Finding Ultra (20 page)

Two hours and forty-one minutes later, I stumbled up the shores of Keahou—interestingly, the Hawaiian word for “new
beginnings”—not just intact, but in
second place
—just three minutes behind race leader Marty Raymond. But more important, I emerged a full fifteen minutes to an hour ahead of all the race favorites.
Not a bad start
, I thought.

Granted, I was a swim specialist. I expected to fare well in my natural environment. But the bike was a different story. Questionable ability aside, I'd soon discover that I'd made a big mistake in stubbornly refusing to upgrade my battered Trek road bike for something more aerodynamic.
It's not about the bike
, Lance Armstrong famously said. But that doesn't mean you show up for a race with the wrong equipment. I'd soon pay for my naiveté.

Cruelly, the very beginning of the bike segment featured the steepest climb of the day—a fifteen-hundred-foot, five-mile ascent that left my lungs searing and legs screaming. Nonetheless, I maintained my second position for the next few hours, traversing the main highway south across an ever-changing landscape of rolling hills, coffee farms, and thick forest. I pedaled with nary a competitor in sight as my crew leapfrogged past, cheering loudly and pulling over every half hour or so to hand off new bottles of water, electrolyte tablets, and calorie-laden Perpetuem to fuel the effort.

The day's plan was to take in three hundred calories an hour, even if I wasn't hungry. In an event like this, you'll inevitably run a calorie deficit no matter how much you eat, because you burn more than your body can possibly digest. The key is to not fall too far behind, and to understand that you're also eating for the following day. Fail to take in enough calories on Day One, and you'll pay dearly on Day Two. Also, you'll most certainly falter on Day Three.

Reality soon set in. Facing strong headwinds about three hours into the ride, I was passed in rapid succession by three of the top overall race contenders. I knew, of course, that any of these guys was capable of winning the entire event. But there went my pipe dream of taking the Day One victory.

Comfortably in fourth position, I hit the final climb of the day—a twenty-plus-mile gradual but unrelenting 3,950-foot ascent into Volcanoes National Park. But with another dose of brutal headwinds that had me feeling like I was pedaling backward, ambition gave way to inexperience and fatigue as I was summarily passed by two more competitors in the stage's last five miles. And in a final insult I was nipped by Czech native and pro triathlete Peter Kotland with only two hundred meters to the finish line.

Seventh overall. Of course, it was disappointing. Particularly my last-minute fade. But nonetheless, I'd exceeded expectations tenfold, taking my competitors and the race organizers completely by surprise. Every athlete who bested me that day was a tried-and-true professional—a veteran of this race. Not only was I the fastest “first timer,” I'd finished the day as the top American.

All right, Day One down. Two more days to go.

Day Two would bring the longest bike ride of my life—a 170-mile jaunt from Volcanoes around the eastern side of the island to finish in the little town of Hawi, which was nestled on the island's northwest tip.

During training I'm wary of eating too much before a long ride, but as I joined my crew and fellow athletes at the nearby Volcano Military Camp at five o'clock the following morning for a cafeteria-style breakfast, I made sure I ate as much as my stomach could hold, even though the food they offered was far from my Vitamix concoction of dark leafy greens, maca powder, chia seeds, and beetroot juice. Ditching breakfast wasn't an option. Calories would have to take precedence. And so I forced myself to eat things I'd ordinarily avoid—gluten-rich bagels, heavily processed peanut butter, sugary cereal, and fried hash browns.
I should have planned
better
, avoiding this predictable scenario by bringing my own stash.
Next year
, I thought.

With heavily fatigued legs, I began the ride by pedaling conservatively. In front of me was 170 miles and 8,500 feet of climbing through the island's pristine southwest tip to the urban landscape of Hilo and the pastoral cattle farms of Waimea Valley—and beyond that, a little bit of everything: steep climbs, wicked fast descents, and long flat terrain with more treacherous headwinds. With the field of competitors spreading out across the vast landscape, I spent much of the day completely alone, accompanied only by my crew and totally unaware of where I stood in the rankings.

Just keep riding
.

And so I did. My legs screamed for rest, and my hands were now so numb from the chill that I was barely able to shift gears or brake, but I soldiered on, maintaining a steady cadence and eating as much as I could: almond butter sandwiches, potato wedges, bananas, water, and electrolyte tablets to avoid cramps. Eat, pedal, drink, repeat.

The ride culminated in an epic ascent over the Kohalas, a grassy range of steep mountainous terrain that marked the final climb of the day. It was a five-mile piece of nasty business that would challenge even the most experienced cyclist, including Lance Armstrong, who trained in the Kohalas in preparation for his 2009 Tour de France comeback. With almost 150 miles already hammered into my legs that day, it was daunting. But I reminded myself that this climb was much like Stunt Road, my favorite training ascent back home.
You've done this climb a million times
, I repeated under my breath.
Relax
. Then I thought about that time I bonked in Ojai, limping home on the bike after dumpster-diving. I recalled the inspiring
experience
that followed—call it delusion or epiphany. I'd overcome so much. I could certainly survive this.
You
know what to do
. And with that, I entered a deep meditative state, visualized success, and laid down the hammer, powering the last three miles of the climb with everything I had, knowing that when I crested, all that remained was a fast fifteen-mile descent to the finish line.

Reaching the summit, I was greeted by cheers from my crew and unreal views of rolling green pastures, grazing cattle, and the Kona coastline in the distance below. It was a well-earned high as I began the most perilous descent of my life, battling heavy crosswinds that threatened to blow my bike straight off the road. But it was also the best roller-coaster ride of my life, depositing me safely in the little hippie town of Hawi and, finally, across the finish line.

Having ridden in relative isolation most of the day, I had no idea where I stood in the overall rankings. But I was certain I'd dropped considerably. With so many strong riders, there was simply no way I was still holding on to a decent placing. Then my dad approached, smiling proudly. “You're in ninth place overall!” he crowed, and hugged me.
Still in the top ten!
I couldn't believe it.

A perfect day, made complete when the sun set and I sat on the veranda of the rural Kokolulu Farms Retreat Center—my accommodations for the night up in Hawi—marveling at the sky lit with a billion stars strewn across the Milky Way. It looked as if you could simply reach out and touch the beyond. And in that moment, I felt I had.

Two days down. One remaining. Fifty-two point four miles of running along the baking lava fields from Hawi back to where the journey began—Kona.

Weary beyond words when the 4:30 alarm bell sounded the following morning, I threw on my running shoes and inhaled another substandard breakfast—
next year will be different!
—before
wending my way down the dark Hawi highway to greet my Ultraman
ohana
(Hawaiian for family). Along with
aloha
(love) and
kokua
(help), it's a touchstone word that embodies the communal spirit, camaraderie, and spiritual quest that is the Ultraman experience.

Crowded along the side of the highway in the dark predawn drizzle, my fellow runners joined hands in a wide circle around race director Jane Bockus, fellow race organizer Sheryl Cobb, and a portly Hawaiian elder adorned in native garb, a crown of palm fronds atop his head. Arm in arm, we bowed our heads as the elder recited a ceremonial Hawaiian prayer blessing. He called on the holy island spirit kahunas to bless the journey and keep us safe—then bellowed a loud and resounding tone on a huge conch shell. It was a simple yet utterly beautiful gesture, reminding me that this was so much more than a race.

A few minutes later my dad offered a few special words that I'll never forget. “I'm so proud of you, Rich. I love you. Now, go out and finish this.” Our relationship having come full circle, I was raw with gratitude. But facing the road ahead, I had to reel it in and focus on the task at hand.

Just seconds later, we were off.

Just finish
.

Today was to be my tortoise moment. Slow and steady, cautious and smart. The plan hatched by Chris Hauth was to break the run into an extremely conservative interval workout. Run four miles. Then walk a full mile. Repeat. It was a strategy devised to prevent my core temperature from rising beyond the point of no return. No one wanted to fall prey to the dreaded “Ironman shuffle”—that arresting corpse-like crawl brought on by overwhelming fatigue.

But it was also a plan that required me to check my ego at the door.
Walk?
I'd specifically trained to run the entire distance. And having completed a forty-five-mile run just weeks prior, I knew I
could do it. My pride revolted at a strategy that seemed to bespeak a lack of confidence in my abilities. Then again, Chris had taken me so far. And now was not the time to question his methods.

I ran the first segment breezily, coming up alongside Jason Lester, an accomplished endurance athlete with only one functional arm, who was now well on his way to achieving his goal of becoming the first disabled athlete to complete Ultraman, a result that would garner him national acclaim, including a coveted ESPY Award for Best Male Athlete with a Disability. We agreed to take the first marathon gingerly and together. That's because we both knew that by mid-afternoon the Queen K Highway en route back to Kona would punish with its boiling surface.

I was inspired by Jason's example, and yet the first mile that I walked, per Chris's strategy, virtually every competitor in the field passed me. Do you know how long it takes to walk an entire mile? By the time I reached the half-marathon mark, I was in thirty-second place with only three competitors behind me. It was by far my slowest half marathon ever.

“Can I please start running? This is ridiculous!” I pleaded with my crew, exasperated.

“No. We stick to the plan,” Chris Uettwiller abruptly replied.

But it wasn't long before this strategy started to pay dividends. With each successive four-mile running interval, I began to pass runners, two to four at a time. When I walked, one of these athletes would again pass me, but not the others. And when I resumed the running, I would pass that person, plus two to three more. Again and again. Leapfrogging my way up the field. And that's when I started to believe.

By the time I reached the first marathon marker—the day's halfway point—I had negative-split the course. In other words, the last thirteen miles were covered much faster than the first. But more important, I felt fresh, my legs springy, my mood bright, my
vigor surging. With many runners beginning to falter, I thought,
Only twenty-six miles left? No problem!

By mile 30, the plan had proved its merit. And then some. As predicted, athletes could be seen in the distance ahead, crumpled over and staggering. The Queen K Highway is so straight and long, I could spot runners a full half mile ahead, fuzzy oases of blurred color against the black backdrop of baking pavement and lava. I'd laser in on the next athlete in front of me, then challenge myself to pass before my four-mile spurt would end. And generally I'd do it. “Who's next?” I'd ask the crew. Then I'd reel my competitor in.

But fifty-two miles is still fifty-two miles. And the Kona heat is still the Kona heat. Just past the forty-mile marker, I began to falter. Even the slightest external stimuli proved too much. Something as simple as raising an arm to drink, or the sight of Chris or LW running alongside me, became overwhelming. The blinders came down and there were simply no energy reserves for a single thought or movement not mission critical.

With my systems shutting down, I was now reluctant to even slightly alter my running pace, let alone walk, fearful that if I broke stride, I'd be unable to resume—or, worse yet, that I'd quit. And so with eight miles remaining, I resolved to run straight to the finish or until my body gave out altogether, whichever came first. Every cell in my brain implored my body to stop. And so I tried to focus on the journey that had brought me here—everything I'd sacrificed for this moment.
All for naught if I quit now
, I thought. No, there was no way I was stopping. So I sped up, reaching into my deepest reserves for the physical energy and mental acumen to pick up the pace and finish strong.

Done
.

Crossing the finish line along the craggy landing strip of Kona's Old Airport, I collapsed into the embrace of my crew, my dad right
there to hold me upright, as exhilarated as I was exhausted. And I received a joyous hug from Jane Bockus, the gatekeeper who'd opened the door to make this dream possible.

“I told you, Jane. I told you I could do it,” I whispered into her ear.

“Yes, you did, Rich. And I knew it, too,” she replied.

“Thank you,” I went on shakily. “Thank you for giving me a chance to change my life.”

Nine hours even. Certainly not a time I could brag about to a true runner. But I took pride in knowing that I'd given this race absolutely everything I had to give. Not to mention that I was the only athlete who'd negative-split the course—my second marathon was actually faster than my first. At twenty-six hours, thirty-three minutes, and forty-two seconds, I was the fastest American male finisher over the full three days—and good enough to rank eleventh overall.