Teams Kayak For Care!
Sponsored by Nimbus Kayaks and Kokatat
Heather crossing the finish line 
Brandon and David, stoked to be first overall Brandon: Seventy-five teams stand, stomping feet for warmth on the pavement of Whitehorse’s Main Street and ducking from the cold rain, as event director Jeff Brady bellows the name of each and every racer present. My partner, adventure racing legend and ultra-marathon paddling guru David Kelly, and myself hunker under the awning of a nearby gift shop, shivering, but carefully continuing to size up the field. The 2006 Yukon River Quest – a 460-mile canoe and kayak grind stretching along the Klondike gold rush’s main tributary from Whitehorse to Dawson City – had once again attracted a stacked, international list of talent. Twenty-five solo kayaks had come from as far away as Texas, Great Britain, Australia – and as dangerously close as Whitehorse itself. A record six voyageur canoes were entered – 8 to 12-person efficiency machines capable of having paddlers take turns napping without a noticeable loss of speed. The British Army had conducted tryouts to fill the seats of three men’s tandems – a guaranteed flotilla of accented A-personalities with fighting skills to boot! Record-holders from N. America's other notoriously challenging ultra - the Texas Water Safari - helped round out the tandem kayak field. And the statistical favorites – regular tandem canoes – included mid-west phenomena Steve Landick and Greg Nelson… Landick alone having likely logged more high-speed, muscle-driven miles than any other ten racers combined.
Heather: I jump up and down and pull my dad's oversized rain jacket tightly around me as I try to stay warm and lose for the start. My dad, along with crew captain Ken Brunton, has flown in from lifornia to crew for me, Brandon and David. He has been waiting patiently at my kayak for ½ an hour now, making sure he won’t be late for the start. I scan the field as I walk over to Brandon and David to wish them luck and get the last smooch I may get from my husband for 2 ½ days. It is a new experience, sending Brandon off with a partner other than myself, but I am empowered by the thought of taking on the 'Quest as a solo. My strategy: race smart, race hard, and leave it all on the river. I am confident Brandon and David will do the same. "Three! Two! One! GO!" Nearly 150 racers stumble over their aqua socks and dangling spray skirts in a dead sprint to get to their boats first! I let the neoprene- and polypro-clad mob fight for their positions as I opt for a more leisurely pace to my kayak. It's a long race: no reason to go lactic in the first 2 1/2 minutes! I strip my parka as I see my dad waving me towards my boat. I climb in and he shoves me into the current as I secure my no-hands drink system and sprayskirt. The race is on!
Brandon: Our pre-devised strategy was clear... or so I thought. David and I had agreed to use the first 25 miles down to Lake LaBerge as a warm-up: loosen the muscles, adjust the outfitting, layer up or down accordingly, and socialize. Afterall, by the time we'd crossed LaBerge, or even reached it, the 75 teams would have separated out and the chance to chat leisurely with other racers would be gone. But David takes control, and who am I to argue? In the first ten minutes we pass 90% of the boats who'd gotten off ahead of us. As we approach each of the remaining 10%, David glances evil-eyed over his shoulder and gives me the "Nod of Pain!" Like a hot-rod engine injected with nitrous, we turn it on, trunks twisting for torque, spray flying off our carbon wing paddles, and my nerves tightening like over-tuned guitar strings as I envision the remaining 400-odd miles still downstream. Going out too hard in an ultra-marathon is a rookie mistake I'd made before, and I loath the thought of the punishing penalty I may face in days two and three. Fear aside, the strategy works. No one counters our sprints, and by the time we reach the 30-mile LaBerge and begin the only current-less stretch of the 'Quest, we've gapped the pack by nearly ten minutes. LaBerge divides the field every year. If it's flat, it wears on psyches and shoulders as paddlers grind across, their minds confused at having lost the helping current of the river that eases the rest of the race's ridiculous distance. If it blows, it's worse. Headwinds bring unimagineable early-race suffering and, coming out of the north, hypothermic temperatures. Sidewinds flood canoes and lead to a six-to-ten-hour brace-fest for all boats. A tailwind, however, sweeping down the up-river canyon and churning up increasingly larger swells on the lake, is the true class separator. It's love or hate. Surf or swim. David and I, it turns out, are deeply in love from the start. As the fetch grows longer and the swells bigger, so does our gap on the field. The blue-green water and granite domes lining LaBerge literally fly by, our Necky Nootka linking 6, 8 and 10 continuous waves for rides hitting 10 knots and lasting upward of 2 minutes. By the time we reach the Yukon's current again, we've put another 40 minutes on the field. Now, if only my muscles don't explode...
Heather: "You are in 9th place, 3rd solo kayak!" a volunteer yells from shore as I re-enter the current after surfing across LaBerge an hour faster than I had estimated. "Yaaa!" I hollar back, energized by his words and my higher-than-expected standings. A deluge of rain pounds me as I paddle into the night. My rain jacket, two fleece hats and athletic race-pace keep me warm. Thunder and lightning exploding all around me keep me wide awake and alert as the night draws on. An occasional violent attack of marble-size hail ensures I never lose my edge to the sleepies! In the night I race a rowdy voyageur canoe and two British Army men’s tandems kayaks. At one point, I make my move to pass them. I quickly realize with regret that they've adapted the strategy of learning from my lines in the braided river. If I make a nav' error, they're off to the opposite chanel. If my route is the faster one, they follow. I grow weary of this and try to back off and slip behind. They equally back off. For now, I'm the rabbit and keep up a good pace, hoping to weed out any weaker paddlers. I watch and wait as I lead this pack. As the nighttime miles tick by, one tandem drops off and disappears into the twilight. We never see them again. The voyageur canoe must have wasted too much energy laughing and joking, because they too disappear behind me. Now it's just me and the British Army B Team. As the miles pass, I note their slowing cadence and figure fatigue and the sleepies are hitting full force. I make my move, and they do not chase. In the early dawn hours the storm is replaced by a thick fog. Navigation is difficult, and I hug the shore to keep my bearings. In the middle of the river I hear accented voices. I'm being passed by the Brits, so I pick it up a bit and get them in my sites. I make the decision to conserve energy, stick with them and follow their lines, as they had mine earlier in the race.
Brandon: Clif Bars, string cheese, turkey jerky and an endless flow of Gatorade fuel the first-night effort, spiced with the occasional dose of ibuprofen and caffeine tabs. Typhoon-intensity rain is churning the surface of the river like a million pyrannahs fighting over raw meat. David and I are layered under light shells which mostly aid in holding in body heat, and through a sinister smile David comments at how great the suffering will be for the competition. Lightning and thunder explode in response, and we grind on toward CP 1 at Carmacks. By 6:35 a.m., two hours ahead of the fastest times in years past, we reach the checkpoint and mandatory 7-hour layover. We've purposely stripped down the layers from the cold night and come in stroking high and strong -- a classic adventure racing technique to give the impression of invincibility to the other racers' crews. After a quick shower and crew-cooked breakfast of eggs and sausage, though, we're horizontal and begin the fitful slumber of the wound-up racer. After too little sleep, I'm awake again, and two anxious thoughts swim in my mind: Why is my pulse still near 100 bpm? And who else has come in to CP 1? Like an alarm clock, Heather's dad yells into the tent, a mere three hours after David and I had arrived: "Heather's IN!" I'm confused, and mumble some sort of questioning expletive. Suddenly, my fears come to life as I realize that our race for 1st place won't be so much against a small platoon of the Queen's finest soldiers, nor against a giant rocket canoe laden with 10 warrior paddlers, nor the legendary Landick -- a single blade-swinging winning machine who knows the top of the podium the way an eagle knows her own nest.... NO! The fight for first, I realize like ice water being poured down my chafed back, would be against my own wife!
Heather: Seven hours is just enough time to trick your body into thinking the race is over and it can let it's guard down. Pain and aching muscles come on full throttle, chafed skin dries and cracks, blisters burst under pressure and ooze while you sleep. Nonetheless, the pride shining in my dad's face and the enthusiasm of the women at Carmacks who are stoked to see a woman in the top 10 give me strength as I settle my weary body back into my kayak. I know from experience, the second night is the crux for me. "Time!" a race official calls, indicating my seven hours is up and I can go. My dad gives me a push and I paddle powerfully away from Carmacks. When I am out of view, I will lower my stroke and settle into a groove for the 160-mile haul to Kirkman Creek. The British Army B Team, who arrived in Carmacks minutes behind me, catches me in the evening hours. The Britts and I are in a comfortable spot: no teams just ahead, no teams just behind. We partner up under the midnight sun, when weariness takes tenacious hold of the mind and body. We tell animated stories of races from home, and each tale ends with an invite, "You have got to come out! You can stay with me, I will hook you up with a boat!" When the conversation wavers, our heads droop dangerously close to sleep. At a small island in the middle of the river, we separate briefly. I go left, they go right. What should have been a 10-minute separation turns into 30. We eventually meet at the other side, our boats drawn together by the current. We look at each other sheepishly, "I fell asleep" I confess. "So did we", they murmur groggily. "Tell me more about the Devizes to WestMinster race!" I suggest. They immediately perk up, stories flow, and we paddle on in a state of comatose commeraderie. After more long hours, a sign appears in the middle of the river, "Kirkman Creek, Baked Goods, Stay Right." The race is back on, and the Brits pick up the pace, arriving at the Kirkman Creek checkpoint 6 minutes ahead of me.
Brandon: "If any boats pull in here in the next forty-five minutes..." I say to David as we peel our weary selves out of the tandem on the mud bank of Kirkman Creek, "...we could be in trouble." I'd spent the entire middle leg of the 'Quest looking fearfully over my shoulder and doing theoretical math problems to calculate how our foes might catch us. One hopes the type of statement I'd just spoken would be met with a scoff and a "No chance!" remark from my partner. But David's face contorts into a concerned, slightly paranoid expression not unlike my own. I begin nervously monitoring my watch as we make our way toward the bonfire. Having changed into dry clothes and slurped the free bowl of soup provided to all competitors, the forty-five minute mark has come and gone, and I breath easier. Following a nap of an hour and twenty minutes, we are still the lone team to have arrived, and my confidence grows further. Finally, as we devour a $30 paper plate of potatoes and poached eggs (Hey, who says homesteaders can't profiteer?) the voyageur races in in second place. We've put another 40 minutes on them -- a feat I would've sworn was mathematically impossible considering our pained previous-leg pace. I take two more bites of the caviar-priced viddles and make my way to the river. Our charade to look machine-like in our exit is slightly compromised by the fact that our hands are too swollen to close around a paddle shaft. I fake it by balancing the paddle between my thumbs and forefingers, force my posture to vertical and lower my grunting and moaning to barely audible. Also, our race food by this point has become a necessary evil, most of it making either of us gag as if it were solidified cod liver oil. I can't take small enought bites, and after a dozen nibbles on a Clif Bar, stuff the remainder in my cockpit-turned-garbage bin and dream of the finish. In my suffering state, I remember that at least we're in the lead. As if reading my mind, David turns and delivers his devilish, "Seventy-four boats behind us!" grin.
Heather: I reach up to grab my hat as a 50 mph wind gust threatens to blow it back to Kirkman Creek. My paddle soars toward my head, the blade slicing dangerously in front of my face. To battle severe wrist tendonitis, I've duct-taped my hand to the paddle shaft -- an innovation that, while effective against the pain, makes every move other than paddling nearly impossible. The gust finally dies and, cursing the wind, I rip off my hat with my free hand and shove it in my cockpit. Less than 60 miles to go, I have left the Brits far behind, and not only am I duct-taped to my paddle, but if I stop paddling even for a moment, the force of the wind pushes me upriver. Head down and cursing, I power on, dreaming of the fresh food and cold Sprite and huge hugs the finish line promises. Exhaustion grips my body, my swollen wrist aches. It doesn’t matter. No one will pass me now. I'm going to be the second solo kayak to cross the finish line, the sixth boat overall, and that is that.
Brandon: Churning out the last mile to the finish, I will my paddling form back into something resembling that of an athlete, but the early sprints and stop-and-go effort of surfing LaBerge have taken their toll. It's all I can do to match David's stroke as we glide toward the finish line. Still, elation grips me. We have just destroyed the previous course record by almost 2 1/4 hours, and it would be slightly longer than that before the second place team, the voyageur, crosses the line. A band of reporters and photographers crowd the finish area, snapping pictures and shouting questions. It's all still backround noise, though, as I soak in the feeling not so much of victory, but of having finished this most grueling but addictive event. Out of the kayak, I stagger back to the stern where I've taped a picture of my Mom and I together. Heather, David and I have raced as Team KayakForCare, and are honoring my Mom and Heather's Grampy, both having passed away from cancer, and everyone else suffering. On this day, that includes the 74 boats still battling their way down the river.
Heather: Stroke by painful stroke, Dawson City draws nearer. I can see the finish about a mile and a half downriver. My GPS reads 5 MPH. I brace as a gust of wind blows down the cliffs and blasts me from the side. A maniacal laugh erupts from deep in my chest as a wall of wind does its best to prevent me from finishing. My exhausted mind dreams up a scheme where the Brits have called in military support in the form of a Force 6 tornado funneled through the Yukon canyon to prevent Britain’s finest from being "chicked"!
"Whaaaaaaa!" Against all odds, the race horn blares declaring success! I have crossed the finish line, not only winning the Women’s Solo Kayak category, but am the second solo kayak out of 25 to cross the finish line.
I have shattered the women’s solo record by over 10 hours with a time of 46:32:27.
As my dad and race volunteers gingerly lift me from my kayak, Brandon barrages me with questions from behind a video camera. I can only think of one thing, the obsession of an ultra racer, “how can I go even faster next year”!?
For more information on the Yukon River Quest, go to http://www.yukonriverquest.com/
~ HN~ and ~BN~
