Next time, race’s hardships won’t be so overwhelming

Truth is, I shouldn’t be writing this now. My wife, Lisa, and I are supposed to be competing in the Missouri River 340, a 340-mile canoe-and-kayak trek across the entire state. Instead, I’m sitting here in my office wondering what went wrong.

Lisa and I withdrew from the race Wednesday night after paddling 75 miles in 14 1/2 hours from Kaw Point in downtown Kansas City to the small town of Waverly. Our decision was one of the most difficult we’ve ever made. I was regretting it within half an hour of heading for home.

Our rationale was complex and indicative of the mental and physical challenges an adventure race presents. Only a couple hours before I told the race director to scratch us, we were looking forward to the next day’s paddling.

The bulk of our race went quite smoothly. It began at the put-in, where the Kansas and Missouri rivers merge. Scores of people gathered to watch the insane launch their crafts. There were all types of boats: souped-up kayaks 19-feet long and streamlined canoes adorned with sponsor stickers. Our beloved Barge, a beat-up 17-foot Old Town canoe, was the misfit. But we were calm and confident that getting to St. Charles was well within our grasp.

The air horn sounded, and we were on our way. The real racers, including our friends Chuck and Di McHenry of Ironton, sped ahead, never to be seen by the stragglers again. Still, we were having a blast through the first few legs. Portions of the race were incredibly grueling, but we accepted that. We had deciphered the river’s currents and habits and were moving along as swiftly as we had hoped. We enjoyed a rare summer sighting of a pair of bald eagles. We learned where Asian carp are most likely to jump. We paddled beside skyscrapers, cornfields, willows and cottonwood. The heat, while uncomfortable, made dips in the river luxurious.

First came Le Benite Park, mile 15, then Fort Osage, mile 30. We pressed on to Lexington, mile 51. We made brief stops at each to stretch our legs, grab a bite and replenish our Gatorade supply. Our ground support, longtime friend Dave Marner of Owensville, was there to monitor our progress, to provide sustenance and to help anyway he could.

Even with the stops, we were averaging about 5.7 mph. Our bodies and minds were holding up fine. We had no doubt we would finish and finish strong.

Until the last half of the day’s final leg, the 24-mile stint from Lexington to Waverly.

Around 12 or 15 miles out from Waverly, things started to unravel. It turned dark, the kind of dark that makes you feel like you’re staring into a barrel of ink. Clouds shrouded the half moon we’d counted on to light the way. Wing dikes became noisemakers warning of danger ahead. Tree lines on shore melded with the black sky.

I was OK with this; we’d just stay in the middle of the current and feel our way downriver. But Lisa even before the race had worried about paddling at night. She became nervous and uncomfortable. And I did, too, as a powerful thunderhead flashing frequent lightning approached from the southwest.

This was no good. Two hours of paddling remained to reach our ramp and Dave. Lisa lit the way with our navigation light, forcing me to do the bulk of the paddling. Our progress was very slow, the storm’s very fast. Wind became a pest, and the once-sticky air became eerily cool. Our resolve began to erode. Lisa worked hard and did well, but she seemed a bit shaken, and she certainly was having no fun. Neither was I at this point. We were mentally and physically drained. We decided that at Waverly we’d talk about whether to continue. I was confident the break and a couple beers with Dave would change our frame of mind.

We beat the weather to the ramp, arriving without incident about 10:30 p.m. Although half an hour behind schedule, it seemed no big deal. This was a planned break, and our itinerary called for a quick nap and a re-launch at 2 a.m.

Dave had already set up our tent, a godsend because the storm was bearing down. The locals said it would bring high wind and three inches of rain, adding new angst as we considered withdrawing from the race. Our tent is better suited to favorable weather.

The wind came quick and sharp, showering us with dust from the ramp parking lot and churning the river into a hellish, choppy menace. Then came the big gust. It blasted our tent, snapping the poles. As the tent collapsed, our spirits sunk with it. This was the killer. Now it was raining, and we had no place to sleep. A Waverly resident had offered his home earlier, but we had seen no need and declined. It was after midnight now, and we felt it was too late to disturb him.

The river for hours would be too treacherous to paddle. Waiting until daylight to set off again would put us seriously behind our schedule for finishing the race.

Lisa and I talked in circles. Dave weighed in. Had we been able to sleep on it, we might have decided differently. But Dave had to leave for home and was taking our van with him. We had to say yes or no.

I told race chief Scott Mansker we were calling it quits. He seemed as disappointed as we were. He phoned the decision to a crewmate.

“The Swaffords have withdrawn,” he said calmly. The words are haunting me.

Several factors contributed to our decision:

n Obviously, we were exhausted. Today, though, we feel fine. A couple of blisters, but no serious maladies that would prevent us from paddling strong.

n Our tent was junk, and we’d be unable to get much-needed rest Wednesday night. We were wrong about this. A little rigging would have made the tent reliable, I learned with a daylight inspection.

n We would lack ground support for at least the next day and a half. This would have required that we haul all our food, beverages and equipment in the canoe for the next 100 to 150 miles. We understood that when we set out but learned during the first day how misguided that was.

n Our boat was simply too slow. The Barge is a fine boat, but with its wide, flat bottom, it wasn’t the right craft for this event. No matter how hard we paddled, we couldn’t get much beyond 6 mph. Paddlers with less experience but superior boats cruised by us with ease. I should have known better.

n Lisa had serious reservations about paddling at night, and she was no longer having fun. Enjoying the race had become more of a challenge for me as well.

n We would be seriously behind schedule by the time the weather settled and we were able to depart from Waverly.

We’re nothing short of devastated about withdrawing from this race. The 340 is a great event. We’re thrilled we got to compete and humbled by the challenge. While we’re proud of what we accomplished — 75 miles in a day is no easy feat — we fell far short of our ultimate goal. We’ll try to return next year, wiser and better equipped, and get ourselves all the way to St. Charles.

When he is not in the newsroom, Missourian City Editor Scott Swafford is an avid paddler who specializes in whitewater racing.