Between three and four miles, Dave and Mark pull close enough behind Wolfgang that their scooter escort and the ABC camera car must leapfrog the leader to clear the gap for the coming pass. Upon seeing these vehicles join his own escort, Wolfgang looks back and spots his chasers. Already? The German knew he would be passed eventually, but he did not anticipate losing his two-minute lead in less than four miles.
Dave and Mark blow by Wolfgang. He’s running well by his standards, but the brutal swiftness of his eclipse leaves him feeling deflated. It’s as if he has been removed not only from first place but from the race itself—forced to turn in his race number and catch a ride back to the pier in the backseat of a police cruiser as the crowds lining the street hurl taunts. Running a full 2 mph faster than Wolfgang, Dave and Mark leave him behind as quickly as a window shopper leaves behind a dropped scarf.
Cathy Plant again radios her husband.
“Dave and Mark just took the lead.”
“Still side by side?”
“Still side by side.”
“Man, oh, man!”
The new race leaders now run past Pahoehoe Beach Park, the site where CJ Olivares saw Dave running on Wednesday morning and was inspired to change his race prediction. More park than beach, it consists of a manicured lawn shaded by a few palm trees fronting a lava-rock beach that is hidden on the far side of a knee-high stone wall. Children are playing in the park, oblivious to their near brush with history in the making.
The occasional mongoose skitters across the road in front of the runners. Life goes on.
DAVE CONTINUES TO PRESS a torrid pace. Worry creeps into Mark’s mind. He still feels decent, but it won’t be long before this mad effort begins to exact an awful toll. Reason tells him Dave will have to pay the same price, so surely he will relent. But another voice says, Maybe not. Maybe not.
One of the larger hills on Ali’i leads the pair to the six-mile point. As they blast upward, Mark becomes conscious of an incipient hot spot on the ball of his right foot—an area of throbbing warmth caused by friction between his wet sock and the sole of his shoe. With twenty miles left to run, this hot spot is almost certain to become a gory, excruciating blister. His worry deepens.
The Sea Village Resort stands at the top of the hill on the left. Among the smattering of spectators standing before it is a young woman with straight blond hair who wears bright yellow running shorts and holds an infant in her arms. Anna hoists Ryan toward his father as Dave passes.
“ ‘Go, Daddy! Go, Daddy!’ ” she shouts on Ryan’s behalf as she hops up and down like a first grader at a parade.
Mark Allen notices almost nothing peripheral when he races. (He will, for example, retain no memory of the drunken local running alongside him and shouting in his ear.) But he notices this. In the intensity of the moment it seems as if the child’s head is bouncing on its delicate neck like a bobblehead. Without a second’s premeditation, Mark turns to Dave and says the only words either man will speak to the other all day.
“Hey, that’s not fair!” he jokes.
The surprise of hearing Mark’s voice causes Dave to reflexively turn his head in the other man’s direction, but he catches himself quickly and reverses the movement without uttering a syllable in reply. Behind the silent treatment Dave secretly analyzes his foe’s unexpected outburst. What information can he extract from it? On the one hand, the fact that Mark would not only speak but crack a joke tells him that Mark feels strong, perhaps so strong that he can’t keep a poker face. On the other hand, the sheer frivolousness of the remark tells Dave he’s perhaps dealing with the same goofy “kid brother” who asked if he wanted to go for a run after the bike ride in the moment of their first meeting in the October 1982 Ironman. If so, then Mark remains vulnerable in the same way he was then, and has been ever since, in this particular race. Dave knows how to humble Mark on this island.
Not a minute after Dave receives his wife’s encouragement, Julie Moss zips by in the other direction on her bike. She is currently in third place in the women’s race, ten minutes behind two-time and defending champion Paula Newby-Fraser.
“Go, Mark!” she shouts, her heart leaping in hope and fear, for few sights could be more simultaneously hopeful and fear-provoking than that of Mark sharing the lead with Dave Scott at this point in the race.
Mark says nothing.
Just beyond the seven-mile point Dave and Mark return to the Hot Corner, the intersection of Ali’i Drive and Hualalai Road. The massive crowd there has been thrown into a state of fevered anticipation by Mike Reilly’s announcement of the recent lead change, and it detonates as the two enemies make the right turn and shoot up the hill toward Kuakini Highway.
“Here are your new race leaders!” Reilly booms over the loudspeakers. “Dave Scott and Mark Allen! This could be a race for the ages!”
A traffic cop who is supposed to be controlling the crowd, keeping motor vehicles off the course, and pointing athletes in the right direction completely forgets himself, jumping up and down and hollering like a Pentecostal overcome by the Holy Ghost. As a result of his dereliction, the crowd presses within inches of Dave and Mark on both sides as they bank through the corner, their clothes visibly dripping with sweat and water. The short hill to Kuakini Highway does little to slow them. Their heels nearly strike their butts with each swing-through as they ascend, like milers kicking on the final straight.
Two minutes pass before Wolfgang appears. Mike Pigg trudges through next, looking like he needs a toilet. Closing quickly behind him is Ken Glah, who has received regular updates on his time deficit from spectators and, after overcoming his initial disbelief, has resigned himself to racing for third place.
At Kuakini Highway, Dave and Mark turn left and, still soaking up the shouts and applause of the thick downtown crowds, run three blocks to Palani Road. There they turn right and rumble up Pay-’n’-Save Hill, pressed as tightly together as runners in a three-legged race, despite the generous width of the street. Standing at the eight-mile point near the top of the hill is Pat Feeney, who arrived from the Kona Surf, where he last saw Dave, with little time to spare despite his mechanical advantage. He presses the lap button on the watch he started back at the second transition. 58:24. Like most physicists, Pat is good with figures, and he quickly does the math: 5:48 per mile through the first eight miles of the marathon. Jesus.
As the runners turn left onto the Queen K and head for the lava fields, Dave finally gears down. Slightly. Mark gratefully does the same. Dave’s bid to blow Mark’s mind, or legs, or whatever in the first third of the marathon has failed. He must now consolidate his remaining resources and wait for the right moment to make his next big move. Their pace slips toward 6:15 per mile, which is still faster than the best average pace ever run at Ironman and still more than thirty seconds per mile faster than anyone behind them is running.
The road now leads the two men up the gentle ramp of Palani Hill, at the top of which they are given the same gut-punching view of the lava fields below that hit them this morning before they descended into the inferno on their bikes. It is now approaching one thirty in the afternoon—the hottest time of day. The mercury has risen to 88 degrees. A ceiling of clouds has begun to creep over the inland hilltops and toward the coast. Dave and Mark are sweating a liter of fluid every half hour. Their core body temperatures have climbed to 103 degrees.
Eighteen years from this day, the Chicago Marathon will be canceled midrace when the temperature soars into the mid-80s. Pandemonium will break out as runners collapse left and right. But here, now, at Ironman, in even more severe weather conditions, Dave and Mark just deal with it. As do those behind them. Only 55 of the race’s 1,286 starters will fail to finish. It’s all about expectations—hell’s a bit more bearable when you always knew you were going there.
The aid stations on this section of the course sit on the right side of the road, whereas on Ali’i they sat on the left. At the base of Palani Hill, Dave and Mark hit another aid station, and Mark craftily cut
s across again to reclaim the inside position. Dave again lets him have it, dropping behind Mark and merging right to take drinks from the outstretched hands of volunteers.
All Ironman volunteers undergo a day of training before the race. Those assigned to drink stations are taught that there are two effective ways to hand drinks to passing runners. One is to stand still and hold the cup under the base by the fingertips, leaving almost the entire surface area of the container available for the athlete to wrap his hand around. The other is to start running in the same direction the athlete is traveling, just before he reaches you, so that the pass from hand to hand can be made at a relative speed of zero, as in a track-and-field relay baton pass. For whatever reason, only a minority of volunteers manages to get it right. And the odds of a bad pass are greatest for the race leaders, because they arrive at each aid station before the volunteers have had a single opportunity to practice their technique—and also because volunteers become awestruck and forget their jobs.
It’s even worse for Dave, as Mark, being the first man through, steals the attention of the volunteers, leaving them even less ready for the second man. Dave has gotten precious little to drink at a couple of aid stations already, thanks to botched handoffs, so he chooses to assert himself at this one.
“Run with me!” he shouts at a woman volunteer standing ten yards ahead of him who represents his last chance to get a cup at this aid station.
She flinches like a student startled out of a daydream but remains otherwise motionless, having failed to understand Dave’s command.
Too late. He’s now upon her and forced to do what he didn’t want to do—attempt to snatch the cup from her unmoving hand, which is wrapped around the container in a vise grip. Sure enough, the cup sails to the ground and skitters along the hot pavement.
“Come on, lady, run with me!” Dave yells back at the woman, who still holds a cup in her other hand, as he speeds away without even a suggestion of easing up.
The volunteer snaps to attention and sprints after Dave, whose only effort to help her help him is to reach back toward her outstretched arm like God reaching toward David on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. When Dave catches a glimpse of her footwear—pumps—he knows it’s hopeless. Moments later the woman flags and quits, looking for a hole in the ground, conscious of having failed to sustain for thirty yards the pace Dave has held for eleven miles after five and a half hours of prior high-intensity exercise. Dave turns his attention to catching Mark, cursing his burning thirst.
Mark is beginning to have problems of his own. Despite the settling of the pace, he is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. The whole hard day is catching up with him. They have passed through the ugly industrial area on the outskirts of town and plunged into the dark heart of the lava sprawl. Like a living thing, this landscape threatens Mark—reminding him of all the pain and heartbreak it has caused him in past years. He feels as helpless in the face of its terrible power as a dreamer inside a nightmare. The hot black rock floor seems to scoff at Mark’s offering at Heiau Kuemanu. Suddenly Mark realizes nothing has changed. He was fooling himself. He has no quarter here. He’s doomed. At the same time Mark feels a new strength emanating from Dave. He can feel his opponent’s will, and it feels like a wall.
They pass the midpoint of the marathon. To the right loom the reeking garbage piles of the town dump. Bad thoughts enter Mark’s mind. The old voice of doubt, the hated tape loop of fear.
He’s too strong.
He’ll never crack.
Thirteen miles to go, and I’m already dying.
It’s only going to get worse.
I’ve lost again.
I don’t have what it takes to win this race.
I will never win this race!
A downward spiral has begun. Mark is abruptly aware that he is boiling inside. Was it this hot a minute ago? His legs have turned to lead. He’s light-headed. The noxious stench of the dump assaults his nostrils and somehow intensifies his vertigo. Energy drains from his body like blood from a knife gash. A flu-like weakness has overtaken him from head to toe. His blistering right foot is on fire. It feels as though the skin has been peeled off and his foot has been dipped in a vinegar bath. His thoughts are scrambled. The taunting voice in his head stops making sense, then falls silent. He now lacks the energy to think a single thought. Mark is conscious only of suffering and the desire to suffer no more. He is a zombie, a shackled man in a burning prison.
Suddenly Mark catches a glimpse of something out of the corner of his right eye. Appearing first as a blur of color, the image coalesces to form a vitreous face hovering above the lava field. The vision does not shock him. His weary mind occupies the dream state of awareness that is surprised by nothing. He recognizes the face of the elderly shaman he saw in a magazine two days ago. It wears the same beatific expression that arrested him then, an expression that communicates pure happiness and unspoiled inner peace.
Mark rotates his head to get a square look at the face, but when he does, it vanishes. He turns his eyes back to the road ahead, and the image instantly returns in his peripheral vision.
Somehow, despite Mark’s incredible suffering and despair, he feels his spirit absorbing the joy and acceptance that emanate from the shaman’s countenance. At first Mark merely discerns what the old man is feeling; then he feels it himself. A sense of peace washes over him, not displacing his pain but enabling him to accept it. A new monologue enters his mind.
How cool is this?
I’m leading Ironman with Dave Scott with twelve miles to go!
Win or lose, this is an amazing experience.
Anyone else in the race would kill to be where I am now, so what the hell am I complaining about?
I’m going to enjoy this moment as best I can.
Yes, I’m hurting, but Dave is too. I can still win.
And if I don’t, so be it.
There’s more to life.
No sooner has Mark given up, in a sense, than he begins to feel his energy return—some of it, anyway. That verge-of-fainting feeling dissipates. A bit of strength, perhaps just enough, is restored to his legs. Hope seeps back into his spirit.
Second winds happen all the time in triathlon. Athletes routinely overcome bad patches. Traditional exercise science, with its exclusion of the brain, cannot explain the phenomenon, which is obviously brain-based, if not completely psychological. But the source of the second wind is almost never a phantasmagoric spiritual vision.
“A penny for their thoughts,” Mike Adamle says to his ABC crewmates at about this time, as the camera rolls inside his station wagon.
THE TWENTY-FOOT INFLATED Bud Light can marking the turnaround point at sixteen miles appears in the distance. As always, the approach seems to take three times longer than it should. Dave and Mark are not there yet when John Boyer, the Mad Triathlete himself, comes cruising toward them on his bike. Boyer is stunned to see the race leaders approaching the marathon turnaround before he has even reached the 100-mile point of the bike leg.
As he draws closer, Boyer perceives an incredible will in both men’s faces, and he thinks, Neither one of these men could possibly lose this race. Yet their energies, he notices, are completely different. Dave huffs, blows, spits, and grimaces—stopping just short of breathing fire. Through these and other, ineffable signs he emanates pure aggression. He is the predator. In contrast, Mark seems sealed inside himself behind that unreadable rictus grin. It’s as if he’s holding his breath until Dave suffocates.
At last they reach the Bud Light can. Dave focuses on the digital race clock and notes that the time it displays is about fourteen minutes less than his best previous time to this point in the race. He realizes that his predicted 8:10 finish time is within reach. Although Dave still has Mark Allen to worry about, his primary Ironman goal has always been to go faster, to redefine his own limits—so the discovery excites him and feeds his motivation to do what he was already planning to do next.
They round the turn. Ten
miles to go. Bang! It’s as if a second start cannon has fired. Dave hits the gas. His acceleration is so sudden and extreme that it is plainly visible to onlookers. But Mark is ready and responds, well knowing Dave’s passion for the final big push, for pounding it out at the end. Tactics are pretty much out the window now. Dave is running as hard as he thinks he can without exploding into a million bits of shrapnel before he reaches the finish line. Mark has no idea if he can hold this pace—and no choice but to try.
They scream past the airport for the fourth and final time today and arrive at the start of a long, negative false flat. Dave calls upon his special gift for downhill running and accelerates even more.
Cathy Plant catches the split time between seventeen and eighteen miles.
“Mike!” she shouts through the radio. “They just ran mile eighteen in 5:40!”
There is no immediate reply. Mike feels a wave of emotion rising in his chest as he absorbs this impossible information. He wishes he could climb down from the finish-line tower and dash out to the Queen K to see what has never happened before and surely will never happen again.
“How close are they?” he croaks.
“Mike . . .” Cathy is overcome by her own emotion. “They’re practically touching.”
It is no longer a battle to survive. It is a bona fide two-man footrace. For the first time in the history of this event, the winner will not outlast the runner-up—he will have to outrun him.
Their entourage is growing. Word of the titanic battle has spread, drawing photographers, writers, race marshals, spotters, support crew, and VIPs on scooters and motorcycles and in four-wheel vehicles, as well as spectators on bikes, away from the women’s race leader, Paula Newby-Fraser, and elsewhere on the course, causing a miscellaneous train nearly half a furlong long to form behind the gladiators. Its passengers watch in reverential silence, of which all are hyperconscious, so incongruous is the soundlessness of the procession in relation to its image. The low throbbing of motorcycle engines and the distant hum of ABC’s helicopter hovering high overhead create a low sonic backdrop to no greater noise than the occasional shout of encouragement from a roadside spectator or aid-station volunteer, the rhythmic huffing of the athletes’ exhalations, and the soft slapping of their feet against the pavement.
Iron War Page 25