Kona–The Bike Leg 2

I forgot to take bike pictures in all the excitement!

According to multi-year veterans, this year’s bike leg was the toughest in many years.  The wind on Queen K featured 35 mph gusts, hard enough to wear one down, but the real kicker was that it turned into a headwind for 40 mi. of the return to T-2.

The course was closely monitored and many cyclists received time penalties for drafting.  Exhibit No. 1 was our own Drew Marlar, who was relegated off the course into a penalty tent for 4 minutes. He disputed the call but appreciated the rest.  He had good company–the 3 top finishers of the bike leg each received his own 4 minute drafting penalty along the course!

 

Kona–The Run

Katie at mile 2, heading out Ali’i Drive.

The run is the triathlon leg most accessible spectators.  The Kona route features a couple loops that return through the heart of town, meaning you can see your favorite runner 3 or 4 times.  Better yet, veteran spectators have bikes at their disposal and are able to trail their runners throughout the course.

Katie coming–video from mile 9 along Ali’i Drive. Click on the photo for an mpeg video download.

The heart of Kona, along Ali’i Drive and Kuakini Highway, is filled with people cheering and otherwise encouraging the runners.  After mile 9, the run route climbs to Queen K. highway and spectators dramatically thin until the route enters The Energy Lab around mile 17.  The Energy Lab loop is a 4 mile black hole for runners, remote, no spectators, a time to dig deep for a reason to keep going.  The climb back to Queen K. is, by all reports, purgatory.

Mile 10 on Hualalai Road. Runners going in other direction are at just beginning their run (mile 1.5).

Queen K. ends with a final 1/2 mi. long 3% grade up to Palani Rd. (mile 25) before a last downhill to the finish line.  Betsy and I stationed ourselves along the hill, along with a few other spectators, offering encouragement.  We were greatly appreciated.  I blew a green vuvuzuela, and whenever I gave my lips a break, a struggling runner–almost always European, it seemed–would stagger by and gasp, “Horn! Horn!”  Anything to get to the top…..

 

Shanks with Dynamo’s signature cheerhorn–the vuvuzuela. Shanks was everywhere on race day, tracking the Dynamo racers’ progress.

Kona Finish–Part 1

By Betsy:

The finish arch, early evening

As a roadside cheerleader, I spent the day hollering encouragement to strangers, often not able to discern if they were men or women.  Swimming, cycling, running…many folks  look the same…helmets, goggles, tight clothes. You’d think it’d be easy to tell men from women as they ran or swam, but they are a gaunt bunch and the men often padded their shirts to protect their nipples from chafing. So, everyone was “Sweetheart” as I cheered them along their way.

Man or woman? Trim physiques in tight tri-suits can make it hard to tell!

All athletes begin at the same time and they are given 17 hours to complete the Ironman. Kathryn swam, biked, and ran for 11 hours, 22 minutes. Around 8 pm at the post-finish line, we (Kyle, Ollie, her dad and I) gathered Katie and her bike. Kyle rode Katie’s bike back to the house and Ollie rode Kyle’s rental bike, a one-speed beach cruiser that Kyle valiantly rode during the marathon and texted us how the 5 Dynamo teammates were doing.  We then met the Dynamo Team for pizza and beer near the finish line with a few hours to kill before the return for the final 90 minutes of Kona 2012.

The return to the finish line at 11 PM is important–it is a badge of honor, a duty, and a privilege to honor the oldest, most challenged, and longest-suffering competitors as they cross the line.

For results and time breakdowns, check out this site:  Kona Results

Sunset over the bay from the finish line around 6:45 PM. Racers run the remaining hours in the dark, although street lights cover the last 8 miles or so.

Kona Finish–Part 2

By Betsy:

During the final 5 hours of the Ironman, after Katie’s race was finished, people run in the dark as they hope to make it across the finish line to hear the announcer holler, “[your name here], YOU… ARE… An IRONMAN!”

 

The finish line, 11 PM

Let me digress:  The announcer Mike Riley is a one-man show with his own stellar reputation. He begins announcing at 5 a.m. and continues until midnight, belting out every finisher’s name as he/she crosses the line.

Pizza finished, around 10:30 pm, we meandered back to  join the crowd forming at the finish chute. The loud music, the bright lights, the cheering crowd welcomed the final Ironmen wearily crossing the finish line. We pounded the advertisers’ boards hanging off the fences to drum our location to the dark streets of the struggling stragglers… an Ironman tradition to cheer and support those who have worked so hard for this accomplishment.

Is it physiologically and psychologically harder to run the course in 8 hours like the pros or for 17

Crowd around the finish. ZOMBIE ALERT! Zombies are everywhere at the finish line.

hours like the folks in their 60s, 70s, even 80s? The winner of the race, Pete Jacobs, came through the chute shaking hands with the crowd. He seemed a swell guy, happy but not cocky, the most rested of anyone since he had finished hours earlier.

 

My three favorite racers in the last hour were

1. a fireman running in full firefighting gear, including an oxygen tank on his back.

Bonner Paddock, the first person with CP to complete Kona, approaching the line. He had many supporters wearing blue, over-sized, foam cowboy hats.

2. Bonner Paddock, the first person with cerebral palsy to complete a World Championship Ironman. 16 hours:38 minutes: 35 seconds.  I stood next to one of his coworkers from Newport Coast, CA, who helped raise money for his ground-breaking effort. Bonner’s fans wore huge blue cowboy hats that were hard to miss throughout the day!

3. Harriet Anderson, the last person to cross the line.The crowd of hundreds, thousands of people cried out for her “Har-ri-ET! ” “Har-ri-ET!” And we banged our hands on the signs and she trotted down the chute– all smiles — 16:59:19 — at 77 years old!

After the show. Tired Dynamo racers and supporters retrieve bikes and think about getting home.

Swim Start–“Damning Strokes”

by Ollie:

Dynamo on the seawall

More and more people pushed onto the seawall.  There were families fighting for a seat where they could say hi to mom or dad.  There were Germans wearing sleeveless shirts tucked into booty shorts who snapped pictures from behind a long, expensive lenses. Far Easterners were wandering into established spectator camps and planting themselves in the free space with oblivious, innocent expressions.  Everyone had their own shirts promoting a team, a country, or, most often, a single person: “Crowie’s Entourage” or “Run, Betty, Run.”  Some even had their own profane motto: “Badassism” was one that stood out to me for its nerdy machoism and the way it stunk of overcompensation, a very lame motto especially compared to the flawlessly stated NDA.  I gave every new shirt and its wearer a critical eye and most of them failed the test.  Even a cool shirt with a good motto worn by a kind looking person, I would blow off  with some internal grumblings.

The morning held in the air the same promise of a football Saturday.  People were introducing themselves to their neighbors while fidgeting with their cowbells or in our case, vuvuzuelas.  There was something not fully developed but building.  Despite all the people setting up shop to view the swim, the crowd noise was soft, suppressed, maybe, by the morning’s gray haze.  I anticipated that it was only a matter of time before the whole scene exploded with the intoxication of sport and the brainless thrill of being a single fan amongst a crowd of many.  The Kona grown caffeine that everyone was sipping would certainly slap them awake, and they’d toss their paper cups to seek out stronger drink.  I looked forward to that.

It struck me that the contest was a free-for-all.  There was no home team to establish the old

precedent, in which the majority of fans were in enthusiastic agreement that only a small minority defied.  Here, on the island, rambling militias ran amuck supporting only their one great warrior.  But could we not all join in obnoxious support of these sadistic athletes in a way that is mutually pleasing to both fans and competitor?  What about hooliganism?         The hubbub kept building in the bay.  The half mile arc of the stone seawall was crowded with three rows of spectators standing and a first row sitting, dangling their legs above the sharp lava rocks.  The medical tents, changing stations and showers that made up Transition were bustling with activity.  In twos and threes the male pros ventured out from the gated tent compound, walked down the short flight of wooden stairs to the beach and waded in the water, swinging their arms and getting acclimated to the temperature before diving unde

r and taking their first expert strokes.            Around the corner of the spit claimed by Transition, an army of seaworthy volunteers emerged crewing all types of watercraft.  There were kayaks, and a gang of dark haired surfers that wore reflective yellow and moved fast as they pulled themselves along on their stomachs.  Paddle-boarders stood straight up in the sea and moved away from the group to wander freely on the water.   Outrigger canoes propelled by synchronized strokes at the command of a boat captain quickly slipped past all the others in the party and took a proud lap.  Bringing up the rear were thick rubber rafts moving at a troll and carrying important looking people–I guessed journalists, cameramen, race officials and medical staff.  A chopper flew overhead.  Loud speakers cut on and the announcer welcomed everybody to the Ironman World Championship 2012 just as a strong swell collided with the seawall and sprayed the spectators with saltwater.

Flotilla and swimmers warming up.

 

We were making sense of the whole spectacle by pointing at people in the water and making wise conjectures as to what their function was.  There is the sweeper, he picks up the dead bodies left floating on the surface.  The lady with the harpoon, she tests for performance enhancing drugs.  Those are the strippers, you’ll see what they do later.  If challenged by another about the claim that all the people in the inner-tubes with the purple swim caps are disabled folks who won the Clif Bar Float Away Sweepstakes, we would simply concede a shrug, then point out that the scuba divers carrying gyroscopes are measuring the choppiness of the ocean, a variant called c-factor, which is a statistic they put up on the screen, along with wind speed and temperature, when the event is broadcast on T.V.  It seemed to be the best activity to pass the time.  It explained the madness and reassured us that we were smart and included.

Eventually 6:30 rolled around.  All the male pros were treading water about a hundred yards into the bay, being restrained by the surfers who paddled back and forth between two buoys, creating a floating start line.  Tribal drums overtook the loud speakers, silencing the jocular announcer, and thrusting a furious, lustful elixir into the air.  The beat was fast and cage rattling.  Everyone was juiced.  I half expected to see an on-looker lose control and throw themselves onto the perilous lava, joining, by instinct, in the mass self-sacrifice.  The surfers stopped and turned their boards to point towards the swimmers.  Then the cannon exploded and shook the whole island.  The swimmers took to attacking the water like a school of voracious piranhas in a feeding frenzy.  What had been dozens of little white swim caps bobbing in the distance turned into a maelstrom of limbs and splashing water that moved steadily out to sea.

The female pros took to the ocean in similar fashion five minutes later.

While the common Ironman triathletes were pouring out onto the beach, we were able to snap a picture of the Dynamo crew who put their arms around each other and posed handsomely for us.  After the picture, they fell back into the mass of athletes in wetsuits and were lost from sight.  More and more athletes emerged from Transition to mill about on the beach, wade into the water and finally go under.  Lemmings on the precipice, about to leap willingly into self-constructed torture, as my dad later put it.  Their numbers continued to accumulate and soon the water was saturated with them.  They all swam out to the floating start line, now double the width, and at seven o’clock, the last cannon exploded and my sister and the rest of team Dynamo took their first damning strokes.