Wednesday, October 25, 2006
SUNDAY
TDA. The day after. Surprisingly, I felt rather spry all day. Not enough inflammation in my legs to get them really sore yet I suppose. My only injuries were on my feet: another black toenail for the right great toe, and a blister from my bunion on the left. Every marathon I’ve done for the past few years, I’ve done damage in these spots. The keeps growing back strong – I’m on my fourth new one in the past two years now, running some races with no nail to speak of. I drain this one like I always do (gross out alert!) by stabbing into the blood blister under the nail with a pin, and squirting out the serum trapped beneath.
My second injury is another recurrent one which I hope is happening for the last time. Because my bunion (on the left great toe’s ball) is so large, a blister develops next to it in the longitudinal crease between the first and second toes. In ten days, I get surgery to remove the bunion. Hopefully that blister, and the pain I get when biking for more than 3.5-4 hours in the ball of my left foot will not happen anymore. Running a marathon with that skin rubbing with every step is like getting a match lit there each time it hits the pavement. The fact that I don’t feel it most of the time is an indication of either the power of endorphins, or the magnitude of the other trauma going on elsewhere in my body.
I’ve got a large contingent to deal with, my wife and one daughter, and sister and brother-in-law. We spend the morning snorkeling next door at the surfer beach, and the afternoon out at Waikoloa, where Leigh and Craig are staying. Between these activities, I totally forget to look for finisher’s merchandise or race pictures.
In the evening is the awards banquet. Advertised at 4 hours, it runs true to form – we get out close to 10 PM. Other IM post-race banquets are done in 90 minutes, but WTC is so into self-congratulation that they more than double the usual time spent on videos and what not. Between the pre and post race banquets, the crowd has spent more time sitting on its collective butts listening to this drivel than Normann Stadler spent winning the damn race!
But you have to go, if only to listen to the winners give their little speeches. Normann (who speaks excellent English, thanks to his years spent training annually in San Diego North County), basically takes us through a recap of his race and a litany of his sponsors. Michellie Jones (who also trains in SDNC with the triathletes mafia) gives a more lyrical performance, ending with a tearful note of thanks to her twin sister.
MONDAY
Annie leaves for home (can’t miss too much school) on the 9:30 flight. On the way back to town, I stop to get finisher’s merchandise and pictures. My finish photos are not romantic odes to the joy of coming down Ali’i drive, but I look respectable. Just like my performance in the race: not spectacular, but respectable enough. I wanted to appear with arms upraised, eyes squeezed shut, mouthy open in an ecstatic cry towards the heavens. Either I didn’t get it right (tough to do after 12 hours of racing), or the photographers missed that subtle moment of ecstasy.
They did capture me on the run, looking better than ever before in a triathlon photo. At this point in the race, I had rolled my racing top up, exposing my midriff. I must have been going downhill, as the photo shows me in mid-stride, feet flying off the asphalt, an actual smile (or friendly grimace) on my face.
I really wanted a finisher’s ball cap, but they were all out, so I settled for a collared short sleeve polo shirt, and carry bag. Oh, and I couldn’t resist a replica of the original Iron Man trophy, hand made (the original, not the replica) by race founder John Collins in his shop. It’s a bent metal stick figure with a hex nut for a head, giving the impression that anyone crazy enough to do this sport has a hole in the head.
For the rest of the day, Cheryl, Leigh, Craig and I spend cruised the South Kona district, stopping in the town of Captain Cook for lunch at the Aloha Angel. The food was superb. I had two pancakes with cinnamon, strawberry whipped cream and coconut syrup, and a side of Portuguese sausage. The salads and tofu stir frys the others had seemed equally delectable. Overlooking the ocean 1000 feet lower on the gentle volcano slope, we were entertained out on the porch by several electric green Madagascar lizards, slurping from an opened package of strawberry jelly. They look like little Geckos, with suction feet and lidless eyes. Not one of them tried to sell me auto insurance, however.
Next stop, the Painted Church. Cheryl and Craig were more enamored by the cemetery than the interior “frescoes”, which are a few primitive scenes of ecclesiastical significance, like Cain standing over a mortally wounded Abel, damned souls burning eternally in Hell, and St. Thomas looking beatific. A pleasant little stop on the way to the Place of Refuge National Park. This was a safe zone for warriors caught on the wrong side of the battle lines, or who had broken kapu (taboo). By running the the surf, and swimming to the Refuge, one could be absolved and return to society without risk.
The best part about the little National Park is the cove next door, where innumerable giant green tortoises and untouched shallow coral reefs create one of the best, most convenient snorkeling spots in West Hawaii.
Convenient? Drive about 200 yards from the National Park, and you’re at the water’s edge. Park right on the lava, just above high tide. No sand here, just a 6-12 inch drop off from the nearly flat black lava to the water below. There are no waves, as the sits at the apex of a 1000 yard wide bay, protected by a wide coral reef. Once in the water, the fish appear instantly – literally at water’s edge. All colors and sizes. Head out 20 languorous yards, and there is a small underwater shelf, opening up to a floor about 30 feet below. The coral has not been picked over here, maybe due to proximity to a national park, and may be due to the total lack of any commercial development, such as condos or resorts.
There is even a free rinse off area. A small spring enters the one place where there is a sandy oval, the width of a freeway lane. Coming up through the bottom, it creates strange optical effects, similar to what I see when I alternately look through a near vision contact lens, and a far vision lens with my myopic eyes. The water is much cooler than the sea, and not salty. So exiting at this spot removes much of the stickiness one usually feels after drying off from an ocean swim.
I always feel so free when I go snorkeling or swimming in the ocean. The waves, swells, creatures, and drops offs are great things to play with. I am so happy that I am able to swim with such confidence that I can enjoy the sea, rather than feel intimidated by it. Watching the others in our little group paddling around on body boards or being held up by flotation belts made me realise how lucky I am to be able to free dive after a puffer fish, circle around a green turtle, or just swim away to the other side of the cover without a care or effort. The first time I ever swam in the ocean I understood at last why I had spent all those hours and years going back and forth in all those pools during all those swim practices in high school and college.
Leigh and Craig were going on to Volcano House near Kilauea at Volcano National Park, where they would stay two nights and hope to see lava steaming into the sea at night. We didn’t want our day to end so soon, so we looked at the map, and decided, maybe we could make it to Miloli’i by sunset, and have a beer at some beachfront dive. We headed down 2000 feet, hit the lava’s edge by sunset, but there was nothing at Miloli’i except some houses on stilts and a lot of lonely coastline. We wrote our names with white coral on black lava, took pictures, and then each headed our separate ways.