Racing in the brutal Southern summertime

I was up a couple of hours before dawn yesterday, giving myself what I hoped would be ample time to make the noon start of the Rock Island Rampage race on Center Hill Reservoir in middle Tennessee.  I'd hoped I could make the drive in four or four and a half hours, but it took me five, thanks to the congested suburbia of Murfreesboro and the abundant traffic lights and low speed limits on U.S. 70S through towns like Woodbury and McMinnville.

I arrived at the race site about 75 minutes before the start, and one thing was immediately clear: it was going to be a hot one.  The late-morning sun beat down, breezes were scarce, and the humidity smothered the body's sweat-cooling abilities.

I greeted the familiar faces I saw and readied my equipment and myself.  I warmed up on the lake and made the conversion from driving mode to paddling mode.  High noon arrived, the start command was issued, and we were off.

Chris Hipgrave of Bryson City, North Carolina, laid down a quick sprint into the lead, but immediately backed off so that a big group of competitors could join him to form the lead pack.  Paddles and boats banged against one another as each of us tried to grab what he thought was the best wake.  As things settled down I found myself in the "diamond" position, riding Chris's stern wake and the side wakes thrown off by Terry Smith of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and Cameron Thacker of Asheville, North Carolina.  Several times my bow bumped against Chris's stern, prompting him to bark his displeasure.  I retorted, "You're too slow, Chris!"  I'm pretty sure he knew I was kidding, but that didn't stop him from throwing in a quick sprint and shouting "Howzat?"

We were racing on a 14-mile layout.  From the start we headed "down" the Caney Fork River (buried beneath the reservoir).  We were to continue for five miles to a buoy, and then retrace the course back to the start.  Then we would continue "upriver" for two miles, almost to the top of the lake where the river current hits the impoundment, round another buoy, and return to finish where we'd started.  The heat was already starting to bother me by the end of the first mile, and I wondered how competitive I could be for the remaining 13.  I seriously doubted I could maintain the current pace of the lead pack.  Having raced Chris and Terry many times before, I knew they were holding back, trying to shorten the distance as much as possible before fighting in earnest for the win.

For several miles the lead pack seemed to consist of just Chris, Terry, Cameron, and me.  But then other boats moved up into my peripheral vision.  There was John Wellens of Chapin, South Carolina; Alessia Faverio of Asheville, North Carolina; and Bruce Poacher of Erwin, Tennessee.

We rounded a bend to the left and the first buoy turn came into view.  When we reached it I noticed we had traveled only four and a half miles according to my G.P.S. device.  Assuming the second buoy was positioned correctly, we'd be racing a mile shorter than intended.  Given the oppressive heat, I was perfectly okay with that.

I had a lousy turn at the buoy and found myself a couple of boatlengths off the back of the lead pack.  I worked my way back into contact and intended to stay there in seventh place a good long while, conserving energy as much as I could.  I was laboring considerably, and I could hear a taunting voice in my head saying, "Welcome to Bonksville!  Population: YOU."

Around Mile 6 Chris and Terry threw in a big surge and separated themselves from the pack.  That left Cameron, Bruce, Alessia, John, and me in a chase pack vying for third place.  I drank deeply from the secret concoction in my camelback (okay, it's no big secret: Gatorade mixed about 50/50 with water).  Now and then I could feel a little energy lift from those calories.  Somewhere around Mile 7 I amassed enough gumption to move from the back of the pack to the front.  By this time Chris and Terry were some 15 seconds ahead and I entertained no serious notion of going after them. I spent several minutes leading the pack before giving it up to John and Alessia.

After what seemed like an eternity, the start/finish buoys came into view.  Upon reaching them we had four miles left: two miles up to the second turn and two miles back.  By this time the chase pack had dwindled to John, Alessia, and me.  I was feeling pretty awful, and in short order I let the other two get away from me.  Now I was all by my lonesome, wondering how many competitors were within striking distance behind me.

On and on and on we went.  Chris and Terry reached the buoy, and we shouted encouragement at one another as they passed me on the way back down.  Moments later John and Alessia came by.  Then I made the turn myself, and I was on the home stretch.  Todd McGinnis of Alpharetta, Georgia, had moved up to become my closest pursuer.  Bruce Poacher hung out a few boatlengths back.  I was moving around 6.5 miles per hour--that's an easy cruising pace for me on a typical day in the harbor at home, but here I was straining to maintain it and keep myself out of Todd and Bruce's reach.

I could see up ahead of me that Chris had opened a gap on Terry, while John seemed to have put a boatlength or two on Alessia.  And that pattern held to become the final finish order.  Chris claimed the victory in one hour, 53 minutes, 13 seconds.  Terry took second 15 seconds back.  John pulled away from Alessia to complete the men's medal podium with his time of 1:54:53.  Just over a half-minute later Alessia finished fourth overall and first among all women.  I limped across the line in 1:56:34.  Todd took sixth overall in 1:58:23, and Mark Kieran of Chattanooga edged out Bruce for seventh.

The complete results are posted here.  (Click on "14 Mile (29 Results).")  According to my G.P.S. device, we had indeed traveled only 13 miles.  I didn't miss that 14th mile even one tiny bit.

I flipped my boat and spent at least five minutes letting my PFD float me in the water.  The race had been all about managing the heat, and I'd done neither the best nor the worst job of doing that.  Whatever the case, it had sapped my body to the core.  After a while I climbed back in the boat and tried to muster the energy to do a brief cool-down paddle.  Then it took all the motor skill I had left to lift my boat up out of the water and carry it back to the car.  I spent the next hour in a lightheaded fog as I reorganized my gear, changed into dry clothes, drank some water and munched on a snack, and wandered down to a shady spot where some other racers were engaged in post-race conversation.

I socialized for a while and then tore myself away to begin the long journey home.  The parking area was out in the sun and I thought I might combust as I settled in behind the wheel of my car.  The air conditioner ran full-blast as I followed the winding roads back out to U.S. 70S and headed westward into the afternoon blaze toward Murfreesboro.  By the time I reached that town I was beyond famished and I stopped at an Indian restaurant I spotted in a strip mall.  It wasn't as good as my favorite Indian cuisine in Memphis, but it was plenty sufficient.  I wolfed down some curry chicken and Paratha flatbread and then tapped right into those calories to survive a few boring hours on the Interstate highway system.  I arrived home just after ten o'clock to complete my most exhausting day trip in recent memory.


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