Ultra Marathon Paddling

Women's Surf Demo Day and Clinic: Huge Success!

2006-11-14T19:49:00.000-08:00

The Women's Surf Ski Demo Day and Clinic was an awesome success. Over thirty-surf ski's lined the shore when women started rolling into Bloedel Donovan Park in Bellingham, WA Nov 11 at noon. By the end of the event, we had over 60 gals paddling on the waters of Lake Whatcom on surf skis.

The hit of the day amongst the beginner paddlers was the Futura Spear. The Huki S1R and Epic V10 Sport, were popular with experienced kayakers, just getting into surf skiing. The V10 Standard was a hit amongst some of the Canadian OC paddles that love big water. The Huki SIX Special caught some attention amongst the ladies currently paddling the S1X while the S1A was popular with the smaller gals.

From what I hear from the local surf ski reps, the phones are ringing, and ladies are buying skis!!!A few local surf skiers; Greg Gilda, Jeff Hegedus and Brandon ran support from the sidelines. At one point, a paddler from Seattle, unable to loosen the screw on an adjustable Huki, hollered, "I need a man!" Jeff threw off his shoes and ran through the water to help, but arrived just a moment too late. The screw loosened and she looked at Jeff and said, `Sorry, I don't need a man." Jeff, head down with disappointment, headed back to his post at the Lake Whatcom map by the boat launch. Thanks Jeff and Brandon for shuttling boats and tents and tables and gear, and anything else that was needed through the day!

Thanks to all the women who came, huge smiles on their faces, through the wind and rain and cold November day. And thanks to Dale McKinnon who captured the entire event on film. And, thanks to everyone who loaned out boats and gear!We are already thinking about the next event, a surf clinic at the Columbia River Gorge seems to be at the top of the list.

W.O.W. Feedback:

“WOW was a hit indeed. I had so much fun my whole body was smiling. Heather and Larry pretty much said it all in their last two comments; yep, the incredible attendance even in spite of the crummy weather, coupled with the unbridled enthusiasm exhibited by all, spoke volumes. I was also awed by the great organization and content of the event. Awed yes -- though hardly surprised when you look at the powerhouse people behind it. And while this was event was designed exclusively for women, we must also give great kudos to the male paddlers for the generous use of their boats (quite a classy fleet), time, muscles, and encouragement -- all things instrumental in makeing the event such a super success. Their helpful participation was much appreciated and seems to be reflective of the all-around cooperative and friendly spirit I have come to find in the paddling community. Thank you guys.” ~ Debbie Natelson (Rower ready to buy her first surf ski from Seattle, WA)

“To have 60 people show up for a surfski event is awesome. To have 60 women show up on a crappy day leaves me speachless. Who would have guessed there was that much interest. Kudo's to you Heather (and Traci Cole and Tracy Landboe) for coming up with the idea... and to the rest of the organizers, venders, and support group.” Larry Bussinger, Bellingham WA Surf Ski racer

"WOW! is right! That was really fun! Thank you so much Traci, Heather, Tracy and Laura (and all else who helped and brought boats)! "Kristin Gilda (Seattle tandem sea kayak racer…turned surf ski racer?!)

"What a fun day - it was a pleasure to meet so many women unfazed bythe "biathalon" aspect of surfski: swimming and paddling! It's sparkedmy interest in finding ways to build a women's surfski community alongthe (your north, our south) west coast.Many thanks to everyone; glad that we live somewhat close together. Ifyou're interested in surfski paddling near Victoria, BC, please chatto me via WOW and get out on the local water. We get some fabuloussurfing days here during and after the big winter storms." ~ Sheila O’Shea (Victoria, BC surf ski racer)

Women On Waves: W.O.W.!!!

2006-10-31T07:39:00.000-08:00

Being a female surf ski racer can, at times, be lonely. Surf Ski racing is a male dominated sport. So, two accomplished female racers from Seattle; Traci Cole and Tracy Landboe, came up with the idea for W.O.W. I happily jumped on board, as did Laura Jackson, a racer from Seattle.

Women On Waves was created to give women the opportunity to learn more about the sport of surf ski racing in a fun, noncompetitive environment. Our inaugural event will be a demo day with clinics and a group paddle here in Bellingham, WA. There will be surf skis and kayaks to demo; clinics on the forward stroke, nutrition and safety; a raffle with cool race schwag; a group paddle and lots of cool women to hang out with!

Date: Saturday, November 11, 2006 (Rain or Shine)
Time: Noon-4pm Location: Bloedel Donovan Park, Bellingham WA
Dinner: Dinner to follow at Boundary Bay in Bellingham
Cost: This is a free event, (except for dinner at Boundary Bay)

Sponsored by: Island Outfitters, Kokatat, Huki, Epic and Futura

For more info: http://www.soundrowers.org/wow.htm

Wrist tendonitis: The follow-up to the Quadrapus and RoRow

2006-10-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

After breaking the mixed tandem course record in the 460-mile Yukon River Quest with Brandon in 2005, I set my sights high for 2006. Not only did I want to win the women’s solo category, I wanted to break the course record and come in top 10 overall. After a year of training and preparation, the race was a huge success. I won my division, crushed the women’s record by over 10 hours, and placed 6th place overall! (Blog post... Two Views of Victory: '06 YRQ, July 10, 2006)

My victory did not come without cost. I paddled the final 90 miles of the Quest with my hand duct taped to my paddle shaft. 370 miles of hard racing had left my wrist so swollen and painful with tendonitis, I could not even wrap my fingers around my paddle, much less race. Duct tape is acceptable once. But, the longevity of my career requires that I take care of my body by minimizing the impact of hard racing and training and stay ahead of injury potentials like tendonitis.

If you recall, my first attempt at a solution was finding a device that would support my wrist, as the duct tape did. But, after testing the Quadrapus and the Rorow, (Blog Post... Ultra-Innovation: Quadrapus and RoRow, August 11, 2006) I decided an awkward extra piece of gear was not what I wanted to rely on when paddling an ultra. I needed to get to the heart of the problem, and fix it.

I started by having my stroke coach film me paddling. We then reviewed the tape; dissecting my stroke. As an ultra marathon paddler, I do not rely on a powerful, vertical wing paddle stroke. I keep my arms no higher than shoulder height, keep my elbow and forearm parallel to the water and rely heavily on my core for power.

Watching the tape, I could see my rotation was good, and my exit was about at my hip where I wanted it to be. I was lifting with my elbows and pushing my paddle forward with my forearm level, as I had been practicing. But, I could clearly see as I reviewed the tape, that just before I planted my left paddle blade into the water, I was twisting my right wrist almost 90 degrees to achieve my desired blade entry.

The mere second I was twisting my wrist every time I speared my left blade into the water, would add up to hundreds of thousands of wrist ‘tweaks’ throughout a training paddle or race. The cumulative effect of this constant twist could easily cause tendonitis.

I tried a few things to correct this. First, I tried to move my grip on the paddle shaft. I typically line my knuckles in a direct line with the top edge of my paddle blade. But, I had heard if you rotate your knuckles forward about 10 degrees, you can flatten out your wrist. I attempted this, but inevitably, the minute I started paddling my grip would float back to it’s original position. I gave up after three unsuccessful sessions.

Second, I changed the feather of my paddle. I typically paddle with a 65-degree feather. This has always worked for me, or is a good angle in the wind. From my 65-degree feather I went to a 45-degree feather. In my first test paddle, I could immediately see that this alone had flattened out my wrist nicely. By adjusting the paddle angle, I no longer had to twist my wrist to create a clean blade entry angle.

But, adjusting the feather and straitening my wrist had not completely solved the problem. My wrist was still feeling stiff, painful and swollen, even after a moderate paddle. I turned my focus to relaxing my wrist and hand while paddling. I am not someone who keeps a death grip on my paddle shaft, but none-the-less, keeping my hand wrapped even gently around my paddle for hours on end, was keeping my muscles and joints locked in an immobile position long enough to create discomfort and swelling.

I decided to incorporate a consistent, active stretch into my paddle stroke. In the ‘push’ phase of my stroke, when I am reaching forward and preparing to plant the blade, I added in a stretching motion with my fingers. I simply open my hand, and extend my fingers fully, pushing the paddle with the palm of my hand.

I don’t do this every stroke. A couple times every few minutes consistently throughout the paddle, long before any stiffness has a chance to move in, seems to keep any pain or swelling at bay.

Focusing on my wrist angel and actively stretching while paddling, I have done up to 15 hour paddles duct tape free since the YRQ. If it sounds simple, that is because it is.

If your shoulders, elbows or wrists are suffering because of kayaking, before you chuck your boat into the sea, or grind through the pain, get a camera and have a friend or coach film you paddling. Have them film you paddling towards the camera, away from the camera and at a side angle. Paddle a normal pace, and paddle at race pace. Sometimes your paddle quirks don’t show up until you ‘turn it on’. By reviewing these tapes, you may be able to find the culprit of your overuse injury.

Remember…resting and allowing injuries to heal plays an important part in working through your overuse type injuries. I allowed my wrist time to mend before starting to work on stroke technique.

Suffering has its place in racing! I wouldn’t change a thing about my performance in the YRQ ’06, duct tape and all! But, in between hard core races and suffer-fests, take the time to slow down, and make yourself a better, stronger paddler. Don’t stop with analyzing your stroke…think about your gear, your nutrition, your fitness, and your training regimen. Constant analysis can go a long way towards, not only your longevity in the sport, but towards making you the best paddler you can be!

~HN~

Length of the Lake 100 KM race: One minute DOES Matter!!!

2006-10-03T09:28:00.002-07:00

Lake Okanagan, just east of Kamloops in British Columbia, is about 100 KM tip-to-tip, and no wider than about a mile the entire length.

With its consistent winds funneled from the north, and provincial parks lining the west side of the lake, Okanagan screams, ‘RACE ME’!

Penticton Racing Canoe Club answered the call with the creation of the Length of the Lake canoe and kayak race. The race starts in the town of Vernon on the northern point and ends in Penticton, 100 KM to the south. There are five legs to race, ranging from 15 to 25 KM in distance. Most teams do the race relay style, swapping out teammates at the 4 checkpoints along the course. Some teams opt to tandem with two teams leap-frogging their way through the course. The die-hard paddlers iron it, racing the entire 100 KM non-stop.

Brandon and I, of course, would accept nothing but the Iron Division.

At 7:30AM 18 boats lined the sandy shore of Kinsmen Beach in Vernon. Eight OC 6’s, four OC 2’s, one OC 1, one tandem surf ski, and four solo kayaks racing in the iron division, floated with their sterns lined up along the beach. Paddlers sat still in their crafts with their muscles tense and faces stern with concentration, ready to launch their boats into the race with powerful strokes of their paddle blades the instant the starting horn blared.

All the racers, but Brandon.

The other solos, Jimmy Zimmerman and Roger Dunn were both paddling Huki S1X surf skis. I knew they were there, but they were not my focus. Lined up next to my 21 foot long, 28-pound Thunderbolt was my husband in a shorter, heavier, wider Seda Glider. He had chosen the boat for its comfort. But, I knew the boat would hold him back and the weight and dimensions would wear him down. If I was ever to beat my husband in a race, this was my chance.

“HOOONK”!!! The race was on!

Jimmy took off at a sprint, chasing down an OC 6 and falling comfortably into their draft. Roger, who had come from California for the race, paddled to my left trying to catch a ride with an OC2. But, behind me was the only thing that mattered. Brandon sat in his bright yellow Seda Glider on the beach. He was non-challantly attaching his drink tube to his life vest and setting his GPS.

“In a race this long, an extra minute on the beach doesn’t matter”. I heard him say to an onlooker on the beach. One minute after the rest of us launched, Brandon began to race.

It was 15 KM to checkpoint (CP) 1 located at Fintry Provincial Park. I held a comfortable pace, a pace I felt I could maintain for the 10 hours of paddling I had ahead of me. There was a slight breeze from the north. The wind was warm, and I paddled comfortably in a short sleeve polypro shirt. My GPS fluttered between 6.5 and 6.8 mph. My speed was faster than I had anticipated, so I focused on long, relaxed strokes.

I could not make out Brandon’s form in the mass of OC 6’s around me. As I approached CP 1 an hour and a half later, I watched Jimmy make the 90-degree turn by the beach and looked at my watch, noting the time. When I reached the buoy my watch told me he was about four minutes ahead of me. With a glance over my shoulder, I found Brandon paddling side by side with Roger, their wing paddle blades standing out amidst a sea of single blades. From their location, I guessed they were probably three minutes behind me.

In the Length of the Lake, paddlers competing in the Iron division are required to check-in at each CP, but are not required to stop or get out of their boats. That was part of the reason why Brandon and I had opted to race our more comfortable decked kayaks, versus surf skis. Our endless quest to find the ultimate in comfort consumes us every ultra. To sit in a kayak, not lose time by getting out, and at the same time, not loose speed to the distraction of cramping legs and an aching butt is our ultimate goal. Brandon and I had customized our boats with pee systems, and homemade seats and steering systems.

24 KM later I arrived at Bear Creek Provincial Park, CP2. Brandon and I had matched our speed stroke for stroke to the second checkpoint. He was still exactly three minutes behind me as I called my race number to an event volunteer, shouting to be heard over the roar of rowdy crews and racers stoked to cheer-on a solo. As the noon hour approached, the wind began to pick-up, and the waves did the same. Somewhere between CP2 and CP3 in Peachland, Brandon dropped off behind me. The mango blur of his kayak was no longer visible in a quick glance over my shoulder. In view or not, I felt his presence and knew he would be strong until the end. At CP3 I was surprised to find the knowledge that he was now 5 minutes behind me somewhat depressed me.

Halfway through the race, and I was in a bit of a lull, sore and tired and debating whether or not I wanted to erase the rest of my race calendar for the season. Where is Brandon, I brooded moodily? I thought he was teasing me, throwing the race to make me feel good about myself. I debated telling the volunteers at the next checkpoint to tell Brandon I wouldn’t be mad if he caught me. 40 KM to go, and I was downright lonely!

After CP3, the lake takes a 90 degree turn, forcing paddlers to take a course strait across the lake to the east shore then back to the west. This creates a strait line course through the abrupt turn in the lake and while this is the shortest route, it also put’s you sideways to the wind. The waves were a constant 1 – 2 foot now. Paddling a narrow, tippy decked kayak with a lifted seat to accommodate my ‘toilet’ was a bit precarious, and putting down my paddle to grab a bite of food was not an option. I had not eaten in a few hours. As I did my best to surf across the lake, the emptiness in my stomach consumed me. I was sure Brandon, with food easily accessible in his stable boat, and his knack at connecting waves to link together long, fast rides, was going way faster than me.

Slow or not, when I reached the cliffs on the east side of the lake, I was starving and knew I was facing a huge bonk if I didn’t get some food in me immediately.

I tucked behind the point in a protected eddy, stuffed three ibuprofen and half a PB&J sandwich in my mouth, then stretched my legs while I tried to swallow. My cheeks still bulging, I stuffed my drink tube in my mouth, and got back into the wind before Brandon caught me.

As I peeled back into the race, Brandon was shockingly close, just coming around the point. My urge for companionship fleeted, and I tore back into the surf with a vengeance.

Once I left the point, it was a strait shot to Summerland, and CP4. Crossing back to the west side of the lake, the wind was at my back, the waves were growing and my energy surged as I caught ride after ride, connected waves and holding speeds in the 8 and 9mph ranges for minutes on end.

Surf or no surf, 200 yards before Summerland Brandon caught me. “Are you eating”, he asked? I looked guiltily at my loving husband, thinking of my well-being while I was in a totally focused race-mode.

He knew the nature of my boat and seat made it difficult for me to eat or stretch in anything but calm water.

We rafted up and I ate enough to get me through the 10 miles we had to the finish. “I have to refill my Gatorade at this checkpoint”, he told me. “Give it all you’ve got, I’m gonna chase you down”!”

With that, he pushed me ahead, and we paddled into CP4. The crowd screamed their encouragement while I paddled by and Brandon hopped out of his boat and a volunteer filled his empty Gatorade bladder.

Paddling the final leg into Penticton, the surf was phenomenal. With two-foot waves and steady 15-mph tailwinds, the finish was in sight. I was weary. My muscles were fatigued and the long stretches in between bites of food had left me a little shaky. But, I surfed my heart out. Occasionally I glanced behind me looking for the mango blur of Brandon’s Seda in hot pursuit.

The finish grew close. No Brandon.

I paddled onto the beach while racers ran over to stabilize me so I could run up the sandy beach to a giant peach --- a monument to Penticton's roll as the epicenter of Peachdom in the Okanagan --- the official finish. I stumbled on trembling legs, high fiving hands that lined my path. I touched the peach to the roar of applause and turned around in time to see Brandon’s arrival. I threw a fist in the air and savored the victory.

We high fived as Brandon ran to the peach, both of us grinning. He laughed as he said, “I got chicked…by my wife!”

After he touched the peach, I looked at our recorded times,

Heather 9:32
Brandon 9:33

Lesson learned, in a race like this, an extra minute DOES matter!!!

The overall race was won by two double surf skis tandeming the course in a time of 7 hours and 50 minutes.
Jimmy Zimmerman was the winner of the Iron division with a time of 9 hours and 20 minutes.

Length of the Race is definitely a race worth doing! Beautiful scenery, great people, a fun and challenging course, and an awesome feast with killer schwag to top it off.

For more information, visit:
http://www.prcc.bc.ca/

See you on the lake!

~HN~

So long sunshine, hello STORM SURF!!!

2006-09-29T07:34:00.000-07:00

I stood in my driveway at 7:00 AM this morning, stunned. My body paralyzed with shock, my eyebrows scrunched up in disbelief and concern. Could it be? I slowly let the air out of my lungs, my head tilted slightly upward. There it is, I could see my breath in the frigid, 40 F morning. Sept 15 and summer, is officially over!

The end of summer isn’t all bad news. With fall comes the brilliant yellows and oranges of the trees. And with fall, the crock pot comes out of summer storage and the house is filled with the smells of hot, homemade soup I love to make fresh every few mornings. And, with fall, comes a paddler’s delight, wind!

Last fall Bellingham Bay erupted with windstorms day after day. But, the mother lode didn’t hit until February 4….

We woke up this morning to the howl of the wind and the call of the bay. Winds were blowing 30 - 40 mph, gusting to about 62mph; waves were predicted to be 4 - 8 feet. "The biggest wind storm in three years", the weather forecaster warned.

We met with about 8 other surfskiers at Marine Park in Bellingham. I gave Larry and Shaun a big hug, greeted Eric and Peter, and gave Mike a high-five. Jeff and David were huddled in deep conversation, looking out at the wind torn sea. Morris jumped out of his VW and walked over, holding his small daughters hand, making sure she didn't get blown away. "I'll drive shuttle if anyone wants to do a downwind run!" Morris offered.

We all enjoyed the reunion for a moment, then turned toward the seemingly magnetic force that had drawn us all to the sea. We put our backs to the wind and braced against the gusts as we surveyed the ravaged ocean water. A low laying fog seemed to blanket the entire bay. But, on closer look, I realized this was mist from the wind ripping against the water. An occasional flurry would roll through like a freight train, a mini tornado moving along the water, marking its path.

We passed around binoculars and pointed out debris in the water from the tidal storm surge, while others discussed whether they would be able to hold onto their paddles in the nuclear conditions and chatted about their wives stern looks as they had loaded their boats and left their homes earlier that morning.

Brandon and I walked away from the group and made a plan. A one way downwind run from Marine Park to Squalicom Harbor, less than 4 miles away. We could experience the fury of the storm, but stick close to land. We knew this was a class 5 paddle, but that we had paddled harder. We would stick close, watch each other, and were confident with our skills. We told Morris the plan, gave the others a final chance to join us, and prepared to hit the water.

It took three of us to unload each boat. One would loosen the straps, while one held the bow and one held the stern to protect the surf ski from sailing away in the wind. A crowd gathered at the shore while we donned dry suits, beanies, life vests, leashes, and waded into the icy winter water. Larry proudly shot pictures while Shaun spoke to a windsurfer who had just come in from his own adventure on the bay. "That is Heather and Brandon Nelson." I heard him say. "They are nuts!" I heard the windsurfer reply.

Brandon launched gracefully into the surf while the wet suited windsurfer splashed into the water next to me and pointed the bow of my ski into the wind and waves, and I mounted and paddled away yelling my thanks as I went.

From there all was silent, it was Brandon, me and the sea. I stopped paddling for a moment, took a deep breath, felt my boat beneath me. As a unit, my boat and I rolled with the turbulent sea. I felt at peace and smiled knowing this is where I was meant to be. With a calm mind, and a confident stroke I turned my bow down wind and began the journey towards Squalicom harbor.

We hugged the shore, bracing into the up to 80 mph gusts of wind that were slamming us from the east, and riding the swells from the south. On Lake Baikal in Siberia we had paddled in similar winds, and the same calm enveloped me then that I felt now. Loose hips, clear mind, focus.

About 1 mile later, I was in absolute concentration, paddle bracing against the wind, boat flying down the face of a wave, when I heard a raucous literally beside me. We were at Boulevard Park, and the gang had followed us. With the high tide, I was almost riding on the lawn of the park, and the crew was about 5 feet away from me as they cheered us on and snapped pictures. Brandon and I 'hooted and hollered' on by and faced the crux of the paddle. It was time to cut across the wide-open waters of Bellingham Bay to the harbor, where the waves would be hitting us broadside. I paddled slowly, and precisely, aware of the mango blur of Brandon's dry suit just to my side.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, brace. Stroke, stroke, stroke, brace. It was like a mantra in my head, keeping me focused on the ever-closer harbor, focused on my stroke, and keeping me calm.

A quarter mile from the harbor entrance the refraction from the rocks turned my mantra to stroke, brace, stroke, brace. Progress slowed, but the harbor was in my grasp. Through the buoys of the harbor, the gateway to safety, I took two powerful strokes and rode a wave in and entered in style.

Our paddling friends were at the harbor, soaking wet and shivering in the rain, huge grins on their faces. They helped us load the boats, then one by one disappeared, leaving Brandon and I alone to absorb the power of the sea, the freedom of adventure and the ultimate bond of experiencing that with your best friend.

~HN~

Bowron Lake Circuit: 10 Lakes, 3 Rivers, 7 Portages...One Day!

2006-09-13T19:12:00.000-07:00

GGGRRRAAAAHHH!!!

I grunted loudly as I bent my knees slightly, arched my back in a horrible backwards bend, and heaved our 100-pound of tandem kayak over my head to rest on my other shoulder. The sharp keel line of the bow sunk sickly into the soft flesh of my left shoulder. In two to three minutes, when the pain on my left shoulder culminated in a sadistic rage, I would repeat the ritual.

Brandon and I were on an adventure paddle on the Bowron Lake Circuit in British Columbia. The lake chain is an anomaly of 10 lakes, shaped vaguely in a square, and connected by portages and rivers, resulting in a 116.4 KM, one-way trip, with no shuttle at the end. The trip entails about 105.6 KM of lake and river paddling along with over 10.8 KM of portaging. The portages are on wide, groomed trails, built to support loaded canoes on 30-inch wide trailers.

Most paddlers take a few weeks off work, and spend 10 days gazing at the steep mountain peaks, lounging at their camp enjoying a good book, photographing bear and moose, osprey and eagles and fishing for trout.

Our theory… why do ten days, when you can take it all in, in one?

Brandon and I packed our 26” beam, 22’ long, 65 pound tandem on our van, loaded the camping gear, kayak gear and race food, and headed north.

We were greeted at Bowron Lake Provincial park with drop jawed stares when we announced to the perky young park ranger, that we would be completing the circuit in a day.

“Grandma, did you hear what they are doing?” She hollered to a heavyset, 70-year old woman sitting on a park bench nearby, smoking a cigarette. “I believe ‘em. They look skookum enough” she replied. The calm in her eyes spoke the wisdom of her years. I could tell, not much shocked grandma.

After we checked in and went through the parks orientation, the rest of our days plan called for loading our kayak for our 4:30 AM departure, scouting the first 2.4 KM portage, since we would be leaving in the dark, finding the public boat launch which would be our take-out, and asking the mercantile next to the take-out how late she was open. We were hoping for a home cooked meal after our adventure! Then, a dinner of pasta and chicken, before crawling into bed for the night.

Going through our to-do list brought us to the Bear River Mercantile where the business owner, Sandy Phillips, surprised us by whipping out a list of about a dozen teams who had completed the circuit in a day. The list dated back to 1981. The overall record was noted; a tandem race canoe and two Olympic level triathaletes had done the course in 12 hours and 27 minutes. They had paddled race pace the entire distance and ran all the portages. Sandy took our names and boat description and said she would stay open until 9PM the following night, with dinner waiting.

Our goal was humble, to break 15 hours and be in by dark.

3:00 AM the following morning I crawled out of the tent. I had barely slept all night, for fear of oversleeping. I climbed over Brandon, careful not to wake him. Once I had our breakfast of sliced fruit, yogurt, toasted bagels and hot tea setout, I woke up Brandon. We ate in silence, enjoying the musical calls of the elk and coyotes in the distance.

At 4:26 AM, our kayak was loaded on our trailer and we started our watches. Brandon pushed our trailered kayak while I walked just ahead, lighting the trail. The first portage was 2.4 KM. We should arrive at the first lake, Kibbee Lake, at 5:00 AM. By the time we crossed the 2.4 KM lake, we hoped there would be enough light to guide us to the take-out for the next portage.

After crossing the lake, we found the portage easily and I jumped out of my cockpit, grabbed the bow, and pulled the tandem up on shore. Brandon hopped out, grabbed the trailer, which was affixed on the deck behind his seat, and attached it under the stern of our kayak.

I walked just ahead of the kayak, and as we approached a rut in the trail I reached down to lift the bow, easing the weight on the trailer. I was about to grab the bowline when I heard a bullet-like CRACK and our kayak dropped 8-inches to the dirt. The trailer had exploded under the weight of our tandem. Pieces of PVC pipe had shattered everywhere.

Neither of us reacted. We just cleaned up the trailer pieces, loaded the scraps in the back hatch, heaved the kayak on our shoulders, and kept going. A broken trailer was not going to stop us! The portage from Kibbee Lake to Indianpoint Lake was 2.0 KM. With our arms and legs still fresh, the portage went quickly. Indianpoint Lake greeted us from under a heavy cloud of gray smoke. There were no less than a dozen fires burning within the circuit of lakes. The smoke had settled heavily in the still morning air.

Indianpoint Lake was 6.4 KM, leading into a shallow, slow moving creek. British Columbia had had an incredibly dry and hot summer; we were seeing the results as we attempted to enter the creek. Inches of water were all that stood between us and the lake bottom. The bottom of the lake was a thick, gooey, leg eating sludge. Walking our boat was not an option, as the risk of getting irretrievably sucked into the muck was too great. We backtracked, trying to find another path to the other side. We slogged around in the shallow water, frustrated with our lack of progress. We got out on shore near the creek, looked for a secondary path around the shallow creek, but found nothing but thick forest. We finally revisited the creek and found if we stayed all the way to the left, we could just coast through. I was relieved when we made it through the creek and arrived at the next portage.

After a 1.6 KM portage we arrived at Isaac Lake and a steady 38 KM paddle. It had taken us 3 hours to do the first 10 miles. We were ready to get in a paddling groove!

Our strokes fell into a rhythmic groove as we paddled into a slight headwind on Isaac Lake. Our conversation was limited, as we enjoyed the jagged mountain peaks and listened to the giggles of a nearby loon.

Brandon and I take great pride in the comfort of our kayak seats and pee systems. To spend 12 - 24 hours in our kayak without ever getting out is not unusual for us in a race or long training paddle. So, when after a mere 50 minutes on Lake Isaac my butt screamed in pain and my legs and calves began to cramp miserably, I was ashamed to open my mouth. But, pain overcame pride and I suggested a quick stop on shore. Brandon readily agreed. We pulled onto shore, and literally rolled out of the boat, slowly unfolding our bodies into the standing position. The series of 1 – 2.4 KM portages with our 100 pounds of kayak and gear on our shoulder was taking its toll on our lower bodies.

We made one more stop before Lake Isaac became a crystal, blue class 2 creek. The creek grew to a series of class 6 waterfalls, and thus, more portages. After 7 hours of paddling and portaging, it felt like a moose was riding shotgun as we hefted our boat to our shoulders. But, we had gotten our system down. Every two to three minutes I would call a switch, and we would stop walking, press the tandem over our heads, and drop it onto the shoulder. When the pain of the sharp keel of the kayak grew to great, I would call the next switch.

Once we moved through the waterfalls and rivers, we hit a series of shorter lakes. At Lanezi Lake we encountered one of the sources of smoke. A row of a half dozen fires burned along the ridge, about 100 yards above the lake. The fires were being left alone to burn themselves out, the park ranger had informed us. From Lanezi, we crossed into Sandy Lake, which was aptly named. Our speeds were reduced to about 4 mph in the shallow waters of the 4.8 km lake.

With only 30 KM to go, the water just kept getting shallower and shallower. After crossing Sandy Lake, Babcock Creek petered out on us until we were forced to climb out of the boat and drag our kayak in 4 inches of water for the last 250 yards. After 2KM of portage trails, and a few more unexpected sandbar crossings, we arrived at the final 11.2 KM section of paddling.

It was 6:25 PM. Our goal of 15 hours was in sight, but the low water had made our progress much slower than we expected.

Bowron Slough, a 4.0 KM section of river leading into the circuit’s namesake, Bowron Lake, was no more than 1-foot deep. Our progress was slow as we watched the minutes ticking by. We arrived on Bowron Lake at 6:43 PM. We had 39 minutes to paddle the final 7.2 KM! For the first time on the entire journey, we turned it on! We whooped with glee as a 25 KM tail wind greeted us as we paddled onto the lake. I hollered our speed and our official time from my GPS every few minutes.

A 7.0 mph was always received with a “YEAH” from Brandon.

We arrived at the takeout at 7:22 PM. Our goal of 15 hours, a success.

We climbed out of our kayak for the final time that day, and high fived to our adventure. Brandon unloaded the kayak while I ran the 1.5 miles to our van, which was parked at the campground. Once I returned, a dip in the lake served as a shower and we loaded the boat and went strait to the Bear River Mercantile where Sandy was waiting with hot food and homemade cookies!

Planning Your Paddling Adventure in Bowron Lake Provincial Park

Ten Lakes, three rivers, seven portages, abundant wildlife, beautiful scenery, world class paddling, and no shuttle!

Distance: 72 miles
Trip Time: 6 – 10 days
Best Season: June – September
Permits and reservations: 1-800-HELLO-BC (1-800-435-5622) Toll Free Canada/USA (604) 435-5622 Greater Vancouver area (250) 387-1642 Other North America/Overseas
Park Information and maps: http://www.env.gov.bc.ca/bcparks/explore/parkpgs/bowron.html
Boat and equipment rentals: http://www.bcadventure.com/bowron/
Notes: No dogs are allowed on the canoe circuit. Reservations are required. If you plan to fish, permits are required.

~HN~

Ultra-Innovation: Quadrapus and RoRow

2006-08-11T17:16:00.000-07:00

In the day-to-day world, "Necessity" may be the "Mother of Invention." But in the world of ultra-marathon paddling, the Mother of Invention is "Suffering." Every time I finish a race or ultra workout, I look back at the times of my worst suffering, and start trying to figure out ways to ease the pain. Afterall, it's not ONLY about training harder.

The worst suffering undoubtedly happens to the rank beginners, the ones who think race clothing is a rubberized rain suit. The ones who pack nothing but Power Gel for a 3-day race because someone told them it was "complete nutrition." Or one of the most painful sins: Trying, for the first time, ANYTHING during an ultra. (If you, your gear, and your strategies aren't "Old Friends" by the time the starting gun goes off... something's not right.)

After this spring and summer of training and racing, I find I'm struggling with my hands. I thought I had leathery tough skin on these giant paws. But after a full day and night of paddling, I'm blistered up. I tend to consistently get a half-dollar size popper on my right (control) hand, and a few smaller ones on the fingers. Blisters, though, don't slow the boat down. I'm happy just re-popping them when they top off and keeping on truckin'!

What slows me down, though, is the swelling. By the second and third day of a race, my body's sending major fluid into my arms and hands -- to the point where I can't make a fist anymore. That makes gripping the paddle a real chore, and I know I'm not getting good power from my core to the paddle blade. Other racers might have it different, but my hands are a weak link in my drive train. Finishing a race with reserves of core power because my digits are stuck open ain't gonna cut it. Hence... the "Quadrapus."

Before I explain this latest innovation, try this: Relax your arm, your wrist and your entire hand. Let it fall down to your side and just hang there. Now look at your hand and the position it's in. It's not in a fist, is it? It's half-open and in its most relaxed state, and it takes zero energy to be there. Deviating from that, like making a fist to grip a paddle for days on end, takes energy and ultimately causes strain. Swelling naturally follows, as well as blisters from endless friction.

The "Quadrapus" is a prototype wrist-brace/hand-bypasser cooked up with some scrap webbing, velcro, mini-cell foam and dental floss... all lovingly assembled at the kitchen table. The device's reason for being is to take the hand out of the drive train, and to positively connect the paddle shaft to the wrist or arm. Perfected, the device will do what the hand does: pull the shaft during the power phase of the stroke and push it during recovery; it'll keep its grip in the right place on the shaft without slippage; it'll release and clamp back on easily; it'll be light and cool to wear. And it won't ever get tired, blistered, or swollen. It will not suffer.

The Quadrapus with hand.

The Quadrapus got its name for the four appendages hanging off it - the straps that lock it onto the paddle. They branch off either side of the padded wrist strap, and velcro around the shaft. The wrist strap velcros tightly onto the wrist, and it's back to racing.

The Quadrapus.

During test runs, I played with varying levels of just letting go with my hand. Other than keeping my thumb under the shaft, I could straighten my hand completely or just keep it relaxed, and power was still making it efficiently to the blade. It took a bit of "balance" to get clean blade entries the first few minutes, but it sorted itself out. The brace-effect of the strap tightened around the wrist was actually comforting. I've been lucky in that I don't typically have wrist soreness, but I believe the brace would help that if I did.

The straps do tend to slip on the shaft a bit, and are too bulky in general. The next version could be made much lighter. The wrist strap ergonomics are key, and this verion's strap isn't nearly comfy enough. I want it to "disappear" when I'm using it... not even notice it. Finally, it's not exactly easy on-and-off. For long stints it'd be fine, but when every second counts and a meal break takes 40 seconds instead of 30 because you're wrestling with a velcro bracelet... well, let's just say you wouldn't catch a pro doing that.

The next day after we tested the Quadrapus, my brother called to tell me he'd just met Mike Totaro - a.k.a "Tote" - in Placerville, CA. Mike, it turns out, had just finished developing a device with an almost identical purpose: The "RoRow". Tote's RoRow's use the same wrist strap concept (though Tote thought to pad his for comfort!) but where the Quad' uses velcro straps, RoRow's rely on a hook. Made of super light hardened metal sheathed in cordura, the hook fits naturally onto the shaft right inside your palm. With the hook in place, the strain of the power phase is taken away from the fingers and put on the wrist strap. (With both devices, it could be argued that the repeated "traction" the wrist is put under may have a therapeutic effect.)

Heather in boat with RoRow.

The hook makes for a very easy on-and-off the shaft, and flops neatly out of the way if you want to temporarily grip the paddle as you would normally. Its un-secured attachment, however, means that you still have to maintain somewhat of a grip on the paddle. The thumb and forefinger together works best, with the other three fingers relaxed. The cordura-coated hook has no resistance to slippage along the shaft, so the two-finger grip is also critical to keep your grip indexed. Keep in mind, the RoRows weren't developed specifically for ultramarathon racing, but more for general day paddling and, Tote's passion, kayak fishing. For $25 a pair, they're well worth adding to the gear bag. (E-mail me and I'll put you in touch with Tote.)

RoRow on Heather.

The perfect hand-replacement device for ultra-marathon racing is still just an idea. Imagine if then the forearm becomes the weak link, then the shoulder, then...? Imagine a tribe of ultra-marathon racers capable of harvesting so much power and efficiency out of their boat, paddle, core strength, nutrition, and meditation as a sleep replacement, that they're holding 8.0 mph for days on end! Who would've thought a kayak would hit 20 knots? But just look at the foil kayak.

If 'racing' is the addiction, 'innovation' is how we get a better fix!

~BN~

From the Throne, With Regrets...

2006-07-27T18:13:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, when my pals and I were paddling whitewater 7 days a week, the occasional rescue from the throes of near death was a given. There nothing -- NO thing -- scarier than seeing your partner's bright red plastic hull wedged into an undercut with a foot of gurgling water over the top of it, and your partner still in it. The scenarios run the gamut: your buddy's stuck in the 'Hole that ate the Donner Party'; your buddy hits rock instead of froth coming off a 15 foot drop; your buddy's vertical pinned and literally becomes a fan-rock.

Whatever the issue, it's time for fast action by the rest of the group. Paddle blades are churning as everyone in the pool below races back up to the highest eddy. Skirts pop, paddles are tossed, throwbags grabbed and kayaks given a last tug up onto the rocks before the boulder-hopping frenzy begins to get to your pinned friend.

"Focus" isn't the right word to describe the state of mind. It's more primitive than that. It's as if you yourself are surviving and conscious thought vacates and makes way for speed, fearlessness, and success at all costs. Really, it's not unlike racing.

That animal-like behavior, though, in those times of emergency, got me in trouble on one of the steep whitewater creeks in the Sierra. We got our guy out of the pin, then hiked over the granite back to our boats. I hadn't pulled mine up high enough. It's three rapids downstream pinned on its own, putting us all at risk again to retrieve it.

That only happened to me once. I learned from it, the importance of being deliberate with certain things. There is a time to scramble as fast as possible, it's true. But there is, I believe, a net gain in the effectiveness of the rescue -- and likely the speed -- when you're conscious, careful and deliberate with your movements. It sets the tone for the rest of the rescue, a tone of total awareness rather than just reflex. From that point on I always took the time to simply secure my gear. It never took long, it was just a matter of staying aware of what I was doing and not fully giving in to that animalistic survival mode.

Despite that lesson over a decade ago, I made a similarly stupid mistake on the Yukon this year. We didn't want to carry the extra weight of full hydration bladders for the longer first and second legs of the race. Instead, we agreed, we'd go with 100 ounce bladders and refill from the river and Lake LaBerge as we raced. The large, threaded opening on the CamelBak bladders make them very quick to refill. I'd briefly stick the opened bladder under the way, and it would surge itself full. Before I put the cap back on, I'd pour in a healthy dose of Gatorade powder from a large-mouth bottle I kept in my deck bag, cap it, give it a shake and be back to racing. It didn't take me a minute to complete the whole refill process.

This speed of getting back to paddling is where races are won and lost. When your partner is up over 200 lbs and he stops paddling to eat, medicate, or refill a bladder, your're working HARD (and using up valuable energy) to keep the tandem moving at a decent clip. In a race, even a days-long ultra, your mind is programmed to remember that 'Every Second Counts.' For that very reason, and since I hadn't seen any cattle ranches since I'd pulled into Whitehorse, I decided to go without filtering or even iodine. Over the course of 40 hours on the river, I took in no less than 12 gallons of pure, un-cut, Yukon River swill.

It took about two weeks for the microbial monsters in my guts to really start making trouble, and they timed their debut perfectly with my brother's wedding. As I stood by my bro's side as his best man, I strained to keep my sphincter clamped shut, and to take slow, deep breaths to keep from blowing chunks into the seated crowd. That was merely the start of what has been a two-week gastrointestinal nightmare... all for a few saved seconds on a race we won by over two hours. I'm a few doses into the drugs to knock it out now, but I'm not home free yet.

The Yukon hydration blunder was my proverbial 'hastily stowed kayak'. I chose race-pace reflex over what, in restrospect, is simple common sense. It was some seriously bad judgement. But no untreated water will pass by these lips again. And the irony of it, undoubtedly, is that the extra act of care in the next race will lead to a faster net finish time.

--Signing off from the porcelain throne, still down 12 pounds from normal, 'Sir Squirts-A-Lot'...

~BN~

Two Views of Victory: '06 YRQ

2006-07-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

Brandon: Seventy-five teams stand, stomping feet for warmth on the pavement of Whitehorse’s Main Street and ducking from the cold rain, as event director Jeff Brady bellows the name of each and every racer present. My partner, adventure racing legend and ultra-marathon paddling guru David Kelly, and myself hunker under the awning of a nearby gift shop, shivering, but carefully continuing to size up the field.

The 2006 Yukon River Quest – a 460-mile canoe and kayak grind stretching along the Klondike gold rush’s main tributary from Whitehorse to Dawson City – has once again attracted a stacked, international list of talent. Twenty-five solo kayaks have come from as far away as Texas, Great Britain, Australia – and as dangerously close as Whitehorse itself. A record six voyageur canoes are entered – 8 to 12-person efficiency machines capable of having paddlers take turns napping without a noticeable loss of speed. The British Army has conducted tryouts to fill the seats of three men’s tandems – a guaranteed flotilla of accented A-personalities with fighting skills to boot! Record-holders from N. America's other notoriously challenging ultra - the Texas Water Safari - help round out the tandem kayak field. And the statistical favorites – regular tandem canoes – include mid-west phenomena Steve Landick and Greg Nelson… Landick alone having likely logged more high-speed, muscle-driven miles than any other ten racers combined.

Heather: I jump up and down and pull my dad's oversized rain jacket tightly around me as I try to stay warm and lose for the start. My dad, along with crew captain Ken Brunton, has flown in from California to crew for me, Brandon and David. He has been waiting patiently at my kayak for ½ an hour now, making sure he won’t be late for the start. I scan the field as I walk over to Brandon and David to wish them luck and get the last smooch I may get from my husband for 2 ½ days. It is a new experience, sending Brandon off with a partner other than myself, but I am empowered by the thought of taking on the 'Quest as a solo. My strategy: race smart, race hard, and leave it all on the river. I am confident Brandon and David will do the same.

Heather on the second leg, Carmacks to Kirkman Creek.

Heather goes through "mandatory gear check" at Carmacks, prior to setting out on the second leg.

"Three! Two! One! GO!" Nearly 150 racers stumble over their aqua socks and dangling spray skirts in a dead sprint to get to their boats first! I let the neoprene- and polypro-clad mob fight for their positions as I opt for a more leisurely pace to my kayak. It's a long race: no reason to go lactic in the first 2 1/2 minutes!

I strip my parka as I see my dad waving me towards my boat. I climb in and he shoves me into the current as I secure my no-hands drink system and sprayskirt. The race is on!

Brandon: Our pre-devised strategy was clear... or so I thought. David and I had agreed to use the first 25 miles down to Lake LaBerge as a warm-up: loosen the muscles, adjust the outfitting, layer up or down accordingly, and socialize. Afterall, by the time we'd crossed LaBerge, or even reached it, the 75 teams would have separated out and the chance to chat leisurely with other racers would be gone.

Heather waits as officials count down her departure of CP 1

British Army B Team.

But David takes control, and who am I to argue? In the first ten minutes we pass 90% of the boats who'd gotten off ahead of us. As we approach each of the remaining 10%, David glances evil-eyed over his shoulder and gives me the "Nod of Pain!" Like a hot-rod engine injected with nitrous, we turn it on, trunks twisting for torque, spray flying off our carbon wing paddles, and my nerves tightening like over-tuned guitar strings as I envision the remaining 400-odd miles still downstream. Going out too hard in an ultra-marathon is a rookie mistake I'd made before, and I loath the thought of the punishing penalty I may face in days two and three.

Fear aside, the strategy works. No one counters our sprints, and by the time we reach the 30-mile LaBerge and begin the only current-less stretch of the 'Quest, we've gapped the pack by nearly ten minutes.

LaBerge divides the field every year. If it's flat, it wears on psyches and shoulders as paddlers grind across, their minds confused at having lost the helping current of the river that eases the rest of the race's ridiculous distance. If it blows, it's worse. Headwinds bring unimagineable early-race suffering and, coming out of the north, hypothermic temperatures. Sidewinds flood canoes and lead to a six-to-ten-hour brace-fest for all boats. A tailwind, however, sweeping down the up-river canyon and churning up increasingly larger swells on the lake, is the true class separator. It's love or hate. Surf or swim.

David and I, it turns out, are deeply in love from the start. As the fetch grows longer and the swells bigger, so does our gap on the field. The blue-green water and granite domes lining LaBerge literally fly by, our Necky Nootka linking 6, 8 and 10 continuous waves for rides hitting 10 knots and lasting upward of 2 minutes. By the time we reach the Yukon's current again, we've put another 40 minutes on the field. Now, if only my muscles don't explode...

Heather: "You are in 9th place, 3rd solo kayak!" a volunteer yells from shore as I re-enter the current after surfing across LaBerge an hour faster than I had estimated.

"Yaaa!" I hollar back, energized by his words and my higher-than-expected standings. A deluge of rain pounds me as I paddle into the night. My rain jacket, two fleece hats and athletic race-pace keep me warm. Thunder and lightning exploding all around me keep me wide awake and alert as the night draws on. An occasional violent attack of marble-size hail ensures I never lose my edge to the sleepies!

In the night I race a rowdy voyageur canoe and two British Army men’s tandems kayaks. At one point, I make my move to pass them. I quickly realize with regret that they've adapted the strategy of learning from my lines in the braided river. If I make a nav' error, they're off to the opposite chanel. If my route is the faster one, they follow. I grow weary of this and try to back off and slip behind. They equally back off. For now, I'm the rabbit and keep up a good pace, hoping to weed out any weaker paddlers.

I watch and wait as I lead this pack. As the nighttime miles tick by, one tandem drops off and disappears into the twilight. We never see them again. The voyageur canoe must have wasted too much energy laughing and joking, because they too disappear behind me. Now it's just me and the British Army B Team. As the miles pass, I note their slowing cadence and figure fatigue and the sleepies are hitting full force. I make my move, and they do not chase.

In the early dawn hours the storm is replaced by a thick fog. Navigation is difficult, and I hug the shore to keep my bearings. In the middle of the river I hear accented voices. I'm being passed by the Brits, so I pick it up a bit and get them in my sites. I make the decision to conserve energy, stick with them and follow their lines, as they had mine earlier in the race.

Brandon: Clif Bars, string cheese, turkey jerky and an endless flow of Gatorade fuel the first-night effort, spiced with the occasional dose of ibuprofen and caffeine tabs. Typhoon-intensity rain is churning the surface of the river like a million pyrannahs fighting over raw meat. David and I are layered under light shells which mostly aid in holding in body heat, and through a sinister smile David comments at how great the suffering will be for the competition. Lightning and thunder explode in response, and we grind on toward CP 1 at Carmacks.

By 6:35 a.m., two hours ahead of the fastest times in years past, we reach the checkpoint and mandatory 7-hour layover. Before arriving, we've purposely stripped down the layers from the cold night and come in stroking high and strong -- a classic adventure racing technique to give the impression of invincibility to the other racers' crews. After a quick shower and crew-cooked breakfast of eggs and sausage, though, we're horizontal and begin the fitful slumber of the wound-up racer.

Single Blade Steve Landick, "Knows the top of a podium the way an eagle knows her own nest..."

After too little sleep, I'm awake again, and two anxious thoughts swim in my mind: Why is my pulse still near 100 bpm? And who else has come in to CP 1? Like an alarm clock, Heather's dad yells into the tent, a mere three hours after David and I had arrived: "Heather's IN!" I'm confused, and mumble some sort of questioning expletive. Suddenly, my fears come to life as I realize that our race for 1st place won't be so much against a small platoon of the Queen's finest soldiers, nor against a giant rocket canoe laden with 10 warrior paddlers, nor the legendary Landick -- a single blade-swinging winning machine who knows the top of the podium the way an eagle knows her own nest.... NO! The fight for first, I realize like ice water being poured down my chafed back, would be against my own wife!

Heather: A seven-hour layover is just enough time to trick your body into thinking the race is over and it can let it's guard down. Pain and aching muscles come on full throttle, chafed skin dries and cracks, blisters burst under pressure and ooze while you sleep. Nonetheless, the pride shining in my dad's face and the enthusiasm of the women at Carmacks who are stoked to see a woman in the top 10 give me strength as I settle my weary body back into my kayak. I know from experience, the second night is the crux for me.

Brandons hands at the finish.

"Time!" a race official calls, indicating my seven hours are up and I can go. My dad gives me a push and I paddle powerfully away from Carmacks. When I am out of view, I will lower my stroke and settle into a groove for the 160-mile haul to Kirkman Creek.

The British Army B Team, who arrived in Carmacks minutes behind me, catch me in the evening hours. The Brits and I are in a comfortable spot: no teams just ahead, no teams just behind. We partner up under the midnight sun, when weariness takes tenacious hold of the mind and body. We tell animated stories of races from home, and each tale ends with an invite, "You have got to come out! You can stay with me, I will hook you up with a boat!" When the conversation wavers, our heads droop dangerously close to sleep.

At a small island in the middle of the river, we separate briefly. I go left, they go right. What should have been a 10-minute separation turns into 30. We eventually meet at the other side, our boats drawn together by the current. We look at each other sheepishly, "I fell asleep" I confess. Groggily, they murmur, "So did we."

"Tell me more about the Devizes to WestMinster race!" I suggest. They immediately perk up, stories flow, and we paddle on in a state of comatose commeraderie. After more long hours, a sign appears on the tip of a mid-river island: "Kirkman Creek, Baked Goods, Stay Right." The race is back on, and the Brits pick up the pace, arriving at the Kirkman Creek checkpoint 6 minutes ahead of me.

Adventure racing legend David Kelly.

Brandon: "If any boats pull in here in the next forty-five minutes," I say to David as we peel our weary selves out of the tandem on the mud bank of Kirkman Creek, "we could be in trouble." I'd spent the entire middle leg of the 'Quest looking fearfully over my shoulder and doing theoretical math problems to calculate how our foes might catch us. One hopes the type of statement I'd just spoken would be met with a scoff and a "No chance!" remark from my partner. But David's face contorts into a concerned, slightly paranoid expression not unlike my own. I begin nervously monitoring my watch as we make our way toward the bonfire.

Chafe: The cost of finishing.

Having changed into dry clothes and slurped the free bowl of soup provided to all competitors, the forty-five minute mark has come and gone, and I breath easier. Following a nap of an hour and twenty minutes, we are still the lone team to have arrived, and my confidence grows further. Finally, as we devour a $30 paper plate of potatoes and poached eggs (Hey, who says homesteaders can't profiteer?) the voyageur races in in second place. We've put another 40 minutes on them -- a feat I would've sworn was mathematically impossible considering our pained previous-leg pace. I take two more bites of the caviar-priced viddles and make my way to the river.

Our charade to look machine-like in our exit is slightly compromised by the fact that our hands are too swollen to close around a paddle shaft. I fake it by balancing the paddle between my thumbs and forefingers, force my posture to vertical and lower my grunting and moaning to barely audible. Also, our race food by this point has become little more than a necessary evil, most of it making either of us gag as if it were solidified cod liver oil. I can't take small enought bites, and after a dozen nibbles on a Clif Bar, stuff the remainder in my cockpit-turned-garbage bin and dream of the finish.

In my suffering state, I remember that at least we're in the lead. As if reading my mind, David turns and delivers his devilish, "Seventy-four boats behind us!" grin.

Heather: I reach up to grab my hat as a 50 mile per hour wind gust threatens to blow it back to Kirkman Creek. My paddle soars toward my head, the blade slicing dangerously in front of my face. To battle severe wrist tendonitis, I've duct-taped my hand to the paddle shaft -- an innovation that, while effective against the pain, makes every move other than paddling nearly impossible. The gust finally dies and, cursing the wind, I rip off my hat and shove it in my cockpit.

Less than 60 miles to go, I have left the Brits far behind, and not only am I taped to my paddle, but if I stop stroking even for a moment, the force of the wind pushes me upriver. Head down and cursing, I power on, dreaming of the fresh food and cold Sprite and huge hugs the finish line promises.

With each river mile, deeper exhaustion grips my body. My swollen wrist throbs. It doesn’t matter, though: No one will pass me now. I'm going to be the second solo kayak to cross the finish line, the sixth boat overall, and that's that.

Stroke by painful stroke, Dawson City draws nearer. I can see the finish about a mile and a half downriver. My GPS reads a measly 5 miles per hour. I brace as a gust of wind blows down the cliffs and blasts me from the side. A maniacal laugh erupts from deep in my chest as a wall of wind does its best to prevent me from finishing. My sleep-deprived mind dreams up a scheme where the Brits have called in military support in the form of a Force 6 tornado funneled through the Yukon canyon to prevent Britain’s finest from being "Chicked"!

"Whaaaaaaa!" Against all odds, the race horn blares declaring success! I have crossed the finish line, not only winning the Women’s Solo Kayak category, but shattering the record by over 10 hours with a time of 46 hours, 32 minutes, 27 seconds.

Brandon: Churning out the last mile to the finish, I will my paddling form back into something resembling that of an athlete, but the early sprints and stop-and-go effort of surfing LaBerge have taken their toll. It's all I can do to match David's stroke as we glide toward the finish line.

Brandon honors his mom, post-race.

At last, elation fills me. We've finished in 40 hours, 37 minutes, and have destroyed the previous course record by almost 2 1/4 hours. It would be slightly longer than that before the second place team, the voyageur team Kisseynew, crosses the line.

A band of reporters and photographers crowd the finish area, snapping pictures and shouting questions. It's all still backround noise, though, as I soak in the feeling not so much of victory, but of having finished this most grueling but addictive event.

Out of the kayak, I stagger back to the stern where I've taped a picture of my Mom and I together. Heather, David and I have raced as Team KayakForCare, and are honoring my Mom and Heather's Grampa, both having passed away from cancer.

David and Brandon celebrate with milkshakes in Dawson City.

Our hommage extends to all else who are suffering. On this day, for now, that includes the 74 boats still battling their way down the river.

The Essence of Ultra

2006-06-01T06:25:00.000-07:00

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."