Saturday, August 7, 2010

To Race, To Dream, To Bloop?

Most folks who read this blog are familiar with the MR340 canoe and kayak race from Kansas City to St. Charles. This race has become a consuming force in the lives of many people and I must confess I am one of those people. Of course I know there are things in life that are more important. But thankfully, I've learned to ignore most of them.
I am one who thinks about the 340 all the time. It matters not if I'm addressing a stranger, an old friend or a co-worker, I've soon worked the conversation around to the race.
I even dream of it and one disturbing dream of one particular moment seems to reoccur more often than most.
Its not the time when I first find myself paddling in darkness on one of the world's greatest rivers. Nor is it the moment when I find myself on a collision course with a barge, knowing the other vessel has me outweighed by about a million times to the tenth power. That one doesn't bother me at all. Its not the embarrassing dream of emptying my water jug and dieing of thirst in the middle of the river or getting knocked cold by flying carp just yards from the finish line.
No the one that forces me awake in a cold sweat is the dream about a moment shortly before the race begins.
Hundreds of paddlers are present some already on the water and some still preparing their boats, arranging and trimming and launching. A thousand spectators line the banks and reporters are grabbing last minute quotes from those racers willing to talk. Helicoptors circle above and I'm sure NASA has at least one satelite zeroed in on the starting line. The Naval Atache' from the Swiss Consulate is chatting with a competitor to my right about amphibious tactics and I and my boat are ready to go.
Then it happens. I step into the boat and for the first time in forty years perform a wet entry. My boat shoots from beneath me and as I somersault into the river the last thing I see before submerging, head down and feet in the air, into the river are a thousand flashes from a thousand cameras all pointed right at me.
Sure every one has flipped a boat on entry at least once in his life. I'm sure it has happened to me sometime in the past but its been so long ago that I don't remember (I'm pretty good at forgetting that type of memory anyway).
Anyway, in my dream, the thousand souls that were so preoccupied an instant before all seem to turn in unison to catch my theatrics. I have visions of Scout Masters teaching canoeing all across the country and using photos of me as the example not to follow. I get calls from insurance companies wanting me to perform in a caveman suit. National Geographic finally prints a Greatest Bloopers in History edition and I make the cover.
My spraddled form makes the headlines across the country and youtube runs a contest just to choose the best video of my blunder.
Yes, that friends is the dream I awaken to at least once a week. It isn't paddling 340 miles that takes courage. It isn't sweating in the midwestern heat and humidity for days. Its not the ability to handle cramps and blisters and pain. Those aren't the things that make a racer who he is. Its the ability to face the nightmares and fears and be still goofy enough to just go out and step into that boat anyway. That is what makes a 340 racer what he is.

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