Finding Ultra (28 page)

Nonetheless, when the predawn alarm bell sounded against the backdrop of crowing Molokai plantation roosters that next morning, I felt as if I'd slept no more than an hour, tops. I could barely lift my body out of bed. Each limb felt like it had been injected with lead. Wobbling to the kitchen, I mumbled a zombie greeting to Rebecca, who'd risen an hour earlier to pack our bags and load the car for the quick jaunt down to the airport for our 7:30
A.M
. flight to Maui. She was our Eveready battery, always charged.

We arrived at the Maui airport in a thorazine haze, greeted by the already searing sun and blustery winds—an omen of the challenges we'd meet on the bike later that day. Our apprehension was somewhat tempered by the warm welcome of local Paul Hopwood, an outstanding ultra-runner and member of the HURT crew then diligently training for the legendary Western States 100 trail race, considered one of the most prestigious and difficult trail ultra-marathons in the world. Paul had volunteered to crew for us throughout the day, and so despite vast fatigue, my spirits lifted. I was grateful to have an endurance expert on hand for the ordeal to come as we quickly loaded up and headed down to Kamaole Beach in Kihei.

At the beach parking lot, crowded with tourists looking forward to a lazy day drenched in sun and surf, we donned our swim gear in the public locker rooms. Since our sleep-deprived minds were still clouded in a thick fog and our overworked bodies equally compromised, what should have taken ten minutes, preparing for the swim, took almost thirty. I just couldn't seem to find the wherewithal to get moving. I should have been getting warmed up, doing some stretching, applying sunscreen and Vaseline to guard against the painful rash that inevitably develops in my underarms from the rubbing caused by the swim. I should have been reviewing the day's plan with Paul and organizing my nutrition and gear for the swim-to-bike transition. Instead, I sat motionless on the car bumper slowly nibbling a banana, vacantly staring off into the distance, reluctant to even move. Clearly, I was trying to avoid the inevitable, but while I dithered, the sun simply grew hotter.

We'd anticipated a 9:00
A.M
. start for the swim; however, it was already inching toward 10:00. No words were exchanged, but at one point Jason and I looked at each other and I saw in his eyes that he felt as I did: Completing an iron-distance triathlon in our current state seemed totally impossible.

I shook my head, then immediately regretted that I'd wasted dwindling reserves on anything negative.
Not helpful
, I thought.
Why are you playing the victim? We're all tired …
I strained to affect a positive attitude. But inside, all I could think was
This is beyond ridiculous
. Jason had become a man of very few words—perhaps his means of conserving every ounce of energy for the demands ahead. Or maybe like me, he knew it was just better to keep any fear or negativity to himself, to submerge it below his poker-face exterior. When I looked at him, all I heard in my mind was his mantra,
That's why it's called a challenge
.

As if I could forget. Our eyes locked again, the absurdity of the moment percolating to the surface. We both wanted to complain, but we bit our tongues. And the most unlikely thing occurred. We both burst into uncontrollable, exhaustion-fueled laughter, giggling like teenage girls. Catharsis. The only appropriate response. And a better pain salve than a morphine drip.

Armed with that moment, we ventured down the beach to greet the surf, the sand already burning the soles of my worn feet. Unlike Kauai's Hanalei Bay or the deserted sands of Molokai's Popohaku Beach, Kamaole was a swarming tourist enclave, set against a backdrop of bustling shops and busy restaurants. Everything about the calming atmosphere said,
Relax; take a break; this is a vacation
.

Tempting, to be sure.

As gentle waves soothed my hot feet in a gurgle of white foam, I took comfort in our anonymity, knowing that not a single beachgoer had the slightest clue about our adventure. At the water's edge, a little girl no more than four was busy filling a blue bucket with wet sand. Staring at her and the turquoise beyond, I momentarily lost myself in her vacation moment, recalling carefree days of my childhood spent along the shores of Lake Michigan. I wondered how I'd gotten from there to here.

But the time had come to get to work. With a deep inhale,
I filled my lungs with the warm salty air and gingerly waded in. Submerging my body up to the neck, I closed my eyes and floated spread-eagled, centering myself for a very brief meditation. It was a desperate attempt to release the mind, to put distance between my negative thoughts and my higher purpose, to get in touch with the idea that who I am is not defined by what I “think” or even how I “feel” in a given moment.
You are not your mind, you are not your body …

And for a fleeting moment, I untethered my mind. What followed was a rush of energy, followed by a deep understanding that I could indeed get through this day—without a doubt.

But I knew with a jolt that my own power wouldn't be enough to make it happen. Relying on self-will can take you a certain distance, sure. But not across the ultimate goal line. And definitely not today. I knew that I had to find a way to take myself out of the day's equation—to surrender.

But what does that word “surrender” mean? As I let myself float that morning, my body fully supported by the warm ebb and flow of the sea, the words of writer Daphne Rose Kingma came to mind: “Surrender is a beautiful movement in which you gracefully, willingly, languidly fall, only to find midway that you have been gathered into some unimaginable embrace. Surrender is letting go, whether or not you believe the embrace will occur. It's trust to the hundredth power—not sticking to your idea of the outcome, but letting go in the faith that even the absence of an outcome will be the perfect solution.”

Sometimes in life we're lucky enough to receive the precious gift of clarity. I suddenly realized that success wouldn't come if I made today about me. Rather, success would come only to the extent that I could drop my ego and align myself with something higher and more fundamental.

Easier said than done. But it was only by grasping on to this
insight that I was able to begin. One small swim stroke. Then another. And another.

I prayed the ocean would bring me back to life much as it had in Oahu, but no such luck. As I stroked past the initial breakwaters, I was greeted with unwelcome swells, a washing machine of stern currents and an offshore break that seemed to thrash my body in every direction but forward. Clearly, this wouldn't be the “easy warm-up” type of swim I was blessed with in Oahu, and I certainly wouldn't have the benefit of the unprecedented tail currents that had jet-streamed me down the Molokai coast. I was going to have to put some backbone into this swim. And if it was hard for me, I couldn't imagine the toll these conditions would take on Jason.

Back to letting go. I couldn't fight the current, that was clear. The only way through was to surrender—to allow myself to get jostled and relax into the idea that it would take three to four strokes to progress the distance it normally takes one stroke to accomplish.
So what. Who cares. I'm here in Maui
. In the throes of this incredible adventure. It was a beautiful day.
Let's enjoy
. Doubt, resentment, and frustration evaporated. I took my thoughts off myself and focused on sending Jason positive energy to get him through the day's first true challenge. The swim course involved eight tightly wound and buoy-marked laps around the bay, during which time I lapped Jason twice, underscoring his struggle. On each occasion I could see him fighting mightily against the current, yet never giving up. I wished I could make it easier for him, but I knew the best thing was to leave him alone.

A little more than an hour later, I exited the water, dodging beachcombers and kids on Boogie Boards who didn't give me a second look—which put everything in perspective. On the beach, I tried to catch my breath and take stock. We were just getting started, yet I was already dehydrated, groggy, and yawning. So much for a refreshing morning swim to get my blood flowing.

Squinting across the water, I scanned for Jason and caught a glimpse of his left arm slapping the surf far offshore. He still had a long way to go yet was steadfast as always. He churned it out—one stroke at a time. I should have known better than to be worried about him.

I washed the salt from my body in the nearby showers and immediately tried to rehydrate and replenish with several liters of coconut water, Endurance Elixir, and avocado sandwiches. But with an already ailing stomach, it was tough to get any calories down without gagging. And as the blood rushed to my gut to digest the nourishment I could hold down, my sense of fatigue increased. Then there was the oven-like heat. The sun was now high and stifling, scorching my beaten corpse with a blistering dryness that far exceeded anything we'd endured on previous days. Fixating on a young couple napping on fluffy white beach towels, I felt my blood boil with jealousy. I had to force myself to turn away. Time to focus. Time to get to work.

As Jason came out of the water, I could tell that it had been a battle. Shunning the aid of Rebecca and Rick, he made it clear he needed to be left alone for a moment. And he also didn't want any sympathy, I knew. There was nothing left to say. Yet so much left to do.

Putting the congested and convivial Kamaole Beach oasis in our rear view, we headed off together on our salt-stained bikes, our backs baking as we pedaled straight uphill from the beach before veering left on Piilani Highway. As we made our way toward the airport, I took a quick look at Jason's feet snapped into his pedals, just beside mine—
up down, up down, up down
. My leg muscles burned with each stroke. We were both in real pain, physical and mental—I knew without a word being spoken that he felt as I did. Our bikes were close—only inches apart from each other—and I felt the heat from Jason's body, felt little drops of sweat fly off of his
body onto mine. The sun burned, the pavement sizzled with heat, and ahead of us stretched the road—black and glittering.
Pain, pain, pain
. “Hot,” Jason croaked out at one point. I grunted in agreement.

Then came the wind.

As we neared the airport, we were met with fierce trade gusts. I was pushing about two hundred watts on my bike, well within my Zone Two range and a sustainable pace that should have registered at least twenty miles an hour on a typical flat road such as this. Instead, my Garmin read only eight miles per hour. It was a fierce struggle just to maintain a straight line, let alone move forward efficiently. Yet this barrier to progress remained almost invisible, the sparse, low-lying vegetation and open terrain lending no clue to the wind's formidable power, save for the occasional swirling blasts of sand that blanketed our sweaty bodies and nearly blinded me despite my protective Oakley Jawbone sunglasses. With only one arm to stabilize his position, Jason was performing some kind of miracle by not getting blown over into the dry brush that lined the shoulder of this arid furnace freeway.

Time to reconsider our route. We'd originally planned two loops, which would involve long stretches battling this headwind. But we knew if we had to face these gusts again that we'd jeopardize not just our ability to finish but our safety. So when we reached the airport, we U-turned and headed back toward Kihei, the strong tailwinds carrying us to a right-hand turn onto Route 30, where we'd track the coast around West Maui up to Lahaina.

Now somewhat protected from the winds, we both met a new challenge in the form of an old friend. Our rear ends were giving out. After a brief but welcome remission on Molokai, the saddle sores that had begun to develop on Oahu had predictably returned. Despite our diligent application of the Bontrager cure, it was now clear that our preventive efforts had failed. Only forty miles into
our ride, both Jason and I began to experience torture in the nether region. Five pedal strokes seated before standing on my pedals was the best I could muster—a herky-jerky, inefficient way to ride a bike even when fresh, and in this situation a disastrous energy sap. But we had no choice; to remain seated was to be stabbed with knives from below.

And this was when I started to lose my mind. To say that I was cranky is an understatement. Ultra-endurance veterans always advise, “Never enlist friends or loved ones to crew for you.” Why? Because when deep fatigue and lack of sleep take hold, one's inner beast emerges, causing fracture of even the best of relationships. I never gave this much credence, particularly after experiencing such a bonding experience with my wife and kids at Ultraman in 2009. But now, for the first time, I was beginning to understand. I wasn't just cranky. I was becoming intolerable.

About halfway into the ride, I rode up on our crew parked along the shoulder just outside the town of Lahaina, got off my bike, and demanded a new clean cycling bib, a “Hail Mary” attempt to salve my wounds. Of course, my crew had no idea where to look for such an item.
Why can't they read my mind?!
I lost it.

“Gimme my bag!” I demanded.

Rummaging furiously through the van, I pulled out my duffel bag and threw all my clothes into the dirt until I found what I was looking for. Then I ran into the bushes to change. When I returned, Molly Kline, Paul, and Rebecca all looked at me wide-eyed. Like a man possessed by demons, I was in need of an exorcism. Riding off in anger, I covered several miles before I was able to compose myself and reflect objectively on my behavior. Sure, I was more tired than I'd ever been in my life. But that was no excuse to treat our crew—people who were selflessly giving themselves completely to our cause—in such a manner. Not cool. And definitely not me.
What was I becoming?

Ironically, I was riding along some of the most beautiful coastline in the world, yet, for the first time, I was unable to enjoy the view. Along Honoapiilani Highway, gorgeous palm trees hugged the tranquil coast, arching their fronds low over impossibly white sands. Offshore, surfers crested perfect curls in the turquoise luminescence. Meanwhile, I couldn't focus on anything beyond my failing legs and the searing pain in my seat. I tried to find a way to savor the moment. But with my body atrociously overheated, I couldn't. I glanced momentarily at the world-class sunset that had now painted the sky a fluorescent pink, but I couldn't summon anything beyond indifference.
So what? …