Finding Ultra (26 page)

It worked. Taking in the sublime beauty of Oahu's North Shore, I pondered what it must have been like for John Collins and his cohorts back in 1978, attempting this course for the very first time. The reverie was effective in distracting me from my fatigue and soreness that was now quickly creeping into my “undercarriage,” polite cycling parlance for the butt region. Anyone who logs a lot of miles on a bike likely knows the unique pain brought about by saddle sores, boil-like infections that creep into the sensitive derma lining the “sit bones.” The only real solution is strong disinfectant, a couple days off the bike, and in very serious cases, lancing. Obviously, none of these was an option.

In the weeks leading up to EPIC5, we were well aware that we needed a solid strategy to avoid saddle sores. Responding to the
challenge, Jason had turned up a well-tested “chamois cream” recipe. Conceived by legendary ultra-endurance mountain bike racer and cycling design pioneer Keith Bontrager, the ointment consisted of hydrocortisone cream, petroleum jelly, lanolin, and Neosporin. Before each ride, we liberally applied scoops of this hand-mixed goopy medicinal mess to our rear ends in hopes of keeping infection at bay. But today I began to realize that our preventive efforts had fallen short.

In retrospect, it had been unwise to remain in our cycling shorts during the flight the night before. Every cyclist knows that to avoid saddle sores you must get out of your bib and shower immediately after every ride, then apply an antibacterial such as tea-tree oil to the region to further disinfect. More rookie mistakes. But there was little I could do about it now.

And no escaping the fact that the sheen of our epic quest was beginning to loose its luster. Heads down, Jason and I barely spoke all day, resolved to put this ride and all of its missteps firmly in our rear view.

After passing through Haleiwa on the island's North Shore, we turned south en route back to Honolulu and faced a long ascent made more arduous by blustery trade winds. I love a challenging climb and felt a sudden resurgence of energy as I dug deep to conquer the pesky grade.

Soon we'd descended back into more populated areas and were once again tortured by endless stoplights and heavy traffic. The last twenty miles of the ride should have taken us about an hour. Instead, it took almost two and a half hours of dodging cars and constant red-light stops. It was getting dark and we were weary, to say the least. Along the final stretch of the Nimitz Highway nearing the Honolulu Airport, we stopped at yet again another red light. Jason and I looked at each other. It wasn't hard to read each other's mind.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, as I munched on an avocado and Vegenaise sandwich that I'd tucked in the back pocket of my jersey, and downed a coconut water handed off to me by Rebecca through the window of the crew van. “How did I let you talk me into this nonsense? Are we really going to run a marathon tonight? We should just call it a night and run the marathon in the morning.”

“Don't even think about it,” retorted Jason. I shut up.

At Ala Moana Beach Park, Rebecca and Rick greeted us with a change of clothes and a dose of solid nutrition. To my amazement, there were about a dozen local runners and triathletes gathered to join us for the run. The peppy group greeted us warmly. They brimmed with energy reserves, but I could barely muster a smile. With darkness having settled in, I couldn't believe I was about to run a marathon.

I chugged a recovery “Endurance Elixir” that I'd brought—a concoction conceived specifically for me by my friend Compton Rom, a PhD in microbiology and the founder of wellness start-up Ascended Health. An entirely plant-based formula loaded with high-caliber nutrients sourced from the four corners of the globe—fermented greens, adaptogens, probiotics, Cordyceps mushroom extracts, marine phytoplankton, and exotic antioxidants, like nattokinase, resveratrol, and quercetin—it's not particularly flavorful but always revives me like nature's Red Bull (for more information on this and other Ascended Health products, see
Appendix III
, Resources). During training, I generally only drink a few ounces a day to boost my recovery. But I was a walking dead man desperate for resuscitation, so I downed a full sixteen-ounce bottle and headed for the showers. After rinsing off, I couldn't believe how quickly I began returning to life.
God bless you, Compton
was all I could think. I mustered a smile and introduced myself to the local running crew, grateful for the company to break the monotony and hoping I could absorb their energy. At that moment, I honestly
didn't believe that I was physically or mentally able to run a marathon. But the only way out was through.

One foot in front of the other. Turn the brain off. Keep it simple and just begin. And so I did.

We headed out along Kalakaua Avenue, Waikiki's main commercial drag, where I soaked in the warm air and absorbed the electricity of the lively tourist crowds. After spending the last two days traversing the remotely populated and undeveloped corners of Kauai and Oahu's North Shore, it was surreal to now witness flip-flopped teens fiddling with iPods inside a brightly lit Apple Store as we dodged packs of college students pub-crawling their way through spring break, women surveying handbags outside Louis Vuitton, and honeymooning couples dining at the many outdoor cafés. The energy of it all returned needed life to my tattered body. And after about two miles, I felt like a brand-new person.
I actually felt good
.

As we cleared Waikiki and headed up and around Diamond Head to tackle the Honolulu Marathon course, our group slowly dwindled. Twelve became ten; ten became eight. And soon all that remained were Jason, me, and a small core group from the Hawaii Ultra Running Team (“HURT”). Given that it was already nine o'clock on a weeknight, I figured they, too, would drop off soon, so I tried to enjoy the company while we had it. But I underestimated the hard-core nature of this crew. It became evident that these people—endurance junkies with names like Chet “The Jet” Blanton—intended to run the entire marathon with us. No big deal. Apparently, banging out a casual marathon after dinner on a weeknight was just a normal thing to do. And I thought I was nuts.

Beyond Diamond Head, we ran as a group through the night along Kalanianaole Highway, a heavily trafficked, grimy thoroughfare, before turning around at the half-marathon mark. It was here that the rubber began to hit the road. My blinders came down and I stopped chatting. I purposely isolated myself away from Jason
and the group to eliminate distractions. I was laying down a decent pace and feeling strong, but I was still facing about nine miles and my thighs were growing heavy. The iPod went on. And even though it was dark, I pulled my visor low on my forehead. At times I even closed my eyes for as long as I thought I safely could, engaging a deep active meditation, enveloped by the dark. I was now deep in the “pain cave,” that impossibly dark place where all sensory perception is obliterated and replaced by one overriding and singular sensation—suffering. My peripheral vision narrowed to the oval light cast by my headlamp. Each stride brought shearing pain up my thighs, as if my quadriceps were being julienned by daggers. And the bottoms of my feet were on fire, as if I were running barefoot on hot coals. But that didn't mean I wasn't happy. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

As we entered the marathon's final two-and-a-half-mile stretch in Kapiolani Park, the HURT crew continued to chat, miraculously appearing as fresh as they had during mile 1. In contrast, I struggled. Forget about form and technique—that had dwindled miles ago. Staying upright, moving one leg in front of the other was a victory.
Just get to the next lamppost.…
Two laps around the park seemed interminable. But Jason and I made it to the finish and even mustered up enough energy to hug and get out a few celebratory words in the haze of exhaustion. And as we sat on the curb with the HURT crew still cheerfully chatting as the clock ticked past 1:00
A.M.
, it dawned on me. We'd made it. Two consecutive iron-distance triathlons in the books. Even if we stopped now, we'd accomplished something nobody else had ever done.

But what about tomorrow? Our itinerary called for a 3:50
A.M
. wake-up call. If we didn't abide by it, we wouldn't have the time required to get out of bed, pack, check out of the hotel, and make a 6:20
A.M
. flight to Molokai to begin Day Three. Jason and I both knew that this wasn't going to happen. I wouldn't say that it was
impossible, but it was close. The primary idea was that we'd complete the five iron-distance triathlons. The goal was to do it in five days, but the schedule didn't anticipate the mechanical obstacles that had so severely delayed us. If we adhered to the schedule, we'd face maybe
ninety minutes of sleep
before heading to the airport to do it all over again on another island.

We were too tired. If we stuck to the schedule, the bigger goal—finishing the five—would likely capsize. Better to stick to the challenge than to stick to a schedule that would bury us. So we decided to sleep in the following day and hop an afternoon flight to Molokai. In other words, we'd take a much-needed rest day. It was disappointing to know that we wouldn't be able to complete the challenge within our five-day goal. To be sure, part of me was pissed. But this was something I just had to make peace with—and it turned out to be the right decision.

By the time we got back to the hotel, it was after 2:00 in the morning. And with our nutrition cooler completely depleted until Rebecca could restock at the grocer the following day, we once again found ourselves eating lousy Thai food out of Styrofoam boxes, apparently the only food available at this late hour. All I could think was
Are you kidding me? Again?

It's easy to criticize Rebecca for failing to ensure an appropriate meal at day's end. In a perfect world, we would have enlisted additional volunteers to avoid such mishaps. But all of us had underestimated the overwhelming logistics of pulling off this adventure, not to mention the sheer volume of food Jason and I ingested each day. Without a doubt, Rebecca had been overworked and underappreciated since the first day. Her hands were more than full. And she was doing the best she could under extremely challenging circumstances. There was simply no point in getting upset. So despite my desperate need for proper nourishment, I happily turned off my morning alarm and instantly lost all consciousness.

When I awoke around 10:00
A.M.
, the fatigue was deep but manageable, especially knowing that we'd have a little recovery time before taking on the Island of Molokai, Hawaii's most remote and mysterious atoll. Rebecca returned our van and arranged for an afternoon flight while I stayed in bed for two more hours, eating and talking to my wife and kids on the phone.

“Hi, Daddy! Are you still riding your bike?” The greeting from Mathis boosted my spirits higher than any double espresso. “Mommy says you're very tired. You should really get some sleep, you know. Sleep is very good.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Julie was anxious to hear all the details of our previous day. I did my best to recount the highlights, but in truth I was simply too tired to spin a proper yarn. But that was okay; just knowing I was safe was all Julie needed.

Around one o'clock Jason, Rebecca, and I met in the hotel lobby, where Jason proudly greeted me with a copy of the day's
Honolulu Advertiser
, Oahu's primary newspaper. Right there on the front page was a picture of Jason and me biking along Oahu's eastern shore.

“Cool!” I said, amazed that our adventure had made the news. Reading the piece, my disappointment that we'd blown our tight schedule faded. People were watching, taking notice, reminding us once again that we weren't alone. What was important now was that we finish what we started.

After a brief and stress-free bunny hop of a flight, we landed in the tiny, sparse, and relatively unpopulated island of Molokai. Measuring only thirty-eight miles long and ten miles wide, Molokai is best known for its history as a quarantined leper colony.
Now acknowledged more for its staunch preservation, the arid and tourist-free hamlet was a welcome and stark contrast to the urban landscape of Oahu.

At the airport—more like a landing strip—we were greeted by Jessie Ford, the field administrator for Coffees of Hawaii, a five-hundred-acre premium coffee plantation. The business is family-run by Albert Broyce, a fellow Stanford graduate as well as an accomplished and passionate endurance athlete who'd graciously agreed to sponsor our efforts. And the support was superb, soup to nuts.

Jessie didn't waste time filling the role of our very own Molokai Princess, helping us load our gear and then driving us straight to the plantation. As we pulled away from the airport, we saw a road sign that read:
SLOW DOWN, THIS IS MOLOKAI
. And as we'd soon discover, Molokai indeed has a velocity all its own.

After a short drive, we arrived at the Coffees of Hawaii plantation, where Jessie gave us the keys to our own guest house—a first-rate home complete with kitchen, laundry, and fully stocked refrigerator. Not to mention our own vegan chef, who later that evening brought us a cornucopia of home-prepared dishes sufficient to feed a dozen people. Talk about
ohana
!

For the first time since we began the journey, I was able to fortify with the foods my body was screaming for. Our host's chef prepared a mind-blowing menu that included organic olive-oil coconut butter; garden-sprouted quinoa; mole with tomatoes, raisins, chopped walnuts, and garlic; vegan fettuccini alfredo made with pureed squash noodles; cashew cheese; beet borscht; mashed potatoes; and a dessert of avocado chocolate mousse with macadamia nut whipped cream. I was in heaven.

After eating as much as we possibly could, we hit the sack early. I slept like a baby and was up before dawn, raring to go for iron-distance triathlon number three. With the sun now rising,
Jessie and Rebecca shuttled us across the island to the western coast, where we met up with Molokai native Phillip Kikukawa and his nine-year-old son, Luke, who'd serve as our morning swim crew. Phillip teaches at the island's only middle school, and he and his wife Sue—a Dartmouth-educated Olympic cross-country skier and yogi from Alaska who continues to train for Alaskan Nordic events by “sand skiing” along local Popohaku Beach—own Molokai Bicycles, the island's sole bike shop. To give you a sense of the pace of life on this sleepy isle, the shop is open only two days a week for three or four hours at a time.