Differing Humanity

There is a beach adjacent Kailua-Kona pier on Hawaii’s big island. This curved stretch of sand between pier and old Government house is nicknamed. A not-so-secret code location known to all triathletes –Dig Me beach. By parading about on this pier I embodied my predecessors and the name.

According to Ironman triathlon mythology Germans are most enthusiastic; but no matter where we come from all these fit bodies wearing minimal lycra flounce about, stretch, chat, and swim wide Pacific waters off Dig Me. Pranced embodiment of – how good do I look! Athletes stand about or perform various pre-swim warm up routines. Sure, we ARE posers on Dig Me beach.

I am doing double time in dig-me stakes with a brilliant emerald green one piece swimming costume blazoned with Australia sideways across my small athletic breast.

A rotund gentleman wearing baggy bib and brace denim overalls spoke, ‘Oh my gawd are you a ‘hassie..?’

I can’t resist a look down my left side, sarcastically retorting, ‘I guess so.’

‘Purrhaps yawl cud answer me a question?’

‘Try to.’

‘Lookin round, ‘nd there’s awl these peo-urple har, is there sum-um goo’in on?’

I gaze at post card perfect palm trees lined coastal views. Tiny patch of sand, reputedly imported from Australia, with pristine white granules alien in this lava rock strewn vicinity on Hawaii’s big island’s shores.

‘Ironman triathlon, world championships actually.’

From his confused look, I can tell…no idea. So I give him distances in miles. Running through three disciplines made up of 2.4 mile (3.8km) swim, 112 miles (180km) bike ride, and 26.2 mile (42.2km) marathon run.

On an upcoming weekend, right here, starts a mass migration looking like a giant mullet run, all arms, and legs, full of thrashing until we reach bike exits, to pedal 180km out into desolate, empty, lava fields. Using leg-power in oven-hot furnace born air, to Hawi village, fighting against trade winds at every pedal push. Returning to leave bikes at a hill bottom known as ‘The Pit’, to run uphill, back onto the highway. Through humid air sullied with volcanic fumes known as Vog; make our way out into lava field oven again, along Queen K highway. Down to a scorching hot region generating solar energy Labs. Often in darkness, our only light, full moon rays, and other runner’s reflector belts. Eventually returning to Ironman Triathlon’s most famous finish line along A’ali drive.

Say, whaaat? Tell me awl ta’ agaaaiin?’

‘2.4 mile (3.8km) swim.’

‘Raight.’

‘112 miles on the bike (180km).’

‘Lawdy I dant drive my tractor thaaat fur.’

‘Then 26.2 miles (42.2km) running.’

I remember correcting a workplace peer, yes, women do run same distance marathons.

Over how lanng?’ My farmer Joe asks, ‘ya’ll got days, weeks, raight?’

‘All in one day. Start 7am, must finish by midnight to be called an Ironman.’

‘If’n I did thaat I’d be in a whole arghther state.’

Correct, we are. But Farmer Joe’s comments are a refreshing break from pre-race-hype.

‘Who in Good Lawd’s name thaaught this up?’

‘Some of your countrymen, devised this torture called an IRONMAN.’

I know I am here because of three military pals once argued about fittest sportsmen. In 1978 John Collins made a decision to test their conclusion by putting together three longest events held in Hawaii. Firing a starter’s gun at 7am and calling anyone finish before midnight an Ironman.

Age group champions come from at least 40 different countries. As well as high profile professionals and recognizable Ironman celebrities like Pauli Kiuru now working for large Scandinavian media company. Ironman legend, and Hall of fame inductee Dave Scott, runs a stall for his training group. Norman Stadler, sits in a local coffee shop. A drop-dead gorgeous German thought I might be able to encourage him to breed with my daughter. Empty fantasy, I know. I do remember his infamous response when asked, ‘What have you come to Australia to do?’

‘I coome to vin…’

Our first Australian world champion, Greg Welch, now zips about on a motorbikes doing commentary for Ironmanlive.com. Even our equally good-looking male model clone Craig Crowie Alexander, is here, humble in spite of completing three-pee wins at Ironman’s World Championships. Despite these feats he will receive less media coverage than a drunk NRL player or philandering cricketer.  

Most of us, soaking in Kona Ironman atmosphere and mellowing into a sense of readiness for this year’s race. Chief discussion topics include notion of never really being ready to do an Ironman Triathlon. Digging a mantra of, ‘do your best on the day.’ Prepared yourself to alter your race plan at any stage. A voice from my past, triathlon coach and fitness trainer encountered while I lived in Singapore used to say, ‘most average fit, capable, prepared triathletes can finish an Ironman distance race. Problems will arrive if they begin to envisage a finish time.’

This branch of humanity spends months, years even, getting ready. Arriving in Kona for final preparations of variant time. Those with enough money spend months acclimatising to heat and winds. Most enjoy some tapering including early morning swims around Dig Me beach swim buoys.  

Fellow members of this elite Ironman group can don a people don’t know how famous I am image. We share a desire to embody dig-me principles and to wear evidence of our sport. One stand-out T shirt (and there were many) declared:

At home I am a freak

in Kona

I am NORMAL

True, we are guilty of possessing an elite group mentality, declared last time we crossed an Ironman finish line by listening to Mike Rielly’s infamous cry …You aare an Irr-on-man!..

So much prestige gained from shuffling, running, crawling or walking down narrow strips of blue carpet. Aside from cheering crowds, other Ironman finishers and those handing out medals, you tumble at catchers bundling away casualties, cleaning spillages and assuring supporters their loved one, and inductee into Ironman club should probably be okay, soon.

‘What you’all win?’ Asks farmer Joe.

‘A T-shirt, towel and medal.’

His disbelief registers with head shaking.

Different challenges permeate devotion to this sport including settling PC brigade by telling them, ‘Ironman is nothing to do with gender. Men and women, amateurs and professionals do the same race, with exact same cut off times, all racing over same courses and conditions. Ironman is a brand name, not a gender title.’ 

Or – ‘No you’re thinking of Surf Ironman competitions, made up of paddle, swim, ski-craft and run format. This is a swim-bike-run triathlon event.’

We know what it means to be part of this dream, this lifestyle, and this sport. Crossing semi-visible line marking off crazy, obsessed people. Another T-Shirt slogan: If you have to ask why, you don’t understand.

‘We can’t just come here and enter…’ I begin to tell Farmer Joe.

‘Waait, you paiay for this?’

I giggle, ‘yes, we don’t get all this for free.’

Ironman is an event paid for in unique ways, by each and every competitor. Entry fees cover volunteers handing us food and water all day. In my last race I felt sorry for aid-station crews. On a coolish night, everyone offering me iced water. Although my mind filled with cravings for something warm, and knew another choice would be available. My first sip of Ironman Kona’s famous chicken soup offered during a marathon run closing stages as heavenly uplifting as reputed.

We do get medical facilities too, especially dominant around finish line spaces. In return Ironman athletes are a captive audience for all sorts of medical tests; one year research by University of Iowa into why some people can make use of Vitamin C better than others. PhD students doing doctorates into all sorts of muscular, medicinal or health problems, and conduct questionnaires, with race organizer permission.

Once these race organizers insisted entry fees be paid in green-back American dollars, right at the point of accepting a world championship qualification status. Making this fact known didn’t always remove some frantic exchanges of currency in hotel lobbies, or fast trips to a nearby airport currency exchange booths. Who wants to miss a hallowed Ironman slot just because their pockets are empty of folding green-back US dollars? Now credit cards are happily accepted.

‘But it’s not just pay your money and do this,’ I tried to reassure my pier buddy. ‘Everyone needs to qualify to do this race by winning a slot at another Ironman race.’

I don’t mean to brag so I will spare him information about most of us needing to win our five year age groups for a snow ball’s chance in hell of qualifying. Or hope to Jesus those faster athletes either can’t afford to take up qualifying slots, or already gained one in another race. Or an unimaginable option of not wanting to put themselves through Ironman pains again. So you wait with bated breath, sweaty palms, anxious anticipation, just to see if your name comes up in tense roll-down ceremonies which happen one day after Ironman qualifying events. Besides I can see my friend is already struggling with qualifier concepts.

‘Waait, yar’all have dunnn one, aaalready?’ 

‘Correct.’

Again sparing him a narrative cantered around being an exception to this rule. Securing my first Kona qualification, while working as an expat in Singapore, by doing what triathletes considered a local race in Phuket, Thailand. A measly 1.8km swim, 55 km bike, and 15km run, winning my age group, thus earning my right to do my first Ironman triathlon at Kona World Championships. Being blessed with ignorance, about impending torment turned out to be a good thing. Just short of a decade until my second Kona.

My first time, from surrounds of a supporting community of Swiss, British and Canadian expat triathlete friends who kept me informed if not nervous. One spoke of, ‘a hill going up for 25 miles.’ Being a product of Perth, a city perched on edges of an ancient sea bed I thought such hill description a misplaced attempt at humour. My hometown a flat, sandy place risen from ocean beds millennia ago. I responded to such a claim as preposterous, with something like, ‘you can’t be serious!’

Such an incline, way beyond my imagination, so once I settled in Kona, I went looking for this hill. Riding my bike out past airport runways onto lava fields, confronting asteroid like vistas. I stopped on a patch of slightly higher ground where I saw a beware donkeys crossing sign, and gazing out at endless horizons of road vanishing off into a heat haze. Nothing but scrubby dry trees and acres of lava solidified rock permanently frozen into wave like patterns. I scampered back to town, trembling in fear. My early exploration took me still 50km from actual lowest point base of race-day that hill climb up to Hawi. I discovered truths of what I’d been told only on race day, along with encountering ferocity in those also talked about trade winds. My bike shifted sideways under me as I tried to get food from my back pocket. Most years Kona commentary reports, ‘…winds were the worst ever!’ Yes, a high percentage of triathletes milling about Dig Me beach already know what an Ironman triathlon means, especially in physical and mental pain, but Kona isn’t the same. It’s bigger, harder, and more intense, as worthy of a world championship.

‘Yep, we all qualify, unless you managed to win a lottery slot,’ I tell him.

There is another moment of jaw-swinging, stunned silence

So I continued my explanation, ‘you can go on-line and buy a lottery ticket, 250 slots are drawn globally.’

‘Whaaat, and this is the prize?!

Note: Following outcries as to validity of lottery status for this award, global lottery slots were dropped.