So, this is the inaugural year for Race Week in Bellingham, and let me say—on paper, it has everything going for it. Quaint college town? Check. Great food? Yep. Beautiful scenery? Absolutely—snowcapped peaks, sparkling water, and just enough boutique charm to make you think, Hey, maybe I could live here.
But wait, there’s a “but.”
Turns out Bellingham has a little Tuesday night ritual downtown called street cleaning. Sounds innocent enough, until you learn that it involves tow trucks prowling the streets like apex predators at 2:30 AM, mercilessly dragging away any car foolish enough to be asleep at the curb. That’s right—two of our crew cars, including mine, were spirited off into the night like a bad subplot in a city planning thriller.
By the time we paid the ransom (err, towing fee) and reclaimed our vehicles from the automotive gulag, Tuesday had already earned a special place in my personal hall of infamy. I was tired, grumpy, and under-caffeinated—basically the ideal mindset for high-stakes racing.
Still, we made it to the course on time, and Blur was back on the water. That said, Day Two didn’t live up to the fairy tale that was Monday. Our starts were… let’s say “interpretive.” Either we were late, out of position, or just jumped the gun entirely. Not exactly textbook form. The silver lining? Blur is still faster than regret, so we clawed our way around the course pretty well—just not well enough.
We slid a few places over the course of three races—mostly fourths and fifths—and while the boat was performing, the humans were clearly stuck in second gear. The weather, at least, was playing nice: fog in the morning, followed by sunshine, 8 to 10 knots of breeze, and a start line that looked more like a demolition derby than a sailboat race. If Monday was aggressive, Tuesday was full-contact. The protest room was doing brisk business by the end of the day, which tells you everything you need to know.
On a tactical note, the racecourse started to shift—slightly less of the standard “bang the left corner” strategy. We found a few gains sneaking to the right on the upwind legs, and by mid-afternoon, the fleet was fanning out like someone had kicked over a box of toothpicks. Not chaos—just a little more nuance.
We did manage to squeak out a third in the final race, which felt like a moral victory considering the sleep deficit and mild existential crisis from earlier.
Back at the marina, the post-race theme was Christmas in July—because nothing says “sailing regatta” like fake snow, tacky sweaters, and rum drinks in Santa mugs. Cheers to that.
After the pavilion festivities, we wandered into town and blew off a little steam.
Blur Racing 
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