Tjalling Ypma - 11/9/08

“Would you zip up my suit for me ?” he asked politely, and I was only too happy to oblige. It is not every day that you get to assist the reigning world champion, who in this case also hails from my former home in South Africa. He was obviously surprised when I wished him “Alles van die beste” in rusty Afrikaans once I had finished squeezing him into his very tight swimskin, and I got a big smile and a “Dankie” from Conrad Stoltz as he wandered off down the beach towards the ocean. I’m afraid my best wishes didn’t help him that day; a flat tire put paid to his chances of making the podium in Maui.

It was a hot windstill morning, providing ideal conditions for the 1.5km no-wetsuit ocean swim but also promising a scorcher for the bike and run over the barren volcanic slopes of Haleakala. My warm-up swim was pure pleasure, with the crystal-clear water giving clear views of the flat sandy bottom and some coral outcrops with darting fish. I lined up on the far right end of the beach a couple of rows back from the water’s edge, and when the starting gun fired I gave the front ranks a few seconds to clear before wading in.

There were a few large smooth rocks lurking just below the water surface near the edge that I had to negotiate by creative dog-paddling before I could get properly underway.

The swim just felt good. It wasn’t that I was swimming particularly well, but the water was warm and clear, sighting was easy, and there was surprisingly little body contact; maybe the absence of wetsuits makes folks reluctant to touch. I had to slalom around the occasional navigationally-challenged swimmer, but I cleared the first turn buoy with minimal hostilities and had mostly open water from there. I found a few good feet to draft off and I noted some other guys sitting on my own feet, but it was all very peaceable as we headed in to the beach at the end of our first lap, aimed for the big red arch silhouetted against the rising sun. It was nice to watch the sandy bottom come up and hear the roar of the crowd, and I rather enjoyed the little dash past the spectators down the beach to the red flags and flinging myself back into the surf for lap two. I was annoyed by the wakes and fumes of the roaring jet-skis on this second trip around the buoys, but otherwise all went well, I got a little boost from the incoming waves on the way back inshore, and I felt pretty good about things as I ran over the soft sand and grass to my bike in transition.

Though the bike racks were already significantly depleted by the time I got going again, the swim split Robin gave me was quite encouraging. I passed several riders on the very rough singletrack that goes from transition to the paved road, hammered down that first mile, and continued making progress through the field once we turned up the gravel roads and the real climbing started. People were very courteous about letting me by, perhaps because we were far enough back in the field to keep the aggression levels down. As the road degenerated into rocky jeep track I was pleased to find myself passing a fellow in my age group, and as the climb steepened I passed another. The latter had intimidated me with his warm-up sprints and sponsor-bedecked clothing before the start, so passing him provided particular pleasure. Pretty soon I was into the grind of this gnarly ride, pushing my bike up the steepest rocky climbs and spinning up everything else. A lot of the climbs I walked up I could have ridden, given a clear line and cooler weather, but in the interests of energy preservation and keeping from over-heating, as well as the dangers of crashing due to having to take a rough line around other walking competitors, the hike-a-bike was the better option for me. I was pleasantly surprised to come upon Dan fairly early on; it turned out that he had crashed on a loose descent and was still a bit shaken. I also nearly lost it one or two times, but luckily my brief excursions into the rock and bush did no real damage. A lot of trailside repairs, mostly of flat tires, broken chains and bent deraileurs, showed that not everybody was so fortunate; I also saw several despondent professionals walking their bikes back down the hill. Dan and I rode the course together the rest of the way, leap-frogging one another and sometimes losing touch but always coming together again; it was good to have familiar company and mutual encouragement on the ride.

The day was proving to be extremely hot, and I was very careful with my hydration. I had a camelback that I drank from whenever the trail was mellow enough to permit the slight reduction in focus, and I waited at the mildly-disorganized aid station at mile 5 so they could get me chilled water. I enjoyed flying along the subsequent flatter and smoother stretch that provided a break before the merciless climb in the baking sun began again. Just as we hit the 9 mile mark a cloud took the bite out of the sun, eliciting whoops of relief from Dan behind me. The cloud-shadow only moderated the temperature slightly, and it was still hard to keep pushing relentlessly uphill, with every glance ahead revealing only more climbing and a long line of bikers snaking ever higher through the rock and sand. The aid station at mile 10 was welcome not only for its cold drink but also the fact that it marked the halfway point. Another two miles of climbing, including a very steep pitch up the remnants of a paved road, finally brought me to the hard right turn that marks the start of The Plunge and the major downhills of the course. I knew that the next very rough stretch would shake my waterbottles loose, so I drank well before heading down.

The Plunge is not particularly steep, but it is very long and parts of it are covered in rock, much but not all of it loose rolling chunks of lava, and every year it is the scene of many horrendous painful crashes. I bit it big time here last year, with scars on both shoulders to prove it, so I was very cautious, but there is not much you can do about folks flying into you from behind. Before long I saw a girl with blood on her face being carted off, and it wasn’t too long after that that I did my own little flip, when my front wheel got hooked on something and I went over sideways. It was all fairly slow speed and the rocks mostly rolled under me so the damage was limited to superficial scratches and a few bruises. It did not delay me long or upset me significantly, and it wasn’t long before I was back on Dan’s wheel again. There is a fairly long relatively easy section that heads north from the foot of The Plunge to the Oil Tank, and we passed a few more guys before we made the sharp turn onto the last few miles of gnarly rock-strewn undulating double-track. This last bit feels tough largely because you think you are done but you’re not and it just seems to go on and on. Eventually it all opens up and you find yourself back on the wide gravel roads, tempting you to go really fast until you find your wheels slewing around in one of the many patches of soft deep crud. A high-speed crash here would be like going over a cheese-grater, so Dan and I took it conservatively and were passed by a few guys before things flattened out again at the road. A quick dash down the paving, hop over the curb, one more rocky trail, and we were running down the grass slopes back into transition.

Although my legs were covered in mud and blood I felt quite good as I set off back up the now-familiar grassy slopes, rocky trail and the mile on the paved road. The long line of motorists held up by the bikers crossing the road were very supportive, yelling words of encouragement, so I was in good cheer as I turned up the shadeless gravel road to start the two miles of sustained climbing. Dan passed me at the bottom, looking strong, but I soon began to wilt. I had stupidly injured my right foot a week before the race, which triggered cramping in that calf, so I had to control my stride carefully. By then it was midday and really hot, the road was baking, and I had to walk the steeper parts between miles 2 and 3, known as the Death March. I was drinking a lot and dousing myself with cold water at the aid stations, but my body was nearing its limits in the heat. It was a big relief to reach mile 3, since that is the end of the climbing and almost the halfway point. The next two miles are sustained fairly gentle downhill on stony double-track with good footing on which one can go fast, but I didn’t dare push my body, and when I stopped to pee near mile 5 I was really wobbly; for a moment I thought I might not make it. I was able to keep going without falling over, encouraged by the knowledge that there were only two more miles and I could definitely walk it in if I had to. When two volunteers asked how I was doing as I jogged by; I flashed them a big smile and said “Wonderful!” They laughed and noted that I obviously knew what I looked like – bad. That cheered me up for the next rough stretch, and I felt further encouraged when I emerged onto Makena Beach, whose golden sands are the real highlight and hallmark of this race.

A short plod over the soft sand brought me to the harder but more steeply sloping stuff near the water’s edge, where I found myself jogging along between the breakers and the sun-bathers shouting encouragement. A passing wave slopped sand and water right over my shoes but I was well past caring and just enjoyed the cooling effect. Half-a-mile down the beach I had to slog back through the deep soft sand to get to the exit from the beach and the last aid station, with just over one mile on familiar terrain to go: we had cleared litter from the trail here two days before. I trotted along comfortably enough along the relatively shady winding path through Spooky Forest, leaping over and ducking under twisted parts of trees, and emerged onto Black Sand Beach to face the final shoreline stretch. You have to pick your way over rough rocky patches interspersed with soft wet sand, and there is an awkward narrow sloping bit between a big drop and the fence of an ugly new construction site that really mars the approach to the finish. I just kept plugging away at it, with a growing sense of relief as the greenery of the hotel lawns neared. Then up the path, a little dogleg, that last slight climb up between the flags and the cheering spectators, and finally the welcome black arch and the bikini girls with the lei’s and the medals and the waterbottles. Robin shoved a fruit drink into one hand and a coke and a cookie in the other and went off to find the official results. That little white card bore a pleasant surprise: fourth place! I had harbored vague hopes for third, but I knew that was always going to be a stretch, and given my awful run I was delighted to salvage fourth.

The post-race costume party at Xterra Maui is justly notorious. Michael Jackson danced provocatively with Sarah Palin, skimpily-dressed Ski Bunnies seduced the Hot Dog, and a well-lubricated Big Kahuna presided over increasingly riotous affairs. I reject all the slanderous allegations and fabricated photographic ‘evidence’ purporting to link me to some guy in a wig, grass skirts and a coconut bra. What happens in Maui stays in Maui.

Top

---

Contact us | ©2001-2010 Greater Bellingham Running Club | GBRC Home | Privacy