“Like lambs to the slaughter” someone whispered as we were slowly funneled like cattle down the stairs toward the water. It was still the dim twilight of early morning. With the sun just beginning to peak over the imposing volcanic mountains in the backdrop, 2000 mentally twisted Kona qualifiers cautiously wade into the chilly waters of Kailua-Kona Bay. The ominous beat from the local Hawaiian drummers thump through the airwaves creating a cult-like scene as this years’ batch of sacrificial athletes are presented to the Kona gods. Thousands of on-lookers perched high on the rock walls watch the mass of swim caps maneuver themselves behind the start line. Moments before the cannon fires, an eerie calm hovers heavy over the bay. Like soldiers prepared to leap from the trenches into enemy fire, the floating challengers are twitchy to go, yet uncertain of the impending pain and suffering they will undoubtedly need to endure for the daylong battle that lay before them.
The cannon booms across the bay and it’s on for young and old, no rules, no witnesses, no holds barred! To describe the swim leg in one sentence… It was an hour-long, hypoxic breathing drill (just enough oxygen consumption to stay alive), using no more than half a stroke-length, laced with a surprisingly abundant quantity of blindside punching, kicking, elbowing, dunking, grabbing, pulling, and what would best be described as crowd surfing in water. Suffice to say the swim was nothing but chaos buried away somewhere in the middle of the man-made white-water rapids ride.
Out of the water, up the stairs and dumped into the circus tent that is transition. Akin to passing directly through the heart of an emergency room…with the power out. Stress levels and decibel levels seemed to be off the charts. Countless volunteers darting back and forth, doing seemingly anything for the athletes. The procedure seems pretty simple in here: peel off speed suit, cap, goggles, put on socks and bike shoes, throw swim gear in bag, go! But in that tent it would appear that many athletes are not their usual cognitive and coordinated selves immediately following the thorough open-water beating. Understandable.
Out of the water, up the stairs and dumped into the circus tent that is transition. Akin to passing directly through the heart of an emergency room…with the power out. Stress levels and decibel levels seemed to be off the charts. Countless volunteers darting back and forth, doing seemingly anything for the athletes. The procedure seems pretty simple in here: peel off speed suit, cap, goggles, put on socks and bike shoes, throw swim gear in bag, go! But in that tent it would appear that many athletes are not their usual cognitive and coordinated selves immediately following the thorough open-water beating. Understandable.
Onto the bike and into natures own wily wind tunnel. The Queen K and its brutal hurricane-grade winds showed me who’s boss from the get-go. Up down up down, riding the relentless waves of evil black tarmac paved in one lonely never ending strip across Earths dried up lava fields. Soul-crushing all the way. The 8mile climb up to the turn-around point in the remote town of Hawi was one of the slowest and toughest piece of riding I’ve ever done. Not that I have much cycling experience for comparison. The brutal winds relentlessly attacked like a burley prizefighter bullying his unworthy opponent. They bashed from left, from right, an uppercut from the front, straight down from above somehow. The mood on the course changed dramatically from this point as athletes shifted their focus from racing each other to giving each other ample room for maximum safety. Making a pass from this point was a risk most weren’t willing to take. For a good hour plus we were all in this together…this part was survival only, and everyone knew it.
I’d convinced myself that making the turn at Hawi would be the relief I needed to regroup. After the turn, it became apparent that this misguided, simple logic does not apply out at Hawi. The demoralizing wind patterns never seemed to get any better on the way back. At times I was honestly concerned that I might not make it back to Kona…not on my own 2 wheels at least. Midday came and past, hallucinations of big thick burgers and greasy pizzas came and went in the distance through the heat haze. By early afternoon I was thoroughly cooked, both figuratively and literally. Hot, burnt, hungry, tired and aching I rolled back into Kona, unraveled my body from the ridiculous time-trial position and wobbled back through the transition circus.
Shoes and helmet off, run shoes and hat on. Simultaneously an overly helpful volunteer smothered sunscreen on every patch of bare skin I had. He was obviously well practiced in the art. Like a one-man pit crew changing wheels he was in and out, signifying the all clear with hands up in the air before I even wanted to get back up. The volunteers never failed to impress during the entire Kona experience. I don’t know where they find them all, but they were incredible. Out of the tent and back onto the melting tarmac…it was go time again.
Shoes and helmet off, run shoes and hat on. Simultaneously an overly helpful volunteer smothered sunscreen on every patch of bare skin I had. He was obviously well practiced in the art. Like a one-man pit crew changing wheels he was in and out, signifying the all clear with hands up in the air before I even wanted to get back up. The volunteers never failed to impress during the entire Kona experience. I don’t know where they find them all, but they were incredible. Out of the tent and back onto the melting tarmac…it was go time again.
GoShiggyGo Photography
As a whole, the run leg was relatively uneventful. By this point it was difficult to entice the body or mind to do anything more than ‘just get through’. The first 10mile was a reasonably pleasant, gently undulating trip out and back along the coast. Filled with a hype of spectator activity I can see how a lot of athletes would get carried away with the enthusiasm oozing through the streets and forget about the rest of the marathon ahead. After the first 10mile ‘warm-up’, the course turned up the infamous Palani climb. If you weren’t looking up paying attention at this point, Palani would whack you square in the nose. From here the course rolled onto the Queen K where things started to get a lot more interesting.
For years watching the Hawaiian Ironman on TV, the lasting images were always the agony of runners suffering along the never ending stretches of the Queen K. Black lava left and right, long gradual hills of pain in front and behind, and the intense Kona sun beating down from above. This was the part I was looking forward to the most. In reality it was a fair bit milder than the mythical creations on TV and in my mind. The hills made the course tough, but the heat didn’t seem to be a concern. The lonely lava fields turned out to be more a novelty than a grueling struggle. Out through the Energy Lab and back home into Kona for the last time, down the steep quad-shattering Palani, and fed through the final finish chute.
The finish chute was an effervescent cocktail of loud, colorful, uncontained excitement that was quite difficult to take in at the time. It was sensory overload after spending most of the day mentally locked away in the sensory-deadening confines of the mind's self-induced mental asylum. To be honest I was more looking forward to bypassing the ecstasy gauntlet and going straight out the back to a nice quiet patch of grass where I could peacefully lay down to die.
All in all, it was a very long day out there. It was one hell of an experience that had been fading away on my bucket list since the early 90’s. It was a drawn-out battle between mind, body and the Kona gods. Like lambs to the slaughter indeed, it baffles me how anyone could possibly be willing to offer up their soul as mincemeat to the Kona gods more than once! Memories fade I guess…
All in all, it was a very long day out there. It was one hell of an experience that had been fading away on my bucket list since the early 90’s. It was a drawn-out battle between mind, body and the Kona gods. Like lambs to the slaughter indeed, it baffles me how anyone could possibly be willing to offer up their soul as mincemeat to the Kona gods more than once! Memories fade I guess…
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