What’s the opposite of jet lag? Going east to west, the time change doesn’t lag me, it advances me. Usually, I go to bed about 10:30, which would be 7:30 here. So I stayed up until 9 (!), meaning I would get up sometime between 3 and 4. Which is not a lag to me. So I ate breakfast, tried to snooze some more around 5 AM, and eventually got all geared up to go swimming by 6:30. I walked down Ali’i Dr in my Birkenstocks, a tank top, and my swim suit covered by my racing suit made of mini-neoprene.
Sunday morning, and not yet crowded with tourists, or much of anyone. Down by the church, where the sea wall starts, two pairs of women passed by, running and talking. Not Ironman looking women (they usually look almost starved), but just locals out for their Sunday social run. Up ahead, a woman in her 60’s, sort of squat, but not really fat, wearing a tank top and backpack, was ambling along just a bit slower than me.
As I passed, she said, “Whoa, you’re calm for an Ironman!”
I was carrying my stuff in a 2006 Kona FInisher logo’d IM shoulder sack.
“Usually the Ironman people are just so nervous. When you went by, I did a double take when I saw that Ironman bag, because you were giving off such a calm vibe.”
I could see instantly that she was one of those empathic persons, who probably really do get vibes from other people’s auras, really tuned into the buzz around her. I took her remark seriously, without any irony.
“You know, people our age have learned how to smooth it out.” I said. I made a flat palm down horizontal wave with my right hand. “It does make the race easier, to let it all go, you know.”
She seemed to understand what I had said, which was more than I could say for myself. Nodding and smiling, the wrinkles around her eyes showing her local’s tan, she agreed, “Yes it does; you’ve got it.”
“Well, thanks; I do try to work on staying even, and cool, especially for this race.”
I moved on ahead, towards the stairs at Dig Me Beach. A bunch of bikes were parked along the sea wall, and quite a few people were milling around the entrance, more than I’d expected, but then it was a Sunday morning, so maybe many locals were getting their swim in. I stashed my shoes and shirt, towel and sun glasses in the bag, and slammed it into the wooden cubby at the pier entrance. I walked down to the sand, getting a brisk flashback of entering in 2006 with 1700 other people, helicopter overhead, lights on poles illuminating the $7,000,000 worth of bikes racked behind me. I let the image glide out of my mind, as I had more immediate concerns, like getting my speed suit sipped up. It was quite clear I was not going to be able to do that myself, due to my massive back muscles (or more precisely, due to the mismatch between the size – Small/Long – and my body shape.)
The first people I saw in the water were two women, mid to late 30’s. One was saying, “Well, it doesn’t look like they’re going to start at 7, that’s for sure” (it was 6:55). I figured that there was some local swim group going in together. I put on my best senior smile, and asked the one who was listening, “Could you zip up my suit?” She was wearing a Blue Seventy speed suit herself, so I figured she’d have no problem with the concept.
Indeed she didn’t. She even tucked the zipper under the little triangular fold on top, just like I would do if I were helping someone else.
“Thanks” I said, and surfed on into the bay. Immediately, I noticed that the water, like last night, was just not very STABLE. Even in this protected little inlet, between the pier and sea wall, the south wind was sending in little swells, and swimming a straight line relative to the bottom was not an option. With each rise, I’d head left, and each fall would send me back right.
Some people get disturbed by this, and try to fight the swells. Some people even get sea sick from it. I just find it enjoyable, especially when the water is filled with fish of all colors and stripes. Five minutes into the swim, I passed over two turtles. In Maui, people pay big bucks to go on snorkeling tours just to see one turtle, with scores of folks hovering over the poor pre-historic reptiles. Here, turtles are a routine part of the scenery, like sunsets and lava rock.
As usual, I was counting strokes. 500 got me 14 minutes, and I figured that was about 700 meters. Another 350 or so, and I hit a buoy labeled “King’s Buoy” on one side and “Kona Aquatics 1.2” on the other. (maybe it was 1/2, I don’t know.) I kept going, hoping to get past my condo, which I knew was more than a mile from the pier. While struggling past the Royal Kona Hotel, I found myself over some shallows, with a lot of the left/right wave action going on. After another 500 strokes, adding up to I guess 1700 meters total, I checked my watch – 36:30.
Time to turn back. Rather than go through that off-shore break again, I headed 100 strokes out to sea, to the last boat in line, saw “39:30” on my watch, and headed back in.
Near another buoy, I was startled by an older (OK, my age) swimmer in a yellow cap, really working hard, almost running into me. I nodded, smiled; he just looked nonplused. I was dawdling by this point, getting some rest, and a few minutes later, he comes chopping by again, going now in my direction. Something clicked in me, and I started after him. I found I was swimming faster than he, but when I got up to his shoulder, he started speeding up, and I could not get by him.
So I slowed down a tick, and tucked in behind his feet. (For those who don’t race open water, drafting behind another swimmer reduces the effort level by at least 5%.) I stayed there a while, occasionally trying to go around, and starting up the little race all over again.
By now, we were at the orange buoys marking a swim line safely in shore from the anchored boats and cruise ships. I drifted wide, to the left, away from Mr. Yellow cap, and ran into a kayaker, who was urging me to head right, and stay within the buoy line. Obeying her, I found myself permanently ahead of my doppleganger, and scooted on in to the concrete step out of the water. I stopped my watch, and saw “1:06:55”. Hmm, awful fast for the return trip. Must be the south wind, putting the swells at my back, and the extra little push I gave “racing” for a while.
As I climbed out, a lean, etched-faced guy with a greying ponytail and a clipboard asked, “Are you racing?”, pencil poised over the yellow legal pad, ready to tick my name off. Finally, I realised that the bikes, and the shoes lined up on the sea wall, and the swimmers working so hard on a Sunday morning, were part of a little local triathlon. Using a pencil for record keeping!
“No,” I smiled, and walked off toward my bag. In the locker room, a nerdish looking guy with an ironman T shirt smiled at me as he toweled off. “ That was rather sticky out there, wasn’t it?”, he said in Commonwealth accent of some sort – not English, but not Australian either. Maybe South African? He seemed quite impressed by the power of the sea that morning. Clearly, he wasn’t Australian, if the conditions this morning were striking him as dicey. And he certainly wasn’t using typical English understatement.
So I replied, “Well, it is the ocean, isn’t it? I mean, you sort of expect that.”