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Seit Jahren bereits veröffentlicht Full Tilt regelmäßig Chatprotokolleder Pros. Oftmals sind diese ausgesprochen unterhaltsam. Ein paar der. Tilt-Shift Fotografie täuscht das Auge indem die Kamera während der Belichtung bewegt wird, um Teile des Bildes um einen scharfen Blickpunkt. österreichischen Full Tilt Pros. Nun hat sich Erich Kollmann dazu entschieden in Zukunft getrennte Wege zu gehen. Auf seinem Blog auf solstollarna.nu informiert​. Not acceptable - a loose tube draped over my upper arm where Slots Machine For Free Play stroke sends Free Download Casino Games Slots flying through a jaunty arc. The thing that comes between the fifth and sixth rides makes up for that though. I'm not a big in-race drinker which perhaps explains why the paramedics always have so much trouble finding a uncollapsed vein for the Kreuzfahrt Gewinnen saline drip afterwardsbut I like to take a few slugs before getting started. On Sunmaker Merkur Kostenlos eve of the race, Rhode Island's governor Full Tilt Blog the state's outdoor gathering threshold from 15 to 10 - mostly in response to complaints about rowdy surfski gangs "fetid hooligans" in the press release terrorizing local boaters. I'd spend the next 3 miles yo-yoing between side and rear drafts, spiced with a couple brief periods of panic falling off the back. Just a moment after I had managed to turn back fully into the wind and round the Ontario Gambling, an exuberant Tim came sailing by on the last run of his downwind leg. I soon wondered Win2day App I'd have enough of a buffer to afford a quick swim. On the far left of Lord Of Ozean line, Mike had also got out to a strong start.

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I guess one could draw a conncection between the Japaneses Zero planes, which were suicidal bombing planes made to take out enemies.

To some, maybe the huge descent on a roller coaster feels like a suicide attack. Going staight down, rediculously hard to see due to velocity, and fear for some.

I guess that could be similar to what suicidal pilots would feel like before they crash into an enemy ship. Posted by Tanner at PM. Labels: Outside Reading.

Older Post Home. Subscribe to: Post Comments Atom. What system s do you own? My Blog List. The announcement that the Narrow River Race would be rescheduled for October therefore came as quite a blow.

Fortunately, it came early enough for me to ramp up my training. Each day I would stretch Mike's imagined victory gap a littler further, thereby gradually extending my tolerance for obsolescence.

With any luck, this enhanced flexibility would prevent my ego from snapping on race day. The 8 mile course was familiar.

We'd head up the Narrow River for 3 miles, reverse back down a mile past the launch, then turn and finish back at the start.

The downstream turn would be around a buoy, but the upstream turn would be at a rowing club dock.

With a particularly high tide, most of the course would remain moist enough to qualify as liquid. Although we had received 6 inches of snow the previous day at home north of Boston, we'd be racing under sunny Rhode Island skies with temperatures in the 40s.

After a cursory captain's meeting "Everyone cool? My only real chance at beating Mike was to latch onto his wash and hope he snapped a rudder cable just before the finish.

I hoped to use Chris Chappell's typical explosive start to launch myself into Mike's orbit. I'd hitch a ride with Chris until this first stage ran out of propellant, then switch neatly over to Mike as he rocketed by.

Wesley counted our intimate group down to the start and we were off. Before I managed to finish my first stroke, Chris had already thrown cold water on my ambitious drafting plans.

I had neglected to observe the clearly marked "Blast Zone" demarcations and thus found myself immersed in Chris' waste-water torrent.

Sputtering under this chilly dose of disdain, I watched helplessly as my booster pulled away without me. On the far left of the line, Mike had also got out to a strong start.

I briefly jockeyed with Wesley and Jerry Madore before breaking free to pursue the leaders. It looked like Chris might grab onto Mike as their paths converged, but years of lifeguarding had left the latter with a permanent sheen of glistening sunscreen - the guy is as slippery as a greased eel.

Chris lunged at his wash, but came up empty handed. I needed to generate a revised action plan. I can usually think quickly on my feet, but that seemed inadvisable in theV The best I could come up with from the safety of the bucket was to catch Chris and then work together to reel in the rapidly receding upstart.

It took a half mile to accomplish the first part of the strategy, the effort of which made me abandon the second part as a foolish fantasy.

Mike had already left the stratosphere. I settled in behind Chris as we wended our way upstream. Entering the lake-like section of the course where the Narrow River isn't, I finally pulled even with Chris and prepared to drop him.

We'd had a good thing - perhaps a bit one-sided, sure - but it was time to move on. I planned on letting him down easy - you know, "It's not you, it's me.

Although he didn't reply vocally, Chris' actions categorically stated that no, we were going to remain joined at the gunnel until he decided otherwise.

Although he appeared to have reality bolstering his argument, let's just say we agreed to disagree about our continued relationship.

Last year I miscalculated my arcing approach, botching the turn so badly that a drafting Chris Q nearly went down in the Narrow River annals as its first-ever maritime disaster.

Quinn was too polite to remind me of my role in the near-catastrophe before the race, but at the starting line I couldn't help but notice the crude repair of the divot in his V12's bow - a silent rebuke to my incompetence.

The result was that Chris and I spirographed radically different loops by the dock. My radius setting was miscalibrated, however, which put me back several lengths once we were both pointing back downstream.

I saw Chris Q and Tim dueling it out heading towards the turn, perhaps two minutes behind us. I caught back up to Chris about halfway down the lake, settling in on his side wash after an anemic attempt to muscle past him.

I'd spend the next 3 miles yo-yoing between side and rear drafts, spiced with a couple brief periods of panic falling off the back.

Readers with a delicate sense of justice and smell may be picking up the distinct scent of weasel emerging from the page.

But given an allegiance to the truth generously categorized as "casual", it's probably safe to assume that even these values were fudged to make me look less parasitic.

In my defense, I made a couple of disingenuous efforts to take a turn in the lead - in much the same way a post-dinner Thanksgiving guest might offer to help with the dishes while lowering himself into the recliner, unbuttoning his pants, and strapping on a sleep mask.

Perhaps sensing my need for a nap, Chris graciously declined my proposals. As the end of race drew close, my conscience started to kick in.

Did I really want to be the bloodsucker who drafts off some unwitting host for the whole race and then darts ahead in the final meters? I plumbed the depths of my soul for an answer.

Fortunately, the oily waters therein were as shallow as the Narrow River, so I quickly found the response. Wasn't even fully submerged.

I definitely wanted to be that guy! I was born for it! There was only one problem. I lack the fast-twitch power to execute such a gloriously underhanded plan.

Even fatigued from all the heavy lifting he'd been doing, Chris would swat away any last-second challenge I could muster. I'd have to settle for the marginally less ethically dubious approach of making my move with a mile or so left.

The downriver turn seemed the ideal place to repay Chris' magnanimity with treachery. I hadn't inspired confidence in my turning ability at the upriver turn, which perhaps lulled my competitor into a false sense of security approaching the buoy.

Chris went slightly too deep on the turn, allowing me to carve a path inside of him and seize the lead. Lest you get some romantic NASCAR vision of this maneuver, what it really looked like was two blokes of advanced years, balanced precariously on 20 foot boats crosswise to the current, desperately flailing on one side to get their noses pointed upstream while keeping their bodies pointed above stream.

Since I emerged first from this exercise, I guess Tom Cruise will get to play me in the movie. After our comical phase of blunders groan through the pain , I held perhaps a three boat lead on Chris.

After being ferried along for so much of the race, you might imagine that I'd have a virtually untapped store of energy to propel me through the final mile.

But the truth is that even while drafting, I had been hurting. In the final stretch, I tried to concentrate on form to compensate for waning strength and stamina, but I think most of my rotation came from craning around to see if Chris was gaining.

Despite a dreadful case of noodle arms, I seemed to be maintaining my lead. Presumably Chris was suffering too, and with better justification.

I must have blacked out for a while, because my next memory is gnawing on a banana next to my car with Chris congratulating me - sarcastically, I imagine - for a race well run.

We agreed that without spurring one another on, Mike would have had an even more dominating performance. As it was, he finished more than 5 and a half minutes ahead of us, covering the 7.

For perspective, that breaks Borys Markin's Narrow River record for pace. We better keep an eye on this fledgling.

Or at least on the blur we suspect may be him. Mary Beth and Igor Yeremeev gave us the best finish of the season.

Although Igor appeared to have their head-to-head race locked up with less than a mile to go, he unwisely chose the optional portage route, setting up a quarter-mile drag race to the line.

On the shore, I crouched to get a water-level view of the finish as other spectators cheered on the duo. I'm proud to say that I didn't let my deep affection for Igor cloud my judgment - Mary Beth literally inched out the victory, taking the women's crown in the process.

Well, that's it for the season. My deepest thanks to Wesley and Tim, without whom the last race of would have been it for the season.

With any luck, we'll see everyone for the second match of the Narrow River double-header in April. Posted by Greg Lesher at AM 1 comment:. Labels: Narrow River.

I've had enough. I'm tired of constantly explaining that the Sakonnet River Race takes place in the ocean. One year I had T-shirts printed up that said "The Sakonnet River Isn't", but this might have been too subtle - people kept spinning me around by my shoulders to read the rest on the back.

Taking a page from forward-thinking sportswriters and now the organization itself who took to referring to the NFL franchise as the "Washington Football Team", I'll henceforth be conscientiously omitting the offensive R-word nickname from references to the Sakonnet Race.

It strikes me that by creating a goofy analogy to a serious social issue, I might myself be guilty of gross insensitivity. Understanding the Doppler Effect This Read Ahead lesson plan aims to enrich students' intuitive understanding of the Doppler effect with a theoretical understanding.

First, students will take turns in pairs demonstrating the effect. Then, they will reflect on what they think caused their observations. One of the easiest but most powerful ways teachers are using Read Ahead: breaking reading assignments into sections so students can take in smaller "chunks" as they navigate through the text.

It also makes it easier to read on your phone. It's a simple extra step but requires [ This Read Ahead lesson plan asks students an important question: What 3 words are most important in the 2nd amendment?

Then invites students to share and compare the words they chose by demonstrating the words that should jump off the page.

A shared reading experience.

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Better hold off on that new mascot I was going to propose for the race. Plagued by inconsiderate out-of-town visitors to that beach, locals successfully petitioned the municipality to limit parking to residents only starting this year.

Wesley was among the group wanting to limit access to his back yard launch - I'm guessing he was getting tired of the horde of fishermen taking bets on whether they could snag his boat as he paddled by.

By shutting down the beach to non-residents, however, he had successfully hoisted himself and the race with his own petard.

He's been experimenting with exotic new safety leash systems this season, so I can't say I'm that surprised at this mishap.

At least until he can get a waiver for the rule he himself had championed wait For , the start would be from Island Park Beach, located at the north end of the bay.

We'd proceed 4. We'd then turn on a "No Wake" buoy near Sandy Point and head back to the start. With a steady 15 mph wind from the north, the initial downwind leg would pass in a flash, while the return trip would, by my watch, still be underway now.

We'd actually covered the same water in two weather-adjusted previous Sakonnet races, but by starting at McCorrie rather than at an endpoint, the upwind slog was split into two more manageable segments separated by a long downwind leg.

This year there was no installment plan - the bill would have to be paid in one lump sum. As a result, after strapping the boats on the car we had to swing by the emergency room so that I could have a couple of frost-bitten fingers amputated.

Don't worry - it wasn't the best ones. The Doctor if that was even his real name expressed some doubt that 42 degrees was sufficient to do lasting tissue damage, but I told him to shut up and keep sawing.

By the time we reached Island Park Beach, the temperature had increased enough that I could finally move again, although most of that movement was confined to uncontrollable shivering.

Jim Hoffman asked if I wanted to borrow some warmer clothes, but he was unable to discern if I was shaking no or nodding yes. When he graciously repeated the offer after the race, I got wise and blinked once for yes.

As we all know, Jim was inadvertently dropped into a vat of Human Growth Hormone as an infant, after which a well-meaning lab technician popped him into the gamma-wave chamber to dry him off.

That's why he has to buy all his clothes from Linebackers-R-Us and can melt titanium with his thoughts oddly enough, only titanium - so unless you have an artificial hip, you're probably safe.

I was grateful for the loaner fleece, but had to keep the hood up over my head to prevent my shoulders from sliding through the neck hole. With Rhode Island restricting outdoor gatherings to 15 people, we had a cozier than normal crew for the Sakonnet Race.

Given that conditions would vary so much during the race, it was tough to handicap the field. I had a particular respect for Tim Dwyer, though.

He's had a solid season, sure, but more importantly, he's consistently exhibited an almost pathological lack of concern for paddlers in distress - a critical component to success when you're in a race in which some poor sap is likely to be floundering beside my, er, his boat.

For Pity's sake, don't leave me, Tim! Once Wesley had gathered us around and sworn us in as deputies I assume - I was fiddling with my hydration system during the meeting , we hit the water and lined up for the start.

I would have put my money on Chris Chappell to jump out to an early lead, but even at very generous odds, nobody is taking that bet anymore. Tim and Wesley had fine starts in direct pursuit of Chris, with John moving swiftly from the right of the line.

I had a decent enough start to merit some back-handed compliments from the field as I pulled even with the leaders.

As I recall, something vaguely like "Tim, will you check me for weeds? Because there's no other way Listless Lesher could have already caught me.

In any event, I showed those guys by inching forward at an almost imperceptible rate. As we moved further from the lee of the shore, the conditions gradually transitioned from flat to rideable waves.

To reach that state of downwind maturity, however, you had to make it through that awkward adolescent period where you bumble through waves that somehow aren't big enough to push you along, but are substantial enough to be difficult to get over.

They'd continue to evolve for the remaining trip to the turn-around, although based on post-race reports from my competitors, I may have stunted their development by taking an inside line that needlessly limited nourishment from both wind and tide.

Even though Wesley had thoughtfully sent us photos of the turn-around buoy taken from Sandy Point beach, I had trouble locating the scamp from the water.

My inside line had left me unexpectedly shoreward of the buoy. I was just preparing myself for a peek-a-boo search through a small field of moored boats when I spotted the marker meters off my port quarter.

I wheeled my V10 through a graceless arc towards the turn, noting with some alarm that the beam traversal was quite lively.

The first half of the race had left me giddy with glee, but the incoming waves quickly slapped the grin off of my face.

Just a moment after I had managed to turn back fully into the wind and round the buoy, an exuberant Tim came sailing by on the last run of his downwind leg.

Despite having only been thrust into an epoch of unrelenting toil about 20 seconds ago, I was already pining for that bygone era of untroubled surfing joy.

The first half-mile back towards the start was a sobering exercise in growing dread. Having perhaps put a little too much gusto into the previous 35 minutes, I was now getting man-handled by the conditions.

My majestic plunges while running with the waves had been replaced by a series of semi-controlled flops over an endless series of jagged crests.

Another 4. A nice gesture, sure, but may I suggest picking a number larger than 4. Fortunately, as I moved more into the lee of McCorrie Point, the violent see-sawing abated enough that I could break the mystical 5 mph barrier.

I was initially concerned that Tim's superior rough water abilities would allow him to close the meager gap that I had established in the downwind leg, but as conditions flattened into more of an upwind grind, my baseless wait Just about the time I had reached "cocksure" levels of arrogance, I happened to glance shoreward.

If it hadn't been for the neon yellow stickers on Tim's deck, I never would have spotted his shadowy, slinking profile. But there he was, dead even on an inside line.

I responded to this horrific discovery with characteristic aplomb, limiting myself to only two or three shrill shrieks of panicked terror and resisting the powerful urge to activate my emergency locator beacon.

Of course, I had no such control over my involuntary physiological response to the shock. I won't get into details, but let's just say that had I been a sea cucumber, I definitely would have regurgitated my intestines.

Once I had composed myself and cleaned out my bucket, I took stock of the situation. Tim had made up perhaps 30 seconds in the last 25 minutes, with at least that much time again left in the race.

My guess was that at least some of his edge over me was related to his inside line - he was probably getting some modest relief from the wind and tide.

But eventually he'd have to abandon this protection and angle out to the more central finish. With my more direct outer line, I reasoned that if I could just keep even with him until he started his cut away from shore, that extra paddling distance would be my cushion of victory.

I soon wondered if I'd have enough of a buffer to afford a quick swim. Keeping tabs on Tim by frequently scanning the shoreline over my left shoulder wasn't helping my stability any.

My sophisticated strategy that is, paddling in a straight line toward the finish appeared to be working. Tim didn't seem to be moving ahead of me appreciably.

With a half-mile left in the race, I abandoned my surveillance routine, put my head down, and dashed pell-mell for the finish.

My GPS had returned to its habitual deviousness by this point, preposterously insisting that my final sprint topped out at 6. I scarcely had time to mute its mocking laughter am I ever sorry I opted for the Motivation Package before Tim rolled in behind me - only 30 seconds back.

A hard-charging John took third less than a minute later. Wesley and Jim rounded out the top five. In the women's race, Mary Beth took the gold, Jean the silver, and Melinda the bronze and a special commendation for scouting out previously unexplored regions of the Sakonnet.

Everyone agreed that although the downwind portion of the race was great fun, we're still gonna get Wesley some day for that grueling upwind slog.

Sleep with one eye open and your PFD on, buddy. We're nearing the end of our abbreviated ocean season. And don't forget to bring your Rhode Island Ski Season punch card - four races and your social distance requirement will be reduced from six feet to five feet!

That may not sound like much of an improvement, but at least it puts your enemies within hockey stick distance.

Labels: Sakonnet River Race. Labels: Jamestown Double Beaver. Like an airline pilot prepping for take-off, I go through a pre-race equipment checklist before throttling up.

I can hear what you're thinking: "Then how come you always neglect to disengage the brakes first? The brakes are off, smart ass, but you don't just drop the clutch on a finely calibrated transmission like this.

Anyway, the list. Paddle at Footplate locked in place? Pogies installed? Check hmm Hydration system properly secured and positioned?

Hold on, let me I'm not a big in-race drinker which perhaps explains why the paramedics always have so much trouble finding a uncollapsed vein for the intravenous saline drip afterwards , but I like to take a few slugs before getting started.

If the water tube isn't readily available during the race, that's acceptable. Not acceptable - a loose tube draped over my upper arm where every stroke sends it flying through a jaunty arc.

Although it would occasionally settle into a semi-stable position over my shoulder, the flapping tube was a repeated source of irritation.

It does liven up my GoPro video a little, I'll admit. I got off to a good start, managing to keep Tim, Wesley, and Kurt abeam - as long as we stretch the definition to include even the minutest degree of overlap.

Plus maybe a few feet of gimme. By halfway through the first leg, I had pulled into a tenuous lead. As expected, there was a fair amount of boat chop in the Bay.

I don't yet have enough concrete evidence to bring a class action suit against the power boaters of Rhode Island, but all the signs point to vast conspiracy to piss me off.

Now that I think about it, there seem to be an abundance of such malicious players in my life. As a good will gesture, I like to position my hydration tube so that anyone passing can take a quick sip.

Dave and his boat were well-primed for the race. I can't wait to see the finished paint job. I reached the first turn at clanging R12 several lengths ahead of Tim, followed in turn by Wesley, Kurt, and Forrest Horton.

I was pleasantly surprised to find a nice wave train heading my way back towards Goat Island, but quickly revised that opinion after discovering that I was being whisked along at all of 4 mph.

The fickle tide someone should really try to nail down a schedule had established a field of standing waves between the buoy and nearby Rose Island.

After a few moments of comical teetering, I managed to wallow myself out the other side and continue on back towards Newport.

Plunging into the north end of the GI Tract, I threw enough of a glance back to see that Tim and Kurt were in pursuit.

Not right on my tail, but close enough to qualify as nettlesome. With the modest breeze now blocked by Goat Island, I realized just how warm the day was growing.

I couldn't wait to be expelled out the bottom end of the Tract back into the open Bay. Starting the second lap, I was surprised at how much choppier it had gotten in the half-hour since the start.

Apparently once word of a paddle race got out, the locals wasted no time in mobilizing every craft in the motor pool. Labels: Battle of the Bay.

Labels: Ride the Bull. Older Posts Home. Subscribe to: Posts Atom. Running on a tight schedule, Wesley came directly from his town crier gig.

As Tim reviews the race rules, non-partisan observer Sam monitors for inconsistencies, misconduct, and improprieties. Look for his multi-volume report soon.

Mike enjoys a last moment of his innate pre-race humility, knowing he must soon adopt the haughty arrogance we expect from a dominant champion.

Don't let us down, Mike! I had ample opportunities to hone my lurking skills. Photo courtesy of Jan Lupinski.

For glory, honor, and - most importantly - that extra SSR series point. Responses to Wesley's captain's meeting ran the gamut from nausea to catatonia.

Dave chose to be in my photo rather than Gavin's, but clearly had some regrets about this decision. Following as it were a deep-rooted tradition, Melinda wandered significantly off course to establish her pedigree as a true-blue surfski racer.

A five-high or wheel -- remember that straights don't count against you is the worst -- or I should say the best -- possible hand for this game.

Starting hands: When playing this game, it's important that you start with 3 little cards. You shouldn't play with any card bigger than an eight in your hand.

But there are two exceptions to this rule. You have a nine showing when the hand is dealt, everyone else's up card is bigger than a nine, and you have two low cards in the hole.

In this case, you have the best starting hand. You are in steal position with a baby showing, and the remaining player or even the remaining two players has a big card showing.

You can often raise in this spot to steal the antes regardless of what your hole cards are. If somearticle calls, you hope that their next card fourth street is a big card and yours is a baby.

If your opponent catches a baby and you catch big, you should let it go. There's no point in continuing with the bluff.

Tracking cards: Are your cards dead? This is another important thing to know when playing Razz. What do I mean by 'dead card'? A dead card is a card that is no longer in the deck.

You know this because you have seen it in someone else's hand.

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