Finding Ultra (24 page)

Thus it was that on April 30, 2010, I flew alone out to the lush garden isle of Kauai several days before our start date to get acclimated to the tropical heat and humidity, as well as to aid Jason with the last-minute details. When I arrived, it was immediately apparent just how much work Jason, along with his friend and Kauai local Rebecca Morgan, had put into the preparations. Rebecca's condo in Princeville, on the north shore, had been transformed into EPIC5 headquarters, every inch of floor space covered with gear contributed by sponsors. Courtesy of bicycle manufacturer Specialized: helmets and cleats to go with high-end S-Works Transition time-trial bikes. From Zoot Sports: dozens of new running shorts, shoes, socks, visors, and compression gear. And from Vega, CarboPro, and Hammer: countless oversized jugs of performance nutrition.

I didn't know it at the time, but Rebecca would become our sherpa, event producer, and overall lifesaver. She was the only person who traveled with Jason and me to every island. She never left our side and never lost sight of the goal of getting us home in one
piece. It's not an exaggeration to say that we could never have done this without her help. Never. Completely devoted to the cause, she was the true embodiment of the
ohana
spirit that defines the best of not just Hawaii, but humanity. She was our angel.

We spent the last few days running errands, doing some light training, nailing down final support-crew arrangements, and pinpointing the final iron-distance route on each island. An event like this is won or lost on these types of preparations. With such enormous distances to cover, tiny issues can become huge problems if not handled properly. For example, forgetting the Vaseline to put between one's toes can result in a blister that could easily derail the entire adventure. So lists were made, bins packed and meticulously labeled. And Rebecca, bless her soul, took care of all of it.

Meanwhile, I was eating like a fiend. I told Jason that my goal was to gain as much weight as possible the week before. Generally, I try to be as lean as possible for a race without jeopardizing power output. But again, we weren't racing, and I felt it was more important to “store the chestnuts.” No matter how much we ate during the event, a gigantic caloric deficit was almost inevitable as the days wore on, so like a bear heading into hibernation, I was gorging myself on as much nutrient-dense, high-octane plant-based food as I could get my hands on—heaps of vegan lasagna, mounds of lentils and beans over steamed brown rice, quinoa doused in coconut oil, and my precious superfood Vitamix blends. All told, I probably put on eight pounds that week alone. And Chris advised me that despite the race's immense caloric toll, my body would likely continue to
gain
weight over the course of the five days—only to drop it like a rock in the seven to ten days following. Apparently, when the body senses that it is in caloric jeopardy, it works overtime to retain fluids and store fats to simply survive. I had a hard time believing that Chris was correct on this point. But of course, that's exactly what happened.

The last flight off Kauai to Oahu on May 5—the first day of EPIC5—was at 7:52
P.M
. This was cutting things very close; it meant we had to begin our first day hours before daybreak.

For safety reasons, we didn't want to bike or swim in total darkness, so we decided to kick Day One off with the marathon, starting promptly at 3:00
A.M.
, then swim the 2.4 miles in Hanalei Bay, and finish with a 112-mile ride across the entire island and back to finish at the airport in time to make our flight to Oahu. Otherwise, we'd be screwed.

With such an early start, we hit the hay the night before at 7:00
P.M
. I'm not sure I'd slept a wink when the alarm sounded at 2:30
A.M
.

We didn't waste any time. Rebecca had already packed the van, so all Jason and I had to do was throw our running clothes on, grab some quick breakfast—a green smoothie and some quinoa with berries for me—head out the condo door, and start running. Just another early-morning training run, right? Donning headlamps to light our path, we simply began—no press, no fanfare, no cheering, no start gun—just Rebecca with a smile on her face and a quick snapshot taken in her driveway to mark the seemingly uneventful occasion.

“This is it, Roll-Dawg. You ready?”

“Bring it,” I said, coasting on the adrenaline of the moment. “Easy is as easy does,” I added, channeling my inner Forrest Gump.

Only a couple of miles in, we were calmly running along the dark main highway toward the sleepy north shore town of Hanalei when a car slowed next to us. I figured it must be someone wondering why on earth two people would be running along the highway
in the middle of the night with headlamps on! To my surprise, it was a woman who'd heard about what we were doing and just wanted to give us a cheer of support—at 3:30
A.M.!
The window rolled down and a face peeked out. “Hi, boys! I knew I'd find you!” the woman exclaimed, grinning broadly. I had no idea who this person was. But it was immediately apparent she knew exactly who we were. “I just had to come see for myself! Make us proud!” And with that she rolled up the window and pulled away, the taillights of her car disappearing down the dark highway. “That was wild,” Jason said. “Pretty cool” I responded. This was my first inkling that what we were attempting might mean something to people other than ourselves.

Only moments later, we ran up on a police car, blue and red lights swirling.
Was there an accident? Is someone being arrested? Are we somehow breaking the law?

As we tentatively approached, the officer leaned out his window. “Aloha! Looking good, boys! Keep going!” Turns out it was Detective Kekoa Ledesma, husband of one of our key Kauai logistics volunteers, Lisa Kaili Ledesma. An avid surfer and water man himself, Kekoa would soon reappear back at Hanaeli Bay to guide my swim on his paddleboard. I was floored by this living example of
ohana
. And we'd barely begun.

The sun started to rise as Jason and I approached the far reaches of Kauai's north shore at Haena—a place resembling the end of the Earth, where the highway suddenly stops at the water's edge, leaving the Napali Coast Trail as the only means of traveling to the island's other side. Green mountains rise straight up above terrain so lush it's like a scene out of
King Kong
or
Jurassic Park
. The end of this road marked the half-marathon mark. So far, so good.
Feeling strong
. But the casual chatter between us was starting to fade as the realization of the work ahead began to settle in. I forced myself to relax and focus, not push our pace. Even so, heading back toward
Hanalei my thighs began to grow heavy and my calves began to tighten. Because no matter how relaxed you try to be, there's no escaping the fact that 26.2 miles is still 26.2 miles.

To complete the run we circled through the town of Hanalei before wending our way down to the bay to finish. We ran through an alcove of beach houses, even passing the set for
The Descendants
, a George Clooney movie being filmed in a Hanalei beach house. I'd traveled three thousand miles from Los Angeles to do this event, yet I still couldn't get away from Hollywood!

As we rounded the final corner to the Hanalei Bay public beach picnic area, we were met by cheers from locals who'd turned up to join us for the upcoming swim. After high-fives all around, I determined that we'd completed the first stage in our long journey in just over four hours—certainly not fast by the usual marathon standards, but in strict accordance with a strategy I affectionately coined “persistent conservation.”

To say that the swim part of any race is difficult for Jason is an understatement. I can't imagine swimming more than a few strokes, let alone miles, with only one arm. And doing it
after
a marathon? It's staggering that he'd even attempt it. I reminded myself that Jason and I were doing this together, so there was no sense in being aggressive with the swim.
Just enjoy it
. So I let him get started while I chatted with our new local friends and patiently allowed time for my breakfast of bananas, coconut water, and almond butter to properly digest.

I entered the water with about five locals who'd taken the day off from work to join us. We headed out together along the Hanalei Pier and then turned west to traverse the bay a couple hundred meters offshore, where we encountered considerable adverse currents and chop. I put my head down and followed the path set by Detective Ledesma, who guided me on his stand-up paddleboard while the local group swam right behind. My priority was
making sure my stomach and legs didn't cramp, a likely scenario after running a marathon and eating. But all was well; the body held together fine. At 1.2 miles, on the far side of the bay, I turned around to head back and became worried after catching glimpses of Jason struggling against the currents. But Jason is tough and I knew better than to check in on him. With the current at my back, it was smooth sailing home and I was done before I knew it. I felt good as I walked up the beach to greet Rebecca and Molly Kline, who'd flown in to chronicle the event for our sponsor Zoot. While they packed up all the gear in Rebecca's Toyota 4Runner, our support vehicle du jour, I grabbed a bottled water and headed for the beach shower, where I rinsed the salt from my body, donned cycling gear, and reclined, trying to conserve every ounce of energy for the course. But it was hard to relax knowing that Jason was still out there, battling the current. Since heading out on the bike without Jason wasn't an option, there was nothing left to do but wait.

After what seemed like eons, Jason finally dragged his weary body out of the bay. Had we known about that current and the challenge it would pose to Jason, we would have undoubtedly rethought leading off the day with a marathon. Because he only has the use of one arm, Jason is forced to use his legs far more vigorously than the typical swimmer in order to maintain proper body position. In contrast, I can let my legs drag behind during the swim, saving them as much as possible for the bike. The quadriceps are huge muscles and require a lot of energy output without much forward swimming propulsion—it's just not efficient to overwork the legs in the water, because the realized gain is minimal when compared to the energy expended. But Jason simply doesn't have the luxury of “saving” his legs. So having to kick hard to combat the current on legs that had already run a marathon that day almost
buried him. It was written all over his face. But his only focus was to keep moving forward—hence his mantra and foundation namesake:
Never Stop
. Head down, he marched directly to the showers to change. When he emerged, his only words:

“What are you waiting for? Let's go.”

And so we did. Heading out on the bike with a large group of local cyclists, we departed Hanalei. My energy was good, and Jason seemed to be slowly recovering. I had to keep telling myself not to ride too hard; a few of the locals were excited, anxious to push a vigorous pace. Tempting, for sure. But they only had this one hard ride—I had the big picture to think about.
Be smart
, I kept telling myself. To adhere to my strategy of persistent conservation, I kept dutiful focus on my Garmin bike computer, fully aware that to complete EPIC5 intact my heart rate and watts must both stay far below my aerobic threshold at all times.

At about forty miles in, I stopped to use a restroom, telling the group to go on without me, certain I'd quickly make up the lost time down the road. Back on the bike, I rode alone for a while before I caught up with a local named Johnny Grout, a strong and excitable guy about my age determined to see what I was made of by forcing a strong pace. I foolishly let him, suddenly riding much harder than advised, my Garmin displaying watts far above my self-imposed cap. But I was caught up in Johnny's enthusiasm.
I should slow down
, I thought. Yet I didn't, knowing full well that I'd pay dearly for this on subsequent days. There were times when I was
too
competitive.

With Jason nowhere in sight, Johnny and I focused on our vigorous tempo and in the process missed a turn on the south side of the island to a coiled stretch near Poipu. It wasn't until many miles farther that I realized the error, having lost touch with the group entirely. Not sure whether to turn back, Johnny and I settled on
continuing onward, realizing that we could regroup on the route back from the southwestern end of the island, where I could tack on additional miles as needed by looping around.

Pushing hard down the long, flat highway that tracks Kauai's western shoreline, my head neatly tucked and my arms outstretched on my Easton carbon aero bars—special time trial-bike handlebars that allow you to rest your elbows on the bike's cockpit—I was doing my best to cut through the considerable winds that were pushing me all over the road. The pace was solid and I was in the groove, albeit still riding well above my recommended pace. I reached to shift gears, and that's when I heard a loud
snap!
My chain gurgled and sputtered until it locked in on the smallest ring on my rear cassette. I quickly realized that I'd broken not just my rear derailleur cable, but the shifter housing as well, leaving me completely unable to maneuver my chain out of the most difficult gear.
Dammit!

Johnny and I pulled over to survey the problem. Dripping rivers of sweat on my bike, I felt my anxiety swell in proportion to my sinking heart as I wordlessly surveyed the damage.

Johnny broke the silence, doing his best to stem my obvious agitation. “Dude, no worries. Someone will be here soon to help you fix it. We're cool.”

But I was in no mood for this hang-loose Hawaiian approach to my crisis.
How is any of this cool?
I wouldn't be able to repair the problem without a proper bike mechanic and proper spare parts—a tall order on an island with only one bike shop and an ill-equipped crew nowhere to be found. To boot, there was zero cell service, so we couldn't call. And since we'd ventured off-course, Rebecca had no idea where we were. There was absolutely nothing we could do aside from wait until someone showed up. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking, our 7:52
P.M
. flight departure time looming heavy in my mind.