Chapter 1 – Kailua-Kona

 ‘Hey Bruddah, wheah you from?’

‘California. San Jose.’

The voice was friendly, but held a hint of mockery. A local, sitting with his buddies drinking beers in the shade of a nearby doorway, had apparently noted the M-dot logo on the towel I was carrying and decided to have some fun with the tri-geek.

‘You gon’ run de I-ohn-man?’

‘Yep.’

‘You gonna ween it oah what?’

 I laughed out loud. ‘No, I’m not gonna win. I’ll be lucky to finish.’

 I had a smile on my face, but inside a nasty voice added a vicious coda. ‘You’ll be lucky to survive’. I quashed the thought, and reassured myself with the same mantra I’d been telling myself all week; ‘you’ll be fine’. I left the Hawaiian and his buddies to finish their beers.

 It was a couple days before the race, and the small tourist town of Kailua-Kona was abuzz with the vibe. Everywhere you looked, at any time of day or night, you could see some super fit individual running, or biking, or swimming. As a lottery entrant, I was somewhat inoculated against the pressure, but by no means immune. There was quite simply no escaping the fact that in a few days, I’d be attempting to swim 2.4mi in the ocean, ride 112mi thru the hot, windy lava fields, and top it all off with a 26.2mi run thru those same lava fields. It’s a grueling test of endurance and will, and they don’t call it the Ironman for nothing. 

 I’d gone the distance before, but never on this course. Three years before, in Canada, the gods saw fit to look over me as I forced myself into a lake with 1,993 other athletes and tried to keep myself from backing out of the race before the cannon even went off. I managed to make myself start, and somehow made it out of the water less than 3min before the 2:20 cutoff, and went on to finish the bike, and the run, and became an Ironman.

 But Kona is different, special. Kona is the Ironman, where the roads have been baptized with the sweat of thousands, paved with sacrifice, where Pele has crowned champions and crushed pretenders, where agony and ecstasy merge over 17hrs into one blurry kaleidoscope of suffering, sacrifice and triumph. It’s where Julie Moss baptized the course with her pain, crawling over the line and into history. It’s where Dave Scott and Mark Allen dueled for 138mi in 1989, in the race forever after known as the ‘Ironwar’. It’s where Rick and Dick Hoyt have given inspiration to thousands with the depth of their bond and commitment to each other. And it’s where every year, hundreds of athletes duke it out for the age group championships, for bragging rights and an automatic return visit the following year. The distance is the distance, but . . . Kona is special.

 I’d gotten into the race as a lottery winner, the system that guarantees that an ‘everyman’ like me can toe the line with the pros and see how they measure up against all that accumulated myth and mystique. There were 200 of us ‘everymen’ in the race, and the other 1500 or so had earned their way here by qualifying at another race during the year. So the vast majority of those in the field were fast, serious folks, many of whom were quite serious about vying for the overall title in their age group. As a result, what would usually be a relaxed, sleepily idyllic tropical tourist town had an edgy, competitive vibe to it.

 There might have been a few bona fide tourists in town, with nothing to do with the race, but they were by far the minority. Almost everyone I saw had a race t-shirt, or an m-dot (the Ironman logo) tattoo, or some other triathlon-specific bit of attire. And everyone, myself included, gave everyone else ‘the look’; a quick once-over that asked, “Is this guy/girl in the race? Looks pretty fit . . . tan lines . . . Livestrong bracelet” (if there was anybody racing who didn’t have a LS bracelet, I didn’t see ‘em). By Wednesday afternoon, it got easier – I’d just look for the orange bracelet locked around each racer’s wrist at registration. I gave a small, knowing smile to everyone I saw who was racing, but in most cases all I got in return was a stone game face –everybody was so damn serious here.

 Carissa and I arrived in town late Tuesday night, after a typically Ron-like odyssey. We’d made all of our travel and lodging arrangements months before, but had somehow neglected to secure a rental car. On Monday evening, planning to board our flight the following morning, we tried to reserve a car and to our horror realized the depth of our mistake – there were no cars to be had. Since we weren’t staying in Kailua-Kona, but had instead rented a private cottage 12mi south of town for the week, this was definitely not good. After an increasingly stressful 2-3 hours of internet searches, multiple phone calls, and praying-while-dialing, we finally managed to locate a car . . . in Hilo, on the other side of the island. We looked at the bus schedules from Kailua-Kona to Hilo, and realized that Hawaii is a tad less commuter friendly than the Bay Area; there was one bus, which went to Hilo in the morning, and came back to Kona in the evening. We finally decided that our only real option was to call the airline first thing in the morning to see if we could change our flights to Hilo.

 The following morning, we had a couple of stops to make before heading to the airport. We had to drop Jocelyn off at grandma’s house, and drop the pets off at the kennel for boarding. While I worked my way around San Jose in rush hour traffic, CTB called the airline and changed our tickets. It cost us quite a pretty penny, but at least we were now assured of transportation when we got to the island, and I breathed a little easier.

 The flight was uneventful, albeit boring and long, but we eventually found ourselves in Hilo, found our expensive car, and set off for the 2 hour drive around the island to the place we should have been all along. Fate put us in the right place at the right time, and we wound up giving a lift to a young girl who’d been stranded in Hilo and needed to go to Kona. She had just left her job at Bike Friday in Portland and bought a ticket to the island to visit her aunt, but evidently hadn’t realized there were multiple airports, and when we overheard her phone conversation with her aunt (who was waiting for her at the Kona Airport), we offered a lift. We all wound up chatting for the entire drive, which made the time pass quickly, and after dropping her off at a restaurant right near Lava Java (just off Alii Drive) we made our way to our cottage for some much-deserved rest.

 The cottage was beautiful – CTB really hit a homerun with her internet search. It was dark when we arrived, so we didn’t get a full sense of how lucky we’d been until the sun rose Wednesday morning, and a breathtaking vista opened up for us, right off of our lanai (Hawaiian veranda/porch). We were perched on a hillside above Kealakekua (Kay-ah-lah-kuh-koo-ah) Bay, with nothing below our lanai but lush tropical forest. Birds were our alarm clock, and we awoke every morning by 7am, feeling well rested and refreshed, ready for the day’s adventures. We had a kitchenette, lounging area, the lanai, a huge whirlpool tub, a two-headed shower with plenty of room for both of us (ahem) . . . in short, it was a beautiful refuge and we’re definitely going to try to book the place again when/if we return next year, so I’m not telling any of you where it is or how to find it <G>.

 Despite the long flight, we awoke early Wed morning and went to breakfast at The Aloha Angel café. Over a leisurely breakfast of eggs and potatoes, we took in the views, and tried to make friends with the gecko who sat at our table. He was a bit aloof, however, so we never got his name. A torrential, tropical downpour came through as we ate, but in true Hawaiian fashion it was over, and the sun was out, before we’d finished our meal.

 We drove into town, and took care of the necessities; I went thru registration, we hit the expo, I bought a bunch of schwag, and recorded my athlete video greeting. At one point in the day, we ran into someone wearing a tri-drs ‘Carpe Viam’ shirt, and I immediately buttonholed him and began chatting his ear off. It was Gerard Linde, who was very nice and patient with my eager intrusion into his day. After a brief chat, we said goodby and went our separate ways.

 We then headed over for the mandatory pre-race meeting (and evidently a lot of folks didn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘mandatory’). It was the usual stuff, and not really much new to report. We found out where to come for bodymarking, that we should be at the venue early, and got a rundown on the race rules from Charlie C.

After that, we went to Costco to get some groceries, and then the day was pretty much over. I’d hoped to get in a swim, and get a feel for the water before the race, but . . . that didn’t happen. I’d have to get in the water Thursday or Friday.

 Thursday started much the same. After some puttering around, CTB and I went to the Ultrafit Open House, where I got to meet Coach KP for the first time, and got my much-needed dose of Gordo calm. clm showed up and informed me that there was a pool going on (a) whether I’d make it out of the water and (b) what my time would be. She informed me that she had me down for 1:41 – a vote of confidence that I found very comforting, if a tad optimistic. All too quickly we had to duck out, though, and go pick up my parents at the airport. From there, it was a family day, as we visited and caught up on each other’s lives.

 I had planned to go for a swim in the evening, but as I walked along Alii with my parents, the surf was very active, with respectable waves crashing in, and it looked too daunting for me to get in. After all, the whole point of the pre-race swim was to build my confidence, not destroy it! So I took a pass, and instead headed off to the carbo dinner while my parents and CTB had dinner at Bubba Gumps.

 The carbo dinner was nice, and since I hadn’t bought a ticket for CTB, I was going stag. I found a table with several empty seats, and sat down. A few minutes later, a group of 4 or 5 Dutch triathletes joined me, and in an uncanny coincidence, Gerard Linde sat down right next to me. Neither of us realized it until I glanced at him, and then did a double take – “Gerard?” . He did his own double take, and then I spent a nice 30min or so chatting with him and his buddies, and Gerard took a couple of photos for posterity.

 I ducked out of the dinner early (which I now sorely regret, after hearing about the fact that Dave Scott and Mark Allen were at the dinner) to get back to my family, and then we all went to the airport to pick up my sister. The whole family was in town, just to see me do my thing. No pressure <G>.

 The day wound up from there, and I thought about the fact that once again, I hadn’t gotten into the water. I would have to get into the water the following morning – I wasn’t about to do that swim without having a chance to acclimate to the conditions.

 For that reason, the next day I arose at 6:00a, gave CTB a peck on the cheek, then headed to the pier for a short swim while she had breakfast and put herself together (not a quick process - she is a girl, after all).

 When I got to the pier, about 6:45, there were dozens of folks already there. I didn’t mind the company, but the surf looked just like it had the night before; very active, with large swells. (A local later told me that the swells were 4-6 feet, and that he could tell it was up from the number of surfers in the water). This was not good - twinges of my old deep water fear were asserting themselves, and I was pretty scared and uncomfortable. But I would not allow myself to face the water for the first time on race day, so I went ahead and checked my clothes at the (free) Gatorade clothes check, and headed into the water.

 The water temperature wasn’t bad – just the slightest big cool as I waded in. When I got up to my waist, I pulled my mask down over my eyes, gave it a firm press to seal it, (heh heh – ‘Seal’ my Seal Mask . . . get it? Heh . . . never mind) and then dived in.

Right away, panic started clawing at me. A few waves smacked me in the face when I went to breathe, and filled my mouth with foul salt water. I treaded water as I spit and sputtered, then struck out again in my slow freestyle stroke.

 The turnaround buoy was now in the water, a miniscule orange dot far away on the horizon. I tried not to think about that, and instead picked a closer buoy, perhaps 100M away, as my goal point – no sense in tiring my arms out the day before the race, and all I really wanted was a taste of the conditions and (ideally) a chance to sink into a rhythm and gain some confidence in the open ocean. But it was not to be; the swells were screwing with my mind, badly, and the whole 20min or so I was in the water was one long fight with my habitual panic. I made it to the buoy I’d chosen, however, and returned to the beach, profoundly shaken and knowing that I’d be spending the rest of the day feeding myself positive affirmations to fight off the fear of what was to come the following day. If this was a boxing match, I’d just lost the pre-fight staredown, big time.

 As the race got closer, I’d become more ill-at-ease, unsettled and uncomfortable. But now, for the first time, I was terrified.

 And there was no backing out.