Great Stone Dam Classic: Startled by a Turkey

When they named the Great Stone Dam Classic 10+ years ago, co-chairs Francisco Urena and Shawn Burke were taking a risk on the initial and final words.  Great and Classic.  OK, it’s named after the Great Stone Dam on the Merrimack River.  And, yeah, “classic” is sometimes used as a synonym for “race”.  Put both those words in the same name, though, and you’re setting yourself up for false advertising lawsuits.  And yet Francisco and Shawn have batted away claim after claim.  They’ve got the best legal team a community-based non-profit can afford standing behind them, sure, but their defense has been that both adjectives are objectively true.  Hosted at the Abe Bashara Boathouse by the fantastic Greater Lawrence Community Boating Program, nobody wants to miss the GSDC.

We can argue about the “best” paddling race in New England until our throats are raw and one of us finally loses consciousness from blood loss, but the debate is closed on the best value in a race.  The entertainment-per-dollar ratio of the GSDC leaves all other competitions wanting (notwithstanding the divide by zero error of some).  This helps to explains why even surfskiers who usually eschew flatwater races make a pilgrimage to the Merrimack.

The course consists of two upstream loops totaling 8.2 miles.  Starting from the boathouse dock, paddlers progress 3.25 miles to round Pine Island, then return to a “No Wake” buoy just before the dock to start the shorter second loop.  Racers must then round inflatable buoys placed just off the opposing shores before returning to finish at the dock.  I’ve argued that a never-ending series of increasingly smaller loops should be added to the GSDC, but the race directors claim that their insurance only covers races of finite length.  So much for my vision of the Death Spiral.

The race boasted a strong field of 30 surfskis.  Rob Jehn risked being decertified by the New Jersey Paddling Commission by attending his 6th New England race this season.  I’m not admitting to being a sore loser, but he might want to ask elsewhere for sponsors on his amnesty application should he try to emigrate.  Although he had to be the favorite, Rob would at least have some competition.  Dave Thomas of Stellar brought along a professional hitman from the West Coast and outfitted him in an SEA – The Assassin.  Ben Lawry is one of the most respected kayak instructors in the country, who – despite being younger than me – has somehow managed to train the last three generations of American paddlers.  Go ahead – ask your grandparents who honed their forward stroke.  Of course, technical proficiency doesn’t necessarily translate to speed.  I was pretty sure that Ben would hold his own, though.

Local Janda Ricci-Munn would be the wild card.  Despite having taken his ski out for perhaps a half-dozen training sessions in 2021 and having a modest paddling resume, I wasn’t betting against him.  Michelangelo said that the sculpture was already complete within the marble – he just had to chisel away the superfluous material.  Via his training for a fall triathlon, Janda has similarly chipped away everything from himself that’s not an elite athlete.  He’s lean and hungry.  Janda’s sheer level of fitness makes him a threat in almost any sport – he just missed a spot on the Olympic table tennis team and placed 5th in the Kentucky Derby!  Could our David tackle the New Jersey Goliath?

That was too cutesy, right?  MB warned me that the whole Michelangelo arc was going to backfire, but I just couldn’t help myself.  If you never reach for the stars, how are you going to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?  Uh-oh.  She’s now threatening to move out unless I remove all this.  It’s a steep price to pay, but I’m prepared to ride this metaphor to hell.

Back at the 2016 running of the race, my GoPro was dropped into the Merrimack by a petulant local paddler whom may have been poked once too often in this blog.  He’s always claimed that it was “semi-accidental”, but the truth is still inscribed in 0s and 1s, waiting to be dredged from the river when they finally get around to straightening out the Merrimack.  I thought that Burger Kingski – to choose a random alias wholly unrelated to his real name – had finally gotten past all the innocent gibes (and the malicious slander), but when I went to snap my GoPro onto my boat, I discovered that the connector had been sabotaged.  Had I failed to notice the issue before the race… there goes $34.99 into the river (yeah, I learned my lesson about investing in top-of-the-line equipment).  Fortunately, Rob Michalec was able to hook me up with a replacement.  Based on the quantity of spare parts he had on hand, I suspect he spends a lot of time lurking on the fringes of adventure races, surreptitiously whispering “Pssst.  Need an L joint?” to competitors.  For me, at least, the first one was free.

Racers hit the water as the 11am start approached.  Like a pair of drum majors leading our parade, the lone double ski manned by Bruce Deltorchio and Ed Duggan comprised the first wave.  They refused to wear the fuzzy tall hats we all chipped in on, but their start was festive nevertheless.  All single kayaks were to take off in the second wave, one minute later.  I jockeyed for the worst possible starting position, but was distraught to find myself towards the more favorable shore when the gun went off.  Thank goodness I at least managed to remain a half-dozen boat lengths behind the line.

Rob and Francisco – separated laterally by a few boats – vaulted out to the early lead.  I’m pretty sure an 87-year old Francisco will expire from over-exertion 15 seconds after the start of the GSDC, content in the knowledge that the entire remainder of the field will have to dodge his now derelict surfski.  Over the next few moments, Rob started to pull free along the right shore, with Ben and Janda chasing.  I took this opportunity to survey the remainder of the field from stern to stem, finally working my way past Francisco to move into 4th position on Janda’s draft.  Somewhere along the way, I picked up Jon Greer.

With Rob and Ben still continuing along the shore, Janda, Jon, and I started our cut towards the opposite bank in preparation for the upcoming curve in the river.  At the time, I thought we were making a bold move, but my backward facing camera later revealed that others had broken much earlier to the left.  The various lines didn’t appear to make much difference, however – there were no changes in the order.  I pulled even with Janda during the crossing, who let me lead the way upstream along the left shore.  Jon dropped off the pace shortly after.  

With Janda in tow, we chased Rob and Ben up the left shore.  I’m using “tow” figuratively here, because from what I could tell from cursory glances, Janda didn’t seem exactly to be on my draft, but in some kind of no-man’s-land off to one side.  And even though I was seeing him for only a fraction of a second in my periphery, his hazy blob somehow conveyed a sense of quiet ease.  I was beginning to fear that Janda might have a lot of power in reserve.

At this point, I suspect that some of you may be wondering when the damn turkey is going to make an appearance so that you can satisfy your curiosity and then bail out.  I empathize.

Rounding Pine Island required once again crossing the main current of the Merrimack.  It was Rob’s turn to break early, while Ben stuck stubbornly to the left shore.  Janda and I chose a middle path, but Ben’s late ferry across the channel was probably the right play.  It’s too early in Rob’s career to pigeonhole him as a habitual course deviator, but preliminary scouting reports have flagged him as a flight risk.  So when it appeared that Rob might try to bolt upriver to Lowell rather than turning downstream at the end of the island, we felt justified in shouting out a warning.  Whether heeding our alert or curbing his wanderlust of his own volition, he made a wide turn to head back towards the start.  Ben’s deft maneuvering had perhaps cut a few seconds into Rob’s lead, but the latter was clearly still in the driver’s seat.  Janda moved past me halfway down Pine Island.  I jumped on his side draft as our pace quickened – the combined force of current, wind, and Janda’s competitiveness now all on our side.

When you’re struggling to hold on a draft, there are some things you don’t want to hear from the lead boat.  For example, “OK, I’m done with my gel break.”  Or “Huh.  Hadn’t realized that I was using a canoe paddle.”  However, I can now tell you definitively what’s at the very top of the list: “I’m going to throw in some suicide intervals.”  Having never heard that term before, I didn’t know exactly what it meant, but those two words together didn’t exactly evoke rainbows and puppies.  I was still leafing through the index of “Fitness Training for Dummies” when the first surge of acceleration hit.  I was pulled along unwittingly on Janda’s side draft for the first few seconds before realizing that if I didn’t tap into my rainy day fund, I’d be unable to keep paying the exorbitant fees my body was racking up.  After a few moments of eternity, I heard my cohort say “Another one”.  I hadn’t even realized that the first interval was over – perhaps not surprising given that I could no longer read my GPS speed through the tears.  Through an aggressive program of deficit spending, I was able to stick with Janda, although I dropped from side to stern draft.  I was so deep in oxygen debt that in preparation for the next “Another one”, I hallucinated a sympathetic bystander with a leather strap saying “Here.  Bite down on this.”  It didn’t help.  When the next interval rolled around, the pain was too much.  I tapped out.

I had suspected from the beginning that Janda had unilaterally roped me into a suicide pact, but he ultimately didn’t hold up his end of the bargain.  I was dead and buried, but he was very much alive.  He would continue his masochistic intervals, although I suspect having deprived him of the sadistic component, it was no longer quite so satisfying.  Although he decreased the advantage held by Rob and Ben, the three would end up in the same order established within the first minute of the race, with scarcely more than a minute separating the podium finishers.

Thanks in part to the turbo boost provided by drafting Janda, with nearly half the race still left I felt secure in my 4th place position.  Upon finishing the first loop and starting upstream again for the second, I got my first glimpse of the drama that was unfolding amongst the 5th to 10th place paddlers.  Even with conditions conducive to drafting, we very seldom see more than 2 or 3 paddlers together at a late stage in the race – there aren’t usually enough competitors to end up with a large group with comparable abilities.  But with less than 2 miles left on the Merrimack, here were Tim Dwyer, John Redos, Kirk Olsen, Wesley Echols, Tim Hacket, and Jon Greer within 30 seconds of one another.  These paddlers, who have since taken to calling themselves the Stone Dam Six, were together for virtually the entire race.

For the complete story of the Stone Dam Six, you’ll have to read the forthcoming 3 volume history, which advance reviews have called “sorta like Little Women, but with guys and paddles” and “completely unnecessary”.  They’ve also penned a Manifesto, but that’s mostly just Flat Earth theories and gluten-free recipes.  Here’s the gist of the SDS race.  After Jon’s brief stint accompanying Janda and me, he was absorbed into the collective.  He stayed in the lead around Pine Island to the Route 93 bridge, after which Tim D took command of the fleet.  John soon joined him in the lead, despite paddling a V9 amongst much faster boats.  The formation of the Six stayed fairly constant for the remainder of the first loop, with Kirk, Wesley, Tim H, and Jon following the leaders.  After a navigational blunder at the start of the second loop, however, the SDS descended into chaos.  Leads changed.  Tempers flared.  Shivs were drawn.  When the spray had finally settled, Tim D emerged victorious, followed by Kirk, Tim H, John, Wesley, and Jon.  Vive le Six!

As noted above, the actual winners of the men’s competition were Rob, Ben, and Janda.  The women’s race came down to a finish line sprint between Andrea Vogl (in a K1 trainer) and JoAnn Hanowski (in a ski), with Andrea just nosing out the victory.  Leslie Chappell took the 3rd overall spot, with Loukia Lili taking 4th (as the 3rd ski).  Bruce & Ed swept the tandem podium, and then stood alone on the spotless top step.

As we’ve come to expect from the GSDC, a veritable army of enthusiastic volunteers (Thanks all!) ensured that everything ran smoothly, including the post-race festivities.  Unsurprisingly, the air was abuzz with the thrilling exploits of the Stone Dam Six.  The buzz was coming exclusively from their own mouths, but they made sure to circulate for maximum narrative penetration.  I’m sure the rest of us will continue hearing about it ad nauseam, but take heart – after a year or two, the fog of time will enable all of us to proudly claim we were one of the Six.  Start prepping your wondrous tales of derring-do!

The Essex River Race has just been cancelled, but locals assure me that there will be a substitute race on October 2 somewhere in the vicinity – perhaps even on the same course.  We’ll be broadcasting the latest news on UHF channel 31 (“Surfski Tonight”, every other Tuesday, 2am), but if you can’t find your antenna, maybe just check on social media.  For those looking further into the future, there’s the Seneca Monster on October 10 in central NY (which last year featured a crackerjack match-up between Matt Skeels, Ed Joy, and Jim Mallory) and the Plum Beach Lighthouse Race on October 16 in Narragansett Bay (which last year featured a humiliatingly lopsided match-up between Nate Humberston and myself).

Oh yeah.  Almost forgot.

We keep some of our boats in our basement, which has a walkout sliding glass door.  After arriving home, I went downstairs to unlock that door.  You have to pay attention down there, or you risk taking a surfski bow to the face or a Concept2 rower to the foot.  I’m halfway to the door when I finally look in its direction, only to be confronted by a terrible dark horror topped with a violent streak of red, peering directly in at me from 6 feet away.  As anyone with an acute sense of self-preservation would, lacking anyone to instinctively push forward as a sacrifice, I let out a mighty defensive scream while jolting myself backwards so violently that my brain was left hovering several feet in front of me.  I’d have a splitting headache for the next hour, but at least I showed MB that with a little help from some double-glazed glass, I’m up to the task of defending us from marauding turkeys.