Tahoe Classic 2013

After getting sternly schooled at this year's Catalina Classic, I turned my attention to my fifth Tahoe Classic.

Interstate 5, paddleboard's view.

For the fourth year in a row, we booked our room at the Holiday House in Tahoe Vista (tahoeholidayhouse.com), owned and operated by Alvina Patterson. To say Alvina is delightful would fall short of the mark. A German immigrant with a colorful background, she's among the most positive and interesting people DeeAnn and I have met. And she has enough alpine skiing trophies to turn nearly any aspiring competitor green with envy. You may have heard of her son. His name is Chuck. Yeah, THAT Chuck Patterson. (No, we haven't met.)

The Tahoe Classic is a 22-mile paddle from Camp Richardson on the south shore to Kings Beach on the north.

DeeAnn and I arrived Friday evening. Winds were light. I put in about five easy miles on a round trip between Captain Jon's landing and Brockway Point.

Saturday was spent admiring the lake. Tahoe was in a serene mood. From our north shore location, Camp Richardson (the race's start) can't be seen. It's beyond the horizon for a person standing on the lake's northernmost shore.

Throughout the day, I couldn't help thinking: on Sunday, I'll be out there. The vastness of that is something to contemplate. Lake Tahoe commands great respect. Besides the distance, conditions can change quickly. Then there's the history of the place and its indigenous people.

Tahoe's beauty is incomparable in any light.

Also on Saturday, I readied my trusty 17' 6" Bark for battle. I always wax the bottom of my board. I have no idea if it helps. Go ahead, laugh, but the finish looks so ... well ... shiny, that it makes the board look new. What paddler wouldn't love a new paddleboard, after all? That look also inspires confidence. Alvina commented, admiringly: "It looks like a piano!"

At DeeAnn’s request, I brought a second paddleboard, my fourteen-foot Bark, so she could give it a go. It went well. Standing in the shallow water at Captain Jon’s landing, I could supply stability. It occurred to me that the butterfly stroke would be more stable than the crawl stroke, and it was. After a few supported short stretches, we moved to the beach west of Captain Jon’s. It was there that DeeAnn did herself proud. When I first started paddling, I needed to extend my feet out, on either side of the board for stability. DeeAnn needed none of that. As you may already know, I’m so proud of her first paddle. She completed roughly half a mile.  But don’t ask when her first race will be. And no, there weren’t any photos.

Saturday night, I went online to make sure I knew the race's start time. One web page I looked at seemed to say 7 a.m. DeeAnn remembered it as being 8 am. But just to be certain, we planned on arriving around 6 a.m.

It turned out DeeAnn was correct. We were one of the first two or three cars in the lot.  There was no hint of dawn's first light. I set my phone's alarm, we tilted back our car seats and ... zzzzzzzzzzzzzz'd.

After around 45 minutes, we woke up and got going.

Few were around yet, but I ran into race organizer Phil Segal, who was already busy with the morning set up.

Phil then began checking all of us in.

The morning light and the sunrise are ever-inspiring. The air was warmer than in past years, nearly 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Five years ago was the coldest, under 40 degrees (rising to around 87 degrees by noon).

By the time the sun peeked over the eastern mountains, a kids' class had assembled to practice martial arts on the beach, east of the pier.

As the light grew, so did the parking lot population, filling with paddleboard-laden vehicles. My energy level rose as the number of boards lying on the beach multiplied and Phil's check-in line lengthened.

As DeeAnn and I looked around the beach on "our" side of the pier, it was apparent that both the prone and stand-up paddleboard fields were smaller this year compared to last year. Through last year, the SUP number had been steadily rising. It turned out there were at least six events in California that weekend including the Tahoe Classic, which no doubt thinned the field at all of them. Frankly, I like the smaller feel.

I always get asked how to line up our destination. I have been miserable at describing this, but Phil always takes care of that. After five years, I finally get it. The mountain to the right of Brockway is crowned by an enormous bald spot. We're aiming for the left end of that. OK, I'm a little slow!

Phil announced it was time for us to paddle out to the start, just off the end of the pier.

 A novel feature of this year's experience was a camera mounted on a drone. Phil let us know he would count down and say "go." Before he did, a siren similar to the Catalina Classic's sounded and a few racers went. Phil quickly pulled them back. What is it with the false starts this year (we had one at Catalina)?????

Within the first few miles, the entire field went pretty far east, except for me. I went slightly west. I felt good going out and was holding a good position. The thought crept into my mind that maybe this would be my day. Maybe.  I just took it as a fun thought, nothing to get stressed over.

Halfway through the course, I started gently angling east. I knew this posed a risk, as a southwest wind was predicted.  But I like to approach the King's Beach finish from Brockway Point (slightly east) and let the current carry me west.  As I crossed the lake from slightly west to slightly east, the rest of the field did the opposite, probably in anticipation of that southwest wind. I wasn't convinced.

It was around the middle of the paddle when I realized I was greatly enjoying this paddle on this day in this place. Although it certainly was a stunning, sunny Lake Tahoe day, I can't say why my sense of enjoyment was so high. But when I became aware of my feeling that this day, this paddle, was special, I set my goal: to enjoy the rest of this paddle so much that when I got to the end, I would want more. What I did not do was slow down in an effort to meet that goal. The pace felt challenging but sustainable. Speed is fun.

Well past three hours into the race, a coast guard boat approached from the rear. I was asked if I was heading straight to shore. I said yes, I was headed straight to King's Beach. I was told that was good, as high winds were expected before long. It occurred to me these guys had no idea what the Davenport Downwinder was all about! A 25- to 30-knot tailwind would have been more than I could've hoped for! I held my tongue. Had the wind started to build gradually, I would have crossed back to the west. But all remained calm and glassy.

However, just as I approached Brockway Point, that southwest wind machine suddenly switched on. There was nothing gradual about its appearance. It came on moderately strong from the beginning. I was within my last two miles.

The finish was a giant red inflatable archway planted around the midpoint of the beach. Because the wind was blowing southwest to northeast, I now had the risk that I would get pushed into the east corner of Kings Beach, nowhere near the finish.  To compensate, I paddled crosswind until I was west of the archway, and the archway was downwind. When it was, I allowed the windswell to nudge my board into a right turn. I started catching fun bumps, riding the windswell "downhill" straight towards the finish.  I was soon to turn my board over to the young kids providing caddy service.

I achieved my goal of wishing there had been more, and I had kept my pace steady. I approached the finish happy.

On my approach, I began to hear the announcer. He was saying, here comes a prone paddler, pointing out this was where it all started (SUP's popularity came along much more recently). It was a joy to hear my chosen sport spotlighted like that.

Then, just before I stood up to wade to shore, came a surprise. It was announced that I was the first prone paddler to cross the finish line. They also announced my age. I wondered, where were the fast guys? Then I realized, hey it IS my day. Drop all other thoughts and just party about that!

Mike McDaniel and Lisa Ortiz were there with DeeAnn to turn it into a real celebration. Mike had just completed hosting the first SUP with Nicole adventure on this lake (http://www.supwithnicole.com/), a mere two weeks after Lisa and Mike celebrated their marriage at Bernardus Lodge. Mike intended to race SUP, but, unfortunately, was unable to secure an acceptable racing board.

Total strangers were eager to shake my hand and congratulate me. It was such a thrill and so much fun to get to be "the guy" that day. I have no illusions: there are faster. But there's also no denying: it really was my day. What made me happiest was knowing that I got to be the carrier of a message about the irrelevancy of age.

And yes, it was very nice to accept that trophy - it will always serve as a reminder of how special Tahoe has been to me in each of the Tahoe races I have been in.

Back at Holiday House, our hostess, Alvina, was beside herself with joy over the news. After all, she knows how it feels. It's nice to have become a member of her club.

See you next year!

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.