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Saturday, 19 October 2002

Ahhh . . . nothing like a good four hour sleep the night before the potentially longest day of my life! During the darkness, the purring of the air conditioner masked the sounds of the heavy downpours. The waves crash so ferociously here that it sounds like its thundering all the time. Normally rain on race day is less than desirable, but here in Kona one might suppose that could be a good thing.

My tummy is usually ready for dinner by 5am, but because I had a liquid breakfast at 2am, a bowl of oatmeal seemed sufficient. This liquid breakfast consisted of my newly found race day nutrition drink. What more could one want out of a 'food' - sufficient calories and protein, yet palatable and easily digestible. I can see myself in a nursing home many years from now raising a glass before I bury the latest contender in a wheelchair race down the hallway.

Soon after I woke up my nurse, chef, driver, and right hand woman (a.k.a. my mother), we embarked on the puddle-filled roads to the King Kam Hotel. Normally, the body marking takes place out on the pier, but they moved all the stations to a dryer inside locale. This really threw off all the NBC television crews and cameras who were mad-dashing all over the joint.

I love the smell of indelible marker in the morning. . . smells like misery - I mean victory! All marked up and ready to go! Only two hours until the cannon fires. Bike set up, stretching, hydrating, peeing, sun-screening, sobbing, waiting, check the bike again, waiting, and finally time to enter the water. The crowds were now visible because of the daylight that was slowly trying to make its way through the clouds. The water within the pier looked relatively non-lethal and soon it became congested with nearly 1600 colorful swim caps and four times as many flailing underwater limbs. The masses slowly bobbed toward the starting area which consisted of a row of surf boarders attempting to keep the soon-to-be troops in order.

It is worth repeating that I have never been a strategist of any sort. Thirty five years of 'winging it' and still going strong. I drifted over to the Timex banner-laden boat which posted the left side of the start (the right side being the pier and hugely inflated Gatorade bottle). This was an as congested spot as any other, but at least I had less of a chance of getting trampled swimming along the outside. Within seconds of the mass start, I heard a fellow troop claim, "I'm going left!", pointing over towards the bow of the ship. I love a man with a plan, so off we went as the cannon fired. No longer were the helicopters and cheers audible. Instead we were left to the turbulence of underwater sounds coupled with surface splashing.

While swimming in the ocean earlier this summer on Cape Cod, I practiced using the audible rhythm of my forced exhale to center myself in washing-machine-like swimming conditions. The Pacific Ocean is clearly a long way from Canandaigua and Mirror Lakes. Here, not only is the presence of forceful blows from other swimmers a probability, but the swells are of major concern. I was intent on stroking smooth and steady and drafting whenever I could. As I approached the turn around boat at 1.2 miles, my tummy reminded me that I'd forgotten my typical pre-race bagel and I wondered why the heck they never have food on the swim. It was a good thing they didn't because the swells were wreaking some serious havoc on my stomach. Rhythm or no rhythm, I was feeling nasty! That Gatorade God was soon approaching and I was relieved to exit the water in 1 hour and 10 minutes.

I couldn't have been happier to see my ladies in the changing tent. With a little help, I peeled off the salty swim wear and peppered myself with dry biking gear. While swimming under the overcast skies, I felt as if my shoulder was getting a high dosage of Kona sun, but instead my suit strap was chafing my skin. In the tent, I quickly slapped a glob of Vaseline onto what resembled a hickey from a baboon. Definitely not an impressive transition time, but my goal throughout the swim and into the bike is to remain relaxed and fly below the radar of physical exertion.

I shuffled off to my bike way down yonder in the racks. As I clipped in my soggy shoes, the sky continued to drizzle. Amidst a sea of strangers in town, I heard my name called several times which was thrilling. The road conditions were a threat due to the wet pavement, quick turns, and rapid descents during the first few miles of the course. Officials prior to the race start warned the competitors that disqualification would result if riders were aggressive during this stretch.

After completing IM Lake Placid, the longest I swam in one session was a mile. The bike training also fell way off. Staring at grids of tile and bubbles in indoor pools for long periods of time makes me batty. Rides of longer than 3 hours in duration were torture. My body was craving rest and Krispy Kremes, not more IM training. I held on and managed to log in miles sufficient for olympic distance training. The saving grace was that I did not incur any major injuries.

After zipping through Kailua-Kona, we headed into the lava fields. As I looked north, the skies looked blue, which made the unrealistic dream of a cool day come to an end.

The landscape was incredible and I had plenty of time to study it. In the depths of the lava fields, there were lava rock formations for as far as the eye could see. Messages and memorials were laid out using small white stones against these dark backgrounds. The only vegetation were bunches of ornamental-type grass which were yellow in color. The further north we rode, the greener things became (but ever so slightly). I was beginning to question whether those 'legendary crosswinds' were going to make an appearance. I left my race wheels in my shed and chose to ride with my 'heavies'. Last year, several people were blown off their bikes as 60mph gusts ripped through. Not me.

Worth mentioning, but preferably forgotten, are the numbers of competitors who are passing me. Hundreds. Fly below the radar, baby.

The race officials rode by on the backsides of Harley's at least every five minutes. I witnessed numerous violations. I felt like a high school student during finals - sit in single file and no talking or your paper will get torn up. I was craving conversation, but remained on my best behavior. Luckily I didn't 'flat' as I saw at least 15 people who did.

This course is anything but flat. The hill that gradually ascends to the turnaround in Hawi is long and grueling. The wind wasn't helping matters. The numerous riders who blew past me earlier were now flying down the same hill effortlessly. As my favorite spinning instructor yells, "Come on legs!"

Success! Not being obsessed with my time, I can't recall what my halfway split was. All I could think about were the goodies in my 'special needs bag'. Eureka! A bag filled with more pretzels, Nutter Butters, salt tablets, Tictacs, and my nutritional drink. Gobbling up my goodies, the long descent became especially sweet. The wind began to roar its ugly head. I was feeling somewhat groovy until around the seventy-mile mark. Ai carrumba, the soles of my feet and hamstrings were aching. I had been taking regular breaks while standing to stretch early and often. It was nearly three in the afternoon and my arms and shoulders were getting blasted by UV rays. I cursed myself for forgetting the sun block. The near direct tropical rays were being absorbed by my skin and flowing to my brain with deleterious effects. I imagined those small white rocks were peanut M&M's. I swear I saw Brad Pitt driving one of trucks coming from the opposite direction. Just when I thought the miles couldn't go any slower, they did. This portion of the bike was the lowest riding I've done all season. At last, the bike to run transition. In the tent, there was plenty of gabbing, sunscreen, and help to get me ready for the 'm word'. I treated myself to a seat in the port-o-potty. It felt like a throne.

The first two miles running felt rather perky. As the course at this point made its way into town, I could hear Mike Riley commentating on how close the two top men were to the finish. Ouch. The heat was too fierce. I felt myself burning up. Whoa Nelly. I wanted to go to sleep right there on the burning asphalt. It's a good thing my brain doesn't do addition because I began to wonder how long it would take to walk the remaining 24 miles. Holy high heart rate, Batman! My monitor read 140 after five minutes of walking! People were cheering and lying at the same time, "You're looking strong!" In this horrid state, I looked up and saw Kelly (also from Rochester) looking no worse for the wear and nearly six miles ahead.

Finally, an aid station came into view. I hovered there for quite some time, taking in a ton of fluids while loading my hat and shirt with ice. Somebody somewhere was sending some positive vibes at that moment, because my feet began to shuffle forward. I made it to the next station and then the next, walking at each to drink and load up with ice. Up Palani Road (big hill) just as Natasha Badmann is easing her way towards victory. The course left the hustle and bustle of the town's cheers and entered a long stretch of bleak and hilly terrain.

A volunteer at an aid station shouted, "Get your warm rolls here!" Baked goods never go uneaten with this ironchick. I devoured that roll with total abandon and sheer pleasure. I also inhaled some Fig Newtons. Soon after, I won't go into the details, but let's just say I made it to a port-o-potty just in time at unlucky mile 13. I continued making my way through the miles as bunches of people with faces and form as wretched as mine headed towards the finish.

The stretch through the notorious 'Natural Energy Lab' was slightly pleasant on the way out of this 4.5 mile loop towards the ocean. Soon after entering, I spotted Kelly again who seemed to be winning the battle with her IT band injury, "You go, girlfriend!".

The special needs bag which I prepared the night before had my liquid nutrition, which was long overdue at mile 17. I slowly sipped its contents while watching a woman ''power hurling", reminiscent of Mary at IM Placid. Anything can happen to anyone in this race. Near the turnaround, I passed Navy Mo (a friend made here in Kona), who also seemed to be rising above her injuries.

What cannot go unnoticed at any point of this race is the presence and performance of the volunteers. Simply outstanding. I've heard there are over ten thousand volunteers who play a role in helping the 1600 athletes. At mile 20 of the run, I asked for some ice water at a station, but had to settle for just water. 100 yards up the road, a turquoise-shirted local appeared beside me breathless and with a cup of ice water. I thanked or nodded to every one who served or cheered me. This event can only happen because of them and the least they deserve is the gratitude for their efforts.

The skies had darkened now. I was beginning to notice those green light wands I see the late finishers carry on TV.

Throughout our stay here in Kona, I've taken on three roles aside from being a triathlete. In the company of my parents, I am the daughter - the girl who's out playing after dark and now its time to come home. Being a mom, it's approaching bedtime for my children and I really want to be there. As a wife, I miss my husband and know he's tired of this single parent business. Now its time to run - and run fast. I still walk through the aid stations, but motor through the lengthy spaces in between. I knew I was passing people, but took no notice of how many, giving encouragement when I could muster the extra breath.

No promised full moon to guide us home, only the occasional glow stick and lights from an oncoming vehicle. Four, then three, then two miles to go. Up the last hill and away I go. Cheers became audible once again. I could now see my feet, but feeling them was another story. Descending the hill on Palani Road was a true test of balance. Less than a mile to go and at a wicked pace, with no idea why. The crowds were totally carrying me. All day long, I resisted the act of sobbing, but now gave in.

Alii Drive will never be just a road to me, nor will I ever forget its name. As the finish line came into view, I became air born. I floated from one side to the other, slapping hands and exchanging electrifying energy. I spotted my #1 fan of the day, my mom, who had been on the sidelines since dawn and my son, Leo, beside her. I reached for him and across the finish line we went. Very happily, I might add.

The time seemed insignificant - 12 hours, 20 minutes, and 4 seconds.

That's all from the Lava Land Home Companion . . .Where the ironwomen have sore quads, The men have sunburned and shaven legs, And the children now have more time to play with both parents!

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