My annual harbor time trial

In high school I ran on the cross country team, and our program had an annual tradition: The 12 Minute Run.  Once each season the whole team would line up on the school's old 440-yard track and see how much distance each runner could cover in 12 minutes.  I think we usually did it around mid to late September, just before the season started getting more serious, as sort of a "fun" measure of our training progress.

I suppose it would have been a fairly forgettable exercise except for one thing: The Nine Lap Club.  Anybody who could cover at least nine laps in 12 minutes got his name engraved on a plaque that the coach kept in his office.  It was a small fraternity: at the time I was on the team I think there were maybe five or six names on the plaque--the best runners the school had ever had.  I badly wanted to add my name.

I had not yet succeeded going into my senior season.  When I hit the track for my final attempt I was confident that my experience and maturity would carry me through at last.  But when our coach yelled "Stop!" I was a mere 30 yards or so shy of completing that ninth lap.  I stood there in disbelief as the coach went around recording each runner's final position.

I pleaded with the coach to schedule another 12 Minute Run, but he was unyielding, albeit empathetic: "I know it's tough, and I'm sorry, but you had your one last chance," is about what he said.  And just like that, I realized my name would never be on that plaque.  It was a somewhat cruel lesson in the fact that not all goals get achieved, no matter how virtuous and hard-working the aspirer.

In the last few years I've adopted a "12-Minute Run"-like tradition in my canoe and kayak training.  Each year in March, two weekends before my first race of the year down at Ocean Springs, I time myself over a lap of the harbor.  Each time I start at the same spot at the north end and paddle down to the harbor's mouth, round an imaginary buoy in a triangulated location, and return to the north end, finishing at the same place I started.  The distance is not quite six miles; it varies a little depending on the water level, for as the water rises the insides of bends get submerged and provide a straighter path through the more sinuous parts of the harbor.

Four or five years ago I timed myself on this course at about 50 minutes, 30 seconds, and ever since then the 50-minute barrier has been an enticing goal.  But in the years since I don't think I've broken 52 minutes.  Just as I aged out of high school and could no longer take a shot at nine laps in 12 minutes, I suppose I'll eventually age out of my physical ability to break 50 minutes, or even 60 or 70 minutes.

But for the time being, I continue to try.  And today I would have the aid of something I've acquired since last year's trial: my G.P.S. device.  (Yes, I know such things have been around for quite a while now, but I'm slow to adapt to new technology.  I still use an old flip-phone.)  This morning I made the following calculation:

Who says my B.A. in mathematics is doing me no good?

I would have to average 7.2 miles per hour to cover six miles in 50 minutes.  Since the course is actually slightly shorter than that, 7.2 mph would get me across the finish line with time to spare.  "Sure, that shouldn't be a problem," I thought as I sat in the comfort of my home.

I went down to the dock, did a few stretching exercises, got in my boat, and got about a 20-minute warmup by paddling from the marina to the north end of the harbor.  I did three 8-stroke sprints and maneuvered my boat into the "starting gate" between two submerged trees.  I started my G.P.S. timer and off I went.

And I very quickly realized that 7.2 mph was too tall an order, at least for the southbound leg.  There was a south wind blowing that hadn't seemed bad when I was standing on the dock, but now that I was paddling right into it, it felt burdensome indeed.  In the early going I was working hard to maintain about 6.8 mph.

In a typical race I'm paddling in a pack with two or three or four other competitors.  At times I'll take the lead and push the pace, but at other times I'll hang back and ride another boat's wake, conserving energy in the hope of making a breakaway move later on.

A time trial is different.  Time trials hurt.  All you think about during a time trial is your goal time and the pace you must maintain to achieve that goal.  Today there were no wakes to ride; it was just me out there pushing as hard as I could for as long as I could.  Knowing that I could not manage 7.2 mph into that headwind, I tried to keep my boat moving as close to that as I could in the hope of making up the deficit with the wind at my back, while not wearing myself out completely.

But the going would get tougher the closer I got to the harbor's mouth.  In its southern reaches the harbor widens and the exposure to a south wind increases.  In the last mile or so before the turnaround I watched my speed drop down to around 6.2 mph.

I made the turn around my imaginary buoy right at the 27-minute mark.  So I was on pace for a time of 54 minutes.  Even with the wind at my back, that four-minute deficit was a lot to make up.  As I got the boat back up to speed after the turn I found myself managing 7.3 mph without too much trouble, but estimating my average speed in the first half at 6.6 mph, I knew I could not handle the 7.8 mph required to offset that.

By now I was plenty taxed and I settled into the most efficient rhythm I could.  One of the drawbacks to having a tailwind is that sweat starts to sting my eyes, and a couple of times I had to stop paddling and splash water in my face.  As I moved farther and farther north toward the finish line, my goal appearing more and more obviously beyond my reach, my motivation began to wane.  But I tried my best to hang in there, and at least finish with a time I could feel good about.

As I rounded the last bend and the finish line came into view, I realized that a sub-52 time might be possible, and I bore down for one final charge.  In the last 100 meters or so I got my speed up to 7.8 mph.  But it wasn't quite enough to break 52 minutes.  I crossed the line with a time of 52:10.  My G.P.S. device measured the total distance at 5.91 miles.

All told, I'm satisfied.  It was not an ideal day for a fast time, because of both the wind and the water level (a medium-low 11.3 feet on the Memphis gauge).  And I resisted the temptation to give up as I slogged through the last couple of miles.  Maybe I won't ever get under that 50-minute barrier, but that's not anywhere near top of my list of goals in a race season, just like that 12-Minute Run wasn't really one of my top priorities as a cross country runner.

I paddled a relaxed pace back to the marina, trying to flush some fresh blood into my muscles.  The wind seemed to be picking up and I was glad to have the time trial done.

Now it's time to recover and start thinking about racing in thirteen days.  I look forward to competing against somebody besides myself and the clock.