Wednesday, Oct 11, 2006
MONDAY: SWIM AND RUN
Today, I vow, I’ll go swimming in the bay. A real swim, long and steady, draining and deeply satisfying. But first, I have to make it to the water.
Yesterday, I walked downtown, 20 minutes or more each way, which was draining in its own, unsatisfying way. Today, my plan is to bike there, to the edge of the pier, and down the steps onto Dig Me Beach. (To glorify this little speck of sand at the junction of the sea wall and the pier as a beach seems to be the height of irony. At high tide, it disappears entirely, and even in the best of times it can’t be any more than 10′ x 15′. But it remains a nerve center of the triathlon world – here’s where we get into the water for the swim out into Kailua Bay.) To get there, I feel I must have a lock for the bike. While some folks just leave their bikes in the rusted little rack unattended, I can’t quite get myself to be that trusting. The place is such an anonymous bustle, filled with arrivals from the cruise ships, bound onto buses and vans for the day’s frivolities, and local hang-abouts, as well as the parade of international speedo suited triathletes, that I just don’t see how a loose bike could be safe. So find the lock it is.
During my inventory of my bike tools, the lock was clearly there on the floor of my condo bedroom Saturday night. I start to look for it, first in a random scavenging way, then, panicked when it is not immediately at hand, in a more rapid fire search. Finally, I follow a rigid grid, examining EVERY single possible hiding place in the cramped quarters. Rifling each and every drawer and cabinet. Pulling the comforters and pillows I’d stuffed under the bed to make room on the closet shelf. Upending all my luggage, and sifting though the junk in the bike box. Back to the closet shelf, which was where I sensed I’d left it. Lifting up all the shoes, looking around the Fuel Belt and Camelback up there – nothing. How it could have been lost in less than 24 hours, in a place the size of a large delivery van, was beyond me; but lost it was.
So, on to plan B. Walk not north, but south about 200 yards, to a small, but real, beach on the other side of the next door condo complex. A classic U shaped beach, with a coral reef out about 100 yards, and breakers on either side crashing towards the point of lava rocks defining each side of this pocket in the shore. I stuffed my backpack under a suspiciously manicured driftwood log, and started in to the ankle deep churn at the littoral.
I spent a good five minutes scoping out the wave action. It’s pretty easy to get out through breaking waves, although best done at their shallowest point, as long as there is no coral or lava rock close to the surface. What matters more is finding the best route back into shore, and some landmarks past the beach, like a building or tree, to follow in on returning. I find my line, head out with a combination of breaststroke and head up freestyle past the lone surfer on the break to the right, and I’m out in open water.
I turn left, and start an easy stroke north along the shore towards the pier, which I suspect is a little over a mile away. I steer well clear of the water’s edge, where it breaks up against jumbly crinkled lava flow, probably less than 300 years old, not yet even broken down into large rocks, much less sand. I pass my own condo, then the Royal Kona, and then aim for the orange buoys marking what I guess must be the start of the Ironman course. Once there, I occasionally pass swimmers headed out from town, and a few kayakers, who must be local volunteers keeping an eye on the swimmers, staying between them and the anchor sites seaward where cruise ships, fishing boats, and snorkel operators pick people up from shuttles at the pier. It’s still too early for the Jet Skis or paragliders in tow to be churning up their wake.
My shoulder seems a bit sore, maybe strained a bit in my fall while running yesterday.
Oh! Did I forget to mention yesterday that I actually FELL DOWN while running along Ali’i? Seems hard to imagine, but falling while running is indeed a hazard. In the past eight years, I figure I’ve run at least 10,000 miles, and have fallen now 4 times. The first was at a track when I clipped the concrete edge on a turn. The football turf cushioned me. Second time was at an Xterra race in Oregon. Part of the run went through a cow pasture, with shin high grass hiding the surface beneath. Cows had made occasional post-holes in the moist turn. I was chasing after an age-group rival who had just passed me for the lead – the guy was a terrible swimmer, but an awesome biker. I thought I could get him back, but my foot hit one of the holes, and down (out actually) I went. My left hand pinkie has never quite been the same; I think I broke the distal phalange or tore a ligament in the last joint. Whatever. The last time was earlier this year, on a cul-de-sac in Gig Harbor, when a little dog I’d passed came back at me, and hit my ankle while neither foot was in contact with the surface.
As I lay there on the asphalt, the dog’s apparent owner, a woman of my age, came by and looked, like most dog owners do when Fido does something wrong to a stranger, totally unapologetic, almost accusing me for having the temerity to be out running on the public thoroughfare. I’d been in the middle of the street, at its crown, nowhere near the pooch’s yard.
Falling while running, or more precisely, being tripped up while running provides a sickening sense of flailing inevitability. Your feet are both off the ground; any little push, especially to a lower limb, disrupts your center of gravity enough that your upper body goes out of line, and thus become subject to the tyranny of gravity. With no purchase on solid ground, there is no way to recover. It’s a simple matter of physics – vectors and all. It all happens in slow motion, and you have to decide which body part you wish to injure. Rolling about the body’s long axis allows some contact to be absorbed by the shoulders, but eventually, a knee, or hand or elbow must brake the fall. Abrasions, and a little blood are inevitable. And pride – pride is injured too, as who wants to be seen flying over the pavement like a drunken acrobat.
“Are you all right, ” she asked, somewhat disdainfully.
Disgusted, I lay on the ground taking stock of my body parts. I just shook my head. Before I’d gone down, she’d been calling the dog, trying to get it back from attacking me – or, in her view, in playfully nipping at me. Dog owners (I’ve been one myself) don’t seem to realise that the poor beasts DO NOT UNDERSTAND English (or any other human language). They suspect that their boss is yelling because they want to be protected from this intruder who has flashed into the territory. So off they go, the owner’s imprecations only serving to juice up the attack rate.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I shot back disgustedly. “I’ll be all right.” I thought a bit about letting this go versus giving her some food for thought. She looked a bit verbally hungry so I forged ahead. “You know, I’m not an angry person. But somebody else might be. You really should keep your dog under control.”
She bristled. She acted as if the attack were MY FAULT. “He’s really a gentle little dog. He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
I looked at my bloody elbow, and saw red. “The next guy might not be so calm. We used to have problems with our dog leaving our yard. We got an electric fence, and that kept him him. Think about it.” I picked myself up, and ran on. In the middle of a Sunday 3 hour long run, I didn’t want to stay and raise my blood pressure anymore.
So, on Ali’i drive, all of a sudden I was flying through the air, just like before. Same slow motion fall, same roll to the right. Same flail of my left hand, trying to cushion to impact. And same scrape of the right elbow and I twisted back to earth. But no dog anywhere in sight. I looked around. All I could see was a round mini-manhole cover, the kind about 12 inches in diameter, covering a water valve or something. Had I tripped over that? Not possible; it was only a half inch higher than the surface. But next to it was a circular wire, about the size of a bent coat hanger, but perfectly round, apparently some sort of support meant to go around the manhole cover. And the back of my right ankle was cut. The wire must have come partly loose from the cover, sticking up invisibly just enough to snag my leg, while both feet were out of contact with the surface. I picked it up and flung it contemptuously back towards the cover, for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, just to demonstrate that I wasn’t a stumbling bum, but someone who had savagely, AND FOR NO REASON, been attacked by part of the decaying infrastructure here on the Big Island.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, my shoulder was sore. I must have pulled the rotator cuff a bit in the fall, Not serious, but enough to worry me that I might have a niggling injury two weeks before my Big Race. I let it go, as the swim itself seemed as easy as walking. Really, I felt like I could just roll along all day at this pace. I turned around just short of Dig Me, and headed back on a straighter line, closer to the shore this time. I arrived at my little beach, sighted my way in, and eased up onto the sand. I picked up my bag and walked up onto the grass of the condo complex. I was a little worried that I might be intruding onto Private Land, but a sign at the edge of the beach read “Shoreline Access”, and there were no signs warning me. So I strode across the close cropped zyosia grass under the shade of a few palms, past some morning loungers reading outside their sea side first floor rooms.
“Sir. SIR!” I heard from above. Worried that I might get called to task for trespassing, I hesitantly looked up. There, on a third floor balcony was a woman, about my age, with dark grey flecked hair pulled back in a pony tail.
“Where did you swim to?”
“I went to the pier and back”.
She seemed unsure just where, or what the pier was. “How long did that take?”
“About an hour.” Actually it was 1 hour 10 minutes.
“How far is it?”
“I’m not sure. I think its a little over 2 miles there and back.”
She smiled and shook her head an wonder. Now ALL the people out on the lawn, and those eating breakfast on their decks would know about the mysterious swimmer, going ALL THE WAY TO TOWN – AND BACK! Well, they’d better get used to it. For the next two weeks, they’ll see a procession of us parading back and forth in front of their condos, as we try to wring the last little bit of fitness into our already well prepped bodies. Why can’t we just trust our training?