Sidelines
A month later, one month to the day, and the wonder of the Ironman Triathlon is still with me. Go, they said. This is big, they said. But swimming? Biking? Running? Who cares? What kind of sport is that? Ironman still a vivid
memory 1 month laterBut all it takes is a magic Saturday in Kona to gain another convert. To see the miracle that is the Ironman up close.
I can almost feel it all over again ...
Encouragement is scrawled on the asphalt in chalk, an extra, personalized shot of adrenaline. Signs, along the highway: "Cheer for Kristen, #370, Hawaii, Her 1st Time."
Crowds everywhere, bubbling, babbling. The accents! The languages! The flags! On the sea wall, the overflow sits with legs dangling. Rock music blaring. Announcer encouraging.
Contestants wait, eyes big, hearts pumping, numbers on their legs in permanent marker. They stare. They breathe. Or not. One man slathers himself in underarm deodorant. Yeah, you're about to compete in the Ironman Triathlon. That's going to help.
The pier is overflowing. The sea wall is surging. The King Kamehameha Hotel is a mass of bodies. Overhead there are helicopters. In the water are boats, canoes, paddleboards, longboards. The paddlers are cowboys, herding the almost 1,500 people in the bay who are bobbing in colorful caps. They need to be behind the starting line, in a straight line. But they are too pumped to listen.
Excitement is in the air, you can feel it, taste it. It can wash over you, lift you, overcome you. What must the swimmers be thinking about? Only they know.
Then, the gun, a thick, massive, jarring sound. And suddenly the sea turns white, it chops, it churns. At once, there are only arms and elbows, each raising to the sky in a perfect 45-degree angle. Against the soft morning light, it is a stirring scene. U2 blasts over the loudspeakers. "It's a Beautiful Day."
Along the far rock wall, someone is waving a huge Australian flag with everything he's got, pumping it back and forth, pumping it in full furl as the swimmers sprint away. Like the people in the water can see it, like this impassioned gesture makes some difference to them. Like somehow, they can feel him waving that flag.
They can.
The emotion of the moment, the sight of the swimmers is almost too much. In fact, maybe it is. The announcer shouts with alarm that emergency help is needed at the starting and finish line.
They say it's a heart attack.
WE ALWAYS THINK of the swim as the easiest part, so soon and it's over, but in fact it is still 2.4 miles and the record time is just over 46 minutes, so most of the field will be in the water for more than an hour straight. Adrenaline is gone quickly, and the pack separates. On the shore, we wait. Craning. Looking. Then ... there!
An ovation. A paddleboard escort. The first finisher strokes in. Out of the water. Scurrying to his bike. It is Jan Sibbersen. A German. An investment banker.
Then another comes. And another. Then more, a crowd now. They are greeted by a sea in green shirts, the volunteers, who scramble to assist them with their bikes. Dripping, competitors put on shirts, don helmets, go, slipping on bike shoes on the fly. Cheers.
Women contestants start to mix in. More numbers.
"1434! 928! 356!"
They're off, through a tunnel created by the cheering throng. A giant, poster, full-color face on a stick looms above the masses. "Doug Bush, Elliotville, NY." Doug looks like a cross between Donny Osmond and David Hasselhoff.
The announcer catches as many names as he can: "From Kailua-Kona, Lokelani McMichael!" Everyone cheers. Some wave signs. Some blink back tears. The bikers whiz by, pumping through a high-speed parade.
This is the fun part. The cheers. The people. The announcers. Some peddle past with huge, goofy grins plastered to their faces. They can't help it. This is their moment. Their hearts are bursting. Their lungs are burning. Riding a bike has never felt this good.
Everyone got out of the water this year, EVERYONE GOT OUT! A huge cheer, the entire field is still in the race. On the sidewalk, a mother sits, with an umbrella, a stroller and three kids. And she cheers every single biker as they go by. Every. Single. One.
But soon the people thin out, and again the pack separates. We won't see them again for hours. They are off into the desert now, off into the heat and the wind. Off into the fatigue. But they peddle furiously. One by one they disappear. The feeling carries them. And into the horizon they go.
Triathlon. One of sport's great moments. You should have seen it.
I see it still.
Kalani Simpson's column runs Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.
He can be reached at ksimpson@starbulletin.com