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Saturday, September 09, 2006
It's Almost Over
Gentle Reader, if you're reading this you are, indeed, a die-hard. I mean, remember Ferris Beuller at the end of his movie? "It's over. Go home. It's over. Go."
I suspect that this will be the penultimate blog entry (I think that means the next-to-last one?), and tonight I thought I'd relate a little of what it was actually like to be in the boat for a day. I've written about being stalked, swamped, and "saluted" (in New York), among other things, but I haven't really shared what a "typical" day in the boat was like, from the gunwhales in, so to speak. Interested? If so, read on. If not, tune in next week to say goodbye.
Actually, there wasn't really a typical day; the conditions always changed, the currents and winds never repeated themselves in exactly the same way, and my body always carried the rigors (or the rest) of the previous day in a way that influenced my performance on the subsequent day. Yet I did settle into a routine..an almost ritualistic set of behaviors and activities...that must have been effective enough for me to complete the trip, yes?
In addition, while my daily "hours in the seat" over 13 days averaged roughly 9, the range was a low of 2:40 (when I hit a headwall of wind on the intercoastal in NJ which simply brought me to a standstill for the day) to a high of 17 hours (ugh...the Herculean dash to - and through- the C&D Canal, which has already been documented). But 8 of my days were in the 9-to-12 hour-per-day category, so let's talk about a typical one-of-those, shan't we?
I was usually up at 6 and on the water before 7. While I'd like to tell you that I performed sophisticated and arcane stretching exercises and yoga positions before getting into the boat, alas, by the time I positioned my provisions and supplies to adequately balance the boat, my boyish enthusiasm would get the better of me and I would just get in and go. Hey, wouldn't you?
Configuring the boat each morning became a ritual in itself, requiring an attention to sequence and detail that, as anyone who knows me will attest, is not my long suit: Roll up the sleeping bag, deflate and store the now rock-hard inflatable mattress, attend to personal hygiene, swap out the batteries in the GPS for fresh ones, store all clothing in sea bags, lube oars, oar locks, and sliding seat rails, align charts for the day's passage, clear the boat of uninvited guests, position liquids and lunch (when available) for easy access, dispose of trash, lather up with sun goop, load the boat carefully for balance fore-and-aft (with a little bias toward the bow for better tracking), attend to personal hygiene again, thank my patron (if available at that hour)for the night, climb in, bandage (or lube) the hands, push off, don the floppy hat, start the GPS Taskmaster 2000XL, and go.
One constant of each morning was that the first few hours of every day were sublime. The water was always calm, the sunrise always glorious, and the goal of making 20 miles before noon was always motivational. I'd start off on the sliding seat; my butt would usually be revived from the rigors of the previous day, and this device enabled me to get my legs in the game and make somewhat better time, fairly effortlessly, early in the day. Typically, this would change by hour four or five; even with my magical (and substantial hereditary natural) seat padding, my bottom would numb by noon, and I'd switch to the more comfortable (fixed) wicker seat for two to three hours to revive (it). The wicker seat also lowers the center of gravity of the boat by an inch or two, which made the boat a much more stable platform in the typically rougher water of the afternoon.
I positioned the GPS on some velcro on the cooler in front of me, at my feet, so that I could monitor my speed over the ground (bottom) at a glance, and I glanced frequently. Ben-Hur had the fellow banging the mallets...I had my GPS...and each prompted the same behavior: keep the pace, or get whipped. In my case, the "whipping" was self-induced, of course, but I aimed to maintain a speed of 3.5 to 4.0 mph...which meant some enhanced effort when tides, winds, or currents were not cooperating. In retrospect, the GPS was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing, of course, was that I felt I had some control over "managing" my pace and the commensurate rate of caloric expenditure, and it instilled some confidence in assessing "how I was doing." The curse was that the confidence was false, of course; I was doing the best that I could, and I'd like to think that I'd have made essentially the same judgements and the same progress without it. It did rob me of a bit of pure uncertainty which would have added more adventure to the journey (read All Natural), and I probably could have calculated my progress in a less precise way using watch and charts. Yet it was useful to know my actual rate of speed at a glance; the device quickly spoiled me. If I'd had a Mr. Coffee aboard, I probably would have used that, too.
I'd try to make at least 20 miles by noon each day; I figured that if 36 miles was my "average requirement" to finish the trip in two weeks, then the afternoon's 16 could be taken at a more leisurely pace if conditions permitted...or ground out through sheer pluck and gritty determination before nightfall if things went sour. This strategy worked well; it afforded me the luxury of three "monster" days (62, 50.5, and 46 miles) when I got ahead of the pace and stayed ahead, and it put miles in the bank for the tougher days when wind or waves conspired against me (7.5, 19.9, 22.4).
The hours in the boat...almost 120 in all...were never, ever boring. I purposefully didn't wear headphones. I wanted to hear what was around me in an unfiltered, unobstructed way, and it's a decision I do not regret- even though some high-fidelity tunes would have been nice at times. I did have Kathy's cool transistor radio bungeed into a thwart for periodic weather, NPR, talk radio, "manatee sightings," or oldies sessions, but I never tired of just listening to the sounds of the oars slicing the water, the water streaming past the hull and, yes, even my own heavy breathing. I talked to myself, sang to myself, and greeted all within earshot to keep myself amused. Birds, trains, the resonance of bridges, the drone of boats, and the 'coming-to-life' of the shore every morning provided all the aural entertainment I could need...or want.
I'd typically take about a five minute break at the end of each hour, and more frequently when the sun was high: water or Gatorade, a Power Bar or beef jerky, a lube-job on the oarlocks (I quickly learned to eat the beef jerky first, then lube the oars), and hand maintainence. I started without gloves, since I'd developed the beginning of callouses before I started, but when Peter left me at the end of Day Three, he left his bike gloves with me. They proved effective at delaying the bursting of new blisters that had developed. By Day Six I dispensed with the gloves, because they were creating a new, mountainous range of blisters in places that did not contact the oars...but they had bought me time for the early abrasions to heal, and after that I was glove-less. Nonetheless, I had some Mystery Cream that I'd apply sparingly each hour, and my hands never caused me the pain or trouble I'd feared. Indeed, when I arrived at the Inner Harbor, mine were not the hands of an 8th grade English teacher. Arrrrgghh. Tonight they look almost...normal.
Hours would slide by, hour after hour; 8 am would look like 5pm, 10 am would look like 2 pm; from the gunwhales in, the only relevant clock was the development of the day's physical fatigue. No hour was boring; the sensory richness of being on the water in a small boat with a worthy destination in mind enlivened each and every moment. Sounds hokey, I know, but it's true. Sure, if you've read the blog, some moments were more "interesting" or joyful than others, but never did I find myself bored or questioning my sanity. Others may have, but not me. I'm certifiably self-delusional and, if I might say so, I'm pretty good company.
A word about personal hygiene in the boat...only because many have asked. Let me just say that the ergonomics of the seat in my boat, coupled with the dimensional properties of a Gatorade bottle, made this a breeze. I might have gathered a glance or two at times, but when you've gotta go, you've gotta go. The final ratio of bottles in, bottles out? 4:1. And the color and turbidity? Perfect, if I might say so. After a harrowingly close call, I was always mindful to store the re-filled bottles behind me, out of sight (and easy reach). Whew.
I could never really predict my destination at the beginning of each day (winds, tides, current, body, unforseen events), but by about 2 or 3PM I'd begin to plot a destination for the night. My charts described marina facilities and depicted beaches that might make suitable accomodations, and I'd pick both a "layup" destination and a stretch destination, the latter to keep me appropriately motivated during the afternoon hours when the body might be saying, "Enough!" My arrivals had to be comical to the hapless onlooker...like a bad out-take from The Planet of the Apes. I was Roddy McDowell, clambering awkwardly out of the boat, stooped in a simian posture, arms dangling lifelessly by my sides, shuffling desperately towards the nearest water source or bathroom. I would never be in too much of a hurry to set up camp, because being out of the boat was liberation enough.
The end -of-day routine was a sloppy version of the morning's: blow up the matress, unroll the bag, sometimes set up a tarp, attend to persoal hygiene, eat something that wasn't moving, and sleep. Oh, the sleep. It came effortlessly and immediately. I never feared for my safety in my surroundings. I was simply too tired.
Gentle Reader, please don't take my sometimes overly-dramatic prose too seriously. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that 90% of you who read this could make this same trip next summer. With a little bit of physical preparation, you could do it. A row like this is more a product of patience, perseverance, and a moderate appetite for uncertainty- more of a head game than a shoulders game. Really. Just be sure to attempt it in an Adirondack Guideboat. Did I tell you how much I love my boat? I think I have.
One more blog to good-bye, unless you bark like a dog.
I'll miss you.
Mr. Frei
PS: The pledge payments topped $14,000 this week. Oh, yes, how I'll miss you. You guys rock!!!!!!
I suspect that this will be the penultimate blog entry (I think that means the next-to-last one?), and tonight I thought I'd relate a little of what it was actually like to be in the boat for a day. I've written about being stalked, swamped, and "saluted" (in New York), among other things, but I haven't really shared what a "typical" day in the boat was like, from the gunwhales in, so to speak. Interested? If so, read on. If not, tune in next week to say goodbye.
Actually, there wasn't really a typical day; the conditions always changed, the currents and winds never repeated themselves in exactly the same way, and my body always carried the rigors (or the rest) of the previous day in a way that influenced my performance on the subsequent day. Yet I did settle into a routine..an almost ritualistic set of behaviors and activities...that must have been effective enough for me to complete the trip, yes?
In addition, while my daily "hours in the seat" over 13 days averaged roughly 9, the range was a low of 2:40 (when I hit a headwall of wind on the intercoastal in NJ which simply brought me to a standstill for the day) to a high of 17 hours (ugh...the Herculean dash to - and through- the C&D Canal, which has already been documented). But 8 of my days were in the 9-to-12 hour-per-day category, so let's talk about a typical one-of-those, shan't we?
I was usually up at 6 and on the water before 7. While I'd like to tell you that I performed sophisticated and arcane stretching exercises and yoga positions before getting into the boat, alas, by the time I positioned my provisions and supplies to adequately balance the boat, my boyish enthusiasm would get the better of me and I would just get in and go. Hey, wouldn't you?
Configuring the boat each morning became a ritual in itself, requiring an attention to sequence and detail that, as anyone who knows me will attest, is not my long suit: Roll up the sleeping bag, deflate and store the now rock-hard inflatable mattress, attend to personal hygiene, swap out the batteries in the GPS for fresh ones, store all clothing in sea bags, lube oars, oar locks, and sliding seat rails, align charts for the day's passage, clear the boat of uninvited guests, position liquids and lunch (when available) for easy access, dispose of trash, lather up with sun goop, load the boat carefully for balance fore-and-aft (with a little bias toward the bow for better tracking), attend to personal hygiene again, thank my patron (if available at that hour)for the night, climb in, bandage (or lube) the hands, push off, don the floppy hat, start the GPS Taskmaster 2000XL, and go.
One constant of each morning was that the first few hours of every day were sublime. The water was always calm, the sunrise always glorious, and the goal of making 20 miles before noon was always motivational. I'd start off on the sliding seat; my butt would usually be revived from the rigors of the previous day, and this device enabled me to get my legs in the game and make somewhat better time, fairly effortlessly, early in the day. Typically, this would change by hour four or five; even with my magical (and substantial hereditary natural) seat padding, my bottom would numb by noon, and I'd switch to the more comfortable (fixed) wicker seat for two to three hours to revive (it). The wicker seat also lowers the center of gravity of the boat by an inch or two, which made the boat a much more stable platform in the typically rougher water of the afternoon.
I positioned the GPS on some velcro on the cooler in front of me, at my feet, so that I could monitor my speed over the ground (bottom) at a glance, and I glanced frequently. Ben-Hur had the fellow banging the mallets...I had my GPS...and each prompted the same behavior: keep the pace, or get whipped. In my case, the "whipping" was self-induced, of course, but I aimed to maintain a speed of 3.5 to 4.0 mph...which meant some enhanced effort when tides, winds, or currents were not cooperating. In retrospect, the GPS was both a blessing and a curse. The blessing, of course, was that I felt I had some control over "managing" my pace and the commensurate rate of caloric expenditure, and it instilled some confidence in assessing "how I was doing." The curse was that the confidence was false, of course; I was doing the best that I could, and I'd like to think that I'd have made essentially the same judgements and the same progress without it. It did rob me of a bit of pure uncertainty which would have added more adventure to the journey (read All Natural), and I probably could have calculated my progress in a less precise way using watch and charts. Yet it was useful to know my actual rate of speed at a glance; the device quickly spoiled me. If I'd had a Mr. Coffee aboard, I probably would have used that, too.
I'd try to make at least 20 miles by noon each day; I figured that if 36 miles was my "average requirement" to finish the trip in two weeks, then the afternoon's 16 could be taken at a more leisurely pace if conditions permitted...or ground out through sheer pluck and gritty determination before nightfall if things went sour. This strategy worked well; it afforded me the luxury of three "monster" days (62, 50.5, and 46 miles) when I got ahead of the pace and stayed ahead, and it put miles in the bank for the tougher days when wind or waves conspired against me (7.5, 19.9, 22.4).
The hours in the boat...almost 120 in all...were never, ever boring. I purposefully didn't wear headphones. I wanted to hear what was around me in an unfiltered, unobstructed way, and it's a decision I do not regret- even though some high-fidelity tunes would have been nice at times. I did have Kathy's cool transistor radio bungeed into a thwart for periodic weather, NPR, talk radio, "manatee sightings," or oldies sessions, but I never tired of just listening to the sounds of the oars slicing the water, the water streaming past the hull and, yes, even my own heavy breathing. I talked to myself, sang to myself, and greeted all within earshot to keep myself amused. Birds, trains, the resonance of bridges, the drone of boats, and the 'coming-to-life' of the shore every morning provided all the aural entertainment I could need...or want.
I'd typically take about a five minute break at the end of each hour, and more frequently when the sun was high: water or Gatorade, a Power Bar or beef jerky, a lube-job on the oarlocks (I quickly learned to eat the beef jerky first, then lube the oars), and hand maintainence. I started without gloves, since I'd developed the beginning of callouses before I started, but when Peter left me at the end of Day Three, he left his bike gloves with me. They proved effective at delaying the bursting of new blisters that had developed. By Day Six I dispensed with the gloves, because they were creating a new, mountainous range of blisters in places that did not contact the oars...but they had bought me time for the early abrasions to heal, and after that I was glove-less. Nonetheless, I had some Mystery Cream that I'd apply sparingly each hour, and my hands never caused me the pain or trouble I'd feared. Indeed, when I arrived at the Inner Harbor, mine were not the hands of an 8th grade English teacher. Arrrrgghh. Tonight they look almost...normal.
Hours would slide by, hour after hour; 8 am would look like 5pm, 10 am would look like 2 pm; from the gunwhales in, the only relevant clock was the development of the day's physical fatigue. No hour was boring; the sensory richness of being on the water in a small boat with a worthy destination in mind enlivened each and every moment. Sounds hokey, I know, but it's true. Sure, if you've read the blog, some moments were more "interesting" or joyful than others, but never did I find myself bored or questioning my sanity. Others may have, but not me. I'm certifiably self-delusional and, if I might say so, I'm pretty good company.
A word about personal hygiene in the boat...only because many have asked. Let me just say that the ergonomics of the seat in my boat, coupled with the dimensional properties of a Gatorade bottle, made this a breeze. I might have gathered a glance or two at times, but when you've gotta go, you've gotta go. The final ratio of bottles in, bottles out? 4:1. And the color and turbidity? Perfect, if I might say so. After a harrowingly close call, I was always mindful to store the re-filled bottles behind me, out of sight (and easy reach). Whew.
I could never really predict my destination at the beginning of each day (winds, tides, current, body, unforseen events), but by about 2 or 3PM I'd begin to plot a destination for the night. My charts described marina facilities and depicted beaches that might make suitable accomodations, and I'd pick both a "layup" destination and a stretch destination, the latter to keep me appropriately motivated during the afternoon hours when the body might be saying, "Enough!" My arrivals had to be comical to the hapless onlooker...like a bad out-take from The Planet of the Apes. I was Roddy McDowell, clambering awkwardly out of the boat, stooped in a simian posture, arms dangling lifelessly by my sides, shuffling desperately towards the nearest water source or bathroom. I would never be in too much of a hurry to set up camp, because being out of the boat was liberation enough.
The end -of-day routine was a sloppy version of the morning's: blow up the matress, unroll the bag, sometimes set up a tarp, attend to persoal hygiene, eat something that wasn't moving, and sleep. Oh, the sleep. It came effortlessly and immediately. I never feared for my safety in my surroundings. I was simply too tired.
Gentle Reader, please don't take my sometimes overly-dramatic prose too seriously. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that 90% of you who read this could make this same trip next summer. With a little bit of physical preparation, you could do it. A row like this is more a product of patience, perseverance, and a moderate appetite for uncertainty- more of a head game than a shoulders game. Really. Just be sure to attempt it in an Adirondack Guideboat. Did I tell you how much I love my boat? I think I have.
One more blog to good-bye, unless you bark like a dog.
I'll miss you.
Mr. Frei
PS: The pledge payments topped $14,000 this week. Oh, yes, how I'll miss you. You guys rock!!!!!!
