Ride The Bull, Stormless Weather by Greg Lesher

The Ride the Bull race in Jamestown, Rhode Island is the high point of the season for many paddlers.  And not just because it’s the only course in New England in which misjudging the confused surf might leave you stranded 10 feet up a cliff face.  It’s a beautiful course with conditions that is never anything less than exciting.  As co-director of the race with Tim Dwyer, I feel compelled to say that Tim is almost entirely responsible for anything that goes right, wrong, or sideways at the RTB.  I mostly just lend my gravitas.

In the week leading up to the race, the forecasts for Narragansett Bay had been all over the map.  We had already lost a couple of races this season to inclement weather, so nobody wanted to see yet another scrapped.  One site said clear skies with a light breeze, another predicted thunderstorms with bluster-class winds, and a third calmly advised readers to give away all their worldly possessions, strip naked, and await the Rapture.  Even the day before the race, meteorologists couldn’t seem to decide between utopia and cataclysm, although as with life in general, the balance was tipped in favor of the latter.  The morning of the race, however, there was a general consensus.  We might get wet, but we’d neither be blown out to sea nor blasted to kingdom come.  With the final verdict in, I borrowed a boat, fashioned a towel into a makeshift loin cloth, and headed to Jamestown.

What started out as the world’s saddest tailgate party turned into a fine race.

In last year’s race, Sean Brennan had schooled the field – winning the race by a margin that makes one wonder if anyone else was actually using a paddle.  Apparently, some of us didn’t learn our lesson, however, because we returned to the scene of our humiliation.  Fortunately, the Headmaster couldn’t bear the prospect of teaching the identical course to the same bunch of dunderheads and instead chose early retirement.  Without Sean, I wagered that Rob Jehn (NJ) and Ed Joy (NY) would vie for the title.  Other noteworthy competitors from afar included Manhattan paddler Ronald Rivera, the New Jersey “Pair Extraordinaire” Erin and Alan Lamb (with a special appearance by bonus mini-Lamb), and John Hair, who insists on making the trip out from Rochester, NY every goddamned year.  New Englanders Mary Beth Gangloff and Kirk Olsen would try their luck in the double’s draw.

After an injunction from the FDA against “egregious experimentation on unwitting human subjects”, the ever-changing Ride the Bull course was locked into its current state in 2018.  Participants are now forced, Clockwork Orange-style, to watch a sobering race video beforehand so that they can officially be qualified as “well-informed victims”.  Roughly 90% of this film consists of Chris Chappell complaining about how much he hates the course.  Chris was not present this year.  The 8.8-mile course starts in West Cove, and proceeds for two laps around a flattened triangle defined by a rocky island in Mackerel Cove, buoy G7, and buoy G11.  There’s then an additional loop back out to G7, ending near our launch point.  Conditions this year were mild, with a light northerly breeze, but you never want to turn your back on the Bull.

We stood in silence for 10 full minutes before Tim remembered that he was supposed to be leading the captain’s meeting.

If I had known beforehand that it was Charles Schulz Appreciation Day, I would have worn my Woodstock costume.

Tim did an effective job of corralling a field of paddlers so exuberant to finally be racing on the ocean that they could hardly be contained in West Cove.  After getting us arranged in a buzzing line, he counted us down to the start.  Ed, Rob, Ronald, and the Lambs jumped into the lead.  The charge out of the cove was led by this team of powerful boats, hitched side-by-side, behind which the rest of us were pulled along.  Inevitably, as paddlers were jostled by an unexpected bump or misjudged a stroke, they were thrown from this gravy train and left to continue under their own power.  Just before I was to be ejected myself, the lead team started to break-up, with Ed and Rob separating from the others.  I managed to harness myself to Ronald, who himself clung briefly to Erin & Alan before falling off.

Knowing Ronald came from a sprint background, I kept waiting for him to ease back on the throttle.  I tried to get around him a couple of times, but could make no progress.  Approaching the mouth of Mackerel Cove, however, I saw an opening as both Ronald and the Lambs gave a wide berth to the rocky headlands.  I cut inside and took the tightest line I dared.  Or, more accurately, I accidentally took a line a half-dozen feet tighter than I dared.  Fortunately, I’m so cowardly that I left myself an ample enough peril cushion.  The gambit paid off and I pulled ahead of both boats.

By the turn at the rock island in Mackerel Cove, it was clear that Rob and Ed would be standing on the top two podium steps, or perhaps sharing the summit in a show of solidarity.  Having hit it off in last year’s race as silver-n-bronze paddle buddies, I wasn’t surprised that they were attempting to rekindle the magic.  Nevertheless, I was surprised to see the pair heading out of the Cove together, plotting a course 45 degrees off course in a direction that would send them out of Narragansett Bay into the open Atlantic.  Were they planning to Thelma and Louise themselves over the horizon?  Or was this just a navigational error?  As I was taught in childhood, I counted slowly to 250 before saying anything rash, then yelled out a suggestion that the leaders might want to try aiming for the next turn buoy rather than the endless abyss of the ocean.  Since they’d each paddled this course multiple times before, I seasoned the recommendation with the appropriate amount of sarcasm.

Despite their roundabout detour, Ed and Rob reached G7 about 10 lengths ahead of me.  The Lambs and Ronald were several lengths back, but I managed to open this gap to perhaps a dozen during the subsequent stretch to G11.  Unfortunately, the leaders had added as least as much distance to their own safety margin.  Completing the first lap some short time later, we benefited from a decent swell angling towards shore.  Up front, it seemed that Ed had either (a) leveraged his vast experience of reading waves to get slightly better rides or (b) whacked Rob over the head and broke free while he was disoriented.  It was tough to tell from such a distance in back.  In any event, Ed was alone in the lead and separating quickly from a semi-conscious Rob.

I was also having a good leg, catching some nice runners and occasionally even entering that magical zone where you feel like maybe you’re not the uncoordinated dweeb everyone who signed your high-school yearbook insisted you were (and whose mother signs their yearbook?).  There could be no doubt that I was gaining on Rob.  By the time we re-entered Mackerel Cove, I was actually close enough to make out his species.

I’m unsure whether to say that through superhuman effort I clawed back most of Rob’s advantage, or that through a lack of vigor Rob ceded most of his lead.  When given a choice between aggrandizing myself and belittling another, however, I’ve found the best policy is to just do both.  When considering both my potency and Rob’s feebleness, then, I’m quite frankly surprised that I didn’t shoot right by him.

Coming out of Mackerel Cove, I was 10 lengths behind.  At the second G7 turn, I slipped the buoy attendant a sawbuck to set the bell a-ringing.  “Hear that, Jehn?” I shouted (with just the right tinge of deranged hysteria), “It’s tolling for thee!”  It was tough to tell from behind, but I’m pretty sure he blanched.  On the subsequent downwind leg, I proceeded to methodically hunt Rob down.  Smidge by smidge.  Within 5 minutes I had shaved an entire dollop off his lead.  Some quick calculations in my head indicated that I’d have to stalk a little faster if I wanted to catch my prey before Tuesday.  I did manage some incremental acceleration, but by the G11 turn Rob was still 5 lengths ahead.

There are many theories about how Rob then managed to reverse the trend and start reopening his lead:  He’s a better paddler.  He’s fitter.  He wanted it more.  Karma.  That last one hurts a bit, I’ll admit, but all these “reasons” are poppycock.  His shocking turn-around was due entirely to my inability to improvise another demoralizingly villainous quip at this buoy.  Why, oh why, had I not composed a few dastardly catchphrases before the race?!?  His spirit unburdened by what he perceived to be my silent concession, Rob soared away on this penultimate leg of the race.

I rounded the final buoy and turned for home with Rob now 10 lengths ahead.  Between my increasing levels of existential discomfort and Ed’s gradual recession into the distance, I had pretty much forgotten that Joy existed in the world.  This made the wave of euphoria all the more intoxicating when I then noticed Ed paddling 50 meters to my left along the coastline.  Not content with his modest navigational blunder earlier, he had doubled down with a tremendous directional gaffe in the final leg by heading into the wrong cove.  He scrambled to correct his “oopsie” (that’s Ed for you), but now the race was on!  Oh, not with me, mind you.  But by sacrificing a good portion of his minute lead, Ed had given Rob a new impetus.  Despite Rob’s best efforts, however, Ed was able to salvage the win by a couple of boat lengths.  I galumphed in 30 seconds or so later to take bronze.  Although Erin & Alan established a convincing lead early in the double’s race, Mary Beth & Kirk refused to concede.  They worked their way back into contention by the half-way mark, only to be led by Lambs to a finish line slaughter – a full 2 seconds behind the ovine winners.

What the…?  In a few more years I’ll fit in the palm of your hand.

Ed just can’t.

The day’s festivities ended with a drawing for a paddle donated by race sponsor Epic.  It was coincidentally won for the 6th time by Mary Beth, who I’m pretty sure “sold” it back to Tim for $25 so that it could be raffled off again in a future race.  And yet she didn’t even treat me to the after-race lunch held down the road in Jamestown.

With the Blackburn Challenge only a few weeks away, there’s not much time left to build up your pain tolerance.  If you’re tired of thumb screws and can’t quite get the hang of self-flagellation (it’s all in the wrist), the Jamestown Double Beaver may be just the shock to your system that you need to push you over the edge.  Register for this free 10-mile suffer-fest at PaddleGuru and join your fellow masochists on July 1.