2nd Annual Lake Tahoe Fall Classic - Part 2

Sunday, I rose to a perfectly clear and rather cold morning. Up at 5:15 am, I went out to strap the board onto the car while there was yet no hint of dawn. All the stars were as you can only see them at over six thousand feet. Runners seemingly floated past in reflective night gear, on their way to finishing their 72-mile overnight ultra around Lake Tahoe. I know some ultra runners and I knew it wasn’t as pretty as it looked! It made what I was about to do seem outright reasonable!

Our car had demanded coolant the night before, but I had to wait for a cool engine. So besides loading up, I now had to pour the liquid in the dark with the help of a small flashlight, guessing at the level. That done, and with the car loaded up, DeeAnn, Cookie and I headed south.

The drive down the east side of the lake at dawn continued the previous evening’s unhurried revelation of Tahoe’s many beautiful faces. But the piers we could see from the road were just too tall. Steps leading downward from the piers’ decks weren’t submerged, an unmistakable measure of California’s drought conditions. Rain and snow are needed; the lake is being slowly drained to keep the Truckee River flowing.

We gradually snaked our way around Emerald Bay to the South end of the lake. Then we overshot Camp Richardson, our destination, and got our clue was when we arrived at Pope Beach. I called Mike McDaniel. His opener (at 7:25 a.m.): “We’re about to start the race, WHERE ARE YOU????” Count on Mike for and edgy but good-natured jab. Of course, I was fully aware the race was scheduled to start at eight.

Mike was one of my training partners for this race, along with Nick Bryson. We pulled into the lot next to them, unloaded boards and equipment, exchanged a few comments. At the beach, we mostly gave our attention to prepping our boards and getting checked in, helping each other out here and there.

The sunlight seemed fresh like morning. The air temperature was in the high 30’s (Fahrenheit), expected to rise to at least 80 by noon. I, who almost always train in a wetsuit, opted for only boardies and the race’s official yellow tank-top rash guard. And a lot of sunblock.

I looked north, to the other side of the lake and considered: I’ve never paddled this distance in a race – 12 miles was the longest. How would this go for me? I had trained out to 22 miles, but how would it feel to paddle for 5 hours without my usual breaks along the way? Would I bonk? Would it get grueling? Boring? Neck pain? Or might it go easily and feel kind of fun? When I stepped up to my first twelve-mile race, I was surprised how much I enjoyed it. I hoped this would be like that.

Shortly after 8 am, with gels taped to our boards, plenty of water (I duct-taped an extra bottle on top of the one in my single-bottle cage), wearing sunblock thick as armor, protected by pretty stupid looking hats, and all wearing bright yellow race jerseys like uniforms, we all casually strode into the water with varying degrees of confidence, purpose, and anticipation.

An onlooker could find a kind of absurd humor in the sight. An onlooker could legitimately ask: What’s the point? Why go?

My answer: For the glide. For the glide. For the sheer pleasure of feeling the motion. For the glide.

The paddlers were directed to divide: stand-up-paddlers stay right; prone paddlers, stay left. This race is for mono hulls only, we were told. No catamarans, trimarans, stand-a-marans, whatever! MONO HULLS ONLY!!!!!

Over 50 paddlers made their way to the end of the pier and milled about while waiting for pictures to be taken, and then the race could start. Only eight were prone paddlers, me among them. The rest were SUPs of all shapes and sizes.

Among us prone paddlers, there were three unlimited class (usually around 18 feet), three fourteen-foot class (me one of them), and two stock class (twelve feet).

We floated out, waiting for something to happen. Something did. PLOP! A paddle broke and the blade hit the poor guy’s deck. I have no idea how he got through the race. But great justice was done at the awards ceremony that afternoon when his name was drawn to win … a beautifully crafted wooden paddle – a real work of art.

Pictures were taken, we all tightened up for the start and … I could almost tell when the race started!

From then on, I never noticed the air temperature, and it was scheduled to rise quickly anyway.

My race strategy was to find a pace I could hold and not go out too fast. So it surprised me when I saw my pace on my GPS, even after three or four miles. Maybe I was fooling myself, and I would pay a price later, but I didn’t feel like paddling slower would be better. I focused on keeping my turnover down, just striving for an even pull through the whole stroke.

The view from the water was spectacular. After all, it’s Lake Tahoe on a perfect morning with glassy conditions. I even looked at it once in a while. The SUPs have a big advantage when it came to enjoying the scenery: they’re standing up. From my prone position, the view I could most easily see was my board, the water, and the distant shoreline we all aimed for, in that order.

A stand up paddler stopped to pull a camera from his boardies and snap a shot. As I passed, he said he just had to do that. Of course he did. He then drafted me all the way past mile 11. I learned he lives in Hawai‘i, and he complained (lightheartedly) about the flatwater conditions – no bumps to surf. I acknowledged: “Wear and tear on the motor!” A second SUP joined him and now I was pulling for three, but it’s no extra effort and SUPs aren’t my direct competitors anyway. The first time I took a gel break (mile 5+), the second went on but the first stayed behind me. He drafted close (it’s most effective) but asked permission (I said yes). He got a little too close. When his board bumped mine, I joked “no kissing!” I also joked “2 beers per mile.” We kept talking and joking. He was great company. When he dropped off, he said “see you at the end.” I thanked him for hanging with me. I saw him later at the awards (he offered me a big smile and, of course, a beer), and he was just really great to me. I later found out he paddled the Hennessy's San Francisco race the day before, a nine-mile loop around Angel Island through the Bay’s notoriously strong and fickle currents. Wow.

The lake occasionally offered some small runners, which must have come from boat wake. Not like open ocean swell, but it’s always fun to get those and just glide. The occasional head-on wake could be an annoyance, but, overall, we had great conditions.

It surprised me that, halfway into the race, I was maintaining an average speed of 5.1 miles per hour. It eventually dropped to 4.96. I had no idea I was going to do that; I just found a sustainable pace and stayed as consistent as I could. The day before, I had thought 4.7 mph would be optimistic over that many hours.

The biggest distance illusion was in the last part of the race, approaching Brockway Point. I thought, “I’ll be even with the point soon, then I’ll be on the last stretch.” Except I kept approaching and approaching and approaching! There were one or two currents that needed correcting for, especially after I passed Brockway Point. I heard others had a similar distance illusion experience with that Point.

As I approached our Kings Beach finish, I was feeling okay. My GPS said it wasn’t going to be 22 miles. My first 21-miler became reality when I passed through the two large red buoys, turned over the board to caddies, walked until I knew I could run, and finally ran across the finish mat (recording chip time of 4:08:02). That’s when elation set in. I was greeted by DeeAnn and Cookie. On the paddle in, I had wondered if my early arrival would mean missing them (I estimated best time of 4:30 thinking the race was 22 miles as advertised). So I was thrilled to see them. My first words, quoting George Carlin's shtick on cats (I muttered them, really): “F----n’ meow.”

It was some time later my entire right arm spazzed. The muscles weren’t all happy after all! But I worked it out rather quickly. I also felt for that spot in the right side of my back that had cramped a bit over the last quarter of the race, applied my thumb, and pressed – yesssss!

I cheered in other paddlers, especially Nick Bryson and Mike McDaniel. Mike did it in 5 hours. I was really proud of him for his consistency and for finishing. He said he felt OK – better than expected. We all trained together, and we all did it. Something to party about, for sure!

Mitch Metcalf and Suzie Lavatai (friends from Reno) met us and brought food. Lots of great food. And champagne to celebrate this momentous occasion and because, well, who doesn’t like champagne?

The awards ceremony was held at Jason’s, a local watering hole. The first paddler in was in the unlimited prone class. He blazed across the lake in 3:33:48. I did the math after I got home: he was around three miles in front of me when he crossed the finish line. I got first in the prone fourteen-foot class. That didn’t seem like a huge thing, given there were three of us in the class. But when my time was called out, the hoots felt great. That’s what I’ll remember. And I got in 13th overall (SUPs and prone paddlers included).

Still, being handed a trophy for any reason is really special, and I treasure both its beauty and what it represents. I was given a 1st place stock trophy in lieu of fourteen because they hadn’t made trophies for that class. I was told to keep it.

So the 2009 paddling season ended at what, for me, was the peak. It made it even more special for me that DeeAnn, Cookie, Mike, Nick, Mitch, Suzie and their family were there. And about 50 other paddlers with friends and family. Then there's all the contest organizers and volunteers who put on this great race -- they really deserve our appreciation and thanks for making it all happen, from fun to safety to awards to giveaways.

I can hardly wait until next year! There will be so many new possibilities. After all, the water is always a new place, always different than the last time, always presenting new challenges -- while remaining an old friend.

(Thanks to DeeAnn Thompson for the Pictures.)

© 2009 Michael J. Jones. All rights reserved in all media.

Paddleboard FAQs: What IS That Thang?

My paddleboard is a curiosity piece. It’s a good board, mind you, a sleek Eaton fourteen. But the appearance at the beach of my paddleboard invariably draws questions, and the conversation goes something like this (usually maxing at four questions from the following list):

Questioner: “Is that a kayak?”

Me: “No. It’s a paddleboard, and I paddle with my arms.”

Questioner: “Is there a hidden compartment somewhere for the paddle?”

Me: “No. The paddles are hanging from my shoulders.”

Questioner: “Do you lie down on it?”

Me: “Yes, and I can also paddle from my knees. My knees fit nicely in those two knee wells.”

Questioner: “What’s that thing on the front?”

Me: “It’s a cage for my water bottle, the same kind that goes on a bicycle. And my GPS goes just to the right of that, in the black mount.”

Questioner: “AREN’T YOU AFRAID OF SHARKS?”

Me: “I’m way more concerned about the guy texting in the next car. Sharks are realty smart – they know they don’t want anything to do with us and manage to avoid us 99.9999 percent of the time. The odds with the texter are so much worse. Uniformly, texters are dangerously and verifiably not smart.”

Questioner: “Can you stand up on that and use a paddle?”

Me: “No. I can lie on it or get to my knees. I’ll tip over if I get any more vertical. Stand-up paddling requires different, more stable equipment.”

Questioner (there’s not a wave in sight): “How was the surf?”

Me: “Whaaaaaaat?”

Questioner (there’s four-foot shore pound): “How was the surf?”

Me: “You really can’t surf a paddleboard. Unless you’re name is Mike Cote, but let’s not go into that.”

Questioner (it’s grey, foggy, and breezy, as it often is here in June and July, and he/she is visibly shivering in shorts and a sweatshirt obviously purchased in Carmel, after they have figured out this ain’t San Diego): “Aren’t you cold?”

Me (highly amused): “No. I have a really good wetsuit. I’ll bet you’re colder than I am.”

Questioner (not amused): “That wasn’t funny.”

I never get tired of this conversation. I love that people are curious, and it lights me up to introduce them to my watercraft. But next I wonder how much this person wants to know. Like, whether this is any fun, what’s to love about it, how the board is built for speed, what a rush it is to ride open-ocean bumps, that there are stand-up paddlers who do use paddles (versus we prone paddlers who don’t), or how much fun it is to do with friends, and what a thrill it is to race. I could go on. I usually don’t volunteer any of that because it’s generally best to be brief.

But here I will go on because, dear reader, brevity is yours for the taking (or more precisely, for the leaving, as in leaving this blogsite).

I paddle for lots of reasons. The first is that, like surfing, I like the ride. On glassy waters, it’s all about the glide and that’s what makes it fast. On windy days, you can catch open ocean swell, called ‘bumps’ for short, and that’s even faster.

But it’s not all about the speed. It’s a chance to be on the ocean while not scratching for waves or stressing over hoards of ornery surf hogs all trying to catch the same waves. The sea life is great: seals, sea otters, dolphins, various birds, kelp beds, the sight of reefs, the view through the water when it’s sunny and the water is “as clear as gin,” as a friend of mine described it. The sea life can also keep you highly alert (jellies, whales, orcas, and the odd shark – the last of these I’ve thankfully never seen).

I plan to paddle a long way over a lot of years—as many miles and years as I can. I hope to learn more about the ocean. And it’s always great to go with, or even just come across, another paddler.



The photo was taken by Mike McDaniel through his binocs.


© 2009 Michael J. Jones. All rights reserved in all media.

2nd Annual Tahoe Fall Classic, Part 1: Getting There

The appeal of paddling Lake Tahoe’s south-to-north distance was too powerful to resist, at least for me. I paddled the 12-mile Jay Moriarty Race this year and last. I was looking to step it up. I was told the Tahoe race would be a good one to gauge how I feel about that distance, and anyway, it would be the safest 22 miles I could hope to paddle. Of course, I knew better as to that second point. I’ve been on that lake when the winds are up; it’s nowhere you want to be if all you have is a paddleboard.

DeeAnn shopped for a place to stay and came up with a stunning lakefront condo. Nice. It was on the North Shore and would mean an early morning drive to Camp Richardson, about forty minutes. But so what? It’s really close to King’s Beach, the race’s finish.

About the time DeeAnn was scouting a place to stay, I got an email from a cousin who lives in Chicago letting me know she was coming out to the west coast and wanted to stop in. That lit me up. It’d been three or four years. I suggested she join us for the race weekend. Turns out she hadn’t been to Tahoe and wanted to go. That alone was guaranteed to kick up the fun factor.

So DeeAnn booked the condo, the Eaton fourteen-foot went on the car, I loaded up everything I might possibly want for the crossing (I like options), and off we went on Friday for three nights at one the planet’s most astonishing places.

The condo featured a sweeping view of the lake to our southeast and an on-property restaurant. Also a boat launch and a sandy beach. We barely unloaded our things and deposited them inside before I unlashed the board and launched an easy evening paddle.

But first, I looked southward across the lake from the beach. The thing that’s deceptive about Tahoe is distance. The shoreline and the lake are so vast, it’s hard to eyeball. I had no feeling for what that distance was to the South Shore. But I was going to paddle that entire distance in less than two days.

Glassy and warm water meant no neoprene. The rhythm of stroke and glide, stroke and glide became a quiet joy. The daylight faded to magic hour’s perfect light, the sun set over a mountain with no particular need of the drama of deep reds to impress, and the paddle ended in that enchantment. I had to pass the restaurant’s deck. I heard a familial voice call out and couldn’t wait to join Cookie and DeeAnn. As anticipated, our reunion was a kind of homecoming.

After our Saturday breakfast, we headed out for a hike and saw a more or less constant stream of runners heading in the direction of Tahoe City. They were sporting racing bibs. A car was parked, trunk open, a sort of mobile water station, its owners offering water and bananas to the passing runners. We learned from these angels of mercy that three marathons plus a half marathon were all being held at different times over the weekend, one of the marathons end-capping a triathlon. And, for the truly insane, a nocturnal ultra run around the lake’s 72-mile perimeter was on offer. Bikes were more or less constantly whizzing about the whole time we were there. We had stumbled into the unexpected inspiration of a whole weekend celebrating the spectrum of fitness up to extreme challenge.

What a place to be, and what a time to be there!


The photo was taken by DeeAnn Thompson.


© 2009 Michael J. Jones. All rights reserved in all media.