Ironman Kona - My Love/Hate Relationship with Triathletes

Each October, the Ford Ironman World Championship Triathlon takes over my small town of 11,975 - Kailua-Kona on the island of Hawaii. 1,800 triathletes descend, along with another 22,000 supporters, brand representatives, vendors, sponsors, and other assorted sporty types in skin-tight lycra, or whatever the space-age fabric of the minute might be. Triathletes zip along our already congested roads, riding three to five abreast in the middle of the road, paying no heed to traffic laws. They storm the grocery stores wearing nothing but Speedos and bike shoes. My normally ten minute commute to work becomes an obstacle course as triathletes race right through red lights, causing the rest of us to slam on brakes, narrowly missing accidents. The offenders speed off on their merry way, totally oblivious to the near accidents the have caused. I have no problem sharing the road with pedestrians, runners, and bicyclists, and I even volunteer to promote more pathways on the island, but unless your bike is capable of reaching 45 miles an hour, you should not be in front of my car. We have miles of wide, designated bike lanes that are clearly marked. The local radio and televsion stations repeatedly remind residents to show their aloha to our visitors, but where is their aloha for us?

So, why was our little village chosen as the site for this auspicious race? Well, although this may be paradise for those of us who live here, it can be a brutal hell for the competitors. They start out the race with a 2.4 mile swim in the relatively tranquil Kailua Bay, then they transfer to bikes for a 112 mile ride through barren lava fields where temperatures reach into the high 90's. At the northern end of the island they encounter the ho'omumuku, vicious cross winds that reach 45 miles per hour (mumuku is Hawaiian for mutilate!). When the triathletes return from their bike ride, they continue on a 26.2 mile run. All of this must be accomplished within 17 hours, with separate cut-offs for each leg of the race. You really have to admire anyone who can accomplish reaching the finish line. Just being able to qualify to enter this race takes an enormous amount of dedication and hard work.

Just when I've decided that Ironman triathletes are narcissistic and self-absorbed, they surprise me with their individual stories of self-determination and heroism. There's the story of Dick and Rick Hoyt, the father and son pair who compete together even though Rick has cerebral palsy and is a quadiplegic. After their first race in 1977 (with dad pushing Rick in a wheelchair), Rick said to his dad, "Dad, when I'm running, it feels like I'm not handicapped." The duo have competed in over 1,000 races. Dick is 70 years old.

There have been several Ironman finishers who are missing arms or legs, and those who are paralyzed from the waist down and compete in recumbent bikes that are pedaled with their hands and racing wheelchairs, also powered with just their arms. There's even a nun, Sister Madonna Buder, who completed the Ironman at the age of 75.

The other endearing quality about these athletes is that they love to have fun. Each year hundreds of them participate in the Underpants Run, where they run through town in their underwear to raise thousands of dollars for local charities. This run started as a subtle way to remind triathletes from foreign countries that Americans don't usually wear their Speedos to restaurants and the grocery store. It has now progressed to a yearly event.

Ironmen and Ironwomen, like the rest of us, are just people who have found their bliss. Yes, Americans could be more tolerant and respectful of bicycles since much of the rest of the world relies on them for transportation, and we would all be better off if our cars were left at home more often. It would be helpful if the triathletes would realize that the residents have the right to go about their daily business without taking their lives in their hands. Finally, if I were as fit as some of these female triathletes I might just wear my bathingsuit to the grocery store, too.