Shopping in Kona

With the Hawaii Ironman coming up in two weeks, I’ve decided to convert my stories from my trip to the race in 2006 from the old Bikrutz web site to this blog. There are about 15 (!) of them, so starting today, a new one will appear daily until the race aftermath. Here goes:

Monday, Oct 9, 2006

Forty-eight hours I’ve been in Kona now. Most people would have at least gone to see a snorkel beach somewhere, or visited a Kona coffee plantation, or the Captain Cook memorial. Driven up Saddle Rd, overlooked the volcano caldera, touched the water at the southernmost spot in the US. SOMETHING. Me? I went shopping.

Getting here only took 12 hours. The most exciting part of the adventure was taking off from Honolulu on the 25 minute hop to Kona, and seeing my bike box still sitting in the runway, waiting for the next flight out. Which was only 55 minutes later. I used the time to rent the car. About 20 minutes later, I sauntered up to the lost baggage claim desk. A very large man, with no name tag, in a floral shirt and a HUGE smile heard my query.

“Umm, I think my bike box is on the next plane in.”

“Oh, we’ve got a bike box right here,” he said. He could hardly keep from laughing.

“Really?”

“Yeah, is it grey?”

“No black.”

He started to fill out a lost form. I said, when’s the next plane due. This clearly flustered him. Was he new on the job? I mean, don’t the planes come in the same time every day? He searched his brain, and thought that maybe it was coming in at 3:30.

“Yeah, flight 338. I think it’s due about 2:45”.

He raised his eyebrows. seemingly baffled at what I wanted, or what he should do next. But he couldn’t stop grinning. He seemed hugely pleased when I suggested I would just hang out until the plane came in, and see if my box came in. I don’t know if he was laughing out of relief, disgust, humor at the poor haole, or what.

I walked slowly across the plaza to the departure zone, to check a monitor. Yep, there is it was, flight 338 from Honolulu. Arr. 2:27. I checked my watch – it was 2:28. People were starting to walk though the one way exit into the baggage claim area. I toyed with the idea of asking them which flight they’d come in on, but thought that maybe, a visit back at the oversize baggage load out was in order. As I walked up, Big Hawaiian Guy grinned, and pointed at my box – the first thing off the plane. I felt like a real winner – not only did I beat the lost luggage gods, but the box – which was 10 pounds over Hawaiian airlines’ web site claimed maximum allowable 70 pounds (extra charge for anything over 50) – but I had paid nothing for its trip over here, courtesy of the sponsorship by Hawaiian airlines of Xterra World Championships, where I was bound next.

My condo, which I had secured a year in advance, was, like Neil Young said in “Ride My Llama”, “old but good”. Built in 1972, it sits at ocean’s edge on black lava. The waves crash at high tide against a (lava again) seawall, sending spray up several stories, sometimes speckling the screens over my window. I have a corner unit, facing south and west, with a wrap around balcony. Out there, I feel like I’m anchored on one of the cruise ships which show up most mornings in Kailua Bay. A palm tree crest just at the south edge of the balcony. Best of all, the Ironman swim course runs right outside my window. I think I’m at about the one mile mark; the turn around is just past the next condo complex down.

Saturday

So after 12 hours of travel, I arrive at the Hale Kona Kai, unit number 301. Serviceable, but small. Like I said, the first thing I do is go shopping. At Safeway. For food.

I call Cheryl up. She asks, “what did you get?”

“Oatmeal, bacon, bagels, cream cheese, peanut butter, turkey, cheese, yogurt, strawberries, milk, orange juice, …”

“That’s the same stuff you eat when you’re here! You’re in Hawaii; aren’t you going to eat anything local?”

I hesitate; a crack about eating lava comes to mind. Or orchids, or mold. “I did buy a pineapple”. It’s true; it’s sitting on the counter top right now, being very decorative.

As I bring the food up to my room (piling it onto a luggage cart), I see a shaven headed, orange shirted lean young man heading out on a run. I’d assumed I was the only one nuts enough to come two weeks in advance, but everywhere I look, I see evidence that the madness has begun. He seems to be coming from the second floor of my complex; I’m on the third.

Eager to start acclimating, I hang up and try a 30 minute run, down Ali’i past the stone church. It is hot, of course, and muggy, but this is Kona. Over the years since my first race in the heat, 7 years ago (Spokane, Troika half iron, 90F, no shade on the run), I’ve gone through a number of phases: hating and wanting to avoid it; getting angry at it; assuming I was just not built for it; being poleaxed by it (see: several Xterras on Maui, several Ironman Coeur d’Alenes); successfully attempting acclimitization (Kona/Maui 2004); surviving it (Wisconsin 05, CdA 06); succeeding in it (Troika again, this year), and now, accepting it.

I’ve been embracing the heat all summer. There was no rain in the Northwest from mid June through mid September. Coeur d’Alene this year was 90-92F, and I won the damn race. Then, I spent a week in Northeast Oregon, ostensibly in the mountain, but actually biking everyday in record heat: 102-105F for the first several days. It was a blessed relief on the last two days when it got down to 98, then 91. A week after that, it seemed downright chilly at Troika, only getting up to 80 at the end of the run. Then 12 days in Colorado, where it was 85, but blazingly sunny.

For a racer, heat is like wind or hills on the bike, big waves on the swim, or hills on the run – there’s no way around it, it’s going to be harder, it’s going to slow you down.  But the fitter you are, the better you’ll do in those conditions. And there is one over arching truism in Ironman racing: at any given moment, you must not go faster than a pace, or effort level,  which you can hold from there until the end of the race.

So after the run, I come in soaked, but not downtrodden. And my pace is only slightly slower than it would be at 60F. Heartened, I work on my dinner: a turkey sandwich I’d made that morning for the plane flight.

I turn my attention to building my bike. My biggest worry is pumping up the tires. The sorry details are quite boring, but the combination of deep dish rims and a puny, almost flaccid pump make for some trying times. I put the wheel against the wall, and whack the pump down with way too much force and vigor, picking up the cadence to over 90 bpm. It rat-a-tats against the floor, but the air still leaks around the valve extenders. Exhausted, I turn my attention to other bits of trivia surrounding the re-building of my bikes, such as taking inventory of my tools.

A knock comes on the door. Non-plussed, I crack it open. A smiling, lean, but somehow haggard brunette is standing there.

“Umm, I’m just down steers, and, I was wondeering, did you hear a thumping?” she asks in anglo-antipodean accent.

“Oh, yeah, that was me. I’m trying to pump up the tires on my bike.”

“Oh, are you heere for the Ironman? My husband is, too. We have a 3 month old, and she’s trying to get to sleep.”

“Yes … I’m sorry”

“Thank you for trying to be keerful”

It clicks – the long “ees” – she’s a Kiwi.

“You’re from New Zealand? You’ve got the accent”

“Yees”, she says, as she turns to go downstairs. Clearly in no mood to talk, she’s frazzled beyond the point of politeness, worried about her child, and trying to placate her husband, who’s probably the focused young man in orange I saw earlier. She has to run the whole household, the entire enterprise, while he remains resolute in his search to Kona magic. Ah, the poor support crew. Luckily, I’m only subjecting Cheryl to this madness for a couple of days before the race, not two whole weeks.

Sunday

“Getting to the surf on time”

-Neil Young, “Long May You Run”

Amazing the way I wake up at 5:38, no matter where I am. That’s about 1/2 hour before sunrise, but here in the tropics (19th parallel), we don’t see any real daylight until about 15 minutes before the sun rise. The fact that there’s a 13,700 foot mountain between us and the rising sun also keeps things a bit on the dark side. Oatmeal, bacon, OJ (don’t disrupt the routines, not after you’ve come this far), then into my swim togs. No bikes built yet, so I slog the mile or so down to the pier to get in a morning swim. But I’m so lazy, that when I hit the seawall, I notice there’s a tiny little beach facing the bay, protected by a little jetty (made of lava rocks) where a bunch of people are casting into the ocean, hoping for a morning bite. And there’s a guy, sort of pot bellied, short, early thirties, mustachioed, who’s got a trash can full of tennis balls and is throwing them out into the drink for his several dogs to go fetch.

As good a place as any, I figure, so I don my mask, drop my shirt and shoes, and go for a swim. 30 minutes or so does it, to just remind me how much I LOVE to swim in the warm ocean on the west coast of a Hawaiian Island. Perfect water temperature, visibility far to the bottom where currents have rippled the sand, and coral reefs here and there, where live all sorts of floating and swimming creatures, big and small.

Back to the bike box, where I tinker with all the tiny bolts, and produce a semblance of a time trial bike from the parts in the box. Adjusting the fit – seat height, aerobar angle and width, mainly – takes about 15 minutes. I put on my shorts, shirt, shoes, helmet, and some drinks, and fly off up to the Queen K. Out to the airport, then up the hill a ways past there and back, takes about 90 minutes.

Back at the ranch, I get re-dressed, to trade in my minivan rented yesterday, for a smaller, way cheaper car for the next 2 1/2 weeks. The National Car Rental lady gives me the usual friendly awe which locals in service jobs reserve for Ironman competitors. She claims she’s got no compacts on the lot at the moment, and would I like a Malibu hatchback with a fold down rear seat. She apologizes that it’s a full size car, but maybe it will take my bike in the back. No increase in rate of course.

Would I ever?! It’s perfect – it will hold the bike box for the trip back to the airport, and my TT bike will fit in the back with the front wheel still on.

On my way home, I stop off at the Cycle Station, to pick up some CO2 cartridges. I browse around a bit, then pick up 3. Sitting at the register desk is a blond, crew cut dude who looks like he’s spent a lot of time in the weight room.

Noticing my choice of 12 gram, rather than 16 gram cartridge, he asks, “You have 650 wheels?”

“Yes. You know, I’ve always wondered what to do with these when I’m done with the race. You can’t take them back on the plane.”

He smiles. I realise he has a slight Germanic accent. “Well of course we don’t give refunds. But you can leave them with us after the race, and we can use them for our local kids’ cycling club, or in our monthly maintenance classes.”

“Thats a good idea – hope I don’t use any up before then!”

“Have you done the race before?”

“This is my first time to race, but I was here two years ago to watch”

“So you know what the weather is like, then?”

“Well, yeah. But two months ago, I was in Oregon for a week long bike trip, and it was 102-105 most days.”

“But that’s in the mountains, and it’s not near so humid.”

“‘It’s a dry heat.’ I don’t care how dry it is, when it’s over 100, its just plain uncomfortable, even dangerous, to bike. That made everything else seem a little more pleasant.”

I sign the credit card slip, and walk around the corner of the building, where I’ve parked in the shade. Then I remember I also wanted valve extenders, so I go back to the store. Feeling like Columbo, I say, “There is just one other thing …”

Next, to K-Mart, for some mouthwash and a couple of other essentials I forgot the day before on arrival. Like  at Safeway, there seem to be way too many shoppers for the number of register clerks. I pick a line, which of course seems to be moving slower than the one to the right, where about 6 shoppers whiz through while the one guy in front of me gets the full Island treatment from the checker, Shyanne. She is a stolid, overly large Pacific Islander, who can only seem to move her arms. Everything else about her stays fixed in place. I have plenty of time to ponder her name. Is it “Shane”? Or is it “Cheyenne”? Why can’t people provide a phonetic spelling on name tags?

Back into the sweltering blaze (“but it’s a WET heat”), I amble next door to the multiplex. One movie worth seeing, “The Departed”, with a basketball team’s worth of Hollywood leading men: DiCaprio, Nicholson, Pitt, Wahlberg, Alec Baldwin, Martin Sheen, to say nothing of Martin Scorsese. And, it’s based on a Hong Kong martial arts flick with a reverse identity plot worthy of Shakespeare. I note it’s on at noon and 3 PM – the mid day show would be perfect on a down day to get out of the heat.

Back at Hale Kona Kai, I hang out until 3:30, when I stretch out for a 40 minute run down Ali’i again. As usual, I see a bunch of incredibly fit people, mostly men, running with me. They all look like pros, or at least like the people who win the races – I mean overall – I go to. I feel so inferior. I know that most of them will be far ahead of me at the finish. I wonder if I am a poseur. I work hard to convince myself that I DO deserve to be here. Yeah, I got in originally as a last place roll-down, finishing HOURS behind most of the other men who qualified, and behind most of the women too. But then I did win my age group at CdA this year, and got to feel the arrogant pride of actually turning down a Kona slot because I ALREADY HAD ONE. I should feel confident that I do belong here, even though I will finish in the bottom half of the field, and close to the middle of my age group.