For many New England paddlers, the Run of the Charles is the first race of the season that is commonly referred to by acronym.  Besides that important distinction, the 6 mile ROTC is also one of the largest flatwater races in the area, drawing 20-some skis in the past few years.  A week and a half ago, Mary Beth and I greased a few of the right palms and weaseled a pair of coveted invitations into that pack.  I was surprised at the $700 “expedited entry fee” that organizer Mark Jacobson asked for on a shady bank of the Charles a month earlier, but I guess that’s the going rate.

Between Mary Beth’s recent retirement and my need to stay one step ahead of federal mail fraud investigators (there’s some debate about the technical definitions of “non-profit” and “miracle hair growth lotion”), we’ve been forced to spend a lot of time away from home.  It’s tough to find time to craft a finely honed race report when you’re jet-setting around the world.  And, apparently, also when you’re lounging on your parent’s couch in Western New York, trying to figure out if you can stuff yet another slice of banana bread into your pie-hole.  The answer is always yes, by the way.  So that’s why this report is less than timely.

Those years of working car shows really paid off for Andrew.

Veteran racers of the 6 mile course are as familiar with the 5 bridges on the route as they are their own remaining teeth.  Eliot, Anderson, Weeks, Western, and Cambridge.  For some, this was just never enough – especially with the BU bridge looming tantalizingly close to the downstream turn-around.  After years of ignoring relentless demands from an anonymous participant, the Charles River Watershed Association finally acceded to my appeals.  We’d now pass under the BU span!  And in a move clearly designed to eliminate any future crayon-written screeds about the meager bridge count, the organizers sweetened the deal by adding an unnamed railroad trestle.  That’s 40% more bridges, folks!  Even without counting the return trip.

Unlike previous years, in which the 6 mile race involved downstream and upstream turns, the newly bridge-enriched course had a single downstream turn.  We’d proceed 3 miles towards Boston, round an inflatable orange marker, then return to the start.  Perhaps due to the increased bridge permit costs associated with the shorter race, the 19 mile course was eliminated, replaced by a 12 mile race with a dozen fewer overpasses.  Here’s hoping they save up that surplus for deployment down the road.

You! Hey! You with the camera! For the last time… please put on some pants.
While John and the rest of the paddlers listened with grim determination to the course instructions, Sam burst into giggles every time the race director said the word “abutment”.
God only knows what would have happened had Leslie not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo.

From rereading past reports, I find that we’ve occasionally had nice weather on the Charles.  That won’t dissuade me from affirming that it’ll be a cold day in Hell when they finally choose a warm day for the race.  But I suspect they’d then relocate to that nether realm to maintain their unbroken tradition of frigid races.  I’ll admit that my perspective on this year’s temperature may be skewed by an unanticipated dipping of my own nether realms when I slipped on a mossy rock while launching and took a clumsy seat in the river.  Fortunately, I already had my GoPro turned on to catch my manly squeal of shock.  I can affirm that it’s not the lack of heat that gets you, but the humidity.

Despite persistent rumors that Chris Quinn would show up at the last moment to break my spirit, he was nowhere to be seen as we jockeyed for starting position.  ROTC mainstay Craig Impens was also conspicuously absent.  Despite my best efforts to pretend Mike Florio didn’t make it either, however, he bobbed next to me at the line.  As the starter counted us down from shore, Mike seemed a little twitchy.  I couldn’t tell if his slight wobbles were a sign of nerves, instability, or one too many of whatever adrenaline-laden drinks he secretly quaffs to maintain his boundless energy.  To be safe, I helpfully reminded him to watch out for abutment eddies (distant snicker from Sam), tidal standing waves, and rabid beavers.  It’s the seasoned racer’s duty to destabilize the confidence of younger paddlers.  If you can also throw a few “I’m just adjusting my seat pad” waves their way as you spasmodically rock your boat, so much the better.  In fairness, I should probably point out that Mike made his way into a V14 about 6 years sooner into his racing career than I was able.

Twenty-four skis started the race, but only six would finish without wondering how the wind could be against them both ways. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Hank Thorburn, shaking off a long winter’s hibernation in Maine, exploded off the line like an ebullient bull moose.  Feeling a little woozy after this initial effort, however, he quickly snuck back to his burrow for a nap.  Hank was never very good at zoology.  Chris Chappell also started fast, but eased off the accelerator earlier than we’re used to seeing from him.  This left two unknown paddlers in the lead – an orange Stellar SES and a vintage Epic V10L.  The former soon dropped off, but the latter continued at an unrelenting pace.

I discovered that the leader was youngster Augustin Reboul, who would go on to have been the 2017 ICF Junior World Wildwater champion from France (while the orange Stellar was powered by his father, Pierre).  At the time, however, he was just some dumb kid who had more youthful exuberance than sense.  He’d fold after a half-mile and limp through the remainder to the finish in 23rd place.  As luck (or destiny, if you insist on accuracy) would have it, I had chosen the wrong day to make baseless assumptions about an unknown paddler.  I was working as hard as I dared, but Augustin’s lead slowly grew as the bridges ticked by.  As a defense mechanism, I was forced to recategorize the kid as an “Elite” paddler, which allowed me to jump suddenly to the lead of the “Normals”.  Mike had been on my draft for a few minutes after the start, but he had dropped off some ways back.

I had a brief moment of classification doubt as Augustin attempted to round the downstream buoy.  As he started to turn he came to the kind of unnaturally abrupt halt usually reserved for long-suffering cartoon coyotes.  From 20 lengths back, it was difficult to make out exactly what happened, but I believe his squared-off bow caught the buoy’s anchor line.  That felt more like something I’d do than would an implacable paddling machine, so despite my best intentions, hopes for a second-half comeback rose.  By the time Augustin recovered from his stumble and regained his accustomed pace, I had closed a depressing number of lengths.  Let’s be generous and say that number was 5.  Those fickle hopes – already dimming.

Starting back upriver a few moments later, I patted myself on the back for deftly avoiding the buoy.  I saw Mike maybe a minute back (nervously glancing around for foam-mouthed aquatic rodents), with Chris and Doug Howard back again about the same distance.  Doug isn’t allowed out of Vermont very often, but appeared intent on making the most of his paddling furlough.  John Costello, Tim Dwyer, Wesley Echols, and Pierre were chasing.

You’d think that Augustin would have the decency to at least pretend to be working hard for the win. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)
They were neck and neck coming into the finish, but Chris was able to out-grimace Doug at the line. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)
God only knows what would have happened had Mary Beth not noticed that I was preparing to take a photo. Kind of a wasted opportunity. I definitely would have deleted it, Sweetie.

The trip back to the start was uneventful.  Even with the rush of excitement provoked by the extra bridges, I couldn’t muster any additional speed.  I lost not only the ground gained on Augustin at the turn, but ceded a vast expanse of additional territory under his ruthless advance.  Unconditional surrender was my only option.  Although I pushed hard through the finish, I was only fighting to maintain second place.  Mike came in a couple of minutes behind me, followed a moment later by Chris and Doug.  In the women’s race, an evenly-matched Mary Beth and Leslie Chappell escorted one another for the entire course before deciding via rock-paper-scissors who would take the honors at the finish.  That’s what MB is making me write, at least.

Just as polar bears are gradually adapting to the loss of sea ice (mostly by eating unsuspecting eco-tourists – a truly self-sustaining industry), ROTC paddlers must come to terms with the increasingly erratic presence of Bob Capellini’s pulled pork.  Once a dependable staple of the post-race party, the crop has now failed in 2 of the past 4 years.  Bob probably has had solid excuses for not making the 4+ hour drive, but given that FedEx now offers special same-day delivery rates for barbecued meat products, it’s hard to see why we have to continue to suffer.

For a moment it appeared that the tragic rift between Phil and Chris would finally be mended, but after silently staring at each other for several moments, each turned and walked away, dark glasses hiding their tears. (Photo courtesy of Mike Sachs)

Don’t forget to register for the Essex River Race, held on May 18.  This is our hometown race, so please remember to treat Mary Beth and I with appropriate deference on the course.  While not strictly prohibited, passing without curtsying would constitute a serious breach of etiquette.  Paddlers of all ilk are invited to stop by our place after the awards ceremony for beverages and snacks.  However, we do ask that SUP-ers provide a note from their physician indicating that they’re no longer contagious.