Hoofing The Hard Hot Highway

Mike Minch runs some miles of Bad Water Training

So... we all know how hot it gets out there on Kalanianeole toward Hawaii Kai and beyond. Not hot like a furnace, but hot enough to drain water bottles and camel pack bladders at rapid rates, hot enough to give you a good burn even if you are covered in sunscreen, hot enough to make you wonder just why you thought it was such a good idea to be training out there in the middle of the day. And if you are dressed for the chill of Haleakala, bundled up like it was a cold spring day in Cleveland with your black fleece turtle neck zipped up and a pair of heavy black warm-up sweats on your legs, then it can get even hotter. So where I was uncomfortable running in standard gear, Don was feeling the heat just a bit more extremely; and catching some very strange looks from people aware enough to notice his extraordinary attire. As Don commented once, with our reflector vests on and heavy pocketed belts it looked like I was taking a mental patient out for his daily exercise, or had pressed some street person into abandoning his shopping cart and joining me on my own ill advised mid-day training. However you want to look at it it was 38 difficult miles hoofing that hard hot highway.

The first half, as with most runs of this nature, was relatively pleasant. We were both warming up, it was still morning, and we had yet to have pushed past that point where the training grind kicks in and one's mind discovers that there are better places to be, more reasonable pursuits that you could have chosen. The point where Don and I would both have willingly chosen to do our tax returns if given a choice was hours away. However, the early hours were a bit too slow, a bit too social, and just a bit too cool. We watered well, we ate well, and we had a very pleasant conversation. And it wasn't Don who was having the problems it was me. Overconfident, I had not checked my gear properly, nor prepared well enough for a long road run, and somewhere about 10 I was getting hot spots, which became a blister along about 15. It took me five miles to get it all straight and then a few more miles to get over the fiery pain in my heel. And by then we were all the way past Makapu'u and on the last leg toward Waimanalo town, where a bit too little concentration on the run had suddenly caused us to realize that the full planned 50 would take us into the night.

So... we turned at Bellows, 19 miles or about, by my estimation, and began our way back. Maybe it was my heel, or it could have been the spirits of Oahu warriors who had done battle with the Maui Ali'iaimoku Kaeokulani along these Waimanalo shores, or maybe I just realized that for a training run we were having too much fun, but the tember of the run changed suddenly. I don't know, but it was supposed to be a long training run, and I realized that we were not suffering much. True I had a bit of foot pain, but Don was still smiling, and it just didn't seem right. A good training venture means some suffering, and it seemed appropriate that since it was Don's training that he should suffer. As a good buddy I felt that obligation. So I took up my 'Alu Loa' chant, my Samoan-Hawaiian running rhythm, and began to push, and the rest of guys who help paddle my canoe picked up their pace and suddenly Don found himself chasing some crazy muttering madman along the edges of the kaleidoscopic blue waters of Waimanalo Bay. I'd jog until Don was a ways back, then I'd walk until he just about caught up, and then I'd start jogging again, always keeping him uncomfortable, always dragging that extra effort from him by letting him be close enough to chase me but never fast enough to catch up.

We watered at Makapu'u and I let Don carry the hill as I watched the break, which had been good on the way out but had lost its juice by mid day. When we hit the top, I reasserted and carried us down the hill and out toward Sandy's. It was necessary. I wasn't just doing it to par-boil Don, we needed to make up time, to get back into the time groove and not be out there into the evening. So I ran hard for two times one-hundred, and strode hard for the same, all the while playing Don like a big fish, giving him the opportunity to catch me, then taking it away again, never letting him catch his breath. We made the turn at the light and headed up into Kalama valley and it was there that the heat finally got to him. If he had been a fish he'd have been gaffed and gutted at that point. I dropped the jogging and just tried to drain him with a a bit of conversation and fast walking. I walked along talking loudly about nothing intelligible with Don, being his courteous self, pushing to catch up enough to figure out what I was saying so he could converse. Hell, I didn't wah to talcim brother for perdudum methin over. Works every time!! It dragged him up that long hill into Hawaii Kai and to the water stop at the park restrooms on the down slope.

Looking at him I realized that I was maybe overdoing it--I didn't want him to keel over on me. Don's heart rate was up, he told me he had overheated under all that clothing and was finding it hard to cool once he had raised his temp that high. Food for thought there. We walked hard but not too rapidly through Hawaii Kai as he followed his temp and heating and I made comments about his balance and pace. It was early rush hour when we got back onto Kalanianeole, where it was a few thousand people in cars heading past two brightly clad guys in shoes. We both knew we needed to push to get finished inside of ten hours. It was a hard race stride down that miserable four miles of commuter highway.

We watered for the last time at the gas station at the edge of Kahala. Don had a final chocolate milk, and I Amped up, and then it was a long hard stride down that road along the golf course, right, and push hard toward Leahi. At the hill we were passed by some 'no bottle' boys, which I found kind of embarrassing. We passed them again when they took a break at the water fountain in the park, and then damn if they didn't come past us again on that last little hill toward the surfer parking lots. I couldn't take it. I geared down and found my best walking pace and strode by those no-bottle joggers doing a slow motion walk that left them in the dust. Over the hill and down and I realized I'd left Don behind and slowed. Those no bottlers still sucking water at the fountain at the top of Diamondhead---how can anybody call that running?
Don and I made it to the cars in just over ten hours for the 38 miles. Don saying it was the best BW training he had done to date. I got to agree. Hoofin that hard hot highway was a dandy day for anyone thinking of spending some time racing through Hell. .....mnmuench
Posted at 01:30 AM in