Play Hard
The lush green palm tree branches outside our condo were strung taught by the south-bound Pacific trade winds. It was early yet, and perhaps still there was time for the rage to die down before 1100 odd racers dived into Anaeho'omalu Bay to start this year's Lavaman Triathlon. The sun was just starting to pierce the thick clouds, ever clinging to the tops of the two great volcano mountains of the island. The peaks of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea were constantly shrouded in a wet, thick veil of wispy white clouds, daring the most bold to climb them in order to actually behold the summits.
The relief of cooler temperatures during the darkest hours of the night wore off quickly; the black asphalt of the Queen K highway was already radiating waves of 80, 90 degree heat as a select few athletes spun out their legs before finishing up preparations in the transition area.
Twenty minutes until the gun. Gold and white-capped swimmers, indicating their place in the elite and relay waves, warmed up in the bay. The water felt fast heading out to sea but the stiff air currents pushed salt water over our heads as we came back to shore.
I stood on the salt and pepper sand, enjoying a rush of goose bumps as I came out of the water after my warm up, knowing that it would be the last time today I could feel cool.
The elite wave in this race didn't require you to actually be a professional athlete. If you wanted that wave, it was yours simply upon request. Twelve other men were in my wave. While some racers did actually do triathlon for a living, most, like me, probably just liked the sound of "elite" and didn't want do deal with the hassle of swimming around other waves. We had the luxury of starting first and racing on a "clean" course but it meant disqualifications from age-group awards. You want to be the best, you have to beat the best.
Paddle boarders herded us back behind the starting buoys. One minute to go. Relay swimmers tried to crowd the line. I defended my spot and took an aggressive position in the water to stake my space. Thirty seconds. Cool blood was quickly replaced by pounding adrenaline that I could feel in every last vein. Another wave bobbed us up and back down. Misfire. The gun meant to set us off started the clock but didn't start the racers. The announcer haphazardly yelled, "That's it! Start!" Confusion quickly subsided and the experienced racers got on with the task.
The improved buoyancy from the salty water made me feel slippery and quick through the first leg. I was getting an wonderful draft off of two zealous relay swimmers going out too fast. Half way through the swim, I rounded the first turning buoy, shelling those two swimmers and finding a third to grapple with. I found a gold-capped swimmer. Game on.
Sea water lapped into our faces each time we tried to breathe but I managed to avoid gulping down too much. We swam head to head, yielding nothing but keeping the pace up. Some aquatic life weaved through the colorful corals beneath us, oblivious to the turmoil. A lazy sea turtle scouted out a hole in search of breakfast while the undersides of triathletes threw soft, morning shadows across the reef.
In the last 100 meters, I surged, emerging from the bay seconds ahead of my competitor. A video someone posted later showed that I was immediately followed by about six other swimmers apparently stealing my draft as I had theirs earlier. No matter. I was too focused on hopping on my wheels to notice. I sped out of transition on my Scott and wound my way out of Waikoloa's Beach Resort, passing another athlete along the way.
The unpredictable winds of the Big Island were still blowing strong, but for once, they were in our favor. I was smashing the pedals and tearing down the Queen K averaging over 26 mph, hitting speeds close to 40 on the short descents. I rode mostly alone until mile 10 when another dude came up behind me, overtaking on a climb. I tired not to let it bother me but to simply focus on my watts. If he was a pro, at least I beat him out of the water.
Approaching the turnaround, I saw Kinsey's coach, Matt Lieto, with a commanding lead on his way back to town. Quickly refilling my aero bottle, I settled back in to the rhythm coming out of the interchange. It was mostly downhill on the way back but the wind was not helping this time. I struggled to maintain my effort and kept telling myself that the wind is my friend, the wind is hurting my competition and helping me. My power started to fade. With five miles left, I had to will myself to keep the effort up. I knew what my body was capable of but my mind was getting in the way. On the final down hill, I passed Tim Marr, a local pro, and didn't see him again.
Turning back onto the beach road, I was relieved to get out of the wind but now I had another obstacle: tourist traffic. There were two intersections between me and the transition area, each guarded by a race volunteer. A mass of triathletes from other waves were headed in the opposite direction starting their bike leg. I was only the 5th racer to come in from the other direction and no one bothered to look that way. Chaos. Approaching the first intersection, a mother tried to cross the road with a young girl. She was startled when a crazed man barreling down the road screamed for her to move and rushed by in a blur. The second intersection came quickly. This time it was a race volunteer. Walking two abreast in a lane they should not have been in, ushering a car down the road, they left little room for a rider to pass by. I was still flying, wind at my back, eyes wide open. Shouting at the top of my lungs again, the volunteer took a quick side step at the last second, narrowing avoiding a nasty crash. Hopefully, they gave more mind to the racers coming in behind me.
The run started off across a trail over lava rock before taking us to the sidewalk. Again, the tourists provided another obstacle to negotiate. Fortunately, this time I was moving at less than half the speed. Most moved out of the way though a few oblivious yard birds kept their backs facing me and their ears closed, forcing me to run on the grass around them.
The Hawaii heat was doing its damage. My pace wasn't terrible but I was slowly fading. I spotted the four athletes in front on the three mile turnaround and at this point, there wasn't much hope of catching them. I also spotted those behind me and it seemed our overall placement had already been determined; I would have to start walking in order for them to catch up.
The course wound around and through the Hilton Resort. We had a handful of spectators in lawn chairs cheering us along as we passed children splashing around in one of the hotels pools. Making my way down to the ocean-side trail, I was thankful for this last technical portion of the race. The trail was about a mile long and was covered in loose sand, lava rocks and roots. Hopping and sipping over the jet-black stone forced me to slow up my pace and I was thankful for the respite.
No one was in sight, ahead or behind. I ran through a beach volley ball court and made it back to the soft sands from where we started two hours and three minutes ago. Bent over, chugging some water a volunteer handed me, I knew Kinsey was due back any time now. Not 10 minutes later, she hit the soft sands, too. I was standing right next to the finish line and the volunteer in charge of holding the finisher's banner had apparently lost her partner. In a rush, she handed it to me for Kinsey to hoist overhead. She crushed the field. The next finisher wouldn't come in for another seven minutes.
The relief of cooler temperatures during the darkest hours of the night wore off quickly; the black asphalt of the Queen K highway was already radiating waves of 80, 90 degree heat as a select few athletes spun out their legs before finishing up preparations in the transition area.
Twenty minutes until the gun. Gold and white-capped swimmers, indicating their place in the elite and relay waves, warmed up in the bay. The water felt fast heading out to sea but the stiff air currents pushed salt water over our heads as we came back to shore.
I stood on the salt and pepper sand, enjoying a rush of goose bumps as I came out of the water after my warm up, knowing that it would be the last time today I could feel cool.
The elite wave in this race didn't require you to actually be a professional athlete. If you wanted that wave, it was yours simply upon request. Twelve other men were in my wave. While some racers did actually do triathlon for a living, most, like me, probably just liked the sound of "elite" and didn't want do deal with the hassle of swimming around other waves. We had the luxury of starting first and racing on a "clean" course but it meant disqualifications from age-group awards. You want to be the best, you have to beat the best.
Paddle boarders herded us back behind the starting buoys. One minute to go. Relay swimmers tried to crowd the line. I defended my spot and took an aggressive position in the water to stake my space. Thirty seconds. Cool blood was quickly replaced by pounding adrenaline that I could feel in every last vein. Another wave bobbed us up and back down. Misfire. The gun meant to set us off started the clock but didn't start the racers. The announcer haphazardly yelled, "That's it! Start!" Confusion quickly subsided and the experienced racers got on with the task.
The improved buoyancy from the salty water made me feel slippery and quick through the first leg. I was getting an wonderful draft off of two zealous relay swimmers going out too fast. Half way through the swim, I rounded the first turning buoy, shelling those two swimmers and finding a third to grapple with. I found a gold-capped swimmer. Game on.
Sea water lapped into our faces each time we tried to breathe but I managed to avoid gulping down too much. We swam head to head, yielding nothing but keeping the pace up. Some aquatic life weaved through the colorful corals beneath us, oblivious to the turmoil. A lazy sea turtle scouted out a hole in search of breakfast while the undersides of triathletes threw soft, morning shadows across the reef.
In the last 100 meters, I surged, emerging from the bay seconds ahead of my competitor. A video someone posted later showed that I was immediately followed by about six other swimmers apparently stealing my draft as I had theirs earlier. No matter. I was too focused on hopping on my wheels to notice. I sped out of transition on my Scott and wound my way out of Waikoloa's Beach Resort, passing another athlete along the way.
The unpredictable winds of the Big Island were still blowing strong, but for once, they were in our favor. I was smashing the pedals and tearing down the Queen K averaging over 26 mph, hitting speeds close to 40 on the short descents. I rode mostly alone until mile 10 when another dude came up behind me, overtaking on a climb. I tired not to let it bother me but to simply focus on my watts. If he was a pro, at least I beat him out of the water.
Approaching the turnaround, I saw Kinsey's coach, Matt Lieto, with a commanding lead on his way back to town. Quickly refilling my aero bottle, I settled back in to the rhythm coming out of the interchange. It was mostly downhill on the way back but the wind was not helping this time. I struggled to maintain my effort and kept telling myself that the wind is my friend, the wind is hurting my competition and helping me. My power started to fade. With five miles left, I had to will myself to keep the effort up. I knew what my body was capable of but my mind was getting in the way. On the final down hill, I passed Tim Marr, a local pro, and didn't see him again.
Turning back onto the beach road, I was relieved to get out of the wind but now I had another obstacle: tourist traffic. There were two intersections between me and the transition area, each guarded by a race volunteer. A mass of triathletes from other waves were headed in the opposite direction starting their bike leg. I was only the 5th racer to come in from the other direction and no one bothered to look that way. Chaos. Approaching the first intersection, a mother tried to cross the road with a young girl. She was startled when a crazed man barreling down the road screamed for her to move and rushed by in a blur. The second intersection came quickly. This time it was a race volunteer. Walking two abreast in a lane they should not have been in, ushering a car down the road, they left little room for a rider to pass by. I was still flying, wind at my back, eyes wide open. Shouting at the top of my lungs again, the volunteer took a quick side step at the last second, narrowing avoiding a nasty crash. Hopefully, they gave more mind to the racers coming in behind me.
The run started off across a trail over lava rock before taking us to the sidewalk. Again, the tourists provided another obstacle to negotiate. Fortunately, this time I was moving at less than half the speed. Most moved out of the way though a few oblivious yard birds kept their backs facing me and their ears closed, forcing me to run on the grass around them.
The Hawaii heat was doing its damage. My pace wasn't terrible but I was slowly fading. I spotted the four athletes in front on the three mile turnaround and at this point, there wasn't much hope of catching them. I also spotted those behind me and it seemed our overall placement had already been determined; I would have to start walking in order for them to catch up.
The course wound around and through the Hilton Resort. We had a handful of spectators in lawn chairs cheering us along as we passed children splashing around in one of the hotels pools. Making my way down to the ocean-side trail, I was thankful for this last technical portion of the race. The trail was about a mile long and was covered in loose sand, lava rocks and roots. Hopping and sipping over the jet-black stone forced me to slow up my pace and I was thankful for the respite.
No one was in sight, ahead or behind. I ran through a beach volley ball court and made it back to the soft sands from where we started two hours and three minutes ago. Bent over, chugging some water a volunteer handed me, I knew Kinsey was due back any time now. Not 10 minutes later, she hit the soft sands, too. I was standing right next to the finish line and the volunteer in charge of holding the finisher's banner had apparently lost her partner. In a rush, she handed it to me for Kinsey to hoist overhead. She crushed the field. The next finisher wouldn't come in for another seven minutes.
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