The Essence of Ultra
Ultra-marathon kayak and canoe racing is one of the fastest growing disciplines in paddlesports. Three years ago, the 460-mile Yukon River Quest had 30-some entries, and had never been won by a kayak. This year's race filled the maximum of 70 slots six months before the event, with a waiting list of teams hoping to still get in. The 2005 'Quest saw two tandem kayaks take the overall win, breaking the single-blade tradition of victory and further ramping up the quality of athletes competing in these days-long races.
Brandon and John in Double Joy...
My first 'Quest was in 2002 when I partnered with California racing legend John Weed in our plywood tandem 'Double Joy'. Talk about green: Our fueling strategy was to each buy a large supreme pizza the night before and stuff the pieces into our deck bags for the 200+ mile first leg of the race. I brought a few cans of Ensure for good measure, and like bats out of hell we took off and left the rest of the pack spinning in our wake.
"Hey, this is easy," I thought as we crossed Lake LaBerge with not another boat in sight. I envisioned the glory of victory, stroking my giant-bladed wing paddle high and proud and conveniently forgetting that we had about 380 more miles to go. As I shrelped a piece of pizza, I hollared up to John that I thought the grease on my hands would probably help avoid blisters. Wahoo! A nice sunny day in the Far North!
Ten hours later, I felt like I'd been run over. My stroke had gone from high-and-proud to what must've looked like I had a 6-inch leash lashing my paddle to my deck. I couldn't lift it any higher. John had tried to grab 20 minutes of shut-eye, but couldn't avoid falling off to one side or the other so just kept stabbing at the water. Our speed was only slightly above that of the current alone. To top it off, our rudder blade had broken off, sinking with it any sense of steerage we once had of the 23-foot tandem. For a boat currently in the lead of the longest canoe and kayak race on the North American continent, we were one sorry sight.
At 3 or 4 a.m. the next morning, with a slight mist rising from the river and both John and I feeling like death warmed over, I looked back over my shoulder to take in the view upstream. What I saw shocked me to the core of my soul: a canoe slicing through the mist with two warrior paddlers stroking in perfect time, and looking like they'd just started a 100-meter sprint. They couldn't be racers...could they? I told John, but he didn't even bother to look. He assured me I was hallucinating.
"John!" I screamed for the third time, "It's for real, man. We got company!" After my third try, he finally looked upstream. The expression on his face is eternally engrained in my mind as one of utter shock, horror and disappointment. Our certain victory had just been undermined in a big, big way.
Team Old Guys...
Bob Bradford and Bob Vincent were the sort of humble, "don't mind us" type of paddlers that, before the race start, knew better than to run around telling everyone they were going to crush the record and take the victory for sure. Unlike, um, me. At 60 years old each, The Bobs, racing as "Team Old Guys" , treated other racers and crews with grandfatherly kindness, a pat on the shoulder, and left you smiling and feeling warm and fuzzy. I didn't realize it just yet, but this was my first lesson that ultra-marathon has to do with paddling, sure, but has a LOT to do with strategy as well. The Bobs' pre-race manner was akin to tenderizing a steak before you slap it on a red-hot grill and get the flesh a'sizzlin'!
When John finally did realize they were real and coming our way fast, he doubled his pace, so I doubled mine. Forget about pacing! If we were going to win this thing, we'd have to stay in front the whole freeking way, dammit! There would be no more time to eat, no time to pee into a cup or layer down from the cold night. The race was on, and personal comfort went out the window.
Brandon at CP1...
Four hours later, rudderless, whimpering, sitting in an inch-deep pool of my own urine and aching like a torture victim, we pulled into CP1 just ahead of the Bobs. Our crew, Mark Prezdwojewski and Emily Drouin of Kruger Canoes, poured us into our tents and set bowls of hot turkey and stuffing in front of our faces, then set to cleaning our wretched boat. I awoke 4 hours later with a spoon in my hand and my face next to the half-eaten bowl of food, unclear as to where I was and what had happened. The respect that ultra demands had hit me like an avalanche.
By the end of the second leg, a 50-miler to CP2 for a mandatory 2-hour break, Team Old Guys had put 2 or 3 minutes on us and driven us deeper into a hole of exhaustion we would not recover from. As they set out for the 3rd and final leg, with John and I watching from shore and waiting for the judges to let us go, Bob Vincent yelled back to us, "We'll wait for you! Let's all stay together!"
"Awww..." I thought, in my half-delirious state, "...O.K. old friend. You're the sweetest!"
By "waiting" what Bob really meant is that they'd paddle harder for the next three hours than they had the whole race, to make sure we'd never see them again. And we didn't. We suffered another night and day on the mighty Yukon, and finished second by one hour and one minute.
Verlen and Brandon...
When I saw the legendary canoeist Verlen Kruger in Dawson City the day after we finished, I told him a bit about our experience on the river, and with Team Old Guys. His response would become the catalyst for my goals within ultra-marathon kayak racing, the path I had glimpsed and wanted to travel: "Bob Bradford and Bob Vincent," he said with a smile, "they're professionals."
Brandon and John in Double Joy...
My first 'Quest was in 2002 when I partnered with California racing legend John Weed in our plywood tandem 'Double Joy'. Talk about green: Our fueling strategy was to each buy a large supreme pizza the night before and stuff the pieces into our deck bags for the 200+ mile first leg of the race. I brought a few cans of Ensure for good measure, and like bats out of hell we took off and left the rest of the pack spinning in our wake.
"Hey, this is easy," I thought as we crossed Lake LaBerge with not another boat in sight. I envisioned the glory of victory, stroking my giant-bladed wing paddle high and proud and conveniently forgetting that we had about 380 more miles to go. As I shrelped a piece of pizza, I hollared up to John that I thought the grease on my hands would probably help avoid blisters. Wahoo! A nice sunny day in the Far North!
Ten hours later, I felt like I'd been run over. My stroke had gone from high-and-proud to what must've looked like I had a 6-inch leash lashing my paddle to my deck. I couldn't lift it any higher. John had tried to grab 20 minutes of shut-eye, but couldn't avoid falling off to one side or the other so just kept stabbing at the water. Our speed was only slightly above that of the current alone. To top it off, our rudder blade had broken off, sinking with it any sense of steerage we once had of the 23-foot tandem. For a boat currently in the lead of the longest canoe and kayak race on the North American continent, we were one sorry sight.
At 3 or 4 a.m. the next morning, with a slight mist rising from the river and both John and I feeling like death warmed over, I looked back over my shoulder to take in the view upstream. What I saw shocked me to the core of my soul: a canoe slicing through the mist with two warrior paddlers stroking in perfect time, and looking like they'd just started a 100-meter sprint. They couldn't be racers...could they? I told John, but he didn't even bother to look. He assured me I was hallucinating.
"John!" I screamed for the third time, "It's for real, man. We got company!" After my third try, he finally looked upstream. The expression on his face is eternally engrained in my mind as one of utter shock, horror and disappointment. Our certain victory had just been undermined in a big, big way.
Team Old Guys...
Bob Bradford and Bob Vincent were the sort of humble, "don't mind us" type of paddlers that, before the race start, knew better than to run around telling everyone they were going to crush the record and take the victory for sure. Unlike, um, me. At 60 years old each, The Bobs, racing as "Team Old Guys" , treated other racers and crews with grandfatherly kindness, a pat on the shoulder, and left you smiling and feeling warm and fuzzy. I didn't realize it just yet, but this was my first lesson that ultra-marathon has to do with paddling, sure, but has a LOT to do with strategy as well. The Bobs' pre-race manner was akin to tenderizing a steak before you slap it on a red-hot grill and get the flesh a'sizzlin'!
When John finally did realize they were real and coming our way fast, he doubled his pace, so I doubled mine. Forget about pacing! If we were going to win this thing, we'd have to stay in front the whole freeking way, dammit! There would be no more time to eat, no time to pee into a cup or layer down from the cold night. The race was on, and personal comfort went out the window.
Brandon at CP1...
Four hours later, rudderless, whimpering, sitting in an inch-deep pool of my own urine and aching like a torture victim, we pulled into CP1 just ahead of the Bobs. Our crew, Mark Prezdwojewski and Emily Drouin of Kruger Canoes, poured us into our tents and set bowls of hot turkey and stuffing in front of our faces, then set to cleaning our wretched boat. I awoke 4 hours later with a spoon in my hand and my face next to the half-eaten bowl of food, unclear as to where I was and what had happened. The respect that ultra demands had hit me like an avalanche.
By the end of the second leg, a 50-miler to CP2 for a mandatory 2-hour break, Team Old Guys had put 2 or 3 minutes on us and driven us deeper into a hole of exhaustion we would not recover from. As they set out for the 3rd and final leg, with John and I watching from shore and waiting for the judges to let us go, Bob Vincent yelled back to us, "We'll wait for you! Let's all stay together!"
"Awww..." I thought, in my half-delirious state, "...O.K. old friend. You're the sweetest!"
By "waiting" what Bob really meant is that they'd paddle harder for the next three hours than they had the whole race, to make sure we'd never see them again. And we didn't. We suffered another night and day on the mighty Yukon, and finished second by one hour and one minute.
Verlen and Brandon...
When I saw the legendary canoeist Verlen Kruger in Dawson City the day after we finished, I told him a bit about our experience on the river, and with Team Old Guys. His response would become the catalyst for my goals within ultra-marathon kayak racing, the path I had glimpsed and wanted to travel: "Bob Bradford and Bob Vincent," he said with a smile, "they're professionals."
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