Narrow River Race: Redux

After months of intensive lobbying of race director Tim Dwyer, I managed to have last year’s Narrow River Race expunged from the records.  Delayed from April to October by COVID and subsequently capped at only 10 paddlers, one can hardly tolerate such an illegitimate farce disgracing the official annals.  I felt bad that Mike Florio’s first-ever surfski victory would be coincidentally voided, but the common good must prevail.  He’d probably want his inaugural gold medal to be by more decisive a margin than a mere five and a half minutes anyway.

With less stringent gathering restrictions, it looked like the 2021 run of the Narrow River Race would be fully sanctioned.  Pending suitable results, of course.  Nearly the entire field of last year’s pseudo-race responded to their summons for a rematch, to be joined by a dozen other paddlers, including the first ever C-2 entry.  Even though he was quick to play the “I haven’t been training much” card (adding it to the growing pile), all eyes were on Mike.  Having worked out recently with Chris Chappell, I knew he’d be a serious threat as well.  Vibrantly named newcomers Loukia Lili, Josco Catipovic, and, er, Jeff Tucker chose the Narrow River for their first surfski race.  Loukia, a national-caliber amateur triathlete, celebrated her 40th birthday by driving 5 hours on a whim to compete with us.  That kind of vigor and enthusiasm might be inspiring to some, but sent several of the more world-weary competitors to pre-race naps in their cars.

With the post time rapidly approaching, Tim called on us to “huddle up” for the captains meeting.  He made beckoning gestures with his open arms, but the rest of us collectively decided to maintain a reasonable social distance.  Because of the pandemic, we told him.

We’d be running the standard 8 mile course.  After heading upriver for 3 miles, we’d turn at a rowing club dock, reverse our way back past the launch, turn on some pilings a mile downriver, then finish back at the start.  With temperatures in the 50s and only a light breeze, conditions were perfect.  From the shore, it was difficult to tell whether the notoriously depth-challenged river contained enough liquid for safe passage.  For a change, I couldn’t see any writhing fish struggling to keep their gills immersed, so perhaps we’d be OK.

We hit the water.  A nucleus of fast-twitch paddlers formed on the left side of the line, to be quickly surrounded by a buzzing shell of hangers-on attracted by the prospect of getting pulled along for the ride.  I chose a neutral path to the far right – too proud to wring ill-gotten gains from the sweat of my competitors.  That’s how I’m couching my tactical positioning blunder, at least.  In the soothing tones of a time-and-temperature operator, Tim counted us down to an incongruously low-key start.  After a moment of disorientation, I shook the sleep from my eyes and launched immediately into a recurring nightmare.  You know the one: Everyone else is off to a great start, you can’t remember how a paddle works, and you’re pants-less.  In a horrific new twist, however, the velcro on one of my pogies had also come loose, leaving it free to slide up and down my paddle with every twitchy stroke.

As expected, Mike and Chris C led the charge on the left, flanked by John Costello in a boat several notches less streamlined.  Mark Wendolowski, Chris Quinn, Tim D, and Tim Hacket followed closely behind.  My vantage point from open water to the distant right provided a welcome detachment from the crushing sense of inadequacy I usually feel when falling behind early.  It was almost as if I was floating in my boat, watching the race from far away.  Lest I were to drift even further into reverie, I forced myself to focus (with a little help from those old friends, lactic acid and panic) and join the fray.  I angled alongside Tim D, and, after exchanging some pleasantries with our host, started to work slowly up the rankings.  I moved past Chris Q (uncharacteristically shirted) and Mark (not generally a saltwater paddler, but adapting well to the brackish conditions).  By this point, Mike was out to an 8 length lead over Chris C, with John now struggling to stay on Chris’ draft.

While closing the 3 length gap to John over the next couple of minutes, I marveled at his power and efficiency.  Despite taking a single stroke for every 14 of mine (give or take), he was pushing a V10 Sport at practically the same speed as my V14.  I’m just hoping that restraining order against his beam remains in place at 19″.  I tried to slip by John as quietly as possible, much as you’d tip-toe past a hibernating bear.  I made it by, but wouldn’t really feel comfortable with him behind me until I had put a sacrificial offering between us.

It took me several minutes to catch Chris.  Since he had shown me such generous hospitality in the past, I figured on settling in the unused plot immediately behind him.  I’d squat there temporarily – at least until my application for permanent residency was approved.  Maybe I’d pop alongside Chris every now and again to borrow a cup of sugar, but mostly I’d just keep quarantined in my cozy new home.  You can imagine my surprise, then, when my hunkering was interrupted by sharp pangs of conscience.  My shame threshold is pretty high, so for feelings of guilt to reach the surface requires some truly disgraceful behavior.  Apparently, I’d be expected to show some integrity.  Frankly, the better angels of our nature can be a real drag.  Reluctantly, I abandoned my newfound shelter and tried to pass Chris.

We paddled side-by-side for several minutes as the Narrow River widened into a slightly less narrow lake.  Our race-within-a-race was soon embedded within yet another race, as we found ourselves unwitting participants in a pairs sculling contest.  Given that the other racers had cleverly devised a method of applying power simultaneously on both sides via a mind-boggling lever-and-fulcrum mechanism and managed to shoehorn 2 people in each boat, I didn’t like our odds.  Chris and I leveled the field a little bit by charging down-course well before the starting gun, but within seconds the sculls had erased our handicap.  Fortunately, we were gently nudged to one side by the race director’s bullhorn before the rowers were able to dismount us.  Twenty-five lengths ahead, Mike showed himself impervious to those same amplified commands, but his line to our turn-around naturally diverged from their course well before any blows could be exchanged.

During the interdisciplinary excitement, I managed to start pulling away from Chris.  I reached the turning point several lengths ahead, buoyed by the (quite possibly sarcastic) cheers from the crew club supporters lining the docks to applaud their racers.  Heading back down the lake, I saw John perhaps 15 lengths behind Chris, with Mark and Chris Q back again as far.  Now working against a light wind and mild current, my speed dropped a little, but not to the extent I had feared.  Based on a few quick glimpses of Chris back over my shoulder, I seemed to be prying open the gap.

I mentioned that I had suffered a catastrophic pogie failure back at the start.  For the last 30 minutes the partially attached pogie had been flapping against my left hand, but I couldn’t afford to stop and remedy the situation.  It was becoming clear, however, that the situation had ripened from an annoying distraction to a life-threatening predicament.  Because of a genetic abnormality (self-diagnosed, but nonetheless completely not made-up), my skin lacks the polyproline IIIa collagen necessary to fend off minor abrasions and irritations.  I’m a very sensitive fellow.  In the absence of any more estimable character traits, my cruel high school classmates voted me Most Likely to Chafe.  Over the years I’ve been referred to a succession of specialists, all of whom strongly advised that I avoid any leisure activity that involved repetitive motions while clad in neoprene.  That kind of thing wasn’t really my groove anyway, so I got into paddling.  Despite applying ample space-age lubricant, I’ve grown accustomed to the angry abrasions that circle my waist during the paddling season.  I’m happy to endure second-degree chafing over 30% of my body to secure a podium finish, but I was pretty sure that I could now see bone where the flopping pogie had rubbed the skin off my thumb.

Having put some distance on Chris, I decided to risk a quick stop to salvage enough dermis to accept a graft (donations welcome).  I figured that removing the pogie entirely would be quicker than reattaching the loose side, but I hadn’t anticipated that the remaining velcro would have the cohesive strength of welded steel.  Twenty-some minutes later, I managed to detach the cursed thing and fling it disgustedly in my footwell.  My lead on Chris had been reduced to a dozen lengths, but at least I’d managed to save my fourth most cherished extremity (list available upon request).

Progress downriver continued at a reasonable pace until I approached the launch area, where the river straightens and widens into a marshy stretch.  This revealed the extent to which the winding river had been protecting us from the growing southerly breeze.  More critically, however, with an expansive floodplain to enjoy, the water abandoned the constrictions of a navigable channel and kicked back in the shallows.  Knowing the suck water was coming, I braced for the sudden deceleration, making sure both knees were slightly bent to better absorb the impact.  Physically, I suffered only a mild case of whiplash and a couple of lost fillings.  But how does one measure the toll on the spirit?

I had suddenly lost about 15% of my former speed.  My energy and morale reserves were bottoming out (which was also a constant threat to my ski), but I eventually made it to the downstream turn.  Nearby, a couple of fisherman were standing in holes they had dug in the riverbed to try out their waders.  One needlessly apologized for casting in my general vicinity.  Given that he wouldn’t be able to unsee the horror of my cross-current turn, I assured him that he was more sinned against than sinning.

For the final mile back to the finish, I waited in vain for some help from what was now a stiffening tailwind.  The relentless pull from the shallows was trumping any assistance from wind or current.  Not until the final quarter mile was I able to loosen the shackles enough to exceed “brisk walk” pace. Although it was impossible to measure exactly how much earlier Mike had finished due to his warping of the space-time continuum, my best guess is that he was 5 minutes or so ahead – just off the course record he had set back in the fall.  Gold at last for Mike!  Chris C finished roughly a minute behind me, with John, Chris Q, Mark, and Tim following over the next few minutes.  First-timer Loukia broke her winless streak as the first female finisher, with Mary Beth taking second.

Since our normal post-race venue wasn’t open for outdoor dining, we contented ourselves with hobnobbing in the parking lot.  At least until the vice squad showed up to break up the depravity.  Thanks to Tim for hosting another fine day on the water.

In a normal year, the Run of the Charles and the Essex River Race would be next on our agendas.  Due to COVID, however, the former is being run as a virtual race, while the latter has been shifted to early October.  The vacuum left by these changes has sucked Tim’s Battle of the Bay from mid-summer to mid-spring.  The race will be held on May 15 at its new (as of 2020) Goat Island home.  Register at PaddleGuru.