The keys to victory in most athletic contests include diligent training to build strength and master technique; developing and adhering to a race strategy; and of course, gritty determination — the toughness, say, of Abebe Bikela, who blithely tossed away his running shoes at the 1960 Rome Olympics because they gave him blisters and went on to win the marathon in world-record time.

But there’s one more path to gold that often overrides all other factors: picking the right division.

Nowhere is this consideration more critical than the Essex River Race in Essex, Mass., a 5.5-mile water dash involving some 200 vessels in more than two dozen divisions, including single and tandem kayaks, surfskis, traditional Banks dories, multi-oars gigs, sliding- and fixed-seat shells, outrigger canoes and paddleboards, to name a few. When I ran through the full list the other day with a friend, he suggested a more effective game plan: “I’ll show up with a cigarette boat.”

Sorry, but there are a few rules in this popular, somewhat madcap New England race organized by the Cape Ann Rowing Club, the principal one being that all boats must be human-powered. And during the pre-race captain’s meeting last Saturday, an official explained the protocol for settling disputes involving right of way between opposing boats: “No blood!”

Anyway, my longtime kayaking partner Ian Frenkel and I lined up at the staggered start on the Essex River aboard my 22½-foot tandem sea kayak, jostling for position among more than a dozen other vessels. Slower watercraft — including paddleboards piloted by teenage girls in wetsuits, and clunky, wooden workboats rowed by gnarly fishermen in dungarees, sweatshirts and rubber boots — had started 10 or 15 minutes ahead of us. Such speedier boats as sliding-seat shells waited their turn to launch after us at an upriver boat ramp. Our goal always has been not only to win our division but also to keep faster boats from overtaking us.

Ian and I had carefully scoped out the competition — only a handful of other boats in our tandem sea kayak division, the slowest category among doubles. My boat, made of sturdy fiberglass and designed for ocean excursions and camping expeditions, has a 27-inch beam. It tips the scales at a whopping 99 pounds — a Chevy Suburban in a field of Ferraris.

Most of the other tandem kayaks were longer, sleeker and lighter, including my pal Phil Warner’s 24-foot, 39-pound, carbon-fiber racer that can blast through the water like a torpedo. Phil was paddling with Ed Dvorchak in the high-performance kayak (HPK) division. There also were a couple 22-foot, 40-pound Kevlar boats entered in the fast sea kayak (FSK) division, as well as several tandems in the Achilles division, made up of experienced kayakers partnered with paddlers with disabilities — without question, the most admirable teams in the race.

Lumped in with our starting group were single and double outrigger canoes (OC-1s and OC-2s), and I struck up a conversation with a friendly nemesis from last year’s competition, Bogdan Kordulski, a former member of the Polish national canoe team who hung on our tail for most of that race and then outsprinted us in the last 100 yards — not that it mattered much since we were in different divisions, but it was still annoying. Ian, Bogdan and I had exchanged good-natured trash talk just before the start.

“You guys need a faster boat. Why are you paddling such a heavy monster?” Bogdan taunted.

“Anybody can go faster in a lighter boat,” I sneered. “Why don’t you carry a few cinder blocks and even things up?”

Blaaat! Before he could get another word in, the starter’s horn sounded, and we were off, fighting a stiff headwind.

By tucking in behind faster boats, Ian and I were able to maintain a quick pace, but there are complicated, often-conflicting rules involving drafting. Some races strictly prohibit the energy-saving practice; others decree you can only draft boats within your division.

What prohibited me — paddling in the stern and controlling a foot-activated rudder — from drafting effectively was not so much my noble desire to adhere to rules, but trying to navigate over Ian’s towering torso. Ian stands nearly 7 feet tall, and I might as well as have been trying to peer above the Chrysler Building.

I eventually swerved to the side to avoid collisions and paid the price by hitting the wind head on all the way to Cross Island, where the course ventures into Essex Bay, circumnavigates the island and returns up the Essex River.

Though we now had a tailwind, this was offset by an ebbing tide. Also, by this time, a fleet of paddleboards, workboats and other slower vessels clogged the river, so we had to weave around them, much like playing the video game Frogger.

Finally, after nearly an hour of furious paddling, a flagpole at the finish came into view. Bogdan had stretched his lead over us to a hundred yards or so; Phil and Ed already had sprinted across the line. Rats.

At least there were no other sea kayak tandems in sight, but just to be sure, Ian and I put on one last burst, crossed the finish, and then pulled ashore, where we rendezvoused with Phil, Ed, Bogdan, Tucker Lindquist, Sarah Everston, Robin Francis and Tom Warrant. All of us have paddled with, and against, each another for years.

Phil and Ed took first place in the HPK division; Bogdan won the OC-1; Tucker and Sarah were victorious in the FSK; and Robin and Tom won in the Achilles; only five minutes separated us all.

Ian and I had a long drive back to Connecticut, so Phil offered to stick around for the awards ceremony and pick up our medal.

He asked me, “What color?”

“Gold!” I exclaimed. We all bumped fists.

For the record, it was our seventh straight Essex victory in the tandem sea kayak division.

Vince Lombardi was right: Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.