After 17 years of living on the mainland, it is an odd feeling to once again reside in Honolulu. Roaming about the island, I am surprised that many favorite haunts retain a once cherished state of decrepitude, a condition I found appealing as I believed it an expression of authenticity. Sitting in the darkened interior of one establishment, listening to barflys debate a little point of nothing, squalor no longer feels comforting, but depressing. I think of the hours whiled and friends passed away on this island, and feel a wistful sadness, a sense of lost opportunity and wasted time. To the me of 25, time flowed like wine; to the me of 50, time is a treasure to be used wisely.
Wistfulness though leavened with gratitude. Thankfully I no longer live a frat party life. Such a lifestyle is not suited for marathon #13.
I sign up for the Honolulu marathon in April 2015, shortly after laying out the contents of two cardboard boxes into a small and temporary one bedroom apartment. My family will join me in two months, but for now I am on my own. Summer time in Hawaii is not ideal for running. The heat and humidity make me sweat just tying my shoes. My tropical torpor keeps my mileage low; just the obligatory long, slow distance run on the weekends, and a Thursday pau hana run with a group I found on meetup.com. After a 4 mile run through the homeless camps of Kakaako and Ala Moana parks, we end up at a brewery where the beer rises to Oregon standards. A cold microbrew after watching an orange slice of a sun dip into the aquamarine sea; lucky we live Hawaii.
Shortly before M-day, I find out that my neighbor Scott plans to run the marathon too. His wife Joanne offers me a ride to the start. Gratefully I accept, and tell them I'll meet them out front in the morning.
"Spirit in the Sky" blares out my cell phone at 3 a.m. Groggily I shuffle to the bathroom and put on my running gear and paste band-aids on my nipples. Gotta have those! After banana and coffee, I leave the house and stand in the pitch black carport. Scott's front door swings open and yellow light pools into the grass. We mumble hellos. Riding in the car, I voluntarily share my wisdom of how to run a marathon, as, ahem, this is number 13 for me.
"Wow", Scott says. "That is a lot. Joanne and I ran this last year. It was a tough course, as the wind was blowing really hard and driving rain into our faces. So our time was not as good as we'd like."
"Oh really?", I say. "I thought today was your first marathon. How'd you do last year?"
"I ran it in 3:35", Joanne says, "and Scott, you got about 3:20, isn't that right? Not as good as we hoped for, but still good enough to qualify for Boston."
"Right", Scott says. "I hope to break 3:15 this year. How about you, what are you aiming for?"
I pause, and swallow some of my suddenly thick coffee.
"I hope to break 4 hours this year," I say. "Actually...I've never broke 4 hours. But this could be the year!", I shout out in an overly loud voice. My heartiness feels a little awkward, and the car becomes quiet.
"Spirit in the Sky" blares out my cell phone at 3 a.m. Groggily I shuffle to the bathroom and put on my running gear and paste band-aids on my nipples. Gotta have those! After banana and coffee, I leave the house and stand in the pitch black carport. Scott's front door swings open and yellow light pools into the grass. We mumble hellos. Riding in the car, I voluntarily share my wisdom of how to run a marathon, as, ahem, this is number 13 for me.
"Wow", Scott says. "That is a lot. Joanne and I ran this last year. It was a tough course, as the wind was blowing really hard and driving rain into our faces. So our time was not as good as we'd like."
"Oh really?", I say. "I thought today was your first marathon. How'd you do last year?"
"I ran it in 3:35", Joanne says, "and Scott, you got about 3:20, isn't that right? Not as good as we hoped for, but still good enough to qualify for Boston."
"Right", Scott says. "I hope to break 3:15 this year. How about you, what are you aiming for?"
I pause, and swallow some of my suddenly thick coffee.
"I hope to break 4 hours this year," I say. "Actually...I've never broke 4 hours. But this could be the year!", I shout out in an overly loud voice. My heartiness feels a little awkward, and the car becomes quiet.
Joanne drops us two blocks from the start line. Unlike other marathons, there are no pre-established corrals that separate the slow from the fast runners. Thus any old Joe can walk straight up to the start line and stand next to the sleek Kenyans. Conceivably, one could momentarily lead the race if they did an all out sprint at the start.
We're still a half hour from gun time, and I wish Scott the best of luck as I head off to take a final pee. The porta-potty line is ridiculously long, so I water some bushes by the tennis courts. With 15 minutes to gun time, it is getting crowded.
A drone hovers overhead as a man on a podium yells "You are at the greatest marathon in the world! Let's make some noise!" A petite Asian lady screams some Japanese into the microphone and the crowd whoops it up. Almost half the participants are from Japan, and many plan to walk the entire thing. Now another lady steps up to a microphone; the crowd turns solemn as she belts out "The Star Spangled Banner". After the national anthem is "Hawai'i Pono’i", a song originally the national anthem of the Kingdom of Hawaii.
A gun shot reverbs through the black night, a roar rises to the tops of the palm trees, the crowd pushes ahead. A surprisingly orderly walk forward segues into a slow jog over the start line. An array of sound booms over the dark Ala Moana park, and then a shower of incandescent light illuminates the palm trees and mirrors off the high-rise condos. Fireworks see us off on our 26 mile journey.
The first 3 miles of the course follows Ala Moana Boulevard to downtown Honolulu. At Murphy's Bar and Grill (doesn't every town have a Murphy's Bar and Grill?), a salvation army Santa Claus is standing over a donation kettle and ringing the hell out of his handbell, ho-ho-ho'ing as if every ho brings in another dollar. Amid all the noise a man is sleeping, lying on flattened cardboard in a doorway. The course now makes a 180 degree turn and follows King Street, past the Christmas displays of the mayor's house, called Honolulu Hale. Many runners have stopped and are taking pictures, sitting on the giant lap of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. We pass the corporate plaza of my employer, Kamehameha Schools. I entertain an absurd thought of stopping in and playing a little computer chess in my office. Get thee behind me, closet nerd! It is the athlete's time to shine, time for his glory day in the hot sun. The wide open road beckons me onward.
At mile marker 6, the course strikes straight through the beating mercantile heart of Waikiki, the golden mile of Kalakaua Avenue leading to Kapiolani Park. The crowd support is tremendous, especially for the early hour, folk from all over the world pouring out of their glittering, towering hotels, filling up the sidewalks and spilling out into the street. Screaming when they see friends or family. Mile 6 is one of the best miles of a marathon, as you are still fresh but warmed up, in the moment and confident. The crowd is causing my heart to beat fast, and I can feel the excitement tickling the base of my spine. I try to calm myself; it is too early for an adrenaline dump. Dai, a friend from the running group, pulls up to me next to me. We are surprised to see each other in this crowd; we laugh and high five one another. We chat for a few minutes, and then, feeling the adrenaline surge, he passes me near the entrance to Kapiolani Park.
The steepest part of the course occurs at mile 8, which is a climb up Diamond Head Road. Yellow police tape stretches down the middle of the street, separating us who are going up from those coming down. The first wheelchair participant zooms down the road toward the finish line, headlights of the leading motorcade shining a path through the dark. Emotion ripples through the crowd, followed by applause and cheers. We imagine life without legs and appreciate the effort and determination of these wheelchair warriors. They are a testament to the indomitable human spirit. Rejoice, I say to myself. Rejoice! Be anxious for nothing. But in everything, with thanksgiving, by prayer and petition.....Teenagers wearing identical colored t-shirts hold up the yellow tape. They are jazzed and feeding off the crowd energy, whooping and hollering with abandon. Somehow I understand these rough looking kids belong to a social program for at-risk teens. Many runners speak of running with the same fervor as an addict speaks of a fix. In some small way, I know this example - sweating up a hill in the pre-dawn dark - provides a different paradigm for these kids, an alternative path for their lives.
Mile 11 is the start of Kalanianiole Highway, a flat straight stretch of highway bordered by the mountains and valleys of Aina Haina and Hawaii Kai on one side, and the deep blue sea on the other. The sun peeps up out of the Pacific, and the green hills fluoresce in response, thrilled to be yet again in the presence of Apollo the sun god. The lead runners are coming into view; one thin fit black runner glides by, preceded by two motorcycles. His form is seamless, effortless, a beautiful thing to see. A minute later the next runner appears. Another Kenyan, followed by three more, gracefully kicking their heels high.
I pass the half-way mark, mile marker 13.1 and steal a glance at my watch. My time shows 2:15, and I am getting tired.
Near the Hawaii Kai end of Kalanianaole Highway, the course cuts left and follows a 2 mile loop that ends back on the highway, this time pointing to the finish line. I am at mile marker 17, running back to Kapiolani Park. Most of the participants now that are still heading out are walkers, some more bedraggled than others, hardly distinguishable from the walking dead. I've heard stories of walkers who stop at a restaurant halfway through, and then continue on after eating lunch. Used to be disgraceful to walk, now apparently not so much.
Mile marker 21 is Kalani High School, the school my son Isaac attends. I moved when I was his age to a new high school, and it was not easy. His experience has fortunately been more positive than mine. He is staunchly anti-marijuana and anti-beer, has already decided on a military career, and is a dedicated wrestler. I am thankful his first year is going well.
Mile 21 is also the mile is when the pain becomes pronounced, and saying a few prayers is a wonderful way to distract yourself from the pain. Lately I've used the fingers on my hand to remember who and what to pray for: the thumb, the closet finger, pray for those closest to you. The index finger, the pointer finger, pray for those above you and under you. The middle finger, the tallest finger, pray for those who are tall in life, the political and cultural leaders. The ring finger, the weakest finger, pray for the those weak in life, the homeless and the hopeless. Finally, the pinky finger, the smallest finger, pray for yourself, that you remember the big picture and that your own troubles are small and insignificant.
Mile marker 21 is Kalani High School, the school my son Isaac attends. I moved when I was his age to a new high school, and it was not easy. His experience has fortunately been more positive than mine. He is staunchly anti-marijuana and anti-beer, has already decided on a military career, and is a dedicated wrestler. I am thankful his first year is going well.
Mile 21 is also the mile is when the pain becomes pronounced, and saying a few prayers is a wonderful way to distract yourself from the pain. Lately I've used the fingers on my hand to remember who and what to pray for: the thumb, the closet finger, pray for those closest to you. The index finger, the pointer finger, pray for those above you and under you. The middle finger, the tallest finger, pray for those who are tall in life, the political and cultural leaders. The ring finger, the weakest finger, pray for the those weak in life, the homeless and the hopeless. Finally, the pinky finger, the smallest finger, pray for yourself, that you remember the big picture and that your own troubles are small and insignificant.
Mile marker 22 and only 4 miles to go. Apollo in his chariot is now angry, a malevolent god, high above; the heat beats down intensely. The road borders Waialae golf course, with an aid station manned by kind hearted volunteers handing out bananas and ice sponges. I greedily grab both, and gobble down the banana and squeeze the delicious cold water over my burning forehead. The road ends at Kahala Avenue, where we make a right. I will soon pass my residence. I pull on my shirt at this point, as I don’t want my family to see me jiggling down the road. Rosanna and Alanna are standing in the shade of the big palm trees that line the front of our house. They are cheering and waving a big cardboard sign. It is so good to see them! I stop and pour the water they give me over my head. Rosanna exhorts me to get back out on the course; it is not easy to leave this cool shady oasis for the heated tarmac of the road.
Reluctantly, I shuffle back out and pass mile marker 23. Only 3 more miles, but the distance seems impossible. I come to another aid station, this one with Japanese signs advertising some sort of medicinal aerosol. I will take some of the analgesic spray, domo arigato. Anything to take my mind off this sudden nausea, and the uncomfortable thought that the banana I ate at mile marker 22 may soon be all over mile marker 24.
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| Summer on high alert for master |
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| The eventual winner at mile 23 |
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| Two hours later, here I come. Man is it hot. |
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| Time to move out |
Reluctantly, I shuffle back out and pass mile marker 23. Only 3 more miles, but the distance seems impossible. I come to another aid station, this one with Japanese signs advertising some sort of medicinal aerosol. I will take some of the analgesic spray, domo arigato. Anything to take my mind off this sudden nausea, and the uncomfortable thought that the banana I ate at mile marker 22 may soon be all over mile marker 24.
Kahala Avenue is flat for about 1 mile, leading to a gentle incline up Diamond Head Road. This has been my training run for the past 5 months, and I should own this stretch of the course. Funny though how I never noticed how steep this incline actually is! I cannot, in fact, run it - I walk up this hill, and past mile marker 24.
At the top of Diamond Head, there is a gaggle of fine women with a sign that says free hugs. I’m dirty and sweaty and angry, and cannot fathom that anyone would want to give me a hug right now. They shout encouragingly that it is alright. But I’m grumpy and irritable; I don’t want their hugs, I just want this over.
I manage a slow jog past mile marker 25, mainly because the road slopes downward. I remember the wheelchair racers in the early morning dark. Was that just a few hours ago? I feel like I've been through a lifetime since then. Finally I reach the home stretch of Kapiolani Park. I feel dizzy, begin to worry that I am going to fall down. But not now, not with the end in sight. The finish line banner is stretched out ahead. I pass mile marker 26 and then cross over the finish line. Hallelujah!
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My time is 4:43
Half-way time is 2:15
Good for 3,394th place out of 21,553 finishers.
There is a bank of showers right after the finish line. I stand under one for a full minute, shedding some heat. The medal they hand me is stupendous, big, heavy and brassy. I walk through the festivities at the end and collect my t-shirt, which is a pretty nice tech t-shirt colored avocado green. A huge tent houses the food supply, with bubbling vats of hot oil crisping up Leonard’s malasadas. I imagine the volunteers see a man out of control, as I wolf down one, two, three, four malasadas, with a banana chaser. Satisfyingly bloated, I hobble across the street to Lulu's, hoping to see Dai or Bao. After one beer, I am dead tired and call Rosanna for a pick up. Looking forward to a nice long lie down!
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| Chips and Beer Time |
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