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From the slings beside my car to
the dock, it's a 500 yard maze through trailers and oars, and
boats, and rowers, and buses, just to get to the dock. Already
I'm exhausted, and I think I can hear my heart pounding either
from fright, or simple disbelief in what I am about to do. I'm
nuts.
"What's with all this debris by
the dock?", I ask. It seems there was a hurricane two weeks
earlier that raised the water level about eight feet and as it
subsided, it dragged every loose twig, stick, log, tree, can,
bottle and boat into the river. More about the tree later.
So it's exactly 11:00 a.m., and
I'm shoving off the dock, to the cheers of the Leander Boat
Club women who are masking their justifiable fear that I may
not make it back. A gentle morning breeze ominously starts to
stretch out a flag. The cloud cover is inverting to darkness
on the underside. My race is scheduled to start at 11:33, but
typically, I won't go through the chute until 11:50. For
nearly an hour, I have to lightly paddle to stay warm, and
work my way behind the armada toward the start, constantly
readjusting my butt. I am seeing debris everywhere. With each
clunk of a log, I risk losing my fin. I'm nuts.
"Boat 544, move up to the Start.
Through the chute. Pick up speed. Start." I'm first in my
class, and I can see the others in the Men's Recreational
Singles class following me. So if this is recreational, what
is this guy, Rickers, from St. Catharines doing in my race
with a narrow racing single? Stop worrying about him, I say,
let's just get through this. I've got three miles to go, and
navigate under nine bridges.
There's a real wind kicking up,
but at least it's blowing in my direction, except that it's
bringing those rain clouds closer. Hardly makes up for the
fact that I'm rowing upstream against the current. More
debris, like a minefield.
Now if you've never rowed a
single, you can't appreciate you don't know where the hell
you're going. Like Linda Blair in The Exorcist, my head keeps
spinning around to see where the bridges are, and the red
markers, and the tree (more later). I should have kept my eye
on Rickers. He definitely knew where he was going. After a
mile of my zig-zagging down the course (in sailing terms, I
think it's called tacking), he has caught up to me. His long
arms and legs push his single by me and my dreams of gold fade
to a silvery hue. I give new meaning to the phrase "Down to
the short strokes." What I lack in reach, I make up for with a
steady 32 stroke per minute rate.
I have the course map taped to
the deck, just behind my feet, so I have a rough idea when I
should be looking out for bridges. Of course, the map doesn't
point out the floating logs. At about the two-mile mark, we're
into a heavy chop. My blades are clipping waves on the
recovery, exacerbated by the wind tunnel effect under each
bridge.
Whatever instinct made me turn
around at this point, I'll never know. But as I did, there he
was. Rickers, dead ahead! Clinging to his boat! I jammed my
blades down to hold water so as not to run him over. And there
was the 10-foot log that had knocked him out of his boat.
Rowing port side only, I fish-tailed between him and the log,
and I'm back in the lead. I left him there, and started
humming Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On."
So I have about three quarters
of a mile to go, and two bridges, but I see him finally get
back into his boat. The others are far enough behind, and I
know it's a two man race. I have some new inner strength
pushing me now, and a hint of a wickedly smug smile.
Now, about the tree. Yet, it's
not really the tree that's the story. Anyway, there is this
huge tree that has become lodged in the river, just before the
second-to-last bridge. For some reason, you don't look for a
tree in a river. That's why they placed an official in a boat
to warn everyone about it. I asked him if there was only one
bridge left after this one, and he said yes, and no other
hazards. I muttered, "Thank goodness. I'm tired of dodging
everything from bridges to trees and logs." He wished me well
and I moved on. He didn't mention anything else. Rickers is
catching up.
By my map, I had about 500 yards
to the final bridge, and only 100 yards past that to the
finish line. The last bridge had a very wide span, and I aimed
for the very middle so I wouldn't have to turn around often.
Logs be-damned, I'm rowing for gold. Hard ten. Another hard
ten. Pick up the rate to 34. Turn my head quickly to see I'm
directly in the middle of the bridge span. Perfect.
"Boat 544!" That's me the loud
speaker is hailing. Are they declaring me the winner? "Watch
out for the green marker buoy." As I turned to ask myself,
what green - WHAM. Missed my bow ball by inches but slammed
into my starboard rigger. My nose is 6 inches from this
two-foot wide steel buoy that is now hugging my rigger.
Somewhat bent, I might add. And with my oar tight up against
it as well, and the wind blowing me into it, I'm stuck. Have I
snatched defeat out of the jaws of victory?
With a series of 20 pics of my
port blade, I free myself, and sprint to the finish. At the
sound of the horn, I look to make sure Rickers and the others
are far enough behind. Knowing I've won, I pump my hand in the
air, á la Tiger Woods.
Looking at my watch, it's 12:22,
so I've managed it in about 30 minutes, against the current.
Not great, but good enough.
At 12:30, it's time to head back
to the dock, four miles away. Into the wind, through the
waves, and close to shore where the majority of the debris is
floating. And now even the rain is starting to fall, no, pour,
heavily. Happy to report, I make it back without further
damage. But the full hour to return takes its toll on me, with
leg cramps, and a sore neck and arms. Two and a half hours on
that little seat. I highly recommend the padded seat that
Alden offers. You might say it saved my ass.
Hotels, gas, food, $180
Registration fee, $20
Photograph $80
Winning gold Priceless
I guess at the heart of this
whole adventure, is the trust I placed in the Alden Star
rowing shell. I saw several boats overturn in the murky river,
whether from collisions with logs, other boats, or waves. And
these were well trained and veteran rowers. I'm a neophyte at
this, yet felt safe, secure, and stable in my boat. It was
comfortable, and handled the choppy water admirably. The three
inches of water in the cockpit was minor compared to other
shells I saw dumping out at the docks.
HOTO 2005
Now that was October 2004. So
would I return in October 2005. You bet I would!
In 2005, the Head of the Ohio
was a different race for sure. This year, we got to row with
the current downstream, to finish in front of hundreds of well
wishers.
The recreational rowers were the
first races of the day, with an 8:00 a.m. start. As the
returning champion, and in the first race, I was given bow
marker number 1, a great souvenir even if my day were to end
poorly.
Arriving at 6:45 a.m. to rig a
boat in the dark silence of a foggy morning is eerie, to say
the least. With my shell on the water by 7:30, I row up the
channel and into the Allegheny River toward the start line.
But the morning fog presents new problems. It’s lying about
four feet above the water. Can’t see anything or anyone at
water level. The start line is not a line, per se, merely a
series of buoys to form a chute to row through. I couldn’t
find them. |
