Chapter Two – Race Day

After my swimming debacle on Friday morning, the rest of the day was spent taking care of some business for CTB – she had a real estate client on the south end of the island who had some land back home he wanted to sell. So we had a leisurely 3hr drive down to the southern tip of the island, she had her meeting, then we took the Saddle Road back to Kailua-Kona, threading our way between Mauna Loa on our left, and Mauna Kea on our right.

 The ride was fascinating, with the terrain varying from lush rainforest to blasted lava to windswept grassland, all in the course of 50mi. The ‘artillery overhead’ signs made us a tad anxious, but evidently the Army boys all had their tubes properly aimed and elevated and nothing landed near us. (Actually, there was no evidence at all that they were even firing, but I’ve gotta create drama in here somehow . . . )

 We made it back into Kailua-Kona, and the rest of the day passed in a blur as I dropped off my bike, and headed back to the cottage to prepare my special needs and transition bags (which I’d neglected to drop off earlier in the day – luckily they were willing to let me drop them off race morning).

 By now, I was barely hanging onto my composure. I was tense, withdrawn, and radiating fear and anxiety that probably registered on the seismographs in Volcano National Park, 90mi away. I finished my preparations, checked everything, checked it again, emptied my bladder, checked everything again, ate a light dinner (no appetite whatsoever), checked everything again, got undressed and set the alarm for 4:30a, checked everything ‘one last time’, then finally went to bed about 8pm.

 My sleep was fitful and interrupted; I awoke at 12:30a, at 2:30a, and woke up for good at 3:30a, and lay in bed until the alarm went off an hour later.

 The day had come.

 I got up and into my skinsuit, and then put on my sweats over it before having a light breakfast of mini-wheats. After that, CTB was still getting ready, and I got back in bed, and literally pulled the covers over my head.

 My mind was like the final reel of every Rocky movie made; my will and determination were being savagely beaten by my doubts and fear, but kept getting back up and swinging back. I wanted my mind to be quiet, but it had gone too far – the only way to avoid a full-on panic attack was to keep answering every negative thought with a positive one. The voices grew into an endless susurrus of conflict.

 “You suck – you shouldn’t be doing this.”

“You’ve done a lot of swimming – you’re gonna be fine.”

“You’ve never swum in the ocean, those waves nearly took you down  yesterday.”

“Just take it one stroke at a time, and you’ll be fine.”

“You’ll never make the cutoff – you don’t even know if you can swim a straight line.

“Just give it all you can – there’s no shame in failure, only in giving up”

“The list is watching you”

“The list is pulling for you”

“Heavy Surf”

“Masters 3 times a week”

“Open Water”

“Lifeguards”

“You suck”

“You’re strong.”

 This continual battle was consuming my attention, and as a result it was like I was sleepwalking as we got in the car and headed for the pier. CTB could feel the fear radiating off of me, and quietly took my hand so I would know she was there. After a few minutes of deafeningly silent driving, I finally spoke.

 “I’m so scared”

“I know – I can feel it”.

 To her credit, she didn’t try to give me affirmations, or a pep talk. She knows me so well, and knew that this battle was mine to fight – there was nothing she could say that would help. I had to face my demons as we all must – with support from outside the ring, but nobody else in the ring but my nemesis and myself.

 We made it to the pier, and it was time for me to go the final bit alone. I gave her a hug that nearly broke her ribs, and didn’t want to let go. Tears were welling up in my eyes, and I blinked to clear them before the ‘real’ triathletes saw how freaked out I was. I gave her a final peck on the cheek and headed into the transition area.

 A friendly volunteer took me in to hang my transition bags, and, sensing my fear, told me that she’d pray for me and that I’d do well. I thanked her, while in my usual conflicted fashion feeling thankful for her support, and simultaneously feeling more afraid that someone else thought that this endeavor required divine assistance.

 Thankfully, however, race day rhythms were taking over, and I was calming a little bit as the familiar routines of bodymarking and final bike check consumed my attention. I finally took off my sweats, put them in my dry strip bag, and handed it off to the volunteer, steeling myself for the wave of lonely vulnerability the act raised in me.

 But it wasn’t quite as bad as it had been 3yrs before, and now all that was left was to head to the start and wait. I worked my way through the mass of hardbodied athletes and found a spot to wait, just outside the timing mat that led to the water.

 For the first time, I allowed myself to look at the water. The FarWest Catamaran, its rainbow sails marking the far turnaround, was a tiny toy boat, so very far away.

 “You’ve done this before, Ron”

“Not in the ocean, with waves and currents”

 But now, as I looked, I realized that the swells weren’t as heavy as the day before, and in fact the water looked calmer than I’d seen it all week. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to be so bad.

 I sat down on a bit of concrete, and fate sent me a guardian angel. I looked to my right and saw Coach KP. I stuck out my hand to wish him good luck, and he told me to just relax, and try to keep my heart rate down.

 “My record pre-race low is 74bpm”, he confided. I stuck out my wrist to show him my own heart rate – 101bpm, while sitting down, immobile. He gave a chuckle at the obvious nerves, but seemed to take it as normal, and not the symptom of someone on the edge of a panic attack. Somehow, that helped a bit and I was just a tad more relaxed.

 The pros went off, and then everybody stood up to begin shuffling over the timing mats and into the water. We were held up, however, as some volunteers worked their way through, carrying a small inflatable boat over their heads. There was an older man, built like a bull, leading the way, and it took a few seconds to register what I was seeing.

 It was Rick and Dick Hoyt, the father whose dedication will not quit, and the son who won’t be defined by his infirmity. As if to echo what was sinking into my brain, another triathlete near me spoke.

 “Goosebumps! Man, I don’t wanna hear anybody complainin’ after seein’ that . . “ I realized he had a point, and also realized that they Hoyts might be my own salvation; that boat would be pretty easy to sight on, and if there was anyone I had a chance of staying in contact with, it was someone towing a couple hundred pounds. I decided that they were going to be my focus – they’d get me through.

 The Hoyts got through, and into the water, and then we shuffled along behind. I worked my way along the narrow bit of pier to the small strip of beach, and waded into the water. I had intended to stay standing there until the cannon went off, to keep behind the pack, but the waves gradually pulled me out deeper into the water, and eventually I began swimming towards the pack accumulating at the end of the pier. I saw the Hoyt's boat a hundred yards or so out in the water and struck out in that direction.

 By now, there was less than 5min to go before the race, and the air was absolutely electric. Helicopters turned tight circles in the air, making pass after pass over the pack as the swimmers jockeyed for position. On the stage near the beach, drummers were pounding steadily on their drums. On the seawall, the spectators were jostling and squeezing more and more bodies into ever more crowded clumps. The race starter’s voice boomed out over the water.

 “Stay behind the paddlers, get back behind the line of the paddlers . . . folks on the seawall, please pull up your feet off the sponsor’s banners for the starting shot . . . swimmers, stay behind the paddlers . . .  PADDLERS!! DO NOT MOVE!!! SWIMMERS – STAY BEHIND THE PADDLERS!!! PADDLERS – DO NOT MOVE!! DO NOT MOVE!!!!” His voice was cranking up the intensity with every syllable, and then suddenly he fell silent.

 I stopped working my way towards the starting line, and raised my head into a moment of profound stillness and quiet. At that moment, it was as if all of us, and everyone everywhere else, had stopped to take a breath at the same precise moment.

Along Alii Drive, spectators stopped moving and faced the water.

 Along the seawall, the feet stopped drumming.

 In the air, the helicopters’ incessant drone seemed to fade away.

The drums stopped.