Finding Ultra (30 page)

Jason's words relieved my anxiety. And recalling my commitment to surrender, I again let go of the pressure I'd placed on myself to perform. I started to come alive again. After an initial half-mile walk, we found ourselves jogging. Not so bad. And before we knew it, Jason and I were actually running, laughing, cracking jokes. Our ultra-running crew captain for the day, Paul Hopwood, and Zoot's Molly Kline joined us, their enthusiasm a welcome improvement on the dour tapes that had been continuously playing in my mind for the last several hours. As we headed up to Highway 31, we made progress back toward the airport, where we were joined by a few local runners who'd been following our journey online and wanted to join.

With a brightened perspective, we began to actually enjoy ourselves, hitting a good stride—running for a spell, walking for a spell, then repeating. Close to midnight, we were chugging along nicely when a car pulled up ahead and stopped. Out jumped top-ranked local triathlete Dylan Rist, who ran alongside us dressed in his tie, khakis, and leather work shoes, fresh off the clock from his waiter job at a local restaurant. It was now officially a party.

For several miles we alternated running (using this term loosely)
and walking, taking our time, chatting, and generally enjoying the company and the sound of the warm breeze on the cane fields that lined the road. Before we knew it, we'd hit the ten-mile mark and everything seemed to be clicking.
We might just get this thing finished after all
. Rolling into the quiet town of Kahului in the dead of night, we cut across the airport before heading up Hana Highway toward a long climb up Haleakala Highway. Then things began to get tough.

As we inched our way up the steep grade of Haleakala Highway, hours into our “run,” Jason turned to me and quipped, “Almost there, bro. Keep it up and we'll be done before you know it.” I looked at my Garmin Forerunner 310XT wrist computer, a heavy chunk of a watch that displays a variety of custom-set data points: heart rate, pace, the incline of the road, time lapsed, and—most important to me then—distance. The device read 12.4 miles. We weren't even halfway yet! Jason was a purist who always declined to wear any type of data monitor, so he had absolutely no idea how far we'd run. But rather than chip away at his optimism, I kept my mouth shut.

Having run steadily uphill for the last three miles with no end in sight to the elevating slant of the dark road ahead, I began to question Paul's chosen route for the night. Once again, the wheels were beginning to fall off my wagon. I was becoming unhinged, returning to that dark and all-too-familiar place where I could no longer handle light conversation—or any interpersonal interaction for that matter. I was officially “no longer fun to be with.” And so, wondering why we would continue running uphill for who knows how many more miles, I began to let loose.

“What are we doing?” I yelled, my teeth grinding as the pressure rose behind my eyes. “Let's turn around and head back to the flats. This uphill route is idiotic.”

Content to remain in his own world, or more likely just tired of
my attitude, Jason kept to himself. And happy to just be running and fresh as morning dew, Paul couldn't see the issue. “It's not that steep,” he replied.
Steep enough
, I grumbled under my breath. He may have been an ultra-runner, but Paul wasn't in the throes of his fourth iron-distance triathlon that week. Anyway, I withheld further comment for another mile and a half, treading uphill terrain I knew little about, unable to see beyond the oval circle of light downcast on the pavement by my headlamp. Then around mile 15, I lost it.

“This is ridiculous. I'm heading back to the airport. Anyone else?” Without taking a vote, I pivoted on my heels and headed back down the hill we were still climbing, dividing loyalties by heading away from the group. Ultimately, the pack fell into line with my hijacked route change, but the damage had been done—I'd further eroded morale by violating the one sacred rule:
No matter what, stick together
.

I was initially grateful to descend for a change, but it wasn't long before the downward grade took its toll, searing my quadriceps. Every step sent lactate screams up my legs—knifelike jabs pleading with my mind to stop the madness. My focus narrowed, signaling it was once again time to shut my mouth, pull the shades tight, and isolate.

Soon we hit the flats, again passed the airport, and began a circuit west through the town of Kahului. I dropped back, tracking Jason as he continued to chat with Paul and Molly. I told myself to focus on them.
Calm down. Take it easy
.

It was amazing to watch Paul's run form. A true ultra-running specialist, he was impressively light on his feet, with an effortless stride. He's the kind of runner who excels at distances upward of a hundred miles. To this day I still have difficulty wrapping my brain around the idea of 100 miles.
Someday …
I thought. But not today.

It was now nearing 3:00
A.M
. Paul had been working his butt off all day taking care of us, and yet, having run every mile alongside us, he looked entirely fresh. In fact, he ran far more than a marathon that night, because he repeatedly jogged back and forth between Jason and me, bringing us fluids, tending to our every need. But again, I was in that dark place where I couldn't handle the interaction. I was gruff, shunning the nutrition and imploring him to leave me alone. But Paul knew better. Experienced in how it feels to be in the “pain cave,” he refused to take no for an answer.

I later felt awful about how difficult I was that night. It was beyond uncool to treat so roughly someone who'd volunteered his time. I apologized to Paul and he said he knew it wasn't personal. Like many endurance and ultra-endurance athletes, he understood; he'd been there himself.

Circling Kahului and heading back toward the airport, we hit the twenty-mile mark. Delirium was really setting in now, placed against a very real backdrop of cane fields burning in the near distance. Hundreds of acres blazing in a controlled burn. The predawn sky glowed a fantastic orange, punctuated by an overwhelming acrid aroma. Like a surreal landscape conceived by Salvador Dalí, or a scene straight out of
Apocalypse Now
, our bizarre environs elevated the strangeness this trip already possessed. But the end was now within reach. Both Jason and I had, for the most part, dispensed with walking, now only running.

We settled on a large circular loop around the commercial section of Kahului, which would place our finish line in the airport parking lot. Grateful to have something to fix my gaze on besides the haunting glow of burning cane fields, I focused on the closed but well-lit storefronts—a Chevron here, a twenty-four-hour Rite Aid there—anything to distract me from the pain. And the miles clicked by. But the closer we inched toward our destination, the thicker the smoke from the burning cane became. Despite
removing our shirts and wrapping them around our faces to filter the fallout, it was soon close to impossible to breathe. Time, once again, to divert the route.

According to plan, our crew left us to pick up Paul's car in the airport parking lot. We'd reconvene at an improvised finish line beyond the perimeter of the acrid plume. And so for the last two miles it was just Jason and me, slugging it out against the flaming orange sky, racing against ourselves and the impending dawn. A step at a time, we ran together, silent, just as we'd begun on that first morning of our EPIC5 journey in Kauai—days ago.
Almost there. Just get it done
. I looked at my wrist every minute or so, in intervals of one-tenth of a mile. Our self-chosen assignment seemed endless and ridiculous at the same time: run in circles around this neighborhood until my computer would grant us permission to stop. And then—without fanfare, or even a single soul to greet us, let alone pat us on the back—we were finished.

Too tired to hug, the two of us made do with a quick high-five. Our crew was nowhere to be seen. Nothing to do but wait; they should be here any minute.

I gingerly laid my body down on the hard concrete driveway in front of Royal Hawaiian Tire & Auto, a less-than-romantic backdrop to punctuate the unceremonious completion of our day's travels. No more than ninety seconds had elapsed when
 … oblivion
. I was fast asleep.

I'm not sure how many minutes passed—maybe ten, fifteen tops. But when Paul, Molly, and Rebecca tracked us down, I was still sound asleep. After shaking me awake, Paul had to literally half-carry me into the van, where I rested my head against the window, trying to remain awake for the short ride to the hotel.

When we arrived at a rather groovy little inn up in the funky town of Paia, Jason helped me out of the car and let me lean on him as he guided me into the lobby.
It should be the other way
around
, I thought. I was in very bad shape—far worse than Jason. And I needed that bed like I'd never needed anything in my life. I couldn't speak. I couldn't function. The hotel receptionist was doing her best to get us situated at this ridiculously early hour, but it took a spell for her to locate our room keys and sort out our reservation. I was entirely out of rationality and patience, my irritability once again rearing up. I recall very little of what occurred other than that I needed all the help I could get from Jason just to make it up one simple flight of stairs and into that bed. I knew I needed to eat, but I could only muster a few bites of pasta Rebecca had picked up. And as the sun crept up, I shut the shades, pulled the sheets over my head, and was gone.

Waking the next morning around 11:00
A.M.
, I sought out Jason and our crew, and it was quickly agreed to schedule another rest day before our final assault on the Big Island. A few hours later we caught an afternoon island hopper to Kona, and after quickly checking in at the King Kamehameha Hotel—the HQ for the Ironman World Championships and just a skip away from the next day's swim start at the Kailua Pier—we wasted no time hightailing it directly to Island Naturals, Kona's newest natural foods market. Finally, I was able to nourish myself with good, clean-burning organic vegan fuel—nutrition that hadn't crossed my lips since Molokai. And I took every advantage of it—loading up on a giant fresh kale, spirulina, and beet Vitamix blend and gorging on every conceivable whole-food, plant-based delight in sight.

I could actually feel my body return to life, inching toward homeostasis with every green sip and bite of quinoa and lentils.
I stocked up on raw almonds, gluten-free granola, coconut milk, acai, and kombucha to bring back to the hotel for later that evening and the following day's breakfast, then it was right back to the room to call the family before lights out at dusk.

Eleven hours of dead-to-the-world sleep later, I arose around 6:00
A.M
. to greet our final day feeling shockingly refreshed—in stark contrast to the emotional meltdown and near organ failure of the previous day. I actually felt “tapered,” a term that refers to that feeling of boundless energy that comes with a couple weeks of rest and easy training after a long, arduous season in the lead-up to a big race. It was as if my body were saying,
Okay, I finally understand what is going on now—why didn't you tell me earlier? All I needed was a decent meal and one good night of sleep! An iron-distance triathlon today? No problem
.

Jason and I convened in the hotel lobby and together walked the twenty yards to the Kailua Pier to ready ourselves for the swim. With the hardest work behind us, we approached the day as a victory lap on home turf. Despite the 140.6 miles that lay in front of us—daunting by any objective standard—after what we'd endured, and invigorated by a day of rest, knocking off an iron-distance workout now seemed like nothing more than a walk in the park. We needn't worry about flights to catch, or what hellish trials the next day would inflict on us. Barring unforeseen disaster, when the day was done, we'd have completed the impossible.

At the pier we met up with some local friends. Grant Miller, the owner of the local BikeWorks bike shop, who'd tuned up our bike gear for Ultraman, was there to tweak and tidy our rides while we got the swim under our belts. And also there to cheer us on was local professional triathlete Bree Wee, with her ever-present smile.

Wasting no time, we jumped in and began. I knew this swim course—one of the most beautiful ocean swims in the world—like
I knew every grouted tile of my local pool. Stroking effortlessly through the crystal-clear water teeming with underwater wildlife, I focused on the schools of fish. A casual out-and-back 2.4 miles, and before I knew it, I was done. Only fifty-one minutes—no big deal on a fresh day, but pretty darn good considering what I'd undergone this week. As I was drying off, Grant smiled, remarking, “Wow, you're already done?”

“Just warming up, Grant!”

“So how did it feel to have so many friends out there with you today?”

Having just performed the swim solo, I was confused. “What do you mean?”

“The dolphins! You had a whole school of dolphins out there swimming right alongside you!”

“I did?” I couldn't believe it. Despite the countless number of times I'd swum in this bay, I'd yet to experience the sensation of swimming alongside a dolphin. How could I have missed it?

“Yeah! Look!” Grant motioned to Jason, still chugging out in the bay. With a hand to my forehead to shade the bright morning sun, I spied Jason far offshore, stroking to the musical rhythm of several dorsal fins undulating alongside him. I took it as a blessing on behalf of the Hawaiian kahunas.

Simply beautiful.

As I awaited Jason's arrival, I put on my cycling gear for the final bike segment of the week, ate an almond butter and banana sandwich, and greeted five-time Ironman champion Luke McKenzie, an Aussie who'd been training in Kona over the last few weeks with his fiancée (now wife), Amanda Balding. I'd very briefly met Luke and Amanda by happenstance almost two years prior—before I'd even raced my first Ultraman—during a Starbucks break while out riding in my local Santa Monica Mountains. Remarkably, Luke
remembered our meeting, and was nice enough to swing by on his motor scooter this morning to say hello and wish us well for the day. His encouragement provided an amazing morale boost.