Peacock 100K: From the Back of the Pack

Don called me a few days before Peacocks, excited by the upcoming race, more excited than I  that’s for sure.  I was dreading it.  Peacocks had come up on me far too fast, allowing very little training. I’d done Are’s twice, the Lower Loop twice and still didn’t have names for any of the subsections. I just didn’t know the course very well, didn’t think I could finish it, and was mentally only going out to do one loop because Gordon said it was OK if I did only one and then worked the aid station at Long Road.

The only hope was that Rex and I had done the first sections of the first loop and pronounced it ‘doable’.  Doable in that kind of iffy-maybe kind of way that we back-of-the-packers look at these endeavours.  Doable in the sense that if every thing goes just right then maybe, just maybe, we can finish the damn thing before they ring the bell that signals the clearing of the aid station tables, the removal of the chairs and water jugs from the finish line, and an empty field at the finish.  Doable, just doable, and no more.  But that was the outside chance, and I was not cashing any gold shares to bet on my finish.  

My knees have been hurting me on and off for a year now, and I had aggravated them again with some Peacock training and some bad shoe choices. A similar problem had haunted me last year so this year saw an early return to some stockpiled ‘old faithful’ shoes, and I manged to bring back my knees a bit.  But I still could not go down Long Road without a lot of pain and soreness. The fact was I could walk backwards down the damn thing faster than forwards.  The issue of knee pain is bothersome to say the least.  My time-bomb clock it ticking and I know it.  Peacocks is a miserable test of stupidity if you have leg issues.  So, ‘Doable’  is just sad theater, a kind of tragicomedy of an ultra-running sort for old guys with short running lives ahead of them.  And I was doing Peacocks?  It was theater of the absurd, and I knew it!  

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Ode to Peacocks

Trail Marking, Taper Run and Pot Luck.

Gordon has asked me to post a request for volunteers to mark the Peacock trail this Saturday Morning. We will be dividing up into groups and heading out of the Airport parking lot at 7:00 as usual. We will then meet up back at the airport at about 11:00 for a Pot Luck. All are invited to come and do a bit of trail marking, a light taper run, or more if you wish, and then we will do a Pau Hana to our Peacock training. You don't even need to go up the Kealia to show up for the Pau Hana.

Gordon needs some volunteers to do A. Upper Kealia and Are's Loop B. Gordon's and Lower loop. C. Cross Over to Rock Piles. D: The Kuaokala Makua Ridge from Balls to Stash.

Race Day Note: If you plan to enter the airport prior to 7:00AM you will be required to present current vehicle paper work. (Insurance, registration, inspection). Please check you paperwork prior to race day so you will not have be barred from coming in due to this preannounced idiocy.

Ode to Peacocks

The mountains have been climbed and re-climbed, the long stretches of twisting trails and fire roads have been memorized, the infinite ups and downs have been suffered and the culmination of another running cycle draws near.

Peacocks, which was so recently an audacious experiment, then born an ambitious 54+ miler, morphs into a full-blown madly-rugged 100+ K, and is now upon us! We've crammed in all the training possible and stand waiting, wondering what to do other than be out running hard along the northern ridges of the Waianae. One last chug up the hill perhaps? One last visit to the panoramic vistas we will have little time to appreciate on race day? Maybe, or are we just yielding to the unbreakable habit of over training?

It is always at this particular point in the cycle that each of us asks ourselves the questions, 'Am I truly prepared? Did I do enough? Will I even finish?' And we are forced to look back on our training efforts and draw some conclusion, post some grade, for better or worse, concerning our preparation in meeting the lofty goals we set for ourselves so many months back. Of course, with Peacocks the answer will always be an honest 'No...'. Even Gordon had doubts as he pushed hard on the last real week of training, and was full of questions about his ability as he headed up Kealia for the second time, hoping to get in a hard forty, one last push, making one final 'Gordon would Go' effort to be ready. Gordon has designed a course that is a nasty test of his own proven abilities; the ultimate statement of Peacocks' incredible challenge.

The inability to answer the readiness question in the affirmative, to always have honest doubts about doing well, or even to question one's ability to finish the race, is what makes Peacocks, a world class race and an instant Hawaiian classic. It fits so well into the tradition of the longer Trail Series races. It is the natural next step in the progression from Maunawili, and Triple Trek, the obvious follow-up to the naive question 'What's next?' It is where the real ultra runners appear, and where many have been born. Peacocks has become the Kukaniloko, the birthing stone, of Hawaiian ultra running. It is on the Kealia, the Kuaokala, Cross-Over, and Long Road that runners come to find their ultra souls, discover the enchantment of the long and the difficult, learn to transcend their own doubts, and proudly regard themselves as ultra runners.

A great race course should be stunningly beautiful, and Peacocks flies beyond this boundary. On almost any day it is hard not to stop repeatedly along the winding trail up Kealia and and stare out over the northern ocean broken by humpbacks at play, or look eastward down the white wave lined North Shore coast, or stare at the far reaching verdant valley of the Wahiawa Plain, the cloud shrouded Koolau blue in the distance. It is impossible to concentrate fully on any run when the color of the pacific enchants the eyes and fills the heart with joy, when one's spirit can so easily drift off and float like the gliders that rip by in the wind toward the far horizons. Then, deep in the high hidden valleys one is surrounded in cool verdant greenery and strides through a timeless natural world that brings peacefulness to the soul. Peacocks, our Po'okelanani.

Beauty is the yin, while hardship the yang of a great race. Peacocks mocks any theoretical level of 'necessary ultra difficulty' offering rockbound hardship guaranteed to inflict deep and permanent emotional and physical scars on any ultra runner attempting the course regardless of training or ability.

Most will agree that a great ultra race should have more than one outstanding physical moment, it must offer a pantheon of harshness where the mind is pulled from its fragile hold on reality and thrown to the wind. For Peacocks such moments are highlighted by the extraordinary; the long unending climbs up the switchbacks and red clay roads of Kealia; Kuaokala with its long draining climb up the western ridge lines that begins deep in the bowels of the dark valleys and ratchets ever higher toward the ridge line summit overlooking Makua; the eternal hard hot and dry trek through the endless valleys of the cross-over; the devastating Long Road repeats and their infinite array of terrible turns and awesome vistas; and the winding harshness of Are's Loop with its deceptive closeness to shore, and then its almost vertical upward conclusion. The list could be refined and expanded but the point is made: Peacocks takes your breath away and leaves you in agony time and time again.

Any truly honest attempt at Peacocks challenges the soul, tears up the heart, and can leave the strongest of runners unsteadily wandering the road jibbering incoherently. Peacocks repeatedly releases runners to the lowland shore, only to sadistically claw at their reserves and force them back into the high hills and valleys where it devours goals and exposes illusions. Peacocks ambushes runners from the trail-side undergrowth, slashing at resolution and eviscerating self assuredness with the stone knife of Kukukinimamaunui, the god of ultra running, offering up many a runner as sacrifice to the god. Peacocks can leave the strong and confident crying for their mama's arms, or begging to dance with any devil who promises release from the mountain. Peacocks is the rogue black panther of trail races that can attack you and drag your soul into some tree high on the Makua ridge, there to feast on it for an eon or two.

Long after the race is complete, Peacocks can steal into your night dreams, gnawing at your insides, mocking you for your gutless failures during the race, and unwinding nightmarish memories of dark moments when you saw through the shoddy facade of your life into the terrible truth of your miserable existence and despaired all. You will awake, heart pounding, sweating and drained, still fearful that your failures have doomed you to treading high tails endlessly among the Marchers of the Night.

Very few Hundred Mile Runs can lay claim to such an impressive list of physical challenges, and very few groups other than HURT would seriously consider this a doable 100+K race course. Perhaps it is just our great fortune for extraordinary geography and beauty here on Oahu, but I believe it essentially arises out of the soul of the mountains of Waialua. The Hawaiian warrior spirit still dwells high in the hills and fills the minds and bodies of all who run this course. It fires our competitiveness and ultimately entices us all to meet the seemingly impossible challenges of the race. Our blood surges and the anticipated glory of Hawaiian victory bursts within and we are one with the glorious past. In another moment the aura of the fabled gateway to Milu, the dark afterlife of Hawaiian mythology, which lies deep in high Waialua, slips up on us in the shadowed reaches of the high back valleys. The despair of the dead as they wend unending on their eternal forced march round the dark fires of purgatory, seeps into the souls of all who traverse these mountains: There are times we run Peacocks not to meet a challenge, but because we have simply come to know nothing else. We suffer the run, because on Peacocks we have come to know only running to suffering.

The sun rises glorious on the Waialua mountains and sets mysteriously far beyond them. The heat of the sun and the power of the warriors' challenge, the dark loneliness of the moonless night and the desperate weariness of the doubtful survivor, lies before us. In one instant we run hard and victorious with Hawaiian knights gloriously meeting all challenges, in the next we push painfully and wearily on alone, fleeing the shuffling dead and their insistent whispers to join them. In either moment the experience of Peacocks is a reflection of the magnificent spirit of these mystical mountain ridges and valleys. We, the living, simply give life to past energies and a reflection on the meaning and power of our beloved island world

The fact is that you can flee to an isolated cave in the distant hills and meditate for years on the your place in this existence, or you can actually commit to suffering through your best effort at Peacocks; in either case you will find humility and walk away with a greater understanding of the meaning of the next of life's breaths. It is said the way to heaven leads through the center of hell. If true, then Peacocks is the Ultra runners trail to transcendence.

Peacocks. An Hawaii race. And until mush brained clowns ruin it, Our race.

Cheryl Shows No Mercy

I'd had this run with Cheryl scheduled, and postponed for a week. So I was going out on Tuesday despite the Monday run. My hanai nephew David was in town and needed to hit the trails two so I figured it would be a good time to take him out too.

Well, I wanted to run Hogsback, figuring I'd stay with Cheryl the rest of the way. So, I split fast after crossing the Nature Center bridge, and left Cheryl tying her shoe....ultra runners show no mercy. I pushed up Hogsback, breathing hard, feeling yesterdays 20 and trying to make something of the attempt. David was lingering behind me and I knew he was just waiting to pounce. Young Punks, you can always tell what they are up to. The trick it to wear 'em out or out fox 'em. 15+ minutes up Hogsback makes either a bit of a challenge with somebody who has done HURT loops, Ultra wierdness, and organized mayhem. But I was into trying to leave David sucking air. I tried all the standard tricks, running where nobody should run, striding up the steepest steeps, skipping over the roots, and even reverse psychology like breathing hard and gagging when it wasn't necessary. I couldn't shake him. Finally, after waiting to the last fifty yards, I just started sprinting. The Punk was just too aware, and he passed me five yards from the top. Hey, he's my nephew, so I didn't kick his ass for the insult. 'Goo Jaw Brahhh' I gasped at the top, meaning every word. My onlysatisfaction is that it was a 17 and much slower than yesterdays 15.
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Triple Trek

I've been having a problem getting back into running since the Maui Madness Run in late July of 170 Miles. Not that that was a run, but the effort did me in and I was hit with a round of depression and utter physical exhaustion about a week after the run. Getting back on the trails was difficult. Everything else seemed to come down on me very hard.

My late summer plans were to go to Glacier with Don and the gang and then do the Plain. It didn't seem to work out well. Family concerns, problems at the house, my general worn down state, all led to me deciding not to go and eating the ticket. Its has been a rough month.
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Peacocks

I look around me and find that many of the people I was running with just a few years ago are no longer out there on a regular basis. It happens so slowly it is almost unremarkable. An injury, a health problem, the demands of family life, or simply the desire to move on to some other form of exercise. But the facts are clear. People don't last a long time as Ultra Runners. It takes too much time, to great a commitment, to much pain, and, yes, too much suffering. In the end life takes its toll and we lose our running friends, or we fall by the wayside ourselves.

Injuries seem to be the greatest problem. Thigh and hip problems seem to be the most devastating. Cheryl's fight against that is by far the most admirable attempt to keep moving that I have seen. That she is still out there on the trails is amazing. Then there are all the people with foot injuries, and ankle problems. Many of these could have been avoided by better training, or more attention to gear, but for the most part they just happened to seasoned runners. Many were avoidable, like my present knee problems, the result of becoming too involved in a particular race and trying to gain a few extra minutes at the cost of some strained tendons. If you are going to be out there on a regular basis it does not pay to be as fast as you think you can be. It doesn't pay to have too much hustle. Better to just putz along far behind where you think you could be and do the distance, no matter what the time.

It's a young season and we start it with some ridiculously short fast runs. I learned my lesson many seasons ago, and if I run I go slow for many miles, or get out there early and do an extra loop just to warm up. These sprints can tear you up. Look around and listen to the chatter that will develop in the veteran ultra runners, there will be all kinds of minor injuries in the next few months when long distance legs are forced to do short distance fast runs. But I show my age I guess. My knees and hips hate this part of the Trail Series, and I'll likely be standing out somewhere telling people where to go, or misdirecting my friends, or just playing 'table guy', until the races move over 20 miles.

Don't know what this has to do with Peacocks, except it is the race of the season and I am out there already moving slowly up those steeps, packing an extra twenty pounds that I collected during the break after the HURT. It will take me many months to drop back down, to be able to actually walk fast down the hills, to get back my endless legs. Problem is I don't have many months before I am off on some long expeditions. But they are not Peacocks, and even at less than 60, it is the one that waits silently out there in the distance.

........got to Peacocks late Saturday morning, waited for Don, who it tourned out is injured, went up on my own, ran into Rex, Jan, and Julie, and did a fast shuffle out to the Rock Pile and back (12m). Not as far as last week, but I had lots of reasons not to be out there and went up anyway. This time of year, well, that is better than rolling over and sleeping that extra three hours.

Peacock 54

The Peacock 54 was held on October 24,2009. The weather was very good, a bit hot and humid, but to my liking. There were 40 starters, less than 20 finishers. I was satisfied with my 15th place finish.

I had hoped to do two eight hour loops, but I was hit with some bonking on the way up the Kealia the second time (a 2200 foot climb in under four miles.) and then again on Gordon's loop, the jeep road and single track loop in hours two and three of the loop. I walked almost the entire distance, and still managed to maintain a good pace.

I ran the first loop with Don, Dr. Bill, and Rex. We pretty much stayed together to the bottom of long road, about 16 miles in. The guys had left me behind on the long steep hill of Long Road and I had to hussle a bit to catch them by the aid station. I granted no mercy on the way back up Long Road and pretty much left them all in the dust until the long down of the Kealia, when Dr. Bill and Rex caught up with me again. I lost some time on the cross-over when I ran into Ryan and Brenda. Ryan was in a bad way and I spent some time trying to get some fluids into him and talking to him a bit. We were less than 20 minutes out from the Truck, and I finally left them as it appeared he was capable of making it, and there were three others behind me, if something went wrong. I lost ten minutes there.

Dr. Bill dropped at 27, and I chased Rex out of the aid station at (8:30) Don was just coming in as we started toward the trail head. He was done at 27 but doing a relay with Cheryl, who as being paced by Fish. We were all together just beyond the trailhead and then it got hard.

Coming up on the second loop is always hard for me. Kealia is a bitch and the first section of switchbacks just overpowers me for some reason. I kept ahead of Cheryl and Fish for a while but had to pull to the side and let them by. I took the opportunity to down some energy drink and hoped it would kick in. Rex was having even more trouble, and finally dropped. He had a very hard time on Long Road and then fast paced it across and down. It showed up very quickly on the Kealia. I pushed on alone, knowing it would be hard to catch Fish and Cheryl. I saw them across the valley on the early part of the single track when I was still 15 minutes out.

I had problems on the single track. Nutrition basically. I had been taking my energy drink but had not done enough carbs and protiens. It hit me hard and found myself bent over at the top of the ups, my heart racing and close to gasping. It worked itself out, but it was brutal for a while. I found myself telling myself that if I was going to die to just do it cause it didn't matter much at that point. I took a few moments at the top of one of the ups and downed the protein shake I was carrying. It took a bit to take effect but nutrition was what I needed and I finished off the single track feeling better.

I swigged a few cups of an iced gator aid water cocktail at the Rob's truck and pushed on down the cross over. I felt better and made the trip in the hour that I allot for the west to east run. But I was running late and had to run jog Long Road on any of the more level points I could find, making it to the aid station with 15 minutes to spare before the cutoff of 8:00 PM. (14:00) hours in.

The push back was very hard, and at one point I had to regroup and just look down at the small circle my headlamp made on the road and take one good step at a time. I made it to the top of Long Road in 67 minutes which is not too bad, and was moving well on the cross over. I didn't see any light ahead of me, but knew the girls were just ahead of me, with Cheryl leading them. I was feeling good and pushed hard and steady catching the first group just before Robs truck. I slipped past them, watered, and was on my way before they all really knew what was happening. I pushed hard down the Kealia, jogging a bit on the less steep downs, making it to the finish line at 17:15, by my watch.

One hard race.

Night at Peacocks

I headed out toward Dillingham before the Friday afternoon rush hour fouled the roads and brought the flow of traffic to a standstill. Made it there in less than an hour and with surprisingly easy driving.

Moving along the bottom of long road by 4:10, I was hoofing it up the quickly sloping road with an extra gallon of water on my back. The going was slow, very slow at first, and the longer and higher the trudge the heavier that extra gallon became. If you have not had the pleasure of doing long road I have to tell you that the first mile is pretty flat, and the 1 mile marker sits at the base of a large tree that marks the first real steep. But the road is wide and smooth asphalt making it just a 'dig-in and do it' kind of up. Farther up, at the 1.5 mile marker the road moves through a gate and becomes narrower, older, and rougher, as it turns into the first valley. There the trees get a little taller at the sides of the road offering small patches of shade in the afternoon sun, false promises of relief from the humid warmth that rises off the old asphalt and the heat of the late afternoon sun. Moving toward the back of the valley the road hair-pins and heads up once again on the first of a long succession of switchbacks.

Its a bit deceptive, at first the road slopes up a bit more, but the sky opens up again as one turns out of the narrow valley and the view is of the ocean and the greenery of the coastal plain, the climb is steeper but there is sense of relief in being able to look out and away from the enclosing valley. In less than 2 miles the road probably rises 500 feet, but most of that is in the second mile. Then the switch-backs start up the western side of the valley wall and all calculations are thrown out the window as one begins to face an increasingly steep wall of asphalt.

The second switchback is the longest, hardest section. It must be a quarter of a mile long, with a surface that deteriorates quickly into a patchwork of forgotten lost budget cuts. Near the bottom there are often long fans of loose gravel which have collected during the heavy rains that hit the area on occasion. These patches are a problem going up, and dangerous coming down--a slide through one of these can do serious work on a knee. But the all pervasive fact about the second switch back is its stamina sapping, seemingly unending steepness. It quickly becomes an up that demands a momentary respite, a breather, a moment of bent over agony, as the body scrambles to cope with the sudden rush of a stark breathless reality. As one makes the hot rugged climb one is quickly convinced there could be nothing worse in life than pushing up these switchbacks, and this long second one to be most precise. It is always a bad omen to find oneself looking up and praying for an end, but it is, for me at least, inevitable on the long steep second switch, and by the time one finally sees the turn one has usually been defeated by that stretch of road, and one makes the turn slowly, humbled and thankful to be done with it.

'How can anything else be as bad?' is the thought that rings true, as one makes the turn with the feeling that the worst is behind, heart throbbing relief, and a prayer that the lungs can last a few more minutes. But the road is remorseless, sadistically coy, and after a brief flattering moment, when one wrongly assumes the hill is pretty much history, the road twists and turns upward once again. The grade is almost as steep, but the view is out toward the open ocean where cool breezes blow lightly over the dark waters. But the only water one feels in the hot late afternoon light is the sweat pouring off  one's head and dripping from arms and hands. The road wiggles like a nasty snake, threatening to strike, causing the heart rate to climb and a the breath to become shallow and quick. Somewhere deep in the back of one's mind the crying voice of a child is heard protesting the need to go on, the need to feel so bad. One soothes the angst, but to no avail, moving on despite the nagging cries of an evidently poorly trained spirit.

If one has not been numbed by the disapointment of hard training one may find the need to see the next turn as essential. It is a deceptive turn as it moves around the ridge into a long bowl of the next valley. I don't know why I always look forward to making that turn. Perhaps it's because it opens into a fresh place, another valley that promises something different. It's a false hope. It takes years of going up Long Road before one  admits that it doesn't get any less steep after the turn into the upper valley, and even after too many climbs it is hard to admit it is not less steep, that once one has made the turn it will not be better. But it's not really, and the grade continues close to 15 to 20 degrees. However the road surface is not as bad on that last stretch and the footing is better. So perhaps it can be said that it gets easier, even though any reasonable honest individual would have to say that it is no less steep than the switch backs.

One can see by this description that on the upper reaches of Long Road most thoughts are of the road. How far to go, where it might not be as steep, where one can catch a break and recover a bit of breath, where it would be good to take some water without puking. One may look out over the valley, or toward the ocean, but it is never with much appreciation, never in awe of the beauty or the stunning views. No, one looks out of blankly focused eyes, stinging with sweat, only to refocus the vision on the road, lower one's head, and grind ever so slowly up the hill.

When the road finally does bend around to the right and the gate becomes a promise rather than a myth, one is always defeated, spent, and breathing rapidly and painfully. The legs are jell-O and the back is aching, vision may even be harmonic, vibrating to the pulse of a heart that seems ready to explode. And even then the gate is only a promise, even then one is moving up through belief the end is near, not the reality that it actually is. Then, when finally there is a sight of the gate there is no celebration, no cheering, often not even a feeling of relief. On most occasions one does not even have the strength to remark about it; simply ducking unsteadily through the bars of the gate and standing there wondering how one made it, and if disintegration now follows.

But this is Peacocks, and this is just the beginning. There is the long Cross-over and then the steep down into Dillingham followed by an up that is perhaps more steep than the one one has just negotiated. But its too far away, to long to think about and the knowledge that the next 200 yards is down hill is sufficient as one  stumbles on looking forward, if nothing else, to a different kind of pain.

A Tough Triple Trek

I probably didn't prepare quite properly--a quart+ of Rocky Road Ice cream and a few beers, a far out carbo loading I quess--and I knew I had a problem with my right calf, but I didn't expect it all to go south on me less than 40 minutes into the race. But on my way up Moleka, after hitting 30 something at the bottom, I felt my calf tighten and knew it was not going to be a great run. I slowed and watched a lot of people go by, and just paced out the tight calf. It went on this way to the top of of Manoa Cliffs, and then down the switchbacks on the opposite side, and along Kalawahine.

Earnest caught me back on Kalawahine, his ankle was bothering him, but he was doing better than me. I followed him for a while, then lost him, caught him again at the aid station and then he moved ahead of me once again. The time was not that bad really. I was still doing a sub 2:15 pace but I needed a 1:45 on the first lap to break 6:00. My emotions ran from rage to despair, but never to humor. I caught up with somebody at the bench at the top of Hogback and found I could handle the down fairly well. Anyway I knew the line and he didn't. I just pushed on making the bottom turnaround by 2:06.

Ernest and I headed out of the aid station together, but I was feeling good and I pushed ahead, finally leaving the other guy from the drop down Hogsback behind and feeling good. Made the Big Bend by 16:30, the top of Smokeys under 22, and pushed past the bench under 30. All the times were good, but at best I was going to be breaking even perhaps. I pushed on up Moleka and across the road, making the strawberry guava patch at the top under 45. I buzzed the Cliffs, hitting the mapcase in just over 60. The back side and Kalawahine were fast, and I pushed my calf a bit hard as it loosened. I could hear Carol Bugarian and a friend up ahead of me every once in a while and managed to catch them down near the bottom of Bunyons where the small seep is. Then by Knee Knockers and the Seeps as quick as I could go. Carols friend was at my heels and I had to push down the last bit of Nahuina and onto Mangos. I lost concentration and she was behind my by the top of Hogsback and I had to run down to stay ahead. It wasn't smart but I just didn't want to be passed. I hit the aid station with a negative split doing perhaps a 1:58 or so. It was a good lap and it made the race.

The last lap was slow. I tried to chase Clem up the Center Trail and lost him before we hit the top. I made the bench around 35. My watch had reset itself and I was just guessing on times. My calf tightened a bit and before I hit the top of Manoa Cliffs I had pretty well given up. I limped into the finish with a 6:36. Sometimes you just take what you can get and move on.

I stayed around and talked and ate for about an hour as the rest of the racers came in, then helped pack up and finally made it home and to back to bed by 2:00 pm.

Pushing the Trek Envelope

Its Tuesday before the Saturday of the Trek. Still time to get in some good training. I had a late start but was on the trail by 5:30PM and heading up the Center Trail fast and feeling good. Hit the top of Water Pipes by 4:30, the top of Center by 16:30, and Smokies by 24:30 of so. So it was a fast run down Easies, a push up Ginger Shorts, and back down Twisters. I was feeling good up Stair cases and hit the Bench at 27:50 and managed to push up to the bottom of Moleka by 30:00. Not record setting times but among the best I have done in a long while. I was at the road at the top of Moleka by 40:00, but lost it on the steps toward the top of Manoa Cliffs, Hitting the top just over 45:00. Good pace in the early part of the Cliffs, but once again my mind wandered and I lost concentration, losing a few minutes here and there to other worlds. Made the top at the back of Manoa Cliffs by 1:00 and the Map Case by 1:02. I have done better, but the trails were different. This year seems to be harder just naturally, not just from a fitness standard. I was pushing down the back of Manoa Cliffs and my right calf tightened. I slowed but kept pushing and it seemed to be easing but spasmed again. I slowed knowing it was no good to push it as it would just aggravate the problem. After the turn a the bottom of kalawahine it felt a bit better and I was striding good, and ran into the last of Hash House Harriers heading out toward Tantalus. The guy's name was Warren and he was in his 60's. He had some poles and we talked, and my calf was tight so it didn't matter much about time anymore. Warren told me his tale of a hip replacement, and the fight he has had to come back. He is packing about 30 pounds too much and that may explain his difficulty to some extent. Anyway it was nice talking to Warren, thought the pace was slow.

His friends met him with a beer at the road, and I headed down Nahuina in the dark. I was using my neck light by the mid point after a few close slips and stumbles. It was dark, seemingly darker than a few days ago. I made it to Center, and strode down in the dark, alone and enjoying the quiet and peace of the night.




First turn on Nahuina

I was happy with the good time to the Map Case. No sense in push when you got a problem. Part of staying within one's own realm. The reality is sometimes not what we expect, but it is what limits us. I ran to the limit. Could only have eked a minute or two out of the push. Need to get those minutes from my core. Need to do ab work to find the extra time and the stamina I am going to need in the coming months.



by © aminagawa
The ginger is in bloom all along the Trek. It is wonderful. I wish I could smell it better than I do at the moment, but my sense is returning slowly.

To the Bench in sub-30

I ran into Gordon on the way to the Nature Center. We had different work-outs planned but we started the run together spending some time talking a bit. It's like oil and water really. Gordon has a seemingly slow, never wavering gait that is a match for all but the best runners in the ultra distance. I can move up a hill pretty well, but lose it on the flats, and am useless on the downs.

I hit my stop watch at the bridge and we walked the first few hundred yards, over the two bridges, and up toward where the green curtain used to hang. We hit the real trail and started to move a bit. At the top of water pipes I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it saying 7 something. I dropped into gear and started to attack the hill. My goal was to go to the top of Manoa Cliffs, but I could feel the late meal churning in my gut, so I just decided to go-for-it until I lost energy. I had Gordon pushing to keep up a bit, but I knew it was an illusion.

We hit the big bend at about 17 something, and I felt we had made up some time for the walking, but I could hear Gordon moving along behind me just fine, so I kept pushing up foot prints, the washboard and toward rooty-run. At the top at Smokies my watch said something in the low twenties. We moved fast down Easies, and made the turn up shorts. Twisters was dark and muddy, the roots and rocks glistening in the reflected light of late afternoon. I attacked the staircases and pushed up them hitting most of the plastic risers. We came up to the bench at about 28:50. A good run.

I was not in good shape; bent over wheezing and gagging. Gordon was fine. "I'm just going to do my pace." he said as kind of an apology for leaving me there, and off he went toward Moleka. I pushed to keep up with him but he was gone before I could figure out what had happened. I'd done what I came out to do, perhaps not getting as high up as I'd liked but it was OK. I'd pushed my heart-rate to the max, and had cleared out my lungs a bit. It was a good effort.

Jogging after Gordon for a while, my heart finally went out of the run. I had an appointment at 6:30, so I headed back down. I spent some time on Hogback trying to find a better downward line. Not a bad day.

Triple Trek Training goes Live

I've been out on the Triple Trek loop the last couple of weeks getting a handle on the challenge. It has been difficult getting back on the trails, and getting my body back to a point where I can actually train. Yesterday I went out and did a 'weight' run, with about five pounds on each ankle, and today I decided to do my first time trial. The early going was good with a 16 to the Big Bend at the top of Center trail, and a 31 to the bench at the top of Hogsback. I slowed a bit and my concentration faded a couple of times coming up Moleka, and I hit the top at about 48. It was hard going along the upper part of Manoa Cliffs, and I was breathing hard and losing my center, and I hit the Map Case at 71--ten minutes behind pace. Flew down the switch backs of Manoa Cliffs trail to Kalawahine, and was on pace until near the end, where I again began to lag. Hit Tantalus road at 1:23, dropped down Nahuina, to Mangos, and back to Center. Was at the top of Hogsback by 1:49. Hogsback is always slow going, even on the drop, and I hit the bridge at 2:14.

I was disappointed in my inability to maintain pace, but expectations are sometimes higher than ability. A 2:14 on the first timed run of the year is OK by me. Now to figure out where to cut 20 minutes of that pace.

Last year I did the triple trek in 5:58, and the year before in 5:55. I'm still hoping to break 6:00.

The Ultimate Cost of Stupidity

--Mike Minch finesses his way out of responsibility for making himself sicker.

One need not suffer immediately for engaging in patiently stupid activity. The leaders of our financial world offer a fine example of how long one can do impossibly ridiculous things and continue to look as if one actually knows what one is doing. Unfortunately time has a way of coming around to properly rewarding the stupid-- or is it the arrogant?-- and sooner or later the folly that they have used as the mortar of their ethereal empires turns to dust; and slowly, shuddering and shaking, these mad realities first shimmer and vibrate, and then, in one cataclysmic fall, come tumbling down. And when the dust and debris settle, and the ruins revealed, all are left to wonder how anything so outlandish could have even been considered, let alone revered…..

Please forgive me for the overly complicated allusion. I was carried away by the reference. More simply stated: the stupid ultimately pay for their stupidity. In my case you can add ‘and me sooner than others’.

I refer to my extended folly of running the Twelve Hour Endurance Run last weekend. If you recall I was sick before the race, and actually sick when I showed up. I was aware that I might be sicker after the race as well, but, as any fool would hope, I believed that I might actually make myself better through exertion far beyond the bounds of normal activity. The term ‘sweat it out’ was often in my thoughts. I would sweat out this bad lung infection by running endlessly through the rain forests of Makiki. It was a thought that was almost as stupid as the one that caused me show up, but I was on a roll, and dumb thoughts and actions were coming to me at a very rapid rate. I gave into the urge to call folly brilliance and initiated a large number of categorically inane plans. One might say that I pulled a Greenspan. I took a lot of pills and caffeine to keep myself going and when I bothered to question myself about the advisability of what I was doing I continued the Greenspan by trying to convince myself that there was no way I could actually know that I was sick or that even if I were actually sick that doing hours of physical exercise would not make me more healthy—this despite the fact that the only way I made it to the race was by drinking a few pots of coffee and downing a couple of cold pills and sucking on cough drops. And, of course, to complete the Greenspan I now sit here writing in my journal that I actually knew all along that I was sick and that running would make me sicker, but I profess to you that I was not in complete control of the situation, it was all too complicated for you to understand, and that it was actually somebody else who got me out of bed and made me gulp the coffee when I should have stayed in bed where I knew I belonged.

It was a great idea if it would have worked. And if it had I would have looked like the infallible Conan. But it didn’t and I have been in bed on and off for days coughing and gagging on thick yellowish phlegm that clogs my sinuses and throat. I am paying a heavy price for pumping myself up and running madly in circles. But like I said, I tried to tell myself it wouldn’t work. And in the end I was right. Actually, I would have been right either way, now that I come to think of it. Thank you Mr. Greenspan.

A Perfect 12 Hours……of Misery

Mike Minch coughs, gags, and stumbles his way through 11 hours of insanity.

I hate Paul Hopwood. The guy passed me so many times during Saturday’s Twelve Hour Endurance Run that, given my paranoid nature, I would have sworn he was repeatedly hiding in the bushes until I stumbled by so he could rocket-man by me again and again. I would have responded with brute force but he was so damn fast that I never had time to react. The worst were the few times I was trucking up the Hog Back while feeling pretty good and all of a sudden he shoots on by like I am standing still. David Carlsson wasn’t much better but at least he timed most of his passes when we were going down hill. I have problems with Gordon, Harald and Larry as well, but I’m a bit more used to them running me down. Ed Bugarian was out there and he passed me a few times as well, but Ed is my age and it’s always great to see him tearing up the trail. There were a lot of other guys who lapped me at least once. And Ernest beat Conan. It was quite a blow. My only real excuse, I have a lot of them if you want to email me for the list, was that I was really sick with a chest cold and only showed up because I had laid down the challenge with Earnest and could not bear a no show.

If you didn’t make it out to the Twelve Hour Endurance Run you missed a great event. It was a beautiful day with lots of rain in the morning producing humidity at about 110 percent. Then is got hot and more humid as the sun began to shine into Makiki valley and turn it into a sweltering miasma filled jungle. Center Trail dressed in all her slick sticky glory for the race, with Cross over, down near the bottom of what I call Rooty Run, below the ironwood tree where you can look out toward harbor, managing to produce some great long and mud troughs that were filled with rotten guava and pig dung. It was so thick and deep that there was no way you could make it through without coming out of it looking like you’d rolled in it. And there was that piggy perfume that clung to everyone who made it through. Needless to say it only got worse as we repeated the process in a cycle that, one by one, we would all swear was endless. ---except of course for Harald who seems to thrive on this race and has for the last few years insisted on running until the final minute regardless of the effect on the rankings. Harald’s family showed up and for no reason, other than he looked like a tall grinning swamp creature, his children shied away from him, as if they were wondering what this muddy nasty smelling madman had done with their father.

But the star of the Twelve Hour is the Hog Back. And this year she adorned herself with a great set of muddy bumps up at the top of Too Steeps and more muddy slippery track starting where you pass into The Dark Side and all the way up past Fort Tree that marks the final section to the top. There were times that one had to check the vegetation to determine if all the foot movement was producing any upward motion at all. It was wonderfully frustrating and enough to break the will of all but the most insane runners—and needless to say—we always had a good dozen and a half of those slogging around that demented circle.

But it is not so much the mud of Hog Back that highlights her glory, for that was simply adornment for this particular race. It is her fiery and demanding personality that provokes those special runner’s feelings. You may love to run with her once, or twice, or even three times, but sooner or later, some where in the midst of that orgasmic climb, you will find yourself screaming for mercy, admitting weakness, and feeling limpness all the way down into your quads and gastrocs--and unfortunately you can not just remedy your weakness with her by dropping a few pills for the embarrassing problem of Endurance Dysfunction.

Perhaps it is the reality of failure with the Hog Back, or at least the realization of one’s own fragility when understanding comes that she is bound to demand too much of you, that keeps so many away from the Twelve Hour. With a record number of local entries in this year’s HURT one would have expected the local ultra running talent to turn out in force for this rare opportunity to test themselves against this race Mistress. But then the Twelve Hour commands that one surmount the Hog Back every two miles, where the HURT is so much easier, only providing the paltry heights of Nahuina, Ahuilama, and Nu’uanu every four miles or so. Obviously the HURT will be so much easier given these minor climbs interspersed between actual Hog Back accents. For whatever the reason, a lot of HURT hopefuls chose to pass on this wonderful opportunity to come face to face with the Witch of Makiki.

What anyone who did do the Twelve Hour can tell you is that having gone up the trail a half dozen, a dozen or even a dozen and a half times, it is unlikely they will get lost even doing it dead tired in the rainy darkness of the third or forth laps of the HURT. “Get lost,” you might ask. “How could anyone get lost going up the Hog Back, or down Center Trail for that matter?” As one mainland racer asked me incredulously last year, “Do you actually go the same way every time?”. My answer was “Yes, until I find a better way.” You can go up the hill or do the loop the hard way or you can go up the easier way. But in order to know the easier way you need to be willing to let her cast her spells over you a dozen times or so in process. You also need to be willing to face the toll of being completely overcome by that stark bleak feeling of total despair and physical duress that can descend as you hit Too Steep one too many times. Understanding the price being demanded is essential as you dance for the Mistress—and dance for her you must if you intend to run the HURT. But it’s a long way down the road and not something the really fit need to consider for at least a few months.

From my perspective I can only say that I have met demons on that hill. I have been bewitched and bewildered. I never knew what a worthless piece of running trash I was until She helped me realize it, and I found myself whimpering about ‘Just wanting to go home, take a hot shower and talk to my mommy’. The really frightening aspect of this is that no matter how many times you consummate the climb, no matter how well you keep count of the repetitions or clock times, or how strong you think you are, the next attempt may leave you limp and babbling incoherently along Roots and Rocks as you stare up Too Steep or into the Dark Side wondering how you will stop the pain and cast off the Witch’s spell and actually climb on. Above all the Hog Back demands one’s respect; and this past week end was a perfect opportunity to pay your dues.

My race started slowly as I was wondering if my lungs would allow me to move at any kind of pace, and my legs were still a bit stiff from the week’s inactivity. Don and I did a loop together, we ran a bit with Elia and Bozo but were pretty much bringing up the rear, and talking about our experiences over the last six weeks. It was nice to be back on old familiar trails with good friends.

I was feeling pretty good on the second lap and decided to test my hill climbing skills on the Hog Back. I made it up in what is a PR for me of just about 15 minutes. But my tendons were still a bit sticky and I had to walk the downs. Don caught up and we were talking again by the time we reached center trail. We started being passed by the leaders as we reached Bamboo’s, and that rocky track I call Samoan Road. Ed Bugarian’s passage provoked us into a bit of a jog along the Yellow Brick Road and by the time we reached the bottom of Water Pipes Ernest went shooting by. Needless to say Conan awoke and ranted to me about staying in the game.

On the next loop we were joined by Bob McAlester who had his two young dogs along. We all managed a reasonable climb up the Hog Back and took our time along the cross over. Again it was great to talk with friends and enjoy the incredible beauty of Makiki valley. Somewhere along the Center Trail I had to leave Don and Bob and attempt a reasonable run, if not for any other reason than Conan was rapping on the inside of my skull and impatient to ‘stay in the game’.

I finished the third lap in under 50 minutes and went on to due the forth thru eighth in close to negative splits as I edged down toward 45 minutes totals. But on the eighth I rushed a bit at the turn around and forgot to fill my camel. I went dry on my way up the Hog Back and was running under a caution flag. But I saw Kat up ahead of me on Center Trail and pushed to keep up with her as she floated down the trail. It was another good Lap. I was seeing 15 laps out there and hoping to stay together. On the ninth I watered well and headed out. But the hydration shortfall from the previous lap hit me hard half way up Hog Back. My feet became heavy and my thoughts slowed and Hopwood went striding by me at a frustratingly rapid pace. I reached down to find the extra reserve that I have been fortunate enough to possess in the past weeks but it was not there. I looked up the trail, and the rocks of Too Steeps seemed to rise like a vertical wall in front of me. I put aside any hope of maintaining my sub 20 minute Hog Backs and just made a deal with myself that I would try to keep moving. I made twenty yards, bent over and breathed hard. I did another twenty and started coughing and gagging. I took a great swig of goo and another of water. I did another twenty and had to stop again because I couldn’t seem to see straight. I knew what was happening, but that didn’t change the fact that it was happening. It was just that all the tricks and wiggles I have learned came to nothing. I pushed on hoping to gather some strength, but there was no doubt about it, I was bewitched and being punished for my overconfidence on the earlier loops. I stumbled up the trail, making the bench in about 25 minutes. I sat down sucked a great slug of water, took another electrolyte, and ate an energy bar.

The Hill had punished me badly and I knew I would not recover enough to continue at the pace I had been maintaining. 15 was gone, and 14 was becoming remote. I jogged down Staircases feeling a lethargy that hadn’t been in my legs before I’d started up the Hog Back. Quite frankly the chest cold had caught up with me and I knew I was going to be paying a heavy toll for the folly of showing up and running. I made it through the loop and collapsed on the ice chest under the tarp . I sat there zonked, occasionally talking with John and PJ for about twenty minutes before I mustered the strength and will to go on.

It was all very very dumb of course. But the Twelve Hour is an exercise in complete insanity and I was just overcome by the feeling. I downed a second Red Bull and decided to do another lap and see what I could do and make some decision later. On my way up the Hog Back I realized I could keep a constant pace but could not push. I settled for that. I jogged the downs and paced the ups and finished in just under 60. I figured I could do three that way and chose to continue on with the hope of completing 13. Eleven went OK, but once into twelve, when I was half way up the Lady, I went limp. I had no reserves, and given my illness could count on nothing flowing into the tank. I was caught in one of those terrible whirlpools of downward expectation and ability and knew I was finished when I got to the bottom.

I fought off a few people on the way down Center Trail—I was tired of being lapped—and raced Harald the last hundred yards to the bridge, and I was done at 12. Thirty miles in 11 hours. 480 race miles in 44 days, which was a bit beyond my original 444 in 44. I didn’t stick around long, went home, took a hot shower and went to bed. I am still paying the price for my folly and have miserable cough to prove my stupidity. But it was the final run in my schedule--- I just could not let it pass without a solid try.

I want to thank everyone for their kind words on Saturday. It is great to be back and it was wonderful to run with friends again. Your support during my mainland running journey was greatly appreciated. I was proud to take the HURT shirt to new venues and to represent Hawaii. Everywhere I went I met kind and thoughtful people who helped me along my way. But there is only one Hawaii and one Aloha.

Maunawili What?

Mike Minch goes up against the Maunawili out and back

The air was warm and heavy with moisture even at 7:00 am as we all stood in grass just back from the Pali Overlook. Modern day warriors, men and women of Oahu, coming together in the killing grounds of the last great Hawaiian battlefield, waiting for the race stages to move out. Each filtering down the Pali Trail into Koolaupoko while the others continued to hold off the unseen forces of a forgotten conquering army. But our battle lay along the bottoms of the cliffs to the east, and we were not fleeing but charging down the ancient escape routes.

I took my place high on the hillside, waited the start and then slipped and slid my way to the bottom, the rubber pig stuffed in my belt. It was all a formality. I needed to carry it out of site of the crowd and then Ed Bugarian would be forced to take it. I handed it to him before we hit the turn onto the Old Pali road, and he was gone and out of site in less than a minute. I had the feeling that the over 50 crowd was going to be running amok.

I’m always tight at the start and can not run for miles. I’m not very talkative, and I don’t really want to listen to anybody else as the pain in my legs and hips works it way out of my stiff body. I made the trip to the bottom alone, cursing various things which struck my fancy and just trying to get moving without pulling or breaking something. It was miserable, and it got hotter and more humid as I worked my way down into the valley and made the turn onto the Maunawili Trail. I was sweating steams from my head and upper body and the weight of the water felt like it would fill my lungs; I hadn’t realized how much my system had adapted to the desert and the volcano. Wet, hot and tight, I became disgusted and was ready to quit, but didn’t feel like making the climb back up the Pali.

The next group began passing me soon enough, despite my ample head start. Fast young women mostly, sleek muscled ladies with intent expressions on their faces that belied the distance of the turn around. I pushed harder as they passed keeping them in sight a bit longer, enjoying the beauty of their muscled strides around one or two extra turns. It lightened my temperament, and the extra push helped work out some tightness. Then some of the younger 50’s started to move up on me. Josef flew by before I knew he was in back of me. I pushed a bit harder, keeping ahead of the others around a three or four turns before exchanging a few words with them and wishing them a good race as they sped past.

Gordon Lau was the last of the old crowd to make it by me. He was doing that pace of his that is endlessly never very fast. Gordon and I have both improved over the past few years, but now I can only occasionally keep up with him. It takes a particularly good day for me, and a down one for him for our particular styles to make a race out of it. Generally I just move aside and wish him well, which is what happened out there on Saturday.

Maunawili is an enchanted region of the island. A race is not the best venue to understand this as most of the time one’s eyes are glued to the muddy trail, but a walk down the trail on an off day, or a light run is always a wonderful experience. The cliffs rise almost 1200 feet from their base, creating vistas that are awesome, and off in the distance the views of Kailua and Waimanalo are stride stopping. The valleys have been cultivated since the earliest Hawaiian settlement prior to the first millennium. Looking out at the rich lands and seas, it is easy to understand why those who came before us choose such a place to begin a new life.

The constant flow of people coming up behind me drew me out of my tightness and brought on periods of long easy jogging. It was not enough to stay ahead of these younger challengers, but it was fun to keep ahead for turn after turn. Hitting the ups I delighted in walking up the hillsides while I heard the grunts and hard breathing of those behind me. I moved over the technical ground and steeps leaving them behind, only to give it up again on the more level and even parts of the trail. But in each instance I would have to yield and pull off to the side as I began to pant and sweat more heavily.

My pace was actually quite good when I checked my watch against the benchmarks I have for the trail, and I found myself way beyond the ‘Don’t steal the UH Banana’s’ sign when my watch finally flipped past one hour. I was doing so well, in fact, that I began to grow a bit concerned, and when I reached the power towers I stopped for a moment to look off toward Waimanalo and see if I could catch site of the faster runners. When Harold Ebling came by we joked about the fast pace, and mutually voiced concern that it seemed a bit hard for a race that was barely a quarter complete. We didn’t say it, but we were both a bit concerned, as well we should have been.

I dropped off a bit after talking to Harold and wishing him on his way. I cheered on Larry when he past, and had a good but brief talk with Paul about their climb up Rainer, which was a stunning and grand adventure. I’d have liked to have talked to Paul longer but his pace this year was significantly faster than last and I found myself breathing hard and had to wish him on before he could tell me more than just the basics. Despite my desire to drop off a bit I found that my reluctance to let people by without a bit of a fight was still pushing my pace and that I was looking at a two hour turn into Waimanalo. My contemplation was shattered when Josef almost ran me down as I took that last little ridge before the Horse road. It was good to see him in such fine form. It seems like it has been years since he has felt well enough to once again dominate our runs. Ed was not far behind him. He’s got to be the fittest fifty-seven year old on the face of the earth. It is always interesting to see just how far out of ‘Totally in the Groove’ I am. Gary Marr and Gordon Lau flew by me before I could make the road. I wondered how fast these guys would be when they finally grew up. I jogged down the horse road into the aid station saying high to the rest of the leaders as they made their way out of Waimanalo. I ran by Cheryl about midway, and set catching her as one of my goals. Beating a McAlester/Loomis relay would be a good showing on any day in Maunawili. Though it would have been so much harder if Bob had let Cheryl do the out and not the back, but I was not going to complain. I hit the bottom in 2:05, which was about ten minutes slower that my time last year, and just about where I wanted to be.

It was good to see Don Fallis’ face at the aid station and as I gave up my pack to Bob McAlester, I stuffed my face with a great little sandwich that Rex had made. Real food is always a bonus and should never be passed up. Don and I joked about it being his turn to offer a massage at an aid station, and I ate a few other bits of food. Then Bob helped me shoulder my pack, Don insisted I take an extra sandwich, and I scarffed a few glasses of gator aid and I was ready to go. I looked at my watch and it said 2:07. It is was hard to believe that I had been at the aid station for less than three minutes.

I left Waimanalo carrying 80 ounces of water in my camel pack. I had sucked down additional fluids and electrolytes at the aid station. I felt a bit bloated and the extra weight on my back pulled at me as I marched up the hill. Brian caught up with me and we chatted and laughed a bit as he jogged alongside me as I strode up the hill. I could keep pace with him on the steeper portions, but given any leveling he moved ahead. Finally he moved out of site as the trial took a few switch backs. I felt the weight of the water on my back and yearned to be a bit lighter. Last year I had siphoned off 30 or 40 ounces to gain some speed but it had not proved particularly helpful. I had forgotten the essential of Maunawili. It is Maunawili out and BACK. Maunawili Back is Maunawili UP. So really it is Maunawili BACK and UP. The first part of the race is a fling, though many don’t realize it. Maunawili out is just a lark, a warm up, a pretender. The real race is that ominous rise that faces you when you make the turn and realize that you have about six miles of very steep up before you reach the more moderate hills of the west. Then, of course, there is the Pali trail and Old Pali Road sections that are actually outrageously steep.

But that all lay ahead, and after a few attempts at this run I was deeply aware of the need not to think too deeply about what lay ahead. Eleven miles of up, perhaps farther than you will ever have to race without aid, can be intimidating. Almost twice as far as most aid station intervals in major trail races. Hurt has lengthy distances between stations with seven or eight miles, and that does a lot of mainlanders in. But Maunawili makes a mockery of standards. It is not just eleven miles of hot humid muddy jungle trail, its eleven miles of steep upwardly slick humid jungle trail, through the heat of the morning where the sun bounces off the hillsides and humid heat focuses on you like an ant under a magnifying glass. It is eleven miles of gruelingly hard trail coming just after eleven miles of what you thought were very hard trails. If you don’t have a lot of humility and respect for Maunawili, the spirits of the run will mock you, and force you to your knees. If you don’t understand what you are facing then somewhere out there on the Back you will find yourself wishing you had never thought trail running was enjoyable, you will rue the fact that you got out of bed in the morning, You will start lying to yourself that you are almost to the water tank before you even reach the power towers and you will find yourself pleading with anyone that comes by for extra water or electrolytes or anything. You will find yourself three or four miles in and whining to yourself that it ‘Can’t be too much farther.’ And you will wander down the trail crying to yourself for a few hours as you muddle your way through a race that has not only passed you by but swallowed you whole and sent you to a purgatory where you plod endlessly over muddy wet rocks that cause continuous falls and spills.

Any rules you might have expected of trail racing are broken by the spirits of Maunawili and you can find yourself suddenly just a lone survivor abandoned on a remote jungle trail, lost and disheartened, if you start the Back and you are not packing a lot of humility and water.
It is mostly the fast boyz and girlz that suffer, the street whiz kids that run places like ‘heart-break’ hill out in front of Diamond Head and think they know ups and hardship. The record setting crowd who own a pair of trail shoes, and who come out to Maunawili on a dry day and do a ‘one way’ on occasion. Even the HURT crowd suffer as many find that the few turns they did in training are not quite the same as the suffering of a race day pace. All in all those last eleven miles of Maunawili are about as hard as it gets for trail racing here in Hawaii, or anywhere else for that matter. It maybe only a twenty-two mile race, but it is an Ultra none-the-less; and no doubt one of the shortest kick your ass into the mud Ultra’s you will ever experience.

I was figuring on a little faster out than back. I had done two hour plus out and so would have to be about two fifteen back if I was going to get in under 4:30 which was my goal. My start had been slow so I cut the last stages of the return an even or better break. The early stages had been moderate as I had loosened up, so again I was only expecting a break even over that ground. But there was a long period in the midst of the run where I had felt good and paced hard, and I would have to match it. Finally it would mean I had and extra fifteen minutes to put into my flight out of Waimanalo. All the calculations were fuzzy and the product of a mind that was short on oxygen and sugars, but I could see that I did not have a lot of time. And it explains why I was striding up the hill so hard as I traded short bits of conversation with Brian as we moved out of Waimanalo.

I made a few brief rules; jog or run on every bit of good ground, charge the ups, take the downs faster than I liked, and wait for the good trail near the end before throwing in the reserves. It meant that I could catch my breath and get a bit of rest on the rugged terrain, and I figured that moving slower over it would actually be more efficient in the long run. I had a started with a near full water bladder so I figured I would not run out until I was on my way up the final hill. I decided to rely on my goo bottle for energy after I had eaten the second sandwich. Having made these rules the only thing I had to do was analyze the ground and apply the rules. All I had to do was keep myself in the race and not let my mind wonder far from the Zen of the run.

When I do the hills I always try and keep a pace that I feel I can do for hours if I need to. A hard relentless climb that gains strength at each obstacle, that ignores the trail hardships and just moves forward with out stop. It means I have to be a few steps ahead of myself all the time, and constantly gauging my strength. From a mental point of view, if it is not the trail then it is not relevant. Keeping this state becomes increasingly difficult when one is engaged in parboiling the brain and body tissue. But I find that if I can invert the suffering it helps me focus. Rather than trying to ignore the pains I bore in on them, becoming more aware of what they are and how they are effecting my stride. Adjustments can be more precise and potential problems are dealt with while they are still minor irritations. It is a an odd bit of sadomasochism that requires a sense of humor or can drive one completely nuts.

The trails were muddy, and the good ground had been swallowed up in the trampings of sixty pair of feet. There was a lot of slip in the ups and downs and I had to do much of it on faith, not something I was particularly comfortable with considering the twenty to sixty foot drops that are so common along the cliffs. But I high stepped a lot the problems on the ups, spider walking over the nasties and sung praises to the trail spirits on the slippery downs. The good ground was hard to find, the mud made even the level sections slippery and difficult, so I had to be very aware of any opportunity to push and gain some time. I found myself jogging the moderate ups where the trail had some drainage and the mud was minimal. It was not in the plan book but like a lot of plans they didn’t match the reality and needed modification.

The trail gets worse and not better as you push into the heart of Maunawili. Day hikers must get discouraged and turn around leaving the farthest valleys less traveled. Last year when somebody trimmed the trails before the run they even missed the narrowest and wettest of them all; a nasty section where the rocks make the trail hard to walk and the overhanging vegetation keeps you from seeing your where you are stepping. Some say missing it was to show how the trail is when it is left unmaintained, but I just put it down to a crew who were a bunch of lazy bastids who wouldn’t do their share. The point of comparison argument was just that common kind of misinformation we are inundated with in this day and age; what the cruder among us would call BS. One only needed to check out the trails to the west of the towers last year to see how a crew could do its task properly. But a year had pretty much erased all the effort of last year’s maintenance and that terrible little valley was as hard to traverse as ever, even given the fact that Aaron’s crews had been through Maunawili in the spring.

There are a few points along the trail that can be frustrating if you are looking to achieve significant land marks. The power towers come into view just beyond a ridge and it appears that they are no more than a few minutes away. However as one slides around a turn the trail takes a long swing back into the heart of the cliffs and the towers suddenly become distant, and you are left to wonder about the reality of what you believe you saw back out on spine of the ridge. A long hard slog in and out of the valley will once again reveal the towers, and they will have that not-to-distant look to them, but once again as you come around the next spine of land you will find yourself facing a long decent and climb out of another narrow valley. It goes on like this endlessly, the heat bearing down on you, and the level of your water bottles falling away as you find you have radically misjudged the half-way point. It is not uncommon for panic to lick like a tiny candle flame at the edges of your consciousness and your opinion of the day to begin to darken as you round yet another bend and find yet another long valley stretching out before you. You might even find yourself asking the rhetorical question ‘Who changed this trail and made it longer?. And as you become more frustrated you become less cautious and inevitably as you negotiate another rocky rill at the farthest kink in the trail at the back of the valley you fall on the slippery rocks and hurt an ankle, or knee, or a wrist. If you are lucky the pain wakes you up a bit and you press on, if you are not it is just one more excuse to whine and cry about how badly things are going and your pace slows and your water levels drop as you console your poor self with precious fluids.

I don’t know how many valleys there are between the point where one first sees the power towers and one actually stumbles upon them. Too many, too many to count, too painful to keep track. On the way out it is just that nice long slide into Waimanalo and there is no reason to keep track, but on the way back it becomes an endless trudge and I have never been able to concentrate well enough to keep track. I’ve just learned to put my head down, not look up at the broad open turns, and to regard the ferns of the power line turn as a gift from the trail spirits; something over which I have no control but which delights me when I feel them brush by my face.

If wanting something too much can take that pleasure away from you then the power line turn is just a shadow of the vision of the Water Tank. The water tank, that bright sparkling tower filled with the sound of clear cool water dropping onto the slick black rocks like with the chimes of crystal bells. The water tank, bright in its little valley the clear ice like arc of water radiant in the sun. Isn’t the water tank a turn or two from the power line turn? Isn’t the water tank just after that valley filled with mountain apples? Isn’t the water tank just after that hard steep up? No. No the water tank isn’t any of those, or a hundred other desperate questions you might ask yourself about where it is or how close your are to it. In reality the water tank does not exist. It is an illusion. There is only a slime filled wooden barrel with a dirty plastic gutter draining into a muddy rill, and water that tastes like a mud and pig shit cocktail. That’s all there is. Nasty. But out there beyond the Pine, or the sign, or the Falls Trail, or that open airy hillside, or the Queen’s steps, or the sound of the cars on the Pali Highway, out there far, far from any evidence of an end to your suffering, the water tank can loom like a tower of the emerald city, the center of your entire existence, an essential quest of life that you latch onto in the belief that a drink from the water tank will offer you a new reality, a wondrous rebirth.

I’ve wanted the water tank, and paid the price for it as the trail grew longer and longer, as if my need for it nourished the ground under my feet and the trial grew like a mad vine longer and faster than I could even stumble down it. I have been out there and passed forlorn individuals, lost and weary who have asked me how far to the water tank. And when I told them that they shouldn’t be thinking about the water tank because it was too far away, they chased me down the trail screaming curses at me, as if I had corrupted a sacred temple. We live in a world where the truth is often foul and nasty and where revealing it to others can bring you nothing but condemnation. The water tank, is the lark of the spirits of Maunawili who reap great merriment out of our continued inability to face the reality of the long hard Back.

I have to admit it that even now, now that I have suffered so many times, the water tank is still a turn or two later than I expect it to be. It is still farther off along the trail than I was willing to admit to myself, one dark valley more than I could fully comprehend. But it comes to me as only a mild surprise untinged by the pangs of thirst and despair. I expect to suffer all the way to the water tower, I expect to feel the endless fatigue set in, and I am not surprised when I hear the trail spirits giggling in the recesses of the lost turns and valleys of the bright end of the trail. I let them play their games with me, offer them small ho’okupu, and accept my fate as I struggle toward the barrel.

I reached the water tank, made my way through the last of the dark valleys of Maunawili that blend into the somberness of the Pali Cliff trail and began the long climb. I welcomed the up, had anticipated it, and took great pleasure in the first of the hard breaths that sent pain deep into the muscles of my chest. I increased my stride, spider walked the nasties, and pushed harder feeling the effort wear at the edges of my endurance. My breath came in deep hard pants as I hit the evens and downs and I kept pushing through the easy ground. I looked at my watch and realized I had a few minutes still in the bank. My body finally adjusted to the hard pace and I felt the endorphins shoot into my blood stream. I laughed out loud and growled like a bear pushing harder up the inclines, letting the madness overtake me in these final miles of the run.
I dug in when I hit the road, and strode hard and relentless up the concrete and asphalt sections of the old way. Occasionally I would increase my dig, deepen my pace, and push harder up the hill, but I didn’t run. I wanted to be able to climb unstopping. Coming around one long bend I caught sight of a pair of leopard shorts jumping that asphalt diversion curb. It was Cheryl. I pushed harder and quietly, not wanting to let her know I was coming; better to just burst by. It took me a few hundred yards to catch her, and after a brief greeting I was by. I was force panting, pushing as much oxygen in as I could manage as I hit the top of the ridge. The killing plain came as a relief, and I jogged across it to the finish. My watch showed 4:24, eleven minutes faster than last year, but many places farther back on John’s sheet than last year. Tough crowd. Tough Trail. But that’s the Maunawili Out and Back for you.

© 2007 mnmuench
August 07, 2007 at 11:20 AM in