Race starts are notoriously adventurous — jackrabbits at the line itching to shove and elbow their way into the lead; clueless slowpokes poised for pileups; nerve-jangled competitors, fueled by surging adrenaline, chattering incessantly, contemplating a desperate dash for the port-a-potties before the gun goes off.

Major running races such as the 26.2-mile Boston Marathon control the chaos by seeding runners based on past performance so elite gazelles don’t trip over lumbering plodders.

Likewise, such popular open-water races as the 20-mile Blackburn Challenge in Gloucester, Mass. launch rowers and paddlers in separate heats to keep lightning-fast surfskis from plowing into poky rowboats, and everybody from getting in the way of the six-person outrigger canoes, the biggest and speediest human-powered vessels on the water.

But most competitions feature a mass start, setting the stage for frenzy right from the get-go.

Such is the case of the annual Nayaug Canoe and Kayak Race on the Connecticut River in Glastonbury, which my buddy Phil Warner and I entered as a team for the second time last Saturday.

When Phil and I initially competed together a few years ago in his fast, 25-foot tandem kayak we got boxed in at the start by a racing canoe whose bow paddler screamed and cursed when our boats bumped. For a moment I thought he and Phil were going to trade punches. Even though we wound up winning our division the nasty episode rankled.

“Let’s try to avoid the drama this time,” I said to Phil as we staked out a spot between two buoys that marked the starting line. We were paddling his new, even faster kayak, an aptly named Bullitt, which Phil acquired in his insatiable appetite for speed.

Waiting for the start, trying to hold your position for several minutes in a tippy kayak while being buffeted by a gusty breeze and swirling current while surrounded by dozens of similarly challenged vessels is like trying to walk a tightrope while juggling chain saws.

Finally, the starter’s horn blared and Phil, in the bow, flailed away at a crazy-fast cadence that I struggled to match. Within a minute I was in oxygen debt and my arms felt like cement.

A handful of two-man racing canoes bolted ahead, but with Phil’s superior, sleek vessel we steadily reeled them in. By the time we reached the first mark in half a mile we inched into the lead. Truth is, we had no real competition in the two-man kayak division so were racing strictly for pride.

“This is exciting!” I cried. “I’ve never actually been a boat that’s led the whole field!”

The “hut-hut-hut” stroke-switching calls of canoe paddlers behind us slowly receded, and ahead we could see only open water.

But wait ...

“Hey! Where did that guy come from?” I shouted.

A racer in an Epic V10 surfski, the Maserati of paddle boats designed by an Olympic gold medalist, appeared a hundred yards off our starboard beam, angling in front of us.

“He couldn’t have gone around the same buoy,” Phil grumbled.

A spasm of panicky doubt jolted me.

“Are you sure we went around the right mark?” I should have known better than to suggest that Phil, a veritable Vasco da Gama, may have committed a navigational blunder.

“Positive!” he shouted. There had been a similar buoy about 100 yards closer than the one we rounded; all the other racers followed us around the more distant mark — except for the surfski paddler.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get him,” I replied with false confidence.

With furious effort we closed the gap to about 50 yards. The course was 7.3 miles long and I calculated we would overtake our competitor by the halfway point.

But then, a funny, depressing thing happened: He began to pull away.

“This isn’t fun,” I groaned.

Over the next half hour or so Phil and I initiated a few half-hearted surges but with a mile to go it became clear we would cross the line first only if the surfski paddler struck a rock and his boat sank, or if a powerboat wake dumped him in the river.

Neither took place, and he held the lead to finish in 1 hour and 29 seconds. We came in a minute and 48 seconds later.

Phil and I decided it wasn’t worth making a fuss over the buoy mixup. After all, we still took home blue ribbons and a half-gallon of cider each for winning in our division.

Better than sour grapes, I guess.