Shasta Explorer - Stories - Cold Comfort in a Beer

Experience teaches you to recognise a mistake when you've made it again. I made one such mistake recently during the run at the Hawaii Ironman. You see, I told myself that if I ever had to walk more than an aid station or two during the race, I would call it quits. I walked past the first three. The tug of war had begun. Should I stay or should I go? I walked on. Right about the time I approached the fourth aid station I made my mistake, though I wouldn't recognise it until later. I decided at that point to accept illegal outside aid. Some of the locals, who were cheering on the competitors, offered me a 12 ounce can of Coors beer. I graciously accepted and downed it on the spot. Seeing this, they upped the ante and offered me a 32 ounce bottle of Steinlager. Again, I accepted their gift, made some small talk, and continued on my way.

At that point, all was somewhat normal. It was a typically ugly day for me in Kona; from the get go, I was unable to hold down anything I ate or drank. I managed to fake my way through the bike ride, but my energy reserves had become quickly depleted once running. Doctors in the Med Tent would later term my condition hyponatremia, which was not a good thing to tell a hypochondriac like myself. Basically, I could not absorb any food or liquid. Either it stayed in my gut or came back up. It didn't take me long to realise that the Coors was the only thing I could tolerate all day. The sea water that I consider to be the cause of my ordeal tasted lousy. The Gatorade tasted like the inside of a garden hose. And the Coke wasn't even Coke, but Pepsi, or some other imitation. Never mind that it was warm. But the beer! Oh, man! I started chugging the Steinlager once I found a way to pop the top off. Not too surprisingly, it went down much smoother than the Coors and unlike the other drink choices of the day, stayed in my gut. I was finally getting some calories inside this skinny little body of mine.

As I continued strolling along Alii Drive, I still had the tug of war going on inside my head. "What's the point of this," I'd think. I wanted to be racing today, not walking. I didn't think my goal here of a top-5 finish was unrealistic after winning Ironman Canada. That race was supposed to be preparation for this. There's a thin line between victory and defeat, perhaps microscopic. Today there would be no such achievement. My goals had to adapt to what was going on at the time. I started to cry. I took another swig of beer, trying to drown my sorrows. "Come on schmuck, don't embarrass yourself," I kept mumbling. "No more class clown. Just quit." I ran a few strides but started to puke almost instantly. Running would be a no go today. It's either walk, crawl, or quit. Quitting wouldn't be all that bad. Of the choices offered, it was certainly the smartest one. So I decided at that point to quit. My crying, that is. Having to walk the rest of the way wasn't the end of my world, I said to myself. I've been through worse. When I was a kid my parents put a live teddy bear in my crib. If I could survive that, I could certainly walk another twenty miles.

With my new mind set, I raised my Steinlager to the Gods and marched onward. Walking was no crime. In 1994, Pauli Kiuru was favoured by many to win the Ironman. During that race, I started the marathon beside him and left him for dead at mile 2. He would end up walking most of the day from there on out, finishing more than two hours slower than he had the previous year. I thought of Pauli and drank some beer in his honour. I thought of the original Ironman alcoholic, John Dunbar, who in 1978 had his crew give him beer once they ran out of other liquids. Of course, Jurgen Zack's long walk last year also came to mind. He would have no part in quitting, which had to be especially difficult after starting the marathon in the lead, not to mention finishing second here the year before. I gave a toast to Jurgen and drank some more. It was slowly becoming my own OctoberFest!

Soon after that, a race official riding a moped pulled along side me. He inquired where I got the beer. I told him it was mine, and that if he wanted one, to go buy it himself. He didn't laugh. But persist he did, "Where did you get the beer?" This time I told him that I stopped by my hotel a mile back and picked it up there. It was a blatant lie of course, but I had to play it safe. He was one of those nerds who was looking to ruin a good time. I just made the decision to finish this damn race no matter what the Gods threw my way. There was no way I could allow this geeky guy in zebra stripes to DQ me. Fortunately, he believed my story and sped away.

As I walked on through the day I tried jogging when I could and drinking when I could, too. That's when things became a blur. I became absolutely pissed, as the English would say. I don't remember a whole lot after Alii Drive. I ate a triple patty burger from Wendy's, or so I'm told. I zig-zagged until I saw an old buddy of mine, Tim DeBoom, running in the other direction. Though I wasn't sure, I figured that there must've been some kind of race going on. I decided to join him for a minute or two to give my encouragement and a sip of my beer if he wanted it. But at the speed he was running, I spilled what was left. As I made my way through the lava fields, I saw the race from an entirely new perspective. It was certainly more fun than the race up front! I met so many nice triathletes that day; In particular, Mike Flynn. When Scott Tinley went by us we questioned why he would finish this race twenty odd times. Pretty amazing, we agreed. Nonetheless, we laid into him. Mike mentioned something to the effect of, "Tinley is living proof that there is life after death." I came back with, "Tinley is so slow that if he were to race a pregnant woman, he'd finish third." It's moments like that that will make me always want to be a part of this event, whether I'm competitive or not. Though my beer was empty, I toasted Tinley for all he has done for this sport. Eventually, I managed to struggle home well into the night, with glowstick in hand. I was no longer drunk but very aware of my mistake. For someone who doesn't drink but once or twice a year, Ironman time is not the time to start such a habit. Competing while under the influence is a big no-no.

Thankfully, Bud Light doesn't sponsor this race anymore.

Cheers!

- Chuckie V