Final Kona Station: The Finish Line
"Coming down Ali'i Drive to the finish line at Kona" - is there a more iconic image in all of triathlon? I've had the privilege to be there seven times. Each one remains memorable and unique for me.
2004. I am in Kona as a Pilgrim. I have finished 5 IMs, with one DNS and one DNF, and have concluded that, while I am close, I may never actually qualify to race here. I do have success at Xterra racing, with '04 being the fourth time I will compete on Maui at the World Championships there a week after the IM WC in Kona. Maybe if I spend two weeks acclimating before that race, I can do well there? And, being an MD, I can get my medical group to pay for my trip by attending the Ironman Sports Medicine Conference held race week at the Royal Kona. So off I go. (The details of that trip start here.) Race day, I help out in the challenged athlete tent. After the bike cut-off, I ate a quick dinner, then came back out to Ali’i drive about 6:45 PM, to cheer on home an hour’s worth of finishers. I decided I would cheer for “my people”, the ones who were finishing in the time I would hope to get, were I out there - 12-13 hours. In a little over an hour, 400 people came by. This was the last hour of the middle of the curve - 1100 people came in between 5 PM and 8. There were 100 before that and 400 after.
I stood just where the sea wall meets the road, the spot where the seaward sidewalk is often splashed by waves. At this point, the runners have been winding along Ali’i for about 4 minutes, and are just beginning to enter the zone of light and noise created by the finishing stands. Here, some would start to break into a smile, some would look grim, a few would resolutely walk, but most were still wasted, unwilling to realise that they were done. I told each and every one of them how good they looked, how well they’d done. Those 50 and over (you can tell by their race bib number), I would give a special boost; people whose shirts were open I would remind to zip up for the photo. I knew full well as I was ringing my bell, and offering my support, that I was actually trying to convince myself that I, too, had raced along with them, in some small way, through the training I’d been doing for the past five years, the seven Ironman races I’d entered (and five I’d finished), the ones I’d walked, the ones I’d run. Yes, these were my people, here at the end of the middle of the pack on a hot night in Kona, third Saturday in October. At 8 PM, I turned back up Ali’i, the noise fading, the lights dimming, the feeling already becoming a memory.
Two years later, I was back as a participant (thanks in no small part to knowledge I'd gained from the man I now know as Coach Rich) I indeed had the day I'd been dreaming of. I swam 1:18, biked 6:10, and ran 4:22 (an IM run PR for me at the time). I remember little of that actual trip down Ali'i, only being incredibly focused and overwhelmingly happy with the day. I had succeeded both in enjoying myself and outperforming my expectations, a rare combination in our sport. By this time, I was starting to notice the details of the finishing line itself. First of all, the crowds are really concentrated in the final 150 meters or so where the stands and the barriers, lined with sponsor logos, are. Before that, the street retains its honky-tonk kitschy resort vibe. Folks are walking back and forth in the dark. Lights, music, laughter and the clanking of glasses roll down from the second story bar and grill balconies. A broad banyon tree spreads over the road as it curves left past the Halewai Hale, where Ali'i finally opens up to the Pacific. There, the lights blaze from the finish line arch, the crowds are cheering, clapping, cowbelling from the stands, the tri-geek commentators (Paul Huddle and Bruce Babbit) are crooning about the pros' day, Mike Reilly is repeatedly screaming, "You are an Ironman!!!", interspersed with a panoply of names from the world over. But what I'll remember most about that day happened about 20 minutes after I finished. There was a deluge, a gully washer, a rain of biblical proportions. A half hour after me, people were running down Ali'i 600 meters from the finish in SHIN DEEP water. I took a shower just by standing outside for a few minutes before getting my medal. While walking thru the transition area, I felt wetter than I did during the swim. And (I swear this is true), outside the ABC store past the stands, the storm drain plugged up. Small children (keiki) were floating in the road, laughing and paddling around, actually swimming.
2009. Walking along Kuikini, dangling an untouched cup of cola from one hand, I crossed the timing mat at 10.3 miles into the marathon, and turned left up the hill on Palani. This spot is about 200 meters from the finish, and I could hear the crowd as it cheered for the pros and early amateurs who were just starting to cross the line. Ten steps up the hill, I started to feel … different. I looked down at the curb. “That looks nice. I could sit down on that.” I did.
“Oh. That feels good.” The grass median was to my back. I fell back, on the soft, cool grass. That felt even better. Some spectators were hanging out here. I heard them asking, “Are you all right?” I thought I was answering, trying to say I was just resting. Next thing I know, someone is gently taking my pulse, and drawing her hand close over the top of my forearm. She had on a purple medical team shirt. “How are you feeling?” “I’m OK. I just want to stop for 15 or thirty minutes, see if I can keep going.” “Your energy feels very weak to me. I really think you ought to stop.” “Well, maybe I’ll just lie here for five minutes, and then decide.”
But I wasn’t going anywhere. My calves started to twitch, and if I tried to lift my knees up (my thighs were on the grass, my knees at the curb, and my feet on the road) I got immediate feed back from my inner legs and hamstrings telling me that wasn’t going to happen: strong cramps would lock up those muscles, preventing my knees from flexing.
More help arrived. By the time a van arrived to take me to the med tent, I was surrounded by a Nurse Anesthetist, an operating nurse RN, an MD, and a paramedic. That's as close as I got to the finish line *that* year.
One year on (2010), I'm lying at home, recovering from the bike accident which kept me from the finish line. One of the worst days of my life was September 29th, when I was still in the hospital, crushed that I was not on my scheduled flight out to the Big Island. But on October 10th, I did get to watch the most memorable Ironman finish of this century, via the improving miracle of online streaming
During the run, Aussies Chris McCormack and Craig Alexander, German Andreas Raelert and Belgian Marino Van Hoenoeker proved the fastest, sorting themselves out into the top four during the course of the 26.2 miles. Raelert, who had not kept pace with Macca on the bike, valiantly tried to reel him in during the final 15 K after McCormack had taken the lead. Raelert did pull even around mile 24. Usually, once a person is caught like that, he is passed, and does not regain the lead.
But Macca had been waiting for him, and dug deep inside. The two were literally stride for stride for the next two miles. I predicted to my sister, who was watching with me, that the winner would succeed on the final downhill, just before the turn onto Ali’i drive. Whoever could pump it up at that point would probably be able to hang on for the remaining 800 meters.
But the two were starting to go balls out about a mile before that, down the steepest section of the course, Palani Drive, into the sharp left hand turn onto Kuikini. At the base of this hill is the final aid station, the one made notorious by 8-time winner Paula Newby-Fraser in one of her few losses. She and Karen Smyers were racing just as closely as Raelert and Macca were today. PNF decided to risk not slowing for any fluids, and collapsed while in the lead with less than a quarter mile to go. She eventually finished, but only by crawling in a dehydrated stupor to the line.
Raelert slowed down a hair to grab a drink, but Macca powered on through, gaining 10 meters in just a few seconds. The triathlon world gasped, both at Raelert for slowing down, and Macca for skipping his final chance for fluid before the all-out 6 minute sprint to the line.
At first, it appeared Macca may have made a poor choice: he began clutching his side, as if he had a bad stitch there. But he had victory in his eyes, and was not going to let any incipient gut pain get in the way. Raelert, meanwhile, had apparently shot his wad, and that’s why he took on water at Kuikini; he lost over a minute in that last mile alone, limping in on fumes while McCormack spent every last joule of energy he had left getting to the line an ecstatic first.
An 8 hour race, coming down to the final half mile, with the winner taking a few strategic risks to go outside his safe zones on both the bike and the run, knowing just when and how much to put the hammer down – that’s the way I like to race: You never know where your limits are until you try to go past them.
Following recovery and a victory in IM AZ 2011, I returned to race again 2012. That year was all about grace and gratitude. I felt my return to the island was kind of a miracle, so I entered the finishing chute at a slow jog, beaming and absorbing all the energy, I cared little about the time of day or how I looked. I was happy and humbled, and lucky to be "caught" by my wife, who was volunteering as a finish line catcher.
2014, 2015. I learn the flip side of that phrase, "You never know where your limits are until you try to go past them." Each year, I ended up walking along the Queen K, ambling onto Ali'i late at night. Just a few days ago, I strode proudly along near 11 PM with Cheryl at my side. I smiled at each and every well-wisher applauding my effort. When Juan hollered, "Al! EN Rocks!" from the restaurant balcony 2 minutes before the finale, I raised my arm high, waved and beamed back. At this point, the finish line starts curving with the seawall to the left. You can't really see it until you're only a few steps away. I kept my arms up, fingers spread, two in my right, 5 in my left, for the 25 IM finishes I now had. I waved, and they cheered louder. Music blared, and Mike had time to announce my name, hometown, and age, along with the obligatory "Ironman" with which he anointed me. As I crossed the line, I stopped, looking backward towards the crowd, but really at the whole of the race course, and waved good-bye. It felt like closure. I think I finally found what I'd been looking for.
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