Finding Ultra (27 page)

In a battered pickup truck, Phillip and Luke led us down bumpy dirt back roads to Popohaku Beach. The second-largest beach in all of Hawaii, Popohaku is a three-mile stretch of pristine shoreline almost untouched by man. I watched deer dart through kiawe trees alongside us as we made our way to the water, and it was undeniable that we'd found the real Hawaii—a big reason I was even on this adventure in the first place.

Given the strong north-to-south current and considering Jason's swim struggles on Kauai, we settled on a point-to-point swim course beginning at the north end of the beach and exiting 2.4 miles downshore to the south. This would make for an “easy swim” with favorable currents. As we walked down the sand to shore, not one soul could be seen in any direction. “I'm going naked, guys,” I said to Phillip and Jason, only half-joking. They laughed, of course, and I chickened out, but in retrospect, I really wish I had.

Feeling like I wanted to make this swim in solitude, I declined any crew aid and hopped in the ocean, leaving Phillip to meet me on the south end while Luke paddled alongside Jason in the family kayak. As I began, it was immediately apparent just how strong the current was, in my favor. I felt as though I could have rolled onto my back and floated to the finish. To put things in perspective, I'm usually able to cover an iron-distance swim in forty-eight to
fifty-two minutes, give or take. But this swim required only forty-three minutes, barely raising my heart rate in the process. It was so quick that when I finished, Phillip had yet to arrive. I took solace in the isolation and sat quietly on the beach to meditate for a full fifteen minutes.

Soon, Phillip, Rebecca, and Jessie arrived. As I waited for Jason to complete the swim, I washed down a plate of leftover vegan fettuccini and mashed potatoes with coconut water, changed into my cycling gear, and helped the crew load our van with the day's provisions. Greeting Jason as he emerged from the ocean, I joined him in hauling the kayak almost two hundred yards up the beach to the truck.

“I think this is the only triathlon where the athletes have to haul a boat as part of the swim-to-bike transition,” Jason remarked with a wry chuckle.

Because Molokai is only 38 miles long, cycling 112 miles required a creative course that entailed multiple loops crisscrossing the island. Meeting strong headwinds and a sparse terrain, we pointed our bikes eastward and had only tracked a few miles when we were met by local cyclist Will Carlson. A mainlander who'd originally migrated to Molokai to lead mountain biking tours and now worked as a special education teacher, Will was a strong rider who solidified himself as our official bike sherpa and tour guide for the day. He regaled us with stories about the history of Molokai, local political gossip, and points of interest along the way.

Having banked a day of rest, Jason and I were both feeling good on the bike. Back to our normal selves, we took in the landscape of the “most Hawaiian” island of Hawaii (other than the privately owned island of Niihau) and truly enjoyed the ride. Despite the island's population of only 7,400 and almost complete absence of stoplights, there seemed to be an impossible number of churches. “The highest per capita in the state,” Will informed us, an artifact
of the work of Father Damien, the Belgian priest whose work ministering to the legally quarantined community of people suffering from leprosy came to define Molokai and resulted in his sainthood.

Churches aside, Molokai is also widely known as the “spiritual hub” of Hawaii. People with psychic abilities have widely commented on the power of this particular island, and although I wouldn't consider myself extraordinarily empathic, I did feel—as we cycled through the dilapidated hilltop village of Maunaloa, which had been left essentially deserted in the wake of the anti-development political forces that had compelled closure of the ill-fated Molokai Ranch development many years earlier—the conflict of light and dark energy. For a momentary spell, the effect was so powerful I had difficulty maintaining a straight line on my bike. But as soon as I descended eastward with Maunaloa firmly in my rear view, the aching vanished and my balance returned.

Before I departed for Hawaii, Julie had repeatedly implored me to “respect the power of the islands. No matter what, stay in gratitude. And most important, ask the kahunas for permission to tread their sacred land. Every day. Out loud.”

Her urgings had at the time seemed, well, very in keeping with her spiritual outlook on life, but after this disorienting experience in Maunaloa, I was suddenly hyperaware of my tenuous guest status on the island. I'm not sure whether I was drunk on endorphins or truly more conscious of the reality of things, but I actually found myself calling out loud on my bike: “Thank you for letting me experience your home. Please allow my friends and me safe passage; permit us to grace your sacred space. I promise to tread lightly and repay your blessing with gratitude and service.”

Did I really just say those words? Out loud?

As we approached the eastern portion of the island, the terrain morphed from parched to lush forest—a welcome break. But that
break would be brief. Hugging the rugged coastline, we wended around the craggy shoreline before heading up the climb to Halawa Beach Park, a tough ascent with grades of 14 to 15 percent at times. Though conscious of maintaining our energy reserves, we were nonetheless careful not to slow too much, which would have required grinding gears to climb—something to avoid with a marathon in view. After successfully reaching the top of the ascent at a state park, we took a quick bathroom and nutrition break before heading back down to the western edge of the island without incident. Fatigue was creeping in and the heat was taking its toll, but Jason and I managed a strong and consistent pace through the flats of Kaunakakai town, to complete the ride on the port village's long pier with plenty of daylight to spare.

After a shower at the pier that washed off the salt and grime of the day's ride, we quickly changed into our running gear, anxious to keep moving while we still had plenty of daylight. Jason and I drank some Endurance Elixir and greeted Rodney Nelson, another schoolteacher, training for Ironman Arizona, as well as high school cross-country standout Akona Adolpho, who were both anxious to join us for the entirety of our next leg—the third marathon of EPIC5. Without fanfare, we began with a light jog down the pier, then headed east through town along the main road, where we met up with a large crew made up of more schoolteachers and local schoolkids, pumped to join the fun.

As the sun went down, we welcomed the cool evening air. Jason and I chatted with the excited kids and Jessie, jogging right alongside us. A natural-born runner, Akona told me about his favorite local trail runs and life as a teenager on Molokai. At around the eight-mile mark, in a demonstration of his mettle, he shot ahead, leaving us in the dust.

“See ya in a few miles, youngblood!” I called after him, sharing
a knowing laugh with Jason. It wouldn't be too long before he hit that certain wall. We'd all been there. But you can't tell a teenager anything. Soon enough he'd learn for himself.

With the sun now set, we had to make our way along the main road in near-total blackness—there are no streetlamps on Molokai—guided only by our headlamps, dancing beams bouncing off the pavement to the beat of our communal rhythm. At about eleven miles in, I pulled off the road to relieve myself in the bushes. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of doing this right next to an old RV partially obscured in the brush, alarming a group of dogs, supposedly fenced in. Alerted by their furious barking, a man emerged from his house across the street to see the beam of my headlamp darting about in the direction of his dilapidated trailer.

“Hey, you! You're trespassing! If you know what's good for you, you'll get off my property!
Now!
”

I'd chosen what might have been the absolute worst place on the entire island for a bathroom break. The barking escalated in ferocity as the islander marched toward me, intent on rooting out why I was snooping around his property with a headlamp.

“What do you think you're doing!?” the man roared. It wasn't what he thought, but I doubted he'd appreciate my answer. I said nothing.

Worried that he'd release his pack of killer guard dogs, I quickly pulled up my shorts and hightailed it out of there.

“You come back and I'll shoot your ass!”

I must have covered the next mile in under six minutes, not feeling safe until he was well out of sight and earshot. Maybe, I thought, as soon as I could think clearly, something untoward and possibly illegal was going on in that home—something our friendly neighbor didn't want me discovering. I'd just bumped up against some of that dark island energy I'd sensed earlier. Sure, this kind of thing could happen anywhere. But why me? And why now? Then
I remembered my promise to tread lightly, an oath I'd clearly just violated. Karma comes quick on Molokai.
Time to be more careful
. I chided myself, still shaking. “Calm down,” I repeated out loud, catching sight of the other runners.
Focus, find your center
.

And just up the road, I found it. As we neared the half-marathon mark, Akona was running out of gas. As predicted, his excitable adolescence was finally getting the best of him.

“Told ya I'd see you soon.” It was a good learning experience, well earned.

But I'd soon meet my match in our youngest crew member, Akona's younger brother, CJ, a boy no more than eight or nine years old who joined us about fourteen miles in after convincing his parents to come out and run with us in the dark. He was a shirtless and stubby little island whippet in worn-out sneakers and light blue basketball shorts that draped below his knees; the crown of his head barely reached as high as my waist. But what he lacked in size he more than made up for in focus and concentration. I figured he'd run a mile or so for fun, then head home—maybe get two miles tops. Instead, CJ matched me stride for stride for many a dark mile as his parents and siblings followed us in their nearby minivan.
What's with these Adolpho brothers?
“Hey, buddy, it's a school night. Isn't it past your bedtime?” I asked him with a grin.

But CJ was humorless and silent, intent on getting the job done. I couldn't even get a smile. His only response was an undecipherable grunt before accelerating, his arms pumping furiously as sweat dripped down his tanned back. The only thing more impressive than his technique was his determination and focus.

I took a sip of coconut water from the bottle lodged in my fuel belt. Then I heard him speak for the first time.

“Gimme that coconut water!”

“You got it, CJ.” I handed it over to him. Between labored breaths, he took a hit and handed it back to me, his gaze never
losing focus on the road ahead, lit by the beam of my headlamp. I couldn't help but grin. Gotta love the passion! Soon up the road, we passed his family, congregated in the minivan.

“Who
is
this kid!?” I called out to his proud parents.

CJ ended up running the entire remaining distance that night, well over ten miles. I'd later learn that when he found out what Jason and I were doing, he'd pestered his parents relentlessly until they agreed to let him come out and run with us that school night. And it didn't just make his day—it made his year. I can honestly say that having him along with us was one of the highlights of the entire EPIC5 experience. Connecting with Hawaii, inspiring people, spreading a message of healthful and positive living—running alongside this kid captured all of it in spades.

Hitting the twenty-mile mark as we reached town, the group began to splinter. I turned around and headed back the way we'd come for a three-mile jaunt up and back to complete the distance, while Jason and a few others opted to head in the other direction for a change of scenery. Now alone, I was back where I'd been in those final miles on Oahu a few days before—iPod on, peripheral vision narrowing, and holding on for dear life. One foot in front of the other. And for the first time I began to feel blisters forming on my feet. I'd been lucky in that I'd never had a problem with blisters. After two Ultraman World Championships and thousands of training miles, not once had I gotten a blister. But now my feet were on fire. Every step sent shooting pains from the bottom of my feet up my legs.
Just keep moving
.

Eventually, I found myself at the finish, the day complete. Jason and his crew of runners soon joined me from the other direction. Gingerly, I removed my shoes and surveyed my feet, certain to find the pads covered in blisters. But to my amazement, there were none. To this day I'm not sure what caused my severe foot pain that night—possibly hotspots, temporary but painful flare-ups on the
foot's tender underside, caused by incessant pounding, that make you believe your feet are on fire. But I was grateful I wouldn't be facing Day Four—now a mere eight hours away—with that other, more common but debilitating malady. A small consolation for what would prove—bar none—the most challenging day in my athletic career:
Maui
.

Without a doubt, Maui would present Jason and me with our most difficult EPIC5 test. But this time, our challenges wouldn't arise in the form of mechanical failures, crew mishaps, or anything else beyond our control. Instead, they'd be struggles of an internal sort, asking us to come to our own private conclusions about how much punishment the body can take.

In my last moments of consciousness before falling asleep the night before in Molokai, I'd felt mired in a welter of emotions—fear, dread, exhaustion. It was as if I were staring down the barrel of a gun. Jason and I were utterly depleted. And every inch of me wanted to quit.

But my
final
thought before I fell asleep in Molokai?
Three down. Two to go. Bring it on
.