Iron ordeal

Men's Fitness, March, 1999 by Tom Weede

The Ironman Triathlon World Championship is the granddaddy of the sport. We sent Men's Fitness sports/travel editor Tom Weede to battle the ocean currents, lava fields and fierce headwinds on the 20th anniversary of this legendary event. Thankfully, he lived to tell his tale.

The brutal Hawaiian sun has finally disappeared beyond the far reaches of the Pacific Ocean, and the pitch black of night engulfs the Queen Kaahumanu Highway. Darkness came fast, and now only headlight beams from passing cars provide a periodic break in the void. Four miles or so in the distance, I can make out the faint orange glow of streetlights on the outskirts of Kona, like beacons calling me home.

It is mile 22 of the marathon leg of the Hawaii Ironman. For the event's top contenders, the race has been over for almost four hours now. For me, a few merciless miles still stretch ahead on the blacktop of the Queen K.

It's been 12 hours since I began this seemingly insane triad of a 2.4-mile ocean swim, a 112-mile bike ride and a 26.2-mile marathon. Late in the run, I cling desperately to a mental image of the finish line as I fuel my depleted muscles with a weird mix of orange slices, Coca-Cola and energy gel packs. Gone is the nervous anticipation that filled my body around 7 this morning as I waited in the warm waters of Kamakahonu Bay for the start of the swim. Back then, I felt invigorated, alive and scared as hell. But now, it's nothing but willpower - pure, raw willpower - that's towing my miserable carcass along in the darkness. I need to finish.

Run your own race

The Hawaii Ironman is to triathlon what the Masters is to golf: No longer just a race, the famed event has come to define the sport. Last October marked the 20th anniversary of the Ironman, which began when a few buddies, fueled by one round of drinks too many, decided to combine Hawaii's three endurance races into one event, held in a single day. Fifteen people showed up in 1978 for that first race, but by the mid-1980s the field had grown to well over a thousand. And early on this October morning in 1998 there are 1,486 racers in the water, the most ever.

As an NBC helicopter whirs overhead, my world dissolves into a blur of bodies and white noise muffled by my swim cap. "Just run your own race," my brother John, who has done Ironman Canada twice, told me in the morning. Silently, I repeat the mantra.

I've been doing triathlons for four years, but the five minutes before the race starts still racks my nerves, before can lose myself in being physical. Flailing arms and legs make the swim portion of a triathlon a scary endeavor - crashing your bike or losing it on the run isn't fun, but at least you're on land, where you can't drown.

Finally, the cannon blasts and the racers surge forward. In an instant, I am diving into the water, plunging my arms forward. Adrenaline takes over, and for the first 10 minutes, the sheer energy of the moment pulls me along. jockey for position among thrashing limbs and, much my relief, avoid getting kicked too much. Arm over arm breathing on my left, I begin to settle into my rhythm.

Objects above the surface - boats, paddlers, building on shore - appear and disappear quickly as I alternate breathing and plunging my head back down into the pristine water. After the hellish training regime of the past eight months, my body is now on autopilot ...

... At 12:30 p.m., the San Fernando Valley August heat has hit full bore. It's a baking 105 out, the pool is warm, and I'm in the middle of doing 10-by-50-yard intervals. As the summer has worn on, I've found it increasingly difficult to make it to the pool for training sessions. Rushing from work, swimming, showering, hurrying back to my desk for lunch - the routine wears on me. Thankfully, I've found buddies at work who are into triathlon and swimming to keep me motivated. Mike, Simon and Sean are faster than I am, and they push me to improve. Even though I started this job just a few months earlier, the common bond of sport has allowed me to make good friends, and the intervals don't seem so bad ...

I make my way around the boat at the swim's halfway point and head back to shore. Trying in vain to sight the pier - the finish line - in the distance wander outside and have to work to back to the rest of the pack. Eventually, the pier emerges from the waves, slowly coming closer. Five years ago, I hated swimming in the ocean - a capital offense for someone who lives in al Southern California beach community. But now the buoyant salt water surrounding my body feels natural.

Finally, the finish ramp is in front of me, and I can stand. After churning in water for more than an hour, I feel I just downed a six-pack, and walking requires a real effort. Someone hands me my bike gear, and I stumble into the changing tent. It's a mass of hurried confusion, but I try to stay calm. Rushing to save 30 seconds here isn't worth it in a race that lasts the better part of a day.

Headwinds Hawaiian style