Reported by Steve Thorne
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Photos are at the bottom

CONTEXT

Each morning in Kailua-Kona, I ride my bike down to the town pier, swim in the 79 degree azure water, then walk to the sport medicine tables for therapy. Though Ironman Canada (IMC 2001 race report), the qualifier race that got me to Kona, was just short of 6 weeks earlier, certain parts of me are still not recovered. Primary among obstinate bits is my right knee. Each time I’ve tried to run since IMC, a gremlin with an ice pick has sought me out after 10 or so minutes. His pastime is jabbing said ice pick into the lower and outer portion of my knee. I don’t like this chap and have been stretching, massaging, and now seeking direct physical therapy to be rid of him. My pre-race day worry is having to walk the marathon.

There has been one notable exception to the 10 minute running curfew and that was with friend Scott Prudham in Toronto, Canada, a few days before we flew to Kona. There, going old-school, I simply wrapped an ace-bandage around my knee and was able to run, if weakly, for 70 minutes. This serendipitous experiment turned out to save my race.

The participants include 1,558 registered women and men (around 1485 actually started), the majority of whom are pros or age groupers who placed in the top 6% of finishers in the 22 Ironman qualifying events around the world. A few hundred physically challenged (so labeled by the organizers), handcycle, and lottery participants round out the field. Competitors represent 48 nations and all the US states and territories (except the wise folks of North Dakota).

TOO EARLY

It’s 4 a.m. on race day. I drink 500 calories of maltodextrine (a complex carbohydrate mix) and eat a bit of peanut butter and banana. With extra time, I lay back down and visualize the start, the swim, the bike, the run, and the finish, in as much detail as possible, and at each stage try to imprint a drive that will push me forward despite obstacles.

World events and professional obligations have completely consumed me since IMC, so unlike my careful preparation for that race, I’ve been doing virtually no mental/emotional programming for Kona. Though performance is the confluence of lots of factors, in retrospect, and especially relevant for very long and sufferful events, truncated mental preparation was a serious omission.

20 minutes pass and it’s time to get down to the swim start at the Kailua Pier. Upon standing, I feel nauseas, feverous, and am on the verge of vomiting. I remind myself that this is just another day in paradise.

Ocean Swim, 2.4 miles, Kailua Pier - Kailua Pier

Despite the time disadvantage of a non-wetsuit openwater swim (wetsuits provide additional buoyancy and hence increase efficiency while reducing fatigue), there is great joy to swimming unrestricted in the tropical Pacific. The water clarity affords a visual field packed with coral formations, polarized schools of small fish, iridescent parrot fish, and just prior to the start cannon on race morning, a juvenile green sea turtle. In contrast to the mass of nervous humans treading water just above, Turtle shows un-phased indifference.

Turtle's indifferent presence reframes the event for me. This is just a race, after all. Yet typical of the self-referentiality of humans, and magnified by the self-absorption of athletes, we read great importance into otherwise arbitrary events (such as certain instances of swimming, bike riding, and running). Our goal directed activity on this day is a game (in Wittgenstein’s sense). We are inscribed by the rules of the game, enact them, and are judged by them. Yet something like a “world championship” is also beautiful and potentially transcendent, if only because we so consecrate it. This “making special” (as Ellen Dissanayake terms it) of otherwise everyday activities (physicality, artistic effort, play) is part of what makes humans so cool. That we treat cultural objects like elite athletic competitions as extraordinary is wonderful, but Turtle reminds me that it’s certainly nothing to get flustered about. This utterly pedestrian senior-in-high-school epiphany calms me immensely and for the first time since waking I am enthusiastic and cheerful.

The swim begins not at the designated 7 a.m., but when the start line is relatively straight. Beginning at 10 minutes to 7, the announcer booms instructions telling competitors to prepare for the start while race officials on surf boards and kayaks herd errant swimmers back behind an imaginary plane. As with IM Canada, I place myself equidistant from the start markers and just behind the lean, long, torpedo looking lads and lasses crowding the line.

By my watch, the cannon fires at 6:58. As mass swim starts are want to do, there is considerable kicking, bumping, and converging over the initial 500 meters. I feel good, find feet to draft, and am buoyed forward by Turtle power and my adolescent epiphany. We round the first and second turnaround buoys in quick succession and soon are heading back to the start. Over half-way done -- I say to myself.

I haven’t swallowed any water yet and the pack is more spread out. I am smug and confident as I misjudge a side swell and inhale a lung full of salty fluid. I gag and gag again, cannot breath, stop swimming and frantically look for the safety kayaks that line the course. Finally I am able to get an erratic quarter lung full of air and my panic subsides. I convulsively gag again, and again and again, and then am able to take regular if shallow breaths. I attempt to swim but can’t control my gag reflex in such proximity to the water; I can only breathe with my head held well clear. Haltingly I am finally able to swim freestyle, but feel deeply fatigued. What a few minutes earlier was an almost relaxing, if also physically taxing pace, is now a struggle. Gradually I recover some strength but the swim seems to go on forever. I have always and ever will be swimming. When at last I sight the Kailua pier and know the transition is near, I suck it up and close on a pair of wagging feet that take me onto the exit ramp.

Attempting to stand I almost fall over, but fortunately, a couple of huge guys are there to pull me forward. Their help is timely and saves me from an ignoble face-plant in my transition from swimming to bi-pedal locomotion.

My T1 time (3:51) is slow since I have to make a full change from speedo to bike shorts and jersey. As always, getting the bike shoes on is the most frustrating part, but eventually this too is done and I dizzily ride over the timing mat and out onto the course.

Human Kite on a Bike, 112 miles, Kailua Pier -- Havi Town -- Old Kona Airport

The initial 8 or so miles wind through the town of Kailua-Kona and up onto the Queen Ka’ahumanu highway. There’s an initial climb that I take out of the saddle. My legs aren’t fresh but aren’t feeling bad either; they are just legs, doing their job with only modest resentment. Once on the Queen K I try to increase the pace. I’m not passing as many people as I would expect to, but making forward progress and playing leap frog with a small group.

We are just entering the lava fields when we cross “the wind line.” Gusts to 50 knots are buffeting riders hither-tither. A woman crashes just in front of me. I swerve across the road’s center line to avoid her (an infraction for which I would have been automatically disqualified if witnessed by martial) while calling out “crash!” so that those behind me have more time to react. The wind is so strong it occasions a certain levity -- when I pass folks they look over with a grin and roll their eyes. This extreme buffeting continues for 20 odd miles, with many folks using primarily their small chain-rings on gently rolling terrain of no more than 2-4% grade. On two occasions I see felled riders picking themselves up from where they’d crashed or been blown off the road. My friend Lance Doherty had reported such conditions at 2000 Ironman Hawai’i. By most accounts, this year’s side-wind was as or slightly less strong, but as we were to find out shortly, the headwind for 40 miles of the return was considerably worse.

At mile 55 begins the long climb to Havi. The wind is head-on as we are wrap around the north tip of the island. Everyone is suffering. I feel relatively weak and sense my reserves may be low. With events this long (9-14 hours for most participants), energy levels rise and fall cyclically. It is difficult to know if you’re bumping against the last of your reserves or just needing to push through the punishing low end of your energy algorithm. I decide it is the latter (what choice do I have? This is the world championships for goodness sake!) and give the headwind and slog-of-a-climb to Havi my best shot.

At the turnaround feed station, I replace my bottles, fuel myself, and try to take advantage of what would be an all too brief tailwind descent. This is a gorgeous section of the course. Verdant grass land slopes up to the left, the endless blue and white of the frothed Pacific 800 vertical feet below to the right. All good things come to an end, and this section of the bike course did too, as we swing around a corner and are met by a steady 30 knot headwind. At one point, struggling up a mere 6% grade slope, I am stomping on the pedals in my 39-23 as though this were a 15% grade climb. Incredible.

It is somewhere around hour 5 (4 on the bike) and I just can’t seem to keep my heart rate up. I feel like I am working hard, look down, and see 140 beats per minute blinking back at me (when my heartrate ought to have been between 155-165 bpm). I had cracked and was getting passed on an increasingly regular basis. The significant number of riders I myself pass is of no consolation -- they had simply cracked more completely, but we were in the same miserable, defeated state. If I had significant energy stores left to tap, I couldn’t seem find them.

It is only at the finish that I discover the brutality of today’s conditions. Many of the elite competitors are a full 30 - 45 minutes outside their predicted finish times, and the 2^nd finisher’s time, 8:46:10, is the slowest since 1984 (before the advent of aerobars). Additionally, 17 of the pro men drop out, including Peter Reid, last year’s champion and this year’s IM Canada winner, and Dave Scott, who has more elite level experience at Kona than anyone else. For most everyone, the culprit is the unremitting wind on the bike course.

Slowly, then, after many forced hard efforts, I finally ride into transition 2. Cecilia and my Dad are both there and this buoys my spirits considerably. Quickly I dismount -- it is thrilling to get off this accursed bike! I trot into the change tent and put on my running shoes. I look at the ace bandage. Despite strong warnings from the medical staff to not wrap my knee (for fear of cutting off the arteries feeding my lower leg), I decide to go with what worked during my only successful run since IM Canada.

I take my time and wrap my right knee, then yelling out a thanks to the volunteer staff, trot out onto the course with fear and loathing. I fear my knee won’t want to run and I loathe the possibility of having to walk the entire marathon, which I estimate would take roughly 6.5 hours. I calculate that each mile I am able to run will cut roughly 8 minutes off of my total finish time. Equationally,

Running, with a bit of Skipping and Hobbling, 26.2 Miles, Old Kona Airport -- Ali’i Drive

The first steps are awkward as running after a long bike ride will be. I am ecstatic, however, to be running at all! The heavy legs lighten and mile two is faster. I’m running through the town of Kailua-Kona and am steadily moving by people. The crowd is thick. Lots of good lookin’ people, in the bodily and spiritual sense, are gleefully cheering, hooting, jiggling body parts, and clapping. At the mile 2 marker I realize that by running this far, I’ve already produced 16 minutes [-agony]!

It is cloudy now and the running conditions are excellent (in that muggy, hot sort of way). Gently I accelerate so as to run as many miles as possible before my knee gives out. Despite not running for 6 weeks, my legs are coming around. Why didn’t I have this vigor on the bike?

As I pass a EuroGuy running in a tight singlet and speedo bathing suit, an aid station comes into view. We stay more or less together as we go through, each getting what we want -- water and gatoraide for me, two cups of ice for him. He pulls slightly in front of me and I see him dump a full cup of ice down the back of his speedo and continue on. I’m intrigued and a little shocked, but it’s humid enough that I decide to try it at the next station a mile ahead. En route we pass the 5 mile marker and with great joy my lightning-like brain calculates that even if I developed knee pain soon, I’ve already saved 40 minutes! Despite my miserable bike leg, things may be looking up.

Now ahead of my speedo wearing tutor, at the next aid station I grab two cups of ice and put one in my hat to cool my head while dumping the other straight down the back of my running short. My first reaction is that I’ve made a huge mistake. Odd sounds are emerging from my stern that resemble an activity occurring after the question, “shaken or stirred?”, if shaken is the option selected. The clang of the ice seems deafening and I sheepishly swish by the aid station volunteers hoping they don’t notice, but I note that none of them are wearing headphones or earplugs -- how could they not hear my south of the border ice-shakin’ booty rumble? Then the effects hit me. I’m cool. I’m calm. I’m fast. I am emanating disquieting noises from a naughty bits location and don’t care. Without ado, I prioritize the positive sensations and background any potentially ill social consequences. I’m already married after all. Lots of the major arteries feeding the legs (and other sundry parts) course through the groin area. That’s just where all that ice was settling.

Things are absolutely great as I come past our hotel on the outskirts of Kailua-Kona. Looking for Dad, Mom, and Cecilia, I scan the crowd on the seawall near our hotel and am disappointed to not find them. Just ahead, however, sitting smartly in the shade, I see my Mom and behind her, Cecilia and my (potentially future Ironman?) father. I feel a great push from their exuberant cheering and grin broadly. Passing through town on Ali’i, we wind around and then begin the short but steep climb up Malaka Drive. It is here, at mile 8, that I feel the lack of run training. My energy level is high, my core body temperature moderate (you know why), but my quads feel hollow. No matter, the solution is simple -- take it down a notch up this steep, power demanding climb.

Exiting out onto the Queen K, the shimmering vastness reduces the runners I see ahead to tiny bugs scurrying along a black ribbon. I myself am an insignificant speck of semi-sentient matter struggling across a totalizing slab of black lava. More ice top and (ahem) bottom, some fluids, and I start the move out into the void. The mile ten marker is visible ahead when the gremlin with the ice pick suddenly takes an interest in my right knee. I hobble to the side of the road for an iliotibial band stretch. I take off the ace bandage, look at my swollen knee, shrug, and rewrap it tighter than before. Beginning gingerly, I start off again. Though my knee feels week, there’s no pain. I can hardly believe my luck.

Out to the energy lab turn-around and back is uneventful save for the normal fluctuations in energy level and pace. Throughout this stretch I am surrounded by carnage --- exceedingly fit looking tall and skinny people, with the body type I’ve always been envious of, walking or stopped doubled over in misery, mere shells of the people they were earlier in the day. We have raced for nearly 10 hours at this point. My predictions prior to the race (knee problems aside) had me finishing about now. Missed predictions and bike times are no doubt true of most of the competitor-comrades around me. It's been a tough day.

Since I’d lost roughly an hour on the bike, and that after a mediocre swim, I set my sights on finishing the marathon in a not unreasonable time. Nearing town I catch sight the 23 mile marker and am simultaneously hobbled by shooting pain in my right knee. And with only 3 miles to go! Not wanting to stop I skip a few strides, then with a preemptive cringe re-engage a normal running gait. For whatever reason, I am able to continue.

My twisted expression morphs into a broad smile as I round a corner and begin the decent into the town of Kailua-Kona and the finish. It is near 6pm but I know I will finish before the crushing signifier of mediocrity is distributed -- the safety glow stick for those who will finish well into the night. I accelerate down the hill and float by slowly moving athletes to the roar of an appreciative crowd. Rounding the final turn and merging onto Ali’i, I see my parents and Cecilia clapping madly. I consider stopping to chat since my time is so far off my potential, but settle for a touch of hands and share of grins as I continue moving forward. Entering the shoot I run along and slap the hands of the many spectators lining the crowd guards. This is a jubilant moment, the culmination of months of heavy training, restricted socializing, and a regimented daily schedule.

Arms raised, I cross the finish. It is done as I could do it, and I feel fine.

Post-script

There are lots of possible excuses I could spout to explain my average performance at the world championships -- the Kona race was too close to IM Canada (5 weeks and 6 days) and didn’t allow for proper physical/emotional rebuilding; the conditions were worse than last year, which until this year had been labeled the toughest Kona race ever; that in fact I'm not at all an experienced triathlete (the world championship was my 3rd triathlon ever); and so on  -- but I don’t think this is really gets at the issue. And besides, my new friend from Norway, Arild Tveiten, would have none of this.

Kona is a “true test” says Arild. And self-pity, especially the retrospective variety, is a debilitating rationalization, says I. Why bother? You qualify, you physically and mentally prepare, you do your race, and you are tested based on the internally consistent and consensually agreed upon standard.

Kona is a great race, a powerful race, and its brutality cuts through deficiency and weakness, just as it rewards mental fortitude and solid preparation.

 

PHOTOS

1. The pre-race Parade of Nations found competing Norwegians a party of one (Arild, far left). Ben Haldeman (2nd left), two Norwegian women on vacation who joined us en route, Pete Traylor, myself, and Cecilia (not pictured), helped Arild out. Hei ja Norge!

 

2. Race Day. Me and a few friends out for an early swim

 

3. Moving from the horizontal to the verticle plane at the swim exit

3. Beautiful desolation. These big island lava flows of 1801 are tortured, forsaken, and severe. And yes, I feel terrible.

 

 

4. Wow, it's windy here. No power and in the little ring, the cracking commences.

 

5. Is one finish photo ever enough? Can I stop now?