Row. Ride. Rum. That’s how we roll…

It was billed as the Pirate Triathlon.  A 12+ mile row from Marblehead to Gloucester, a 20-mile bike ride back, and some number of celebratory flagons of rum raised at the boathouse on our return.  Yet I suspect this order was somewhat misleading, for surely it was rum that started it off – an audacious goal cooked up in some dark corner of a local tavern by some club diehards after one too many.  And yet there we were, a couple dozen rowers gathered at dawn, looking out over calm seas towards Cape Ann as it disappeared into the distance.

You can’t overthink these things.  A couple weeks back when the long-range forecasts first started projecting the day’s weather, I was dismayed to see a chance of thunderstorms.  A few days later, the forecast had changed to ideal clear skies with a light following 5-10 knot westerly.  Pleased with this forecast, I subconsciously avoided looking at updates.  That was the weather I wanted – that was what we would get.  Until the night before, that is.  While we were loading up the bikes on the boat trailer, I was killing time checking the marine forecast.  Wind on our nose, building to 15-20, with 2-4’ seas.  Gusts up to 25 knots later in the day.  Not satisfied, I checked other sites for a second opinion, with little improvement.  In the process I also determined that the tide would be against us all day.  But you can’t overthink these things – it may not be ideal, but there were no storms on the horizon.  Best put it out of mind and wait and see what tomorrow brings.

The dawn brought clear and calm.  Ideal conditions for crossing Salem Sound for the first stop at Misery Island.  Knowing it wouldn’t last, a certain amount of anxiousness crept in.  Let’s go.  Let’s get on the water.  Let’s row while the seas are flat.  And with great efficiency, the boats were launched and group-by-group the row began.

In the weeks leading up to the rally, I developed a strategy for getting through the row.  The key was to conserve energy early on.  I had done several 8-mile rows in training, and felt if I could keep myself from getting too worn out on the first two legs, I could will myself through the third.  That the last leg was the longest – well as I said, it’s best not to overthink these things.

The first leg went mostly according to plan.  I concentrated on clean and efficient strokes, using care not to pull too much with my back or arms.  As we glided along, I made sure to be aware of my surroundings.  It was a beautiful day – and we were doing something remarkable.  I wanted to take it all in.  The one hitch started just before we entered the north channel of Salem Sound.  My left stretcher was getting loose at the toe.  I tried to reach around and tighten it, but couldn’t get a good position on it.  We were close to Misery, so I eased off and tried not to put much pressure on it, but sure enough the bolt came loose before I was across the channel.  I limped in to the beach at Misery, and was fortunate to find the nut and bolt still in the boat.  An easy repair during our first pit stop.

Misery is usually my turning point.  On a typical row there, I would be heading back, and like a horse heading home, I would be less concerned with conserving energy, and more concerned with getting back to the stable.  The trick here was to break that habit.  We were headed east, not south, and the row was just beginning.  With the bow headed towards Kettle Island, we departed the limited protection of Salem Sound for the open ocean.  As soon as we left the cove, we felt the breeze start to kick up for the first time.

Whoever authored the traditional Irish poem about the road coming up to meet you and the wind being always at your back, was most certainly no rower.  The wind was building steadily at our backs, but our backs are facing forward.  We all had a decision to make – row a longer distance next to shore, or row the shorter distance straight to Kettle Island.  I chose the latter – thinking the lee shore would offer little relief from the wind.  By the time we hit the halfway point, all thoughts of conserving energy were gone.  At one point I stopped rowing to take a sip of water.  By the time I had unscrewed the cap I noticed the wind was blowing me rather rapidly back the way I came.  I took an extra sip – sliding backwards was too disheartening to allow myself another break on this leg.

Two critical thoughts would strike me here, way beyond anywhere I have rowed before.  The first thought grabs me as I gaze out on the horizon to starboard, where I can just make out halfway rock.  This islet always beckons me, particularly on calm mornings when I am deciding where to row.  I have only rounded it once, but always felt it was an accomplishment – something to challenge me when conditions are right.  But from here it is a small dot – an afterthought.  Today I have eclipsed that challenge, and I am only halfway to where I am going.

The second, more profound thought hits me as I shift my view to port.  This is magnificent coast, the gold coast that Joseph Garland memorialized, his shingled shore of the 19^th century well to do.  This is a view you seldom get – sealed off on private beaches and behind gates and long pristine driveways.  But we’re out here, enjoying the rocks and islands and birds and trees and shore under our own power under beautiful skies.  It’s a fabulous day to be out here and a wonderful way to be connected to nature.  I am truly glad to be out here and now.

The fleet is scattered as we approach Kettle Island.  Some boats are hugging the shore, others have taken an outside path.  A few seem to be headed to the wrong island.  A fear strikes that we will be unable or unwilling to land – losing the opportunity to stretch, refuel, recharge.  I keep turning my head, looking for a sign that I am headed to the right place.  Finally, as I get close, I can see a couple boats on a small beach there.  I pull hard – anxious for a brief respite.

Kettle Island does not provide the relaxing break I am looking for.  Unlike Misery, the beach is small and the boats try to crowd in, but there is not really room for everyone to land.  And there is an unspoken anxiousness among the rowers.  The wind is building, the next stage is long, and the waves and rising tides keep threatening to pull the boats out to sea or crack them on the rocks.  I quickly squeeze down some Gu, and a couple peanut butter Girl Scout cookies, washing it down with water and Gatorade. I do my best to stretch and loosen by back which has been tightening up.  Soon I am back on the boat, maneuvering back into formation with my group amongst the fleet which has all converged.  We pull out again, and head for the next point.

It is here that reality strikes me.  My plan was to conserve energy on the second leg, but pulling against the wind and tide has left me more tired after 8 miles than I expected.  In pulling through that second leg, I told myself that this was as bad as it would get, yet rounding the next point we’re faced with the full brunt of the wind.  And deep down I know, while this is the third and final leg, we are not nearly two-thirds the way through the row.  Paul’s words ring through my head: “When you round the point towards Gloucester harbor – It’s going to blow.  You just need to keep on rowing”.

Here is where the whitecaps begin.  Waves are breaking over the bow and cold water is icing my already tightened back.  I push forward and keep on rowing.  Water begins to fill the boat faster than the auto-bailer can keep up, and I keep on rowing.  Each point I round reveals yet another point I need to round, and yet I keep on rowing.

I catch up with Roger who, in an Alden Star, is struggling to keep the waves from washing his gear off the boat.  He says he is fine, and I keep on rowing.  Now the water in my Echo is nearly up to the seat, and my seat stops sliding.  I stop to investigate and discover that the nylon strap is floating into the wheels.  Roger passes by and this time inquires about me – I let him know I am fine as I am able to get going again.  Moments later I see one of Rogers water bottles floating past and I see that he has lost the battle of keeping his gear on board.  I keep on rowing.

As I pass the breakwater, I expect some relief, but the wind and waves continue – they are coming out of the harbor, not off the ocean.  I’m beginning to miss strokes on a regular basis – sometimes pulling with an oar out of the water, sometimes nearly dropping an oar.  This is truly a slog.  I need to shorten up my strokes and pause at the catch – make sure the oars are in position before the pull.  I keep on rowing.

At this point I know exactly where I am, and yet have little idea where I am going.  I see Stage Fort Park – where we were originally planning to land – but know we have to row further into the harbor.  I can barely make out a few beaches now, but each one seems to be littered with boats, mostly kayaks I suppose, but can’t tell kayaks from shells at this distance.  No matter, I just keep rowing.

Boat traffic is picking up.  Big commercial fishing boats go by trailing large wakes.  Pleasure craft speed in and out of the Annisquam channel.  Little goes through my head at this point. Except just keep rowing.

And finally, the sea starts to flatten just a little bit.  I can regain a semblance of rhythm.  I can row again without full concentration.  I am tired, yet the thought of the finish line gives me a little boost of energy.  I pick the easternmost beach I can see and pull in that direction.  I first make out a pier and try to decide which side of it I need to land.  As I get closer it dawns on me – this is not a pier, but the greasy pole.  I’m in the right place, and that realization gives me another boost of energy.  A teen on a paddleboard now urges me on.  Somehow he’s aware of the rally – and is providing words of encouragement.  I’m almost there.  Just a little bit further.

There is exhilaration in the finish.  The joy of knowing I’ve made it, and meeting the others that have done the same.  I stumble around a bit, giddy with the thought of what we’ve made it through.  I find my bag, pull out a banana, a PB&J sandwich, more hydration.  Gradually recovering enough energy I haphazardly make a slow transformation.  I peel off the water shoes.  Toweling dry, I change into my bike shorts.  My drenched yellow Rock and Row shirt swapped for a fresh white one.  Doing my best to wipe off my sandy feet, I pull on my socks and sneakers.  Swapping off my hat takes some time – I need to feel ready and committed before I put on the bike helmet.  All the while I am rehydrating.

Group momentum builds quickly once the first signs of movement begin.  Riders saddle up and it seems the time has come.  We pull out of the parking lot in single file, snaking our way through the side streets and gas stations before finding our way to Route 127, and then the pace begins.

The ride was always an afterthought to me.  I had planned out and executed training rows.  I visualized the water legs and mentally sketched out a strategy.  Even as we pulled through the mess outside Gloucester, I was drawn on by the realization that I had made it.  The 20-mile return trip was blocked out.  I would not overthink this.  I had completed many 20 or more mile rides before.  Just not in this century.  Not after this row.  I was trying now to recall the cliché, but it kept coming out as “It’s just like falling off a bicycle…” No, that can’t be right.

Several people mentioned how flat this ride was.  I suspected now these people were riding carbon fiber bikes with skinny tires.  I was pulling my mountain bike up the first hill right after Stage Fort Park.  These legs were tired.  This was going to burn.  But the positive side of each hill is the backside, and we settled into a rhythm of slow climbs and fast glides with long straightaways in between.  Sights were now set on Captain Dusty’s.

We made two unscheduled breaks on the first leg.  Outside of Manchester, we made a restroom break at a gas station as we regrouped.  Then outside of Beverly farms the railway gates dropped in front of my path with bells and lights blazing.  The group in front of me disappeared, but it was no matter.  I could smell the ice cream from there.  As the commuter train headed off towards Boston, it was a short pedal to frozen goodness.  The first half had passed remarkably quickly, and despite soreness in my back and neck, I was in good spirits as we started the final leg.

The cruelest part of the whole day, for me, was the Beverly Bridge.  This is where the feeling first crept in, the feeling of being gassed.  And yet, the other feeling that came with it was one of determination and persistence.  And the thought that if I stopped once more I might not get going again.  The ride here started to become an individual challenge.  Traffic lights and shortcuts had split up the peloton.  It was now just Jack and I as we cut down Congress Street and veered back onto Lafayette.  And then somehow it seemed I was riding alone.

Truth be told, I did have a plan for the ride back.  It was a simple plan.  The plan was to avoid the heartbreak hill just past Lead Mills.  I had been pushing my fat knobby tires all this way, I was damned if I wasn’t going to put them to some use, and I cut off onto the rail trail.  The loose cinder trail seemed like wet concrete after so many miles of asphalt, but knowing I had little left in me, anything was better than that hill. 

The smaller hills in front of me would be bad enough.  How many more could my weary legs take?  I was calculating the better route.  West shore from Tower or rail trail to National Grand.  I knew the trail became softer as it approached Village, so it seemed the road was the better choice.  Just keep pedaling. 

They may be molehills, but I was counting them down nonetheless.  Three hills left.  Just keep pedaling.  Two hills left.  Just keep pedaling.  Last hill up past the Community Store.  Downshift.  Just keep pedaling.  Downshift again.  Down to my lowest gears but still moving forward.  Almost there and then…slowly at first, and gaining speed…coasting. 

Made it.  Downhill from here.  Past home.  Past Grace Oliver’s.  Now wrong way against traffic for the last block to the yard.  Riding over the gravel and around to the front of the shed.  Friendly faces, a bottle of water, a sip of rum and to stretch out on the dock to rest and reflect while waiting for the party to begin.  Such an incredible day and an incredible journey.  Many thanks again to all the planners and support crew.  Let’s do it again sometime.