Paddle Session #24 From Smoke to Stoke: A Long Paddle Report

I was supposed to be on a long ride today, but thanks to the air quality gods (or maybe just Alberta), I got smoked out. So instead, I decided to channel my thwarted ambition into something equally noble: a session report.

I meant to start early. Truly. But in the grand tradition of modern athleticism, “early” was more of a vibe than a reality. I had a brief panic that a Cup Race at the boathouse would clog the launch, but by some divine paddle intervention, the heats wrapped up just as I was ready to shove off. The universe, it seems, occasionally throws us a bone.

Conditions? A Mystery Box.

Water: unknown.

Boat traffic: shrug.

Wind: sure, why not.

I was spiritually available for whatever chaos the river had in store.

The Game Plan

- Build on last week’s 4-hour epic

- Eat and hydrate like a responsible adult

- Paddle steady

- Embrace motorboat mayhem with grace and juvenile ambition.

- Stroke focus: from length (last session) to authority.

Translation: paddle like you mean it.

I had grand plans for a heroic, carb-loaded, rice-and-honey cycling breakfast (science!). Instead, I got oatmeal and fruit—because I lacked both prep and, apparently, my giant water bottle. After a frantic “Where’s Waldo?” gear scramble, I made do with a 500 ml flask and my 3-liter bladder. Backup hydration plan: St. Vital Park (SVP) dock refill or mild dehydration and regret.

If you're a paddler, you've probably heard the chatter echoing across the water: carbs are having a moment. And for good reason. The latest science—and a whole lot of soggy trial and error—has made one thing clear: when it comes to endurance performance, carbs are king. During long sessions, your body burns through glycogen like a beaver through driftwood, and once those stores are gone, so is your power. That’s why more paddlers are aiming for 90–120 grams of carbs per hour to stay fueled, focused, and upright.

To hit that target, we mix and match: maybe 2 energy gels, 500 ml of sports drink, a banana (if you're feeling bold), and a few gummy chews. Though let’s be honest—peeling a banana while balancing on a paddleboard in wind and chop is basically a slapstick routine. Fortunately, modern sports nutrition has our backs. Dual-source carb blends (glucose + fructose) allow the body to absorb more fuel with less digestive drama. The result? Fewer bonks, steadier strokes, and the kind of endurance that lets you chase the horizon without crashing into it.

But here’s the catch: you can’t just start wolfing down carbs like it’s your last meal on Earth. That’s a fast track to gut rebellion. Enter: gut training. Yes, it’s a real thing. You have to gradually build up your tolerance to high-carb intake during training—week after week, month after month—until your system can handle all that sugar hour after hour. I’ve been working on it for a while now, and I can comfortably take in at least twice what I could before I started. The difference? I finish sessions with more energy, and when I miss my targets, I feel it. Hard.

The Start

A strong north wind gave me a surprisingly sweet ride upriver to SVP, complete with choppy rollers and the occasional micro-surfing moment that made me feel like a budget Poseidon—minus the trident, plus a lot more grunting. Today’s weapon of choice was my NSP Ninja: a fierce flatwater board built for speed, with just enough volume to handle chop like a pro. To be clear, *I* am not in the “like a pro” category. Balancing on a 20-inch-wide board while climbing 3–4 foot rollers in a 30 km/h tailwind is, in my book, the definition of “character building.”

But that’s the point, isn’t it? The challenge *is* the goal. I welcome the wind, the waves, the buffeting chaos—it keeps things honest. And today didn’t disappoint. The usual trouble spots were serving up everything a paddler needs to feel alive and slightly humbled: wind in the face, waves underfoot, and sunshine overhead.

As for the board—it’s a rocket when conditions are clean and you’re in rhythm. It’s also one of the best platforms I’ve used for foot steering, with a responsive tail that rewards precision. But it’s not without quirks. When I shift too far back on the deck, especially in rough water, stability becomes more of a suggestion than a guarantee. And once the cockpit starts filling with water, it can feel like dragging an anchor until it drains. It’s a board that demands attention and rewards finesse—but on days like this, that’s exactly what I’m after.

I haven’t been paddling as much as I have in past seasons, mostly due to some nagging elbow and forearm irritation. I’ve been riding more instead, but let’s be honest—nothing truly replaces time on the water. The crossover is minimal, and it shows. My fitness isn’t where I’d like it to be, my balance feels a bit off, and my technique could use sharpening. But here’s the thing: that’s not discouraging—it’s motivating. Because in paddling, there’s always more to gain, more to refine, and more to strive for. That’s the beauty of this sport. No matter your age, ability, or background, there’s always another layer to unlock. Progress isn’t linear, and perfection isn’t the goal—it’s the pursuit that keeps us coming back.

So while I may not be at peak form, I’m still showing up—and sometimes, that’s enough to surprise yourself. Case in point: I hit my previous turnaround point feeling oddly fresh and decided to push on, planning to pause at the 3-hour mark. Fun twist: I forgot. By the time I remembered, I was a corner away from the perimeter highway. Didn’t seem worth it to carry on. Spoiler: hindsight disagrees. I might’ve hit 40 km, but who’s counting (besides Strava, obviously).

The Return

I did a quick check of my water supplies and figured I could ‘just’ squeak through the return leg without running on empty—if I stuck to my current feeding schedule. I’d reassess at SVP, but at that moment, I felt good to go.

Here’s the funny thing about feelings during endurance efforts: they lie. A lot. You’ll always have highs and lows—always. The real skill is learning not to get too cocky when you’re flying or too dramatic when you’re dragging. Most of the time, those mood swings are just your body’s way of saying, “Hey, maybe don’t skip that snack next time.”

Miss a feeding or start your paddle on the empty side, and suddenly everything feels like a Shakespearean tragedy. But toss back a fistful of sugar and a hit of caffeine, and you’re bouncing like a fish at sunset. It’s not magic—it’s blood sugar.

Endurance sport isn’t just a test of physical limits—it’s a masterclass in emotional maturity. The longer the effort, the more opportunities there are for your mind to spiral: frustration when conditions aren’t ideal, disappointment when your body doesn’t respond the way you hoped, or doubt creeping in when the finish line feels impossibly far. Emotional maturity means learning to ride those waves without letting them capsize you. It’s the ability to stay calm when things go sideways, to accept discomfort without panic, and to recognize that a bad moment doesn’t define the whole session. It’s not about suppressing emotion—it’s about understanding it, navigating it, and using it as fuel rather than friction.

Developing that kind of resilience takes time. It comes from showing up on the hard days, from learning the difference between pain and panic, and from realizing that progress often hides behind plateaus. Emotionally mature athletes don’t just chase results—they chase self-awareness. They know when to push, when to pull back, and when to simply endure. They don’t crumble when the plan falls apart; they adapt. And perhaps most importantly, they learn to find meaning in the process, not just the outcome. Because in endurance sport, as in life, the real growth happens in the space between effort and emotion.

Also, fun fact #2: Of course, emotional maturity doesn’t make you immune to the physical realities. My balance goes straight out the window when I’m tapped out. Like, “wobbly inflatable tube man” levels of grace.

Then came the wind.

It turned petty. Vindictive, even. Some stretches were a full-on headwind slap-fest, the kind that makes you question your life choices. Others were blissfully sheltered, like the river was apologizing for its earlier tantrum. Either way, I locked into zone 2 and refused to swing between heroics and sulking. No drama, no glory—just steady, sensible, slightly stubborn paddling.

Paddling a 14-foot flatwater race board in choppy conditions is like trying to thread a needle while standing on a rolling log. These boards are built for speed and glide on calm water, not for stability in chaos. With their narrow width and low volume, they slice beautifully through glassy conditions—but throw in boat wakes, wind chop, or crosscurrents, and suddenly you’re in survival mode. Every wave becomes a test of balance, and the margin for error shrinks to inches. Your legs are constantly firing to stabilize, your paddle becomes a lifeline, and even minor missteps can send you swimming. It’s humbling, exhausting, and oddly addictive.

But when you start to figure it out, the payoff is huge. Navigating chop on a flatwater board forces you to refine your technique and develop a deeper feel for the board’s behavior. You learn to stay low and loose, to keep your cadence quick and your paddle in the water as much as possible for stability. Foot steering becomes your secret weapon, and subtle weight shifts can mean the difference between threading through a roller or getting tossed sideways. It’s not about dominating the conditions—it’s about dancing with them. And when you find that rhythm, even briefly, it feels like flying just above the chaos.

At first glance, stand-up paddleboarding—especially on a race board—looks like an upper-body workout. And sure, your shoulders, arms, core and back do plenty of work. But anyone who’s spent serious time on a 14-foot race board in real conditions knows the truth: your legs are doing just as much, if not more. Every wave, wake, and wobble demands constant micro-adjustments from your lower body. Your feet grip the deck like talons, your calves burn from stabilizing, and your quads and glutes are in a near-constant state of tension. It’s like holding a squat while trying to steer a moving sidewalk with your toes.

The longer the session, the more your legs reveal their importance. They’re your foundation—absorbing impact, maintaining balance, and translating paddle power into forward motion. On a narrow race board, especially in chop or crosswinds, your legs are the unsung heroes keeping you upright and efficient. And unlike the upper body, which gets brief breaks between strokes, your legs are “on” the entire time. That kind of sustained engagement builds serious endurance—and a deep respect for the full-body nature of the sport. So the next time someone calls SUP an arm workout, just smile… and invite them to stand on a 20-inch-wide board for 5 hours in a headwind.

I won’t lie—by the end, my legs were feeling it, especially my right quad. But I’ve come to see these near-failures as gifts. Every time your body complains, it’s offering feedback. It’s pointing to the weak links, the neglected muscles, the overlooked details. The first time I attempted the Red River Paddle Challenge (an ultra distance paddle race), I was wrecked—cramping in my forearms, biceps, abs, and quads. It was humbling. But it also sent me back to the drawing board. I trained smarter, targeted those weaknesses, and returned stronger. The next year, I still cramped—but less. Two or three years later, I crossed the finish line cramp-free. That kind of progress doesn’t happen overnight, but it’s proof that persistence pays off.

The Red River Paddle Challenge is one of those rare events that truly welcomes everyone—whether you're a seasoned racer chasing a personal best or a first-timer just hoping to reach the finish line. It’s not about being the fastest or the fittest; it’s about showing up, pushing your limits, and experiencing the river in a way that few ever do. The course offers a mix of beauty and challenge, and no matter your pace, the sense of accomplishment when you cross that finish line is deeply personal and incredibly rewarding. There’s something powerful about completing a long-distance paddle—it’s a quiet triumph that stays with you long after the soreness fades.

What makes the event even more special is the community behind it. From volunteers to fellow paddlers, the vibe is supportive, inclusive, and genuinely encouraging. People cheer for each other, share tips, swap stories, and celebrate every finish—whether it’s a sprint or a slow grind. There’s no ego, just mutual respect for the effort it takes to paddle that far. It’s the kind of event that reminds you why you fell in love with the sport in the first place—and why you’ll want to come back again next year.

Of course, not everything about the day was serene and soulful.

Then came the motorboats.

Naturally, every motorboat in Manitoba decided to join the party just as I launched into the final stretch from SVP. Some were the size of small islands. Most were moving like they’d just stolen them. But I held my line, threading through the chaos like a wobbly sea wizard in training. Honestly? I’m getting better. Progress, not perfection.

Motorboats may offer speed and thrill, but for paddleboarders and other human-powered craft, they often bring chaos. The large wakes thrown by high-powered boats can turn a peaceful paddle into a balancing act—or worse, a swim. For those on narrow race boards or low-sitting kayaks, even a single poorly timed wake can swamp gear, destabilize the craft, or force paddlers into dangerous situations near shorelines or bridge pilings. Beyond the immediate safety concerns, these wakes also accelerate shoreline erosion, especially in narrow urban rivers where banks are already under pressure from development and runoff. The constant battering of waves undermines root systems, collapses banks, and muddies the water, harming aquatic habitats and degrading the river for everyone.

That’s why river etiquette isn’t just a nicety—it’s a necessity. All users share responsibility for preserving the health and safety of our waterways. High-powered boats have their place, but that place is not on narrow, public-use urban rivers where space is limited and the environmental impact is magnified. These rivers should prioritize low-impact recreation: paddling, rowing, fishing, and wildlife observation. Respecting no-wake zones, slowing down near other users, and understanding the ripple effects—literally and figuratively—of one’s presence on the water is essential. A river can be a shared space, but only if we treat it with shared respect.

The Finale

After five hours of steady paddling—embracing wind, waves, motorboat mayhem, and the looming threat of dehydration—I was feeling that perfect kind of tired: fulfilled, spent, and just a little sun-crisped. I had met all my goals, stuck to the plan, and finished strong. No shortcuts, no sulking, just steady work and a quiet sense of satisfaction that only comes from earning every kilometer.

Naturally, I wrapped it all up with a triumphant starfish dive into the river—because sometimes, glory demands a little theatrics.

Blisters? Absolutely.

Aches and pains? Of course.

Elbows and forearms? Still operational, surprisingly.

We take the wins where we get them.

That’s me on paddle #24: paying skin tax, dodging yachts, and living my best life—one stroke, one swell, one slightly wobbly victory at a time.