Racer

Last weekend, I did something CRAZY:

I entered a kayak race.

This does not mean that I sat in a boat and raced from a start line to a finish line on placid lake water. This means that I paddled a 50-pound boat through whitewater (albeit measly whitewater to any seasoned kayaker), slaloming in and out of hanging gates, turning upstream and downstream as the course demanded and rushing with the current over a couple of sudden drops of water over rocks.

I was the beginnerest of beginners at this particular race, following closely behind a seven-year-old.

This summer I learned how to whitewater kayak and discovered that it is way fun. But I never imagined that I would enjoy racing in a whitewater kayak. That seems like a whole different thing. Speeding over class 3 rapids with your competent (and hott) teacher always right in front of you or behind you is one thing, but doing it while a slew of people is watching you, timing you, and knocking off points every time you hit a gate is pretty intimidating.

And exhilarating!

I don't want to mislead you here, with all this talk about rapids and slalom gates. I am by far a terrible kayak racer. But you have to give me some credit for racing at all, when I only sat my butt down in a boat for the first time, oh, three months ago.

I generally think of myself as someone who is not very competitive. Unfortunately, that is not completely true. I happen to have a small but fierce competitive streak in me, especially when trying something new. And since I was a beginner, I had the option of competing in two races: the whitewater course and a flatwater course.

Well, you can bet your bananas that on that flatwater course, which was easy to maneuver, I meant business. With a capital B. I wasn't risking falling out of my boat (which I did on the whitewater course--it's pretty fun to swim over rapids, but I'm grateful for the safety boaters who pulled me out before I smashed headfirst into a boulder), so all I had to do was paddle hard and glide through a few gates.

Because there weren't many beginners at this race, I was certain to get a competitively good time. I had my eye on that seven year old, though, because she was at about precisely my level, and my one and only mission for the day became about defeating the tiny boater who whizzed past in her gigantic kayak. I think she felt the same way. We kept exchanging knowing glances. You recognize people who are at your caliber, and you meld a sort of tacit bond with them. You find your competitors easily, and then you growl and wriggle and show teeth until you can finally compete.


Later on, at the awards ceremony (where I comedically provided live music by singing an original song called "Solid Ground," which is a metaphorical blues song about falling into a river), after awards for all the serious kayakers and canoe-racers droned on and on, it came time to announce the winners of the flatwater course. Finally, the moment I had been waiting for!

First place went to (dum, da-dum!) a serious boater who had dislocated her shoulder and could only compete in the flatwater course.

Second place went to----Liz Rognes!

And third place went to the seven-year-old.

Smugly, I grinned and faux-humbly accepted my red ribbon with a picture of a cow on it. (By the way, EVERYONE gets a ribbon. It's no big thing at all to get a ribbon. But I was elated!)
I sneaked a glance at the seven-year-old, who was happy enough to get her third-place ribbon. Her mother, though, caught my self-assured smirk and said, loudly enough for me to hear, "You did a great job, Seven-Year-Old. And, guess what, the girl before you only beat you by 10 seconds!"

The seven-year-old caught my eye, and I clutched my red ribbon tightly in my fist.

Ten seconds or not, I was the one holding the ribbon which said "Second Place," and she was the one holding the one which read, "Third Place."

Let the numbers speak for themselves.

And, next time, I'm going for First Place. All the way.

Move over, Tiny Boater. This Beginner is ready to leave you in the dust.

Er, foam.