and/or beating, I made sure to adopt a different approach trajectory from this year’s draft companion.  The result was that Chris and I spirographed radically different loops by the dock.  My radius setting was miscalibrated, however, which put me back several lengths once we were both pointing back downstream.  I saw Chris Q and Tim dueling it out heading towards the turn, perhaps two minutes behind us.

I caught back up to Chris about halfway down the lake, settling in on his side wash after an anemic attempt to muscle past him.  I’d spend the next 3 miles yo-yoing between side and rear drafts, spiced with a couple brief periods of panic falling off the back.  Readers with a delicate sense of justice (and smell) may be picking up the distinct scent of weasel emerging from the page.  Combining the upriver and downriver legs, I’ve admitted to spending at least 4 miles on Chris’ draft, while claiming I pulled him for a mile.  But given an allegiance to the truth generously categorized as “casual”, it’s probably safe to assume that even these values were fudged to make me look less parasitic.  In my defense, I made a couple of disingenuous efforts to take a turn in the lead – in much the same way a post-dinner Thanksgiving guest might offer to help with the dishes while lowering himself into the recliner, unbuttoning his pants, and strapping on a sleep mask.  Perhaps sensing my need for a nap, Chris graciously declined my proposals.

As the end of race drew close, my conscience started to kick in.  Did I really want to be the bloodsucker who drafts off some unwitting host for the whole race and then darts ahead in the final 100 meters?  I plumbed the depths of my soul for an answer.  Fortunately, the oily waters therein were as shallow as the Narrow River, so I quickly found the response.  Wasn’t even fully submerged.  Yes!  I definitely wanted to be that guy!   Lesher.  Leecher.  I was born for it!  There was only one problem.  I lack the fast-twitch power to execute such a gloriously underhanded plan.  Even fatigued from all the heavy lifting he’d been doing, Chris would swat away any last-second challenge I could muster.  I’d have to settle for the (marginally) less ethically dubious approach of making my move with a mile or so left.

The downriver turn seemed the ideal place to repay Chris’ magnanimity with treachery.  I hadn’t inspired confidence in my turning ability at the upriver turn, which perhaps lulled my competitor into a false sense of security approaching the buoy.  Chris went slightly too deep on the turn, allowing me to carve a path inside of him and seize the lead.  Lest you get some romantic NASCAR vision of this maneuver, what it really looked like was two blokes of advanced years, balanced precariously on 20 foot boats crosswise to the current, desperately flailing on one side to get their noses pointed upstream while keeping their bodies pointed above stream.  Since I emerged first from this exercise, I guess Tom Cruise will get to play me in the movie.

After our comical phase of blunders (groan through the pain), I held perhaps a three boat lead on Chris.  After being ferried along for so much of the race, you might imagine that I’d have a virtually untapped store of energy to propel me through the final mile.  But the truth is that even while drafting, I had been hurting.  In the final stretch, I tried to concentrate on form to compensate for waning strength and stamina, but I think most of my rotation came from craning around to see if Chris was gaining.  Despite a dreadful case of noodle arms, I seemed to be maintaining my lead.  Presumably Chris was suffering too, and with better justification.

I must have blacked out for a while, because my next memory is gnawing on a banana next to my car with Chris congratulating me – sarcastically, I imagine – for a race well run.  We agreed that without spurring one another on, Mike would have had an even more dominating performance.  As it was, he finished more than 5 and a half minutes ahead of us, covering the 7.98 miles of the course in 1:01:12.  That’s an average of 7.82 mph – on a roundtrip course that includes shallow suck-water, fickle currents, and two 180 degree turns.  For perspective, that breaks Borys Markin’s Narrow River record for pace.  We better keep an eye on this fledgling.  Or at least on the blur we suspect may be him.

Mary Beth and Igor Yeremeev gave us the best finish of the season.  Although Igor appeared to have their head-to-head race locked up with less than a mile to go, he unwisely chose the optional portage route, setting up a quarter-mile drag race to the line.  On the shore, I crouched to get a water-level view of the finish as other spectators cheered on the duo.  I’m proud to say that I didn’t let my deep affection for Igor cloud my judgment – Mary Beth literally inched out the victory, taking the women’s crown in the process.

Well, that’s it for the 2020 season.  My deepest thanks to Wesley and Tim, without whom the last race of 2019 would have been it for the 2020 season.  With any luck, we’ll see everyone for the second match of the Narrow River double-header in April.