"Damn you woman!" I only had about 800 meters left of what was supposed to be the best race of my life before for Kona heat took effect and kicked the ever-living crap out of me. It is hot in Kona in case you were wondering. Like sit-in-a-sauna-with-a-towel-over-the-thermometer-wearing-long-underwear-and-a-swim-cap (I hate that guy at Lifetime that puts the towel over the thermometer too BTW) kinda hot. Sunburned as a redhead without enough SPF 100, my hat was wonky - angled to fend off the scorching sun, shoulders slumped and red as a boiled lobster, hands sticky from sloppy Gu skills, blistered feet scorched by the molten steam rising from the golf course grass, mind grumbling about poor life decisions involving exercise, and probably smelling like stale urine (learned how to pee on the bike), I shuffled toward the finishing chute.
Raised on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii (Waialua High class of 95, damn right!), but a captive of Iowa since college, The Honu 2016 was finally my chance to return home to Da Islands to race. Ever since starting the triathlon journey, racing back home had always been on my mind. In 2016 I finally considered myself in good enough shape to take the plunge and race back home. I pulled the trigger and even convinced a crew of landlocked Midwestern fellow Haoles to come along for the fun. Trained and emotionally motivated I was absolutely going to crush this race. Like crush it. As in a cockroach under Tita's slippah, kind of crush it. You know, cross the finish line, smack The Wife on the butt, crab a cold brew and walk off into the sunset, crush it. Well I was the cockroach under The Honu's slippah on this day.
TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!! "Heard you the first two times woman!" Seriously, she had to have been suffering from sun stroke or something if she though I had anything left to give this stupid excuse for a race. The swim was awesome (in the bay of Hapuna State Park), bike awesomer (up to Hawi and back), but then the dick-face, psychopath, race director dude decided to run us on a golf course that felt more like the inside of a rice cooker. Hot as Pele's breath, as humid as the inside of a festered blister, stale as spilled beer sitting in a drain, with every bit of energy being absorbed by Menehunes (Hawaii's version of Leprechauns) grabbing your feet, as you navigate the roller coaster up-downs of a golf course, the run was brutal. The race dudes make a big deal about the "Hell's Kitchen" part of the course where you run down a hot-ass road lined with lave rock, but on this day, it was the best part of the run. You were off of the f-in grass and there was actually a breeze, oh and the cute Red Bull girls were handing out Red Bull.
We were now past all of that, trudging on home on the nice flat open golf cart path with but a few hundred meters to go. "Suck it up buttercup, you survived and beat your friends, especially the shit-talking U.K. Dave. Not such a bad day after all." I started getting my mind right realizing I hadn't died and was finally at the finish. "What's your finish line celey going to be?" Expectations were high for an awesome finisher picture after my finish at The Legend (See picture 3) that made the next year's athlete guide. "Cartwheel, somersault .... ohhh maybe do The Legend?" "Yes, yes, The Legend it would be." The Legend was going to be my signature move kinda like Jan Frodeno grabbing the finisher tape and yelling as he wins every damn race he enters. "The Legend will look cool with the floral finishing arch." "Maybe order that picture, make a poster and hang it above the bed." Straighten hat - check, zip up singlet - check, make sure run bib is visible - check, looking perty for the finish line photographer dude.
TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!! ""Seriously, thanks for coming and cheering, love you lots but you haven't ever even attempted this distance, I would like to die now so if you can quit whistling that would be great." TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEEET, TWEEEEEET,TWEEEEET!!!!! BITE ME, BITE ME, BITE ME!!! "Don't think they have had a Dateline episode of a wife that went missing in a tropical paradise that was caused by whistling yet ... hmmm, maybe a justification or temporary insanity defense would work." "You've never raced this distance, you sat there sipping Mai Tai's all day, now you are presumptuous enough to want me to go faster?!" "What in the hell is wrong with this woman?! Maybe, she ate Granny's special cookies again?" Orrrrr...... maybe, just maybe, The Wife was trying to tell me something.
Thump thump, puff puff; thump thump, puff, puff; thump, thump, puff, puff. "What in the hell?!" SONOFA! The Wife WAS trying to tell me something. I look to my right and I'll be damn, the German dude who seesawed with me at aid stations who I thought I had dropped with a mile and a half to go, was back! Not just back, but fixing to race kind of back.
"Ah, let him go, clear the way for a good picture, do The Legend and go have a beer." Thump thump, puff puff; thump thump, puff puff. TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEEET, TWEEEEEET,TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!!! Damn it!!! The Wife would never, ever, ever let me live this down if I just let him go. Pride coupled with the distinct possibility of being publicly shamed by your significant other for the rest of your life can be a powerful motivator. Let's be honest, choose not to race ole boy and she will probably put "The Wussy Who Didn't Race" on my gravestone.
"You sir are an athlete, a real athlete, you do NOT get passed in a race with now 200 meters or so to go. Pull up your skirt and race!" "Sigh ... fine!" The race was on! A smile suddenly took over my face. My knees began picking up and my arms started hammering away, just like those stupid plyometric drills back in college. Probably looked a little like Ace Ventura, Pet Detective as he raced to the imaginary endzone in his tutu. "Woohoooo!" Yup, that just came out of my mouth. Neck-and-neck; shoulder-to-shoulder; stride for stride. There was no freaking way this cat was passing me. From floundering to floating in seconds. "Don't EVER try to pass me at the finish dude! (Just ask The Cyclone at my first race)." Little friendly flick of the elbow and peak over to my new sprinting pal. We were at Bolt speed, no doubt.
We now had everyone at the finishing shoot's undivided attention. A sprint finish was in progress, you would think a gold medal was on the line, not mere personal pride. Two middle-aged, spandex clad lunatics reaching for every last bit of energy they had to best the other for nothing more than bragging rights. We were moving.
The cement golf cart path turned to that squishy, spongy grass as we entered the finisher's chute. Pretty sure I had him at that point when suddenly ... "where in the F did my legs go?!" "I can't feel my legs!!!" I could see they were moving but they became as limp, freshly boiled chow fun noodles. My body began slowly shrinking, like that trick where you walk behind a wall and slowly lower yourself so it looks like you are going down a flight of stairs. "Oh no, this can't happen, what in the hell....." Finishing banner, smiling faces, shocked faces, grass, more grass, sky, finishing arch, sky, grass, dude that was supposed to catch me.... I was tumbling like a drunk sailor who just came ashore. Silence. Fuzzy turning to focused. Slowly as my ass sat steaming on the sweltering, stale, prickly golf course grass, everything came back into focus.
"CHEEEEHOOOO!" Sometimes you just got to let it out. Goosebumps and an overwhelming sense of emotion came over me. Suddenly, all the pain, misery, self-doubt and bad shit from the day faded away into euphoria. "You alright?" Volunteers rock and this one was making sure I was still alive and not needing carted off. "That's relative ain't it?" He chuckled, helped me to my feet and sent me on through to get that coveted finishers medal, t-shirt and hat. You can't talk your way into them giving you those, just ask U.K. Dave's Wife, she literally bonked and passed out with about the 70.1 mark and the finisher people wouldn't give her any finishers swag even as she was being hauled away on an ambulance. I spotted my new sprinting pal, gave him a bro-hug smiled to myself, pretty sure I held him off.
"Did you get him?" "Huh, what, who's that?" The Wife! It wasn't "good job, are you alive, are you alright, can I get you anything?" Nope, the only thing she cared about was whether or not I beat The German. "Duh!" Was all I could muster. It wasn't until later that night that I was able to pull up the final results and see that yes, yes indeed, we held off what will soon be known in infamy as The German.
