We RACE to feel ALIVE.

Saturday, July 11, 2026
 
Ideally, capturing this through pen to paper is preferred. Due to life's obligations today, I am choosing to capture it through voice to text, as I drive Up North, rather than not capturing it at all.

Sleepless night, nervous morning. These two scenarios sound unpleasant, and they are. But you know what? They also reminded me how alive I feel when something big is about to happen. Something big can have a number of different definitions, all of them right, but suffice it to say that what's planned for the day has more significance than what the average day has in store. 
 
So "something big" is RACE DAY. These days, in my mid-50s, that happens on my paddle board. As I look back on my life, race day has taken many different forms. Before paddleboards, I (we) had triathlons, of every possible distance, and runs from 5k's to marathons and even one ultramarathon in there somewhere around 2018. And going back before those, before the time and attention it took to focus on raising children, we raced motorcycles and jet skis. In the most amateur ways possible, yeah, but still, we raced. All of these competitive events catalyzed a similar level of nervously heightened awareness, especially leading up to the events. The night before is the biggest contrast to what "normal life" felt like. Knowing that you would be able to perform optimally with a good night's sleep, the body, mind, and soul were not willing to work with logic. So flipping around I went, until the alarm rang, or the next stage of anticipatory behavior took hold. Once again, knowing that I wouldn't be competing for several hours, the best possible formula for a powerful (and lengthy) competition was a good meal. I love my breakfast, with or without a big event coming up. This morning though, it was a battle with my brain and body that turned it into a war. That war ultimately led to a surrender, where I was able to gingerly consume all of the nutrients I had laid out the night before, putting my mind at heart in a better position to know that I would be competing with at least a few good cards in my hand. Almost enough to erase the lackluster night's sleep, but there's no sense in comparing the two... 
 
Starting the morning with an abundance of extra time helped put me in a positive frame of mind. Using some of this time to meditate also gave me a few "matches to burn" that would be needed out there on the course. After the obligatory morning walk I said goodbye to Koukla (the canine companion) and headed towards the island with everything already loaded aboard, nothing forgot. First win. The second win of the morning, driving towards the island, as I've done hundreds of times before with the paddle board strapped to my roof, the nerves took on a different form, and I started to relax. Nine inch nails came on XM <March of the Pigs>, then the Pretenders <The Wait>. The music volume increased, until things started to shake inside the car. I was exactly where I needed to be, looking forward to leaving it all out there on the course. Crossing the Belle Isle bridge, I gasped aloud at the beauty of the river, just as I've done hundreds of times before. This morning, even though there was a good 12mph wind, it was favorable, and the surface was smooth with tiny ripples flowing like silk curtains cascading into the room through an open window. I proceeded around the south side of the island, where the waters of the shipping channel were calm and gorgeously inviting. I once again opened my mouth to gasp, no one but my steering wheel to witness my joy and excitement. "It's go time, just look at that water" I whispered to myself. I'm not a big fan of waves, and between the prediction, and the way things were looking at 8:00 a.m. with the race to start in an hour, I could simply say I was stoked. Approaching the parking lot, my tribe appeared. One familiar face after another, some of whose company I enjoyed a few days ago, others whom I recognized from exactly a year ago, in exactly the same spot, with almost exactly the same perfect conditions. It was great to see people return from Chicago, Traverse City, and even Cleveland. The course is technical, and the competition is solid, which is what I believe has many people returning. The camaraderie of our little cadre is no small part of that.
 
Making peace with the pre-race jitters was next on the agenda, now with minutes to go instead of hours. Getting into the water to warm up 15 minutes before "go time" was helpful. Chit chatting with different racers, some new faces, and some old friends, clicked through those several minutes in a blink. Starters' signal went off, and the glassy-calm river instantly turned into a washing machine of paddles, fins, oars, and boards. If you've ever seen a school of fish shocked into terror by an attacking shark, that you can assimilate what starting 40+paddlers felt, sounded, and looked like when the starting gun rang out.
 
After the initial shockwave, each racer fell in and out of their groove (and for some, their craft) a few times before rounding the DYC. Once past that, the pace settled in, and anybody worth drafting began to pair off. This is where the race strategy began to materialize. Checking in with my own level of start-line exertion was the first task. Check. I had collected some comfort and confidence with the water conditions, which still possessed enough rogue waves to throw you overboard if you weren't paying attention. I found a decent draft, adapted a good rhythm, settled into what turned out to be a solid pace. Rounding the West point of the island, the crosswind shear turned into a tailwind. Now, I thought to myself, this is where the fun starts. I was still on Troy's tale, conserving energy, saving my ammo for later, when I would need it. Even though I could have passed him, this is where recalling countless races after races (whether self-propelled or with an engine) came in handy. All those years reminded me that, 999 times out of 1000, you need every bit of horsepower, and then some, at that final mile. In the case of this course, that was the final 1/6 of the race. So I stayed settled into the draft, enjoying the 8.5 minute miles of the shipping channel (a pace that, for me, would be unheard of in still water). As we passed the halfway mark of the race, I soaked in the rhythm and my experience with the course, along with my silent stokedness for what was about to happen. I acquired my target, then made my move away from my drafting mark, and cut in towards the island waaay before the rest of the train did. This unfolded exactly as I had hoped, and exactly as I had done on a number of Belle Isle races in the past. I gained ground and passed four to five other paddlers with my new solo line. Now my younger competitor, Chris, was within 25 yards of range. Too far to make a move, but way closer than the 200 yards that he had on me in the channel. Of course, this encouraged me into applying more pressure to the paddle stick and handle, for it was now necking down to that last mile. After rounding the Eastern point, I collected a draftee, a person I knew, who was in my age group. This person turned out to be the very same one that beat me by one position last year. At that time 2025, he simply had more power than I was able to answer with. We both gave it our all, and he turned out to be the one with more matches to burn. Today was different. Today was mine. For ~7 minutes, I could hear him right behind me, saving precious energy by hanging tightly onto my tail. Bow to stern. A familiar thought popped into my head from triathlon days. It goes something like this: if you're going to make a pass, if you're going to answer with a surge, then make it STICK. Make it SOLID. Make it HUMILIATING for your competitor. Of course that word, humiliation, is something I'd never say out loud, to any of my tribe. We're all friendly racers, on the beach and out there on the water. But inside my mind, powering my muscles, pounding my heart, and transferring that power through my paddle into the water to propel my board forward, humiliation was the exact word that I adapted as my mantra, directed at him, for that moment. A few minutes of 95% power, and I could hear less and less of him behind me. A quick glance out of my peripheral vision, under the shoulder, checking both flanks at different moments, he was still there...but no longer a threat. I could tell I had broken my board free of the magnetic pull of the draft, so it would be much harder for him to answer, as long as we were both paddling in clean water. 1 mile to go; I dug in for that extra 5%, the time where you tell yourself that the pain won't last that long, the pain can't last that long, and that the only thing worse than the pain of the burning muscles, of the sun scorched shoulders, of the dry mouth and wind pipe, of the blistered hands...would be the pain of knowing that you gave that position up less than a mile before the finish. The other four paddlers that I passed rounding the point stayed behind me. Didn't even need to check; rounding the Western point was the kind of pass that stuck. The kind of pass that you dream about, where, instead of creating a battle that burns up fuel well before you're ready to, the kind of pass that closes the discussion for the other athletes. If all this sounds overly competitive, piled high with machismo, and just generally overly testosteron-ey, wellthen fine, it is. Call it what you'll call it, but at this age, (I'm 57 as I write this) falling in love with something that you're passionate about is just the beginning. The beautiful checkpoints along the way happen when you can see how you stack up against others around you. Others who are equally passionate, but some older, and some younger. Both genders, and a variety of different watercraft. The classes are what make it fun, and can have you guessing, if a certain competitor is someone that may or may not wind up taking a position from you, as compared to one that is racing in a totally different category, and wouldn't matter at the finish anyway. 
 
I've never been one to dream about the podium, to relish being first, second, or third place. It's happened a number of times over my amateur athletic career, and each time, it was a pleasant, but welcome, surprise. Many people I enjoy having near me know what that podium feels like. They often expect it, and deservedly so. They also know what it feels like to miss it. Most importantly, they're mostly like me, knowing that it's there because it wouldn't be a race without it. Today I did not wind up on any of the plastic podiums. Did this bother me? Absolutely not. Would it have been a pleasant surprise if I did? Sure. The beautiful takeaway from today was that I raced the best race I was capable of racing. End of story, thankyouverymuch, full stop. The people in front of me? They probably trained harder, they likely trained longer, and it almost all cases, deserved it more anyway. For me, I raced a spirited, powerful, strategic, and technical race today. Every time I had an opportunity, I took it. Every time I calculated that the opportunity could actually be a disadvantage further in the race, I settled in, passed on it, and then just got back to paddling with rhythm and smooth power. 
 
I'll remember how I dropped that guy in the last mile today. I'll remember how my strategy paid off, and how I had my matches to burn when I need them most. I'll remember that, because one year ago, it was the exact opposite. He surged, I answered, gave it everything I had, but just couldn't keep up. Today, in my head and in my heart, the podium was mine, all mine.
 
Belle Isle Classic July 20, 2025
Adrian 1:16:45 me 1:16:52 = 7 second gap

Belle Isle Classic July 11, 2026
Me 1:14:42 Adrian 1:15:10  = 28 second gap