Ride the Bull: Exciting and New by Greg Lesher

Last year’s inaugural Ride the Bull race was a great success, combining challenging conditions with just the right level of tom foolery (Jan’s playful attempts at drowning, Borys’ random wanderings, Tim H’s exuberant/deranged appearances on every outcropping along the course, etc.).  Leading up to this year’s race, it looked like we might catch the Bull napping, or at least heavily sedated.  The forecast for the early afternoon start was for 1 mph winds, gusting to 2.  Seemed a safe enough bet to stick with my V10.  I’d been getting thrashed by a particularly ill-tempered Salem Sound for the last few Tuesdays in the Salem League (only two tilts thus far, but the season is young), so I was looking forward to a leisurely day on the placid waters of Narragansett Bay.

Guru Dwyer shares his wisdom. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

So that’s not exactly how it turned out.  As the day progressed, the sea breeze picked up, the boat traffic intensified, and my hopes for a serene paddle evaporated.  We’d have a little bit of everything in the 9 mile course, with the exception of last year’s flat water respite-slog within Mackerel Cove.  In the inaugural race, confusion about where exactly to turn inside this cove led to a lot of yelling and frantic gesturing.  Tim and Wesley doubled down this year by adding a couple of extra turns inside the Cove (albeit all around the same small island), while eliminating the protected stretches.  Before the race, competitors pored over the charts with wild-eyed fervor, cramming for the final on-water exam to follow.  The parking lot was full of paddlers visualizing the course, wandering around in circles and, in some cases, tumbling to the pavement in commendable attempts at realism.

I can’t say I understand the new pre-soak requirement, but I can brine with the best of ’em. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Having neglected to celebrate Flag Day a week earlier, I was excited to be part of a belated 21-ski salute that would blast out of Fort Wetherill State Park.  We counted down to a start in a protected cove and then flung ourselves oceanward.  Wesley, apparently under the misconception that there was a hotspot at the first turn buoy, bolted out of the gate first in his candy-stripe Huki S1-X.  Having fully embraced a more meditative approach to starts, I centered myself and became one with the pack.  I was on the verge of finally achieving true enlightenment when I snapped to, saw the leaders pulling away, and realized that I should perhaps be a little more focused on worldly desires.  Nirvana wasn’t going any place, but Eric Costanzo, Jan Lupinski, and Andrius Zinkevichus sure were.  Back to suffering.

Wesley continued to lead in his pell-mell dash to the hypothetical hotspot until Borys Markin and I caught him a few hundred meters before the buoy.  I use the term “Borys and I” in the same way a child might say “my parents and I” when talking about the decision to ship him off to military school (I think we made the right choice, folks).  In any event, Borys and I ended up splitting the prize.

I’m still waiting for my check. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

As we entered Mackerel Cove, I remembered that we were supposed to turn around a small rock island just around the point.  We were warned that attempts to cut too close to said rock would be met with repercussions ranging from a severe I-told-you-so-ing from the race directors to catastrophic hull breach.  I was therefore confused when I saw a jagged outcropping separated from the shore by a befoamed strait that couldn’t be more than 5 feet wide.  I had come to grips with having to spend a few thousand dollars to replace the boat I was about to sacrifice to the sacred bull when I noticed that Borys had bypassed this pinch point in favor of turning around the actual designated rock further into the cove.  Having almost been steered astray, I changed my course accordingly.  The bull would have to be satisfied with my blood, sweat, and tears.  And possibly the ill-advised turkey sandwich I scarfed down before the race.

I might not win this race, but – after Wesley’s warning – I’d be damned if anyone gives more leeway to the (real) rock.  As I rounded the quarter mile exclusion zone centered on the rock, I saw Andrius, Wesley, Tim Dwyer, Jan, and others pushing hard on my heels.  After the turn, we headed on the first of two loops that would take us upwind across the mouth of Mackerel Cove, around a point into Hull Cove, and then back to the rock.  I managed to stay in touch with Borys for most of the first loop (mostly email, but occasionally I’d send a hand-written letter), although that was in part because I had the hypotenuse advantage (the last Tom Clancy novel, I believe) after he headed too sharply into Hull Cove in search of the turn buoy.

The downwind section back to the general vicinity of the rock went quickly.  I know that the key to effective downwind runs is knowing when to rest and when to push.  I concentrated on the pushing part.  I figured I’d rest when I was dead.  Which was likely to be pretty soon anyway given my level of wasted exertion.  Panting furiously to  remove any residual mouth moisture, I rounded the exclusion zone and headed back upwind.  Borys, who had essentially been idling for the first half of the race, finally decided to drop it into first gear.  Having burned out my clutch in the downwind section, my paddle whirled ineffectually as he pulled smoothly away.

I like to call this picture “The Loneliness of Borys”. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Paddling about in areas of heavy boat traffic is always good for a few heart-in-the-throat moments.  We’re smaller, slower, and – apparently – expendable.  The waters of Narragansett Bay are overflowing with boats of two varieties.  Powerboats are largely oblivious to us.  We’re trailer homes and they’re tornadoes.  Lots of potential carnage, but no real malice.  Acts of God.  And where there’s God, the Devil isn’t far behind.  He’s at the tiller of a sailboat, and his only goal is to crack open your fragile shell (carbon-kevlar or corporal flesh – whatever) and drag your now-pulpy soul to The Depths.

The hell-spawn were out in legion on Saturday, in all shapes and sizes, slicing hither and yon in search of slow-moving sinners.  That deal I signed back when I needed to pass calculus is still paying dividends.  The lead pack avoided the worst of the fiends – a sailing regatta that set up a fiery shop in the middle of our course, forcing at least one of our paddlers to stop, drop, and roll.  I believe epithets were hurled.  Their sails were pretty, I’ll give them that.

After completing the second loop and heading out of Mackerel Cove, we hit the most trying conditions on the course.  Although the seas weren’t big, they were confused enough to take the punch out of my stroke (for the sake of my story, let’s assume that under flat conditions, I actually have some punch).  Although the last time I saw anyone behind me I had a comfortable lead, I began to fret that one of the rough water experts would catch me.  I was surprised that Eric Costanzo – a guy who cleaned my clock in the challenging conditions at last year’s Northeast Surfski Downwind race – hadn’t been closer at previous turns.  Could he be rope-a-doping me?

I’ll grant that it doesn’t look very rough, but as a point of reference, the boat in this shot is more than 300 feet long. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

Conditions improved in measure as the final turn at the green can near the House on the Rocks approached, but I couldn’t shake the residual wobble.  I rounded the buoy, holding my breath in anticipation of seeing a lurking Eric.  And indeed he was skulking behind me (after suffering a rare off-ski event, it turns out), but a more pressing concern was posed by Beata Cseke – apparently a paddler I need to reclassify as a Class V rough water threat.  Fortunately, the end of the race was approaching more quickly than Beata and Eric.  I limped into the finish, elated that the race wasn’t longer.

As I waited to see how the remaining places would play out, Beata rounded the corner into the finishing cove with Eric in foaming-at-the-mouth pursuit.  His efforts were not enough, giving Beata her first overall podium finish in New England (and, I believe, the first such finish by any woman).  Andrius pulled in not 15 seconds behind Eric, with Wesley and Tim (merged at the bucket for most of the race, once again), Jan, Chris Chappell, and Tom Kerr completing the top 10.

While every one of us is willing and eager to do One More Mile For Glicker, I noticed that Chris and Bob “forgot” to put on their stickers until after the race. (Photo courtesy of Betsy Echols)

There had been several ritual dunkings and one or two craven images hastily constructed in the face of intimidating conditions, but the entire field returned safely to Fort Wetherill Park.  Thanks to Wesley and Tim for throwing another memorable watery fete, to Betsy Echols for documenting the occasion, and to Jerry Kastner for his sportsmanship.

I made the mistake of scheduling two races, a vacation, a computer meltdown, and the World Cup all within a two week span.  As a result, I’m a little behind on both my race reports and my macrame projects.  The Casco Bay Challenge summary will be coming soon.  Don’t hold your breath on those friendship headbands though.