It was a dark and stormy night …. or day, actually. That is how I felt as I looked at the weather forecast for Saturday’s 54th annual River Rat Race from Athol Center to Orange Center on the Millers River. Cold and overcast with winds out the North-northwest at 20 miles per hour. Add to that a recent tweak of my back was making me feel more like racing a couch with a TV remote than jumping in a river with more than 400 other people and paddling the 5-plus miles down the swollen Millers River.
But my friend and former colleague, Adam Orth, was driving up from his new home state of Florida to compete in this race that we have been doing together for the past six or seven years.
When I informed my friend of my aching back, he contemplated the ramifications of the statement and simply stated that it was up to me. No prodding, pressure or remarks about tradition. Just a good friend. So, of course, I had to tough it out. I took a handful of Advil, loaded the 18-foot aluminum canoe on my pickup and we headed east to Athol.
Sharing stories
The night before, we had gone to the Athol Town Hall, a beautiful edifice, for the drawing of numbers that would determine the order of the race.
The Lions Club members who run the race were up on stage, passing out numbers as well as quips and anecdotes about the racers that show up every year. They cheered for the 94-year-old who was racing with his daughter, and the emcee declared if he came back next year he could race for free. They moaned as last year’s winner drew the low number of 7, giving them a clear start that would help them win again this year.
In an ironic twist, we drew the same lousy number we had the year before, #197, back of the pack. What are the chances of that?
Waiting on the edge of the river after dragging the canoe through the swampy recreation area with the other 210 canoes, we waited for the traditional cannon blast to start the race.
Off we go
Taking it easy was suggested but not really an option. With 211 canoes vying for a position in a fast moving current and the serious racers trying to get past the less-than-expert paddlers, there were some soggy sailors. We spotted at least 10 canoes with the wrong side up, leaving their crew treading water with bulging eyes as they gasped for air after being immersed in the dark water made frigid by the melting winter snow.
There were collisions as paddles swung side to side and boats wove toward the funnel of the Main Street bridge in Athol. To get past this relatively dry is the hardest part of the race; most of the capsized boats were in this first hundred yards or so. The local dive teams were out in force, mostly volunteering their time to rescue those who needed it, pulling them out and securing their boats.
As we headed downstream, still passing the occasional upside down boats, we fell into a rhythm. I have always been the helmsman in the rear, steering as Adam has been my dependable motor. The competitive spirit is hard to suppress as we refuse to take it easy and start passing canoes left and right, moving up from the rear of the pack. Having done the race for years, I know the course well and avoid eddies and back currents, steer around floating logs and avoid tree branches growing out over the water. And then there is the last mile of flat water above the dam in Orange where our friend the current disappears and our nemesis the wind hits us right in the face. To finish this race is winning enough.
And the whole time, my gregarious partner talks friendly trash with any one listening. He thanks the dive team members for saving him, if he needed saving. He pleads with a police officer not to jump off the railroad trestle he is stationed upon.
The numerous gatherings along the banks were jeered into cheering for us. Always positive, he is a great Tigger to my Eeyore. We make a good team. We’ll be back next year.
