Glide to Gehenna by Tim Hudyncia

Heidi gathered a shaky breath and reached for the doorknob. Its smoothness softened her rigid posture, but only for an instant…

Hold up, dang it, I hate it when my alter-ego forces herself into the story! Let’s try that again… Prelude to Pulled Pork: The 32nd annual Run of the Charles in Boston started, for me, brilliantly; there was a space left in the parking lot, and I took it like a thief. That was 10:46am on a cool,overcast 45 degree morning without much wind. I fumbled through the obligatory greeting and fraternizing with the enemies, four trips to the port-a-greg (didn’t know any Jon’s in the race, so I put names in a hat and pulled Leshers). As an aside, I highly recommend surfski races as a cleansing practice; name the facility as you wish.

I finished my pre-race preparation with dark chocolate, hooking up my Garmin GPS and hydration pack full of go-juice (yerba mate, only tested positive twice), more dark chocolate, and my ceremonial whiting out of the paddle and left hand on an action photo of Wesley Echols … but I’m really a nice guy, usually. I was on the water by 12:12pm, and was really happy to see Wesley and Chris Chappell with their chests puffed up, wearing themselves down. Two more points for me (SSR race series), I thought, as I paddled softly, conserving every cocoa-converted calorie possible while slowly bringing my heart rate up to 140, then 150. Twenty minutes on and I beached, fondly recalled Greg and raced for the toilet one last time.

Tim warming up with his pogies

On the outside rookie paddlers might look relaxed and composed, but on the inside there is a monumental Lord of the Rings battle happening between “You can do this well, you’ve trained hard” and “You’re gonna die, rookie; you’re gonna throw up, and then you’re gonna die”. 12:46pm and I was back in my really fast-looking Stellar SES Excel, gave my pogies to Betsy (thank you) at 1:00pm, got my heart rate up to 167 at 1:03pm, and looped around for the 1:06pm start. So far, so good, just behind the leaders. I’m not claiming that you should aim to learn from this rookie, so just for fun I’ll let you know that I was using a Jantex gamma mid paddle, 212cm at 50 degree offset (I’m 175cm tall, 73kg) for this 10km flat water race. For the overly curious, the night before I read “As a Man Thinketh” by James Allen, watched Jimmy Walker paddling videos (Mykayakcoach on Youtube), and kept reciting a quote to myself by the never-nervous George Burns. He said, “I imagine to get nervous, you’ve gotta have talent”.

Tim, Wesley pre race

Scene I: An Open Can of Chaos Here’s something that Borys, Greg and the other 20 paddlers in front of me at the start might not know: Y’all make a friggin’ mess, a sloppy-choppy-chaotic mess of the water, and I’m not happy about that. You really should work on a more quiet, stealth-like start. Slower would be good, too.

Scene II: Happy Idiot After an unruly and much less than impressive start (albeit with no swimming), a game plan emerged as I paddled ‘comfortably’ with my heart rate pinned at 178-179. Game plan? Paddle hard going forward, where everyone else was going, and be done in 53 minutes. It seemed right at the time. At 1.5+ miles in, I saw Matt Drayer giving Tim Dwyer a free ride ahead on my right, too far right, I thought, as I charged up the midline. If my sympathetic nervous system hadn’t been excessively jacked, then I would have recognized this as a pivotal point in the race where I might have forged a lasting, symbiotic relationship. Instead, I looked ahead, hammer down, and yelled, “hop on, Matt!”, or something like that. I can’t tell you what happened next because Matt and Tim were behind me and, in rookie fashion, I made it a point to not look back for fear of swimming.

Scene III: Chasing Pink Charging up the midline as a group of one I was closing on a group of three, and rather overzealously decided that I was not going to continue this race in no man’s land, and I made it my intermediate goal to connect with those three… who were… getting … closer… no way! Way! The first and last time in my paddling career that I’ll close a gap on Borys. True story. The entire story remains a mystery, but I think the pink projectile, Beata, was having some shoulder cramping, perhaps. Later I’d find out the third party was Pierre (I think). I know you’re not likely to believe this, but I connected, and was sitting on Beata’s wash as we approached the first turn buoy at about mile 2.5. Expecting a hero’s welcome and a cordial tow, I was completely thrown off my game when Beata and company took the turn like well-rested jackrabbits and gapped me without remorse, ugh! Turns out in chasing Beata my heart rate had been pinned at 182-183 for 6 minutes, and it kinda got stuck there, so I couldn’t close the small gap after the turn.Back in no man’s land, now what, I thought as I nursed my hurt feelings and acid burn behind a lethargic C2.

Scene IV: Serendipitous Dance of the ‘Tootums’ I couldn’t stay behind that C2, too easy and slow, so I charged forth with a partially embraced focus on suffering by myself for the next 30 minutes, until … mile 3.5 … Tim Dwyer! I don’t know how long he’d been on my wash, but with my heart rate again pinned at 182 and having had the rules clearly explained to me over the winter, I politely began ripping his head off with, “Take a pull or get off!”, to which he replied something about true colors. I didn’t know what Cyndi Lauper had to do with paddling, so I took a different tack and issued yelling pleas for help. You see, in my oxygen-deprived mind I really thought I/we still had enough gusto left to bridge to Beata and Pierre; rookie fools self once again (go to “Hell”, Scene V for explanation).Eventually we saw lactated eye to eye, and Tim took a pull, allowing my heart rate to dip into the 170’s for a bit.

Scene V: Entering Hell Too little, too late for this acidified rookie, and on Tim’s 2nd or 3rd pull I couldn’t stick. He gapped me, and in feeling like I was paddling sloppily through mud I had no choice but to bring my heart rate down for a moment, call in the lactic acid removal crew, and come up with a brilliant new game plan for the remaining 1.5 miles. Mr. Lonely, yet again, and was feeling like I let my comrade down. The lows can get pretty darn low in these paddle-parties, eh?

Conclusion: All Good Things… By some small miracle, I regained a half-credible level of ability for the last mile and glided my bloodied spirit past 19 mile finisher Timmy Shields (a three-Tim finish!), and over the line for 13th place, 55:08, some 33 seconds behind Tim D., and some 5+ minutes behind Borys, you know, the guy I caught at mile 2.5. I should’ve just ridden his wash for 3.5 miles to the finish, eh? Maybe next time. Quick summary: 55 minutes of racing, 45+ minutes in a pack of one, not my intention, and not what I’ll do next time (I hope), gotta work on a faster start.

Bob sharing his BQ.

Bravo to Matt for manning up in that V8, and double bravo to Bob Capellini for the most satisfying pulled pork sandwiches. You da man, B-Cap, no matter what Francisco says about you! For those keeping score, team Rhode Island finished 8th(Wesley), 12th(Tim D), 13th(myself) and 23rd(Bob Wright). Lastly, for the one person who cares (Mary Beth), after the race a short muscle in the front of my right shoulder (anterior deltoid fibers) was so fried and irritated that it was throbbing incessantly. I did pressure, stretching, pounding, and cross-friction on it driving home, and the day after the race it felt quite good, surprisingly (when in doubt, smack it). The lactic acid is clearing out of my brain and capillaries. Several paddle days, two lifting sessions, 2.5 pounds of 85% dark chocolate over two weeks and I’ll be ready for the Essex River race, 20 miles northeast of Boston. See you there!