Since I’ve been here a few times before, I’ve already written many of the things I’d like to say in these pages. Some of my journal entries are from before I started this blog, and I’m going to shamelessly reproduce them here.
Yesterday, I registered for this year’s race in Kona; I got my neon orange wrist band to signify i’m one of the tribe of racers. Six years ago, it was a blue wrist band. Here’s the story from that day:
Monday, October 16, 2006
THE THIN BLUE BAND
This morning, the ever optimistic coaches want me to do a “40-50 minute swim on the course, at about the pace you expect to go on race day.” And, my conference starts at 7:30. What to do, what to do?
The sun pops over the crest of Hualalai east of town at 6:45. It starts getting light at a little before six. So I eat a half bowl of oatmeal, hop on my mountain bike, and scoot down to the pier by 6:30. The Gatorade tents are already set up, but all of the usual bustle is absent. Not only is it a tad early for anyone to be getting in the water, but there is no cruise ship; they’ve been banished due to earthquake recovery activities. So no vans, buses, or taxis waiting to whisk them away to their activities of the day. No pavilions set up with chairs for on the spot timeshare discussion prior to an all day tour of whatever on Hawaii. (I think I’m getting the distinction between the state and the county of Hawaii right: if it’s the state, you are “in Hawaii”. If it’s the county – this island – you are “on Hawaii”. I’ve been here for ten days now, so I’d better start talking like a local.) I rack and lock the bike, and prep for the swim. Two volunteers at the Gatorade tent are scanning the bay.
“Hum, look … one of the swim buoys must have come loose last night.” He means the giant orange inflated balls marking the boundary between the swimming area and the tie up site for boats – since we go out 1.2 miles along the coast beyond the breakers, we need a bit of protection and aid to sighting a straight line. This one was bobbing up and down with the waves against the sea wall, trapped along the rocks by the south wind.
“Yeah, you’re right,” the other one says. “Sure as anything, some of them will ask if that’s where the course goes today.” Chuckles all around.
Taped to the pipe in front of the steps down to Dig Me beach is a hand-printed sign reading, “No swimming, tsunami risk.” There are already people in the water, and the volunteers are not stopping ME from going on down to the water. Someone walks in front of me, reads it, and moves on. I wonder why no one is willing to take it down – it’s obviously been there for 24 hours, and hundreds of people have passed it into the surf. I suspect we see it as a propitiation to Pele, to keep us safe in there. Keep our respect for her real and central in our thoughts.
There is a storm slowly working its way towards us from the small islands, and the water has been kicking up since yesterday afternoon. Usually the West side of the islands are relatively calm, with low swells and no chop. But now, even at this early hour when the seas should be at its calmest, there is a good 4 foot swell with a hint of whitecap appearing in between. As I plow through the water, using a slow, long, relaxed stroke with a very exaggerated rotation out to breath, I know I am bobbing u[ and down in the water 6-8 feet from trough to crest. It’s hard to sight in these conditions, and I run the risk of ingesting salt water every time I try to take a look ahead for bearings.
I go out for 22 minutes, and finish in 44, so the south wind must have given me a little extra boost on the way home, as I had to stop or turn sharply every 100 meters or so to avoid some of the advancing hoards – all of those swimmers who got in the water just at 7AM, our official race start time. I figure I’ve gone a little over half way out on the course – between 55 and 60% of the way, with two minutes of rest time thrown in. But that may be wishful thinking, as that would give me a projected time of 70 to 75 minutes, just what I want to do.
Shower, towel, unlock bike and roll back to the Royal Kona, only two minutes late for THAT official start. Today, we’re learning about hearts: sudden death in athletes, exertional syncope (fainting), and lactate threshold testing. An unscheduled break to allow the carpenters to test the bolts on the overheard chandeliers (remember the earthquake?) gives me time to go back to the condo next door and change into my shorts and Ironman Wisconsin Finisher T shirt. Because my plan is to use the 30 minute scheduled break to register for the race.
Most Ironman races are held on Sunday, and register athletes on Thursday and Friday before. Here, they give you an extra two days, and start on Monday (race is on Saturday.) I’m eager to get this done, so I can get the official wrist band which will mark me, once and for all, as a participant in the 2006 Ironman Triathlon World Championship. I’m going to milk this thing for all it’s worth. I want to parade around Kona all week with the badge of distinction denoting me as one of the Chosen Few.
So, back to the pier, to the King Kam Hotel, where I join the anxious throngs. Actually, not many people are as eager as I appear to be, and I whisk right through. While waiting in line for a couple of minutes, I hear a voice ahead of me.
“Hey Al, you made it. It’s Even Evensen.” Even is the third place finisher at this year’s Ironman Coeur d’Alene, who got my spot in the roll down when I won that race, but got to turn down the Kona slot because I already had one from Ironman Wisconsin. Even had a encounter with a car while biking a few years ago, and still races with metal in his lower back. He’s not as fast as he once was, but is thrilled just to be able to compete again.
“Oh, hi, Even, good to see you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m good, I’m good, he smiles.
The line is moving quickly, and he gets pulled into the horseshoe where they are giving us the envelopes with all the race paraphernalia. Let’s see, there’s a timing chip, five bags for stuff during the race (two transitions, two food bags for half way thru the run and bike, and a bag for clothes to change back into after the race), swim cap, two race bibs, helmet and bike numbers, two tickets to allow family members into the recovery area after the race, and the “death card”, which allows someone to get my bike after the race if I am otherwise unable to. Oh, and an iridescent blue wrist band with an “M-Dot” logo and the number 0000331 on it. They’re expecting 10,000,000 people in this race?
I move on to get my goody bag, and confirm my chip, and I’m outta there. On to get the Carbo and Awards banquet tickets I’d bought for my family. There, I bump into Keith Greenough, a chap from England who’d come in second to me at Coeur d’Alene. Seems like all the old guys want to get the registration out of the way early. We smile at each other, confirmed members of the blue band tribe.
Returning to the conference, I picked up two facts which reassured me. From a lecture on the athlete heart I discovered that a well trained heart works the same at any age. Meaning that it’s not the heart which loses its oomph (medical term: compliance) as we age, it’s other things. A 75 year old athlete’s heart works just as effectively as a 20 year old’s. Good to know, and strive for. And in a nutrition lecture, I was told that, when exercising more than 90 minutes a day (my average daily amount of exercise, day in and day out, for the past five years have been close to 2 hours a day), it’s OK to eat LOTS OF CARBS. The only thing that matters is: is your weight stable? Finally, someone who supports my serious addiction to the bathroom scale.
Tonight, the weather is most un-Kona like. A storm is moving slowly in from the direction of Maui, leaving just a thin blue band of sky above between the hectic clouds and the bubbling ocean. The weather seems ominous tonight, with thunderstorm warnings and everything. The warning included instructions to stay inside, because dime sized hail was coming to Kawaihae. I hope the bridge rumored to be breaking apart there can handle the load. Standing on my balcony (that’s the one on the end there, the second one up), I can feel the stiff breeze coming in from the northwest, bringing soft little specks of rain. One lone lightening flash plays off coast near Captain Cook to the South. I almost feel at home here.
