Monday photo feature

Last week I filled out my ballot for the latest induction class at the Arkansas Sports Hall of Fame.

There were 43 names on the list.  37 of the nominees were male, and six were female.  The sports or categories represented broke down like this: football 17; basketball 9; coaching 4 (all four were football coaches); baseball 2; golf 2; track and field 2; tennis 1; officiating 1; broadcasting 1; football administration 1; multiple sports 1; canoe and kayak racing 1.

It should go without saying that my top vote went to the lone paddler on the list, Mr. Mike Herbert of Rogers, Arkansas.  Deciding who would get my remaining four votes took some thought.  In the end I voted for a pair of runners, a distance runner (Leah Thorvilson) and a sprinter (Veronica Campbell Brown). I voted for a basketball player with strong Memphis connections: Keith Lee grew up across the river in West Memphis, Arkansas; starred at Memphis State University in the 1980s; and lives in Memphis today.  My final vote went to baseball player Johnny Ray, because baseball is the one big pro sport I like.

How good a chance Mike has of being inducted remains to be seen.  Last year's induction class consisted of nine people, and I'm assuming this year's class will be similar in size.  My heart sank a little when I got my ballot in the mail and saw that his name was but a tiny speck in a sea of 43.  All I can do is cast my vote and hope enough other people feel the same way.

The week, and the season, in review

No paddling took place last weekend, as I was fulfilling my annual commitment to demonstrate wooden bowl carving at the Pink Palace Crafts Fair here in Memphis.  All in all it wasn't a bad weekend, even though I was using muscles I hadn't used in quite a while since I've spent this year toiling at my rental property a lot more than working in my shop.  I also had to be careful moving heavy logs around, given my recent back woes.  The biggest bummer was the weather: for the first couple of hours on Friday we had true "chamber of commerce" conditions of sunshine and blue skies, but then it abruptly clouded over and the rest of the weekend was chilly and rainy.

We got more rain on Monday, and then a cold front moved in with a steep drop in temperatures.  When I finally made it back to the river Tuesday morning for my weekly loop of the harbor with Joe, it was gray and drizzly and the temperature barely exceeded 50 degrees Fahrenheit.  For the first time I wore long pants and long sleeves in the boat.  I stubbornly refused to break out the pogies so soon.  Standing on the dock was chilly indeed, but once I was in the boat paddling I felt just fine, even when paddling into the north wind.  I reminded myself that by February I'll be savoring this kind of weather.

I plan to paddle just once or twice a week for the next little while, to give myself a mental break and catch up on some things I've been neglecting lately.  I've been slacking off on the strength work, and I'll probably give myself until the start of next month before I get that going again.  Actually, my latest project in the shop involves milling some massive oak planks the client provided, so it's not like my muscles are lying around unused.

Yes, for me the offseason has begun, and I guess this is where I'm supposed to offer some kind of profound observation in summary of the season that's just concluded.  Certainly the big event that distinguished this season from previous ones was the long trip out to the Pacific Northwest in July for the Gorge Downwind race.  In terms of how I finished it was by far my worst race of the year: according to the posted results (which were initially, and may still be, full of errors), I was 332nd out of 489 racers.  But there are many other metrics for evaluation.  Fitness was not the problem: I felt fresh as a daisy within a half-hour after the finish.  Where I found myself struggling was with the technical aspects, many of which I was experiencing for the first time even though I've been paddling all kinds of water for more than three and a half decades.  I'm now pondering ways to be better prepared for next year's race even though true downwind conditions are hard to come by where I live.  It feels like when I was training for whitewater slalom in a part of the country with no whitewater.

Elsewhere in my season, I was reminded that I'm a shorter-distance athlete.  When I was dealing with two-hour-plus distances, I had some trouble.  I bonked in both the 19-mile Kentucky River race in May and the 14-mile Big South Fork race two weeks ago (in the latter race there was less than a mile to go when I bonked, but I was limping across the finish line just the same).  I was the overall winner in another two-hour race, on the Mississippi River at Vicksburg in April, but the competition there was less formidable and I had the luxury of pacing myself on my own terms.

I think my single best performance of the year was at the six-mile race on Fontana Reservoir over in western North Carolina.  Sadly, my hometown event, a delightful sub-20-minute dash down the Mississippi River at Memphis, had to be canceled this year.  And the races I'd planned to attend in September, all of which were in the less-than-one-hour category, were called off as well.  So I had few opportunities to race over distances to which I'm best suited.  Not coincidentally, the season was lacking in moments where I crossed the finish line feeling like I could pump my fist and say "Yes!  I nailed it!!"

But that's no reason to write the season off as a disappointment.  On the contrary, I achieved a high level of fitness and ventured pretty far outside my comfort zone.  I participated in three events for the first time and encountered athletes I'd never raced before.  And as always, even during moments when my non-athletic life seemed barely under control, my boat was waiting for me down at the dock, my regular paddling routine insuring that there was at least one thing going on that I could feel good about.

So there you go.  The season might not have been something nice and neat and tied up with a bow, but it sure wasn't boring.  I'm grateful for all the readers who took the journey with me.  All I can do now is see about doing it all over again in 2019.

Monday photo feature

Louisville paddlers Elaine Harold and Scott Cummins compete in the 14-mile Big South Fork River Dash this past Saturday.  Although Scott described their boat as a short, fat pig, they still managed to school the rest of us and take the overall win.  Photo by Greg Davis.

My race weekend, Part 2: post-race

On Saturday I finished third overall and second in my boat class at the Big South Fork River Dash.  While not the most triumphant possible way to end a season, I'll take it.  All told, I'm satisfied with how I competed.

I was sore and exhausted the rest of the day.  My right lower back still has not emerged from its depressing stiffness.  I knew I wouldn't have the energy to head back home Saturday, so I registered for another night of camping at Alum Ford.  Most of the other racers had cleared out and the place was quiet.  It was dark around 7 o'clock and I was in bed by 8:30.  I proceeded to sleep great, free of the sinus trouble of the night before.  By the time I crawled out of my tent Sunday morning I was still wicked sore but at least I was rested and feeling awake and alert.

I was eager to head home, but I decided that as long as I was in an area with lots of lovely natural attractions I should at least do a bit of sight-seeing.  I broke camp and headed for Cumberland Falls.

Cumberland Falls is widely thought to be the highest waterfall in North America east of the Mississippi River and south of Niagara Falls.  Paddling over the falls is illegal, but it has been done.  Dane Jackson and Nick Troutman ran the falls in March of 2016, and got fined for their trouble:



I didn't want to get fined, and I also didn't want to destroy my composite surf ski, so I was happy to behold the falls from the overlooks on the river-right bank.  I read some of the informational placards posted there, and my favorite fact was this: the Cumberland River was named in 1758 by an explorer named Thomas Walker.  He named it the Cumberland River because "the crooked nature of the river reminded him of the Duke of Cumberland."

I always like to do a recovery paddle the day after a race, and the stretch of river upstream of the falls appeared to be deep and flat and entirely suitable for this purpose.  I put in and paddled upriver toward the stone bridge that carries Kentucky Route 90 over the river.  Once I was above this bridge I realized that I had not scouted the area as well as I should have: the river there flowed over a series of rocky ledges and shoals, making it impassable for my surf ski.  So I had only a half-mile piece of river to paddle on.  In the end it was no big deal, since I was paddling easy for just a half-hour.  I ended up ferrying back and forth across the river, letting the blood flow through my race-ravaged muscles.

My race weekend, Part 1: pre-race and race

I left home around 9 o'clock Friday morning.  Driving to any destination in eastern Kentucky always seems to take longer than I expect it to: I was hoping to make it the greater Stearns-Whitley City area in between five and six hours, but it was nearing 6 o'clock when I finally rolled into Alum Ford Campground on the bank of the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River.  It didn't actually take me nine hours of driving--I lost an hour when I crossed into Eastern Time, and I also stopped for supper before heading into the woods to camp.  I estimate the driving time at around seven hours.

Anyway, without much daylight left, I didn't have time to do a short paddle as I typically do the day before a race.  I got busy pitching my tent, and in the process I realized that even though it was cooler on the Plateau than in Memphis, it was every bit as muggy.  By the time camp was set up I was wet and sticky and exhausted.  Alum Ford is a primitive camp with no running water, so I would be carrying on this existence for the weekend.

Just after dark my old racing friend Scott Cummins of Louisville, Kentucky, rolled in.  I invited him to share my campsite and he put up his hammock.  After a couple of beers and lots of conversation, we hit the hay.

It was not a good night of sleep for me.  Something was bothering my sinuses in the worst way and I was unable to breathe through my nose.  I'm guessing I got three or four hours of sleep at the most.  It was still dark at 6:45 Saturday morning--Alum Ford is only a couple of dozen miles inside the western border of the Eastern Time zone--but I went ahead and got up and walked around, hoping that would clear my head.  It sort of did.

Scott rolled out of his hammock a while later and we made some coffee and breakfast.  The race would be starting right next to the campground, so we didn't have to go far to attend race director Gerry James's pre-race meeting and then put our boats in the water.

Scott and I have had a number of memorable head-to-head matches, but this weekend we were not in the same boat class, as Scott had decided to race tandem with fellow Louisvillian Elaine Harold.  Even though they were paddling a Nelo boat designed more for instruction and surf-play than for speed ("this boat's a pig," said Scott), I knew this pair of fine athletes would be in the mix for the overall win.  Once our 14-mile race was underway we were joined in the lead pack by a couple of guys who were in my boat class: Lee Droppelman of Louisville and Ryan Landis of Corwin, Ohio.

The course was laid out like so: from the start we were to paddle downstream for five miles, and then round a buoy and paddle back up to Alum Ford.  We would continue on upriver for another two miles to another buoy, then come back down and finish at Alum Ford.

By the end of the first mile Ryan was looking strong in the lead and I settled onto his stern wake with the intention of staying there for a good long while.  Lee was hanging in there off to our right.  Elaine and Scott had fallen out of view but I figured they were someplace nearby.  A bend to the left, a bend to the right, a bend to the left once more, we wound our way down the river.  I say "down the river," but in fact there was no current at all that I could detect.  I think we were in the upper reaches of Lake Cumberland even though on a map our race course appears to be quite a distance from that reservoir.

At last our first buoy came into view.  I moved up onto Ryan's right-side wake and then took the lead so that I could be in control during the clockwise turn.  Lee was right on our sterns.  I kept my boat pointed straight downriver until we were abreast of the buoy and then I turned my rudder hard.  Just like that, I had a boatlength lead.  I rounded the buoy and threw in a surge: I wasn't ready to try to break away yet, but I wanted to make the other guys work a little to get back on my wake.

After this little episode it seemed as though the pace slowed down a bit from our early clip.  Ryan rejoined me in the lead, and I could hear Scott chit-chatting about something behind us.  As we pressed on, I could see Elaine and Scott's red boat moving up into my peripheral vision, and it sounded like they were bringing some roaring whitewater with them.  As they pulled even with us, I saw where the racket was coming from: their bow was pushing a wad of leaves.  There were quite a few leaves strewn over the surface of the water, and once in a while Ryan and Lee and I would get one caught on the bow and have to shake it off.  But the tandem boat seemed designed to grab as many leaves as possible.  "I'll be serving a salad at the finish," quipped our ever-witty friend Scott.

I'd noticed that Lee had mysteriously vanished from the lead group, and Scott went on to explain why.  Moments earlier Lee and Elaine/Scott had paused to clean leaves off each other's boats, and Scott had inadvertently knocked the rudder guard off Lee's boat.  So now Lee's rudder had no protection from the leaves, and the rest of the race was likely to be slow and miserable for him.

Those of us who remained continued to press on up the river.  Whether it was the quick pace in the early miles, or my poor night of sleep, or my flagging commitment to training in the last few weeks, or improper nutrition, or the simple fact that I'm not really a long-distance athlete, I'm not sure; but I was really starting to feel the pain after eight or nine miles.  As the start-finish buoys at Alum Ford came into view Elaine and Scott surged into the lead.  So far they had been disappearing and reappearing in the lead pack, but now it looked like they planned to keep the lead for good.  I started thinking less about the overall win and more about fighting for a win in my class.

We passed Alum Ford and entered the final four miles.  I was feeling light-headed and I fought hard to keep my body engaged even though my brain was slipping away.  At this point I knew my only chance of beating Ryan was if he was hurting at least as badly as I was.  I tried a little sprint to see if he would fall off my right-side wake, but he responded right away, so I backed off.  We continued on for another mile, and even though Ryan was moving his boat steadily he was not pushing the pace.  Feeling I had to make him at least think I still had the competitive juice, I picked it up again, and this time... he fell off!  He had nothing left!  This was my big break!  I was going to win this thing!

With the very last ounces of fight I had in me, I began to surge, hoping to put the race away right then and there.  If I could steadily pull away from here to the last buoy, then surely I would be able to hold him off over the last two miles even if I blew up completely.  He was out of my peripheral vision now and I pressed the advantage as hard as I could.

I was running on fumes as the final buoy came into view.  From the buoy it would be a long two miles back to the finish, but I knew that as long as I kept my boat moving it would require a huge amount of energy from Ryan to catch me.  After all, I've been in that position plenty of times myself, a minute or more behind somebody and struggling in vain to reel him in.

There was just one problem: Ryan wasn't a minute or more behind me.  As Elaine and Scott rounded the buoy Scott called out: "He's three boatlengths back, Elmore!"  Three boatlengths?  That's all??  I paddled into the buoy turn myself and looked over my right shoulder.  Ryan was right there.  Right.  There.  I hadn't put anywhere near the gap on him that I'd thought.

At this moment, I realized that I was a dead man.

I had nothing left.  I was teetering on the edge of the bonk-abyss.  I went ahead and let Ryan pull back even with me so at least I'd have some assistance from his wake.  But even then I could barely match his speed.  With less than a mile to go Ryan left me behind and I fell over into bonk-despair.

Elaine and Scott cruised to the finish to claim the overall win in one hour, 57 minutes, 22 seconds.  Ryan closed strong to win the single-kayak class a mere five seconds behind them.  I was ashen and fighting off waves of nausea, but I still managed to bring my race to a close forty seconds behind Ryan.  Lee fought off his technical difficulties to finish just 12 seconds over the two-hour mark.

Hollie Hall of South Point, Ohio, was the top solo female finisher, clocking two hours, 10 minutes, 4 seconds.  The complete results are posted here.

I apologize for this post rambling on so long.  Right now I'm just trying to get it done.  Maybe later I'll come back and do some editing and tighten it up a little.  Meanwhile, stay tuned for a second post about the rest of my weekend.

Oww

I have spent the week dealing with an ailing back.  On Sunday I had some things that needed washing under an outside spigot and ended up performing that chore in a bent-over position.  As a result, I woke up Monday morning in agony.  Just what I need the week of a race.

On Tuesday my back bothered me a lot as I paddled a loop of the harbor with Joe.  I tried to stay relaxed and let the area loosen up as much as it was willing to do.

The condition has gradually improved during the week but I was sort of hoping I'd be over it by now.  By this morning there was still an acute soreness in my right lower back.  I went back down to the riverfront and embarked on a 50-minute paddle, and was pleased to find that the discomfort in the boat wasn't nearly as bad as it had been Tuesday.  After a ten-minute warmup I did six 12-stroke sprints, and my body handled that intensity well.  I felt better after paddling than I'd felt before.  For the rest of the day there has still been a bit of soreness, but I'm getting the feeling that it'll be gone in another day or so.

Muggy heat has returned to this region.  I'm hoping it might be a little bit more fall-like up on the Cumberland Plateau.

Monday photo feature

It's the spring of 1994, and that's me paddling my old Gyramax C1 down the lovely bluish waters of the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River near Oneida, Tennessee.  Photo by Sonny Salomon.  I think that's Tony Hickey sitting in the river-left eddy there.

This weekend I'll be returning to the Big South Fork, albeit some distance downstream near Stearns, Kentucky.  The occasion will be the Big South Fork River Dash, a 14-mile race down what I expect to be a much flatter section of the river.  I'm hoping for some nice early-fall weather.