Cape Cod Marathon 2011: My Race Report
It was not an ordinary marathon: It took 18 minutes longer than my PR to finish, I did not feel like quitting and there was no wall. This race left everything it had on the course and I took it, and now I crave to run it again.
My last training run was the Friday before the race along the Shining Sea Bikeway, going east a little over a mile-and-a-half to the beach, then back to the Woods Hole Inn. Sunday was going to be exactly like that: A quiet trail run filled with glimpses of the sea, with dense woods that led to pretty beach houses. My Sunday marathon was going to be sunny with temperatures in the 50s, but Friday afternoon brought a new forecast — a snowstorm — and a state of emergency throughout the Northeast. Falmouth was under a severe weather warning expecting wind gusts on Sunday to reach 54 mph. Western Massachusetts was hit with 27 inches of snow, but the snowfall was minimal near the coast, where I was.
I normally do not make wardrobe decisions at the expo, but that weather was not ordinary and I panicked. I bought knee-high compression socks and an ear warmer headband. On Sunday morning my weather app insisted that the current temperature measured 32 degrees and the ‘Feels Like’ was 21. I waited for the taxi by the window and the wind was shaking the street. The sign that stood strong in front of the art gallery yesterday, now lay on the gallery roof outside my window, side by side with its wooden post that lost to the wind in the battle. Its nails were exposed and fragments of glass were scattered around it. I considered changing into tights but talked myself out of it; I did not want to add another level of unfamiliarity to my clothes and gear. I already had three items with which I never ran: A handheld bottle, compression socks and a headband. I could not let long pants add uncertainty to my race.
I struggled with the front door when I exited the hotel; I was in a wind tunnel and steps away from broken glass, a flying gallery sign and four-inch nails. Then I fought with the taxi door and sat in the front seat. My driver kept his calm; he did not show resentment toward my aggression or the wind. His large face was peaceful and tan, framed by long wrinkles, his eyes were warm and brown. He looked like a professional fisherman from the cast of ‘The Perfect Storm’. “Usually it’s sunny out here in October,” he said. I could not place his accent. We talked about the weather. “Oh, we won’t get snow,” he said, “just rain.” Then, as if he was trying to relieve my anxiety, he told me about his daily bicycle rides to the beach. “It’s a peninsula, so we have sea all around us.” There was no point in trying to impress him with our big lake in Chicago, he was already winning. I said I worried about debris on the road, branches that snapped off and falling trees. He said that the wooden bridges may be slippery.
The good driver dropped me off by the big truck at the finish line. “Looks like they are setting up, not packing up,” he said. It was an hour before the start and runners were nowhere to be seen. I said hello to the workers who installed the finish line and walked toward the Post Office where two men in winter coats were cozying with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups. The landing at the top of the stairs seemed like the place to hang. One of the men asked if I was running.
“Good for you!” he said. “I ran the half yesterday.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “The weather was good yesterday.”
“You’re running the relay or the full?” He asked.
“The full,” I replied.
“Good for you,” he said again.
“I worry about the wind,” I tried to solicit insider information.
“Yeah,” he responded and then paused, which freaked me out even more. He turned to his Dunkin’ Donut coffee buddy and told him: “She is running the marathon.”
They began to diagnose the wind and I became the patient in the room. Another man arrived at the Post Office stairs and joined the wind symposium. “Most of it will be tailwind,” Man Number 3 said. The conclusion was that only two sections of the course would get headwind.
“And Sippewissett can be hard,” Man 3 added.
“Save yourself for Sippewissett,” Man 1 concurred. “Don’t start fast.”
Man Number 3 then told the story of how he once ran this marathon and started fast and felt great, until he got to Sippewissett where the medical staff diagnosed him with hyperthermia. They gave him chocolate milk and rolled him out of the race on a stretcher. I did not want to hang out with these men anymore.
Patches of snow spotted the trucks and the equipment on Post Office Road. I walked the distance between the start line and the finish line. We were going to start running east on Main Street and finish the race running west on Main, past the start line, keeping west for another tenth of a mile. It was important to note where the finish line was. In the last few seconds of a marathon the clock races faster, every breath matters, every step is an effort, every inch is a yard.
Unlike in Chicago, the start moved fast in Falmouth, Massachusetts. There were no corrals. All the runners were directed to gather in front of the Post Office building. I watched the runners gather and I examined the middle of the pack; I tried to assess their paces through their layers of clothing, but they all seemed stronger than me because they all looked local: Tan, frizzy hair, white shoes, no mascara. I took off my extra pants and shirt, stuffed them in a plastic bag and handed it to a man standing on the back of a truck. He wrote my bib number on the bag with a sharpie. “All set,” he said. “Nice shoes!”
The porta-potty line moved fast. The guy in front of me said he ran this race every year. His hat looked warmer than mine. I finished stretching my hamstrings and calf muscles when the speakers announced: “THREE MINUTES until the KICKOFF of the FORTY-THIRD CAPE COD MARATHON!” The announcer sounded sincere, as if there were three minutes until the kickoff of the marathon.
In the Chicago Marathon, I could not hear the blast of the starting gun from my place in the corral, only hear about it in the speakers. In Chicago, after it reportedly blasted, I had twenty minutes to get ready to start; here I only had 34 seconds before my shoe touched the start line. I took my position in the middle of the middle of the pack, in front of the Post Office building, and fought with my Shot Bloks to get them aligned inside my pants pockets. I had no time for my toe balance exercise. The singing of the anthem ended and then: “BOOM.” An actual cannon went off.
Mile 1-2-3:
I started beating myself up for not doing my toe stretching but everybody else there seemed ready and we had to start running down Main Street. The sharp turn onto Shore Street came too soon and surprised me, I forgot to keep right and took a wide turn. I needed to focus and forget about the stretching. I had to slow down and think about Sippewissett. Another surprise came at Mile 1: A black timer with yellow digits, the kind the big marathons use, was hanging on the side of the road — almost out of place. Behind it were off-season boats, shrink-wrapped in white and blue plastic, which made them look like enormous frozen turkeys. Grand Avenue. Menauhant Road. The ocean. How grand — I could smell the salty sand. A short steep climb and a complementary descent offered a little teaser. That did not feel like a marathon and I was not going to get tired.
Mile 4-5-6:
I saw a crowd in the distance and signs directing the relay traffic to the exchange area. I saw a pair of porta-potties. I needed to pee, I thought. My body did not need to pee, but I calculated that my body was probably generating extra pee because it took me three miles to regain sensation in my frozen fingers and toes. These were not my normal conditions: I did not know how the course would turn or where the next potty stop would be, or whether I would need to pee or not. I had no plan, this was not a normal marathon. Better stop now and pee, then, I thought. Stop. Pee. More than twenty people formed a line in front of the potties. That was twenty people too many. I ran to the front of the line with conviction, but I had no plan. I faced the forewoman and she looked at my bib. The marathon bibs were a different color than the relay bibs and I used it in my defense. “You’re running, you can go next,” she said. That went well. Now I was back to beating myself up for wasting my time, for waiting in line with people who needed to pee. Line. Door, unlock. In. Out. There went three minutes. This is the last one, I decided. No more peeing for you.
I was running again, for a change, I was coasting by the white sand beaches. It blew my mind, How could this be a marathon? It was very pretty and quiet. Somewhere around Mile 5 I ran in front of two runners and listened to them chat. The woman had a husky voice, perhaps she was old, perhaps a smoker. The man contributed an occasional ‘Aha,’ or a ‘Nice!’ It seemed that it was a bigger effort for him to run and talk than it was for her. She told him about a 3:20 marathon she ran in the 70s. He said ‘Wow’. She said she was running with a friend who was pacing her. She said that last year she ran five marathons, and the year before, she ran seven. I never saw their faces.
Mile 7:
I was scheduled to meet my husband at Mile 7 and give him the jacket and the gloves. It was not getting warmer outside. The spectators were wearing down coats, hats, earmuffs, gloves, chunky boots. Children were covered head to toe, their big round eyes gazing at me. I was unsure if I was ready to give up my jacket. I needed to run a simulation first: I took off my jacket at Mile 6 and tied it around my waist. I had one mile to run in a tank and decide what to do. It felt alright. Then I saw a porta-potty an eighth of a mile away, a lone porta-potty. Three girls waited in front of it. I did not need to pee. But what if I need to pee later? Those were not my normal conditions. I will not have my jacket, my body will work harder to keep me warm. Yet, there were three girls in line, and that would be six more minutes. I was running past the potty and was still not sure whether I should stop, but I stopped and walked to the back of the line. I put on my jacket, zipped it, pocketed my bottle, optimized my moves. What a waste of time that was. Back on the road I saw my husband. We exchanged smiles and he was yelling: “Hurry up! You are late!” I was officially a slacker. I handed my jacket and turned my head to respond. “I’m saving myself,” I told him.
What a loser I was, I was so angry. I was not even a bit tired. I sped up and high-fived a young cheering person on the side of the road. The runner behind me followed my lead. “Youth,” he told me, “This what we need. We need youth.” I said nothing.
At the intersection of Davisville Road and Route 28, a policeman signaled me to stop. In my head, I was outraged: Traffic??! Are you kidding me?! This is a marathon for crying out loud! And I am LATE!! In real life, I stopped and said nothing. The cars went first, then I was allowed to cross. “Thank you,” I waved to the policeman and smiled. I had two angry birds on my shoulders, one was squealing: “Speed up! Speed up!” One was whispering: “Sippewissett… Sippewissett…” I was so angry. Shut up, both of you! Let me think. I had no plan. The course was turning left onto Old Meeting House Road at Vidal Avenue and I saw a policeman in the corner directing the traffic. He signaled the cars to stop. Because this is a marathon for crying out loud! The car at the intersection stopped and gave way to the runners, but the SUV behind it did not stop. I heard the loud cracking of a large bumper collider and witnessed an accident. Not my fault. God, this is horrible!! I kept running west.
Mile 8-9-10:
Going north on Old Meeting House Road was a constant climb. I overtook everyone on my way, it was easy. After three miles of curves and climbs, I saw the timer at Mile 10, the second timer I saw so far. I was running a constant pace but the time I lost up-front was a sunk cost which I would not be able to regain.
Mile 11-12-13:
Mile 11 had forests on both sides of the road that curved around hidden driveways. Moms and dads came out to watch with their two-to-three small children and leaned against their corresponding trucks. Their mittens muffled the sound of their clapping but not the sound of their cheers.
“Way to go!”
“Looking good, 1-1-2-3!”
I high-fived the little hands and said ‘Thank You’s to the moms and dads.
Runners were spaced out 50 feet apart at that point. My pace was strong, I kept passing other runners. The mile markers were hard to find. They were simple white signs, the size of a campaign sign, with thin black numbers. They would appear sometimes on my left, sometimes on my right, stuck in the ground at knee level. I saw a white sign that said ’17′. It was smaller than a mile marker and it could not have been a mile marker because I was at Mile 11. I wondered what that fake ’17′ was. I wondered how I would feel when I got to the real ’17′.
A lady in a fluorescent orange jacket was standing at the curve, holding a tablet in her hands and a pen. She examined me closely as I ran past her, then she looked down and marked in her tablet. Another lady in a dark blue coat silently stood next to her and followed her moves with her head. They must have been the human monitors; that curve must have been a checkpoint. She was logging my time and numbers in case I filed a dispute later.
We started running up a hill. We climbed and climbed and climbed. That hill stretched for almost a mile-and-a-half and I kept iterating to myself:
Run.
Finish the hill.
The halfway point is on the other side, where everything gets harder.
Mile 14-15:
A steep downhill welcomed me to the other side. I felt recharged and picked up my pace. Many people were walking, they looked done, finished, pooped. I ran past a girl, turned to her and said, “Thirteen miles!” She was walking. “Thank God,” she said. She had the saddest face. I passed a guy, I did not say anything, I did not want to upset. I kept running and the spectators shouted out at me:
“You’re not cold??”
“1-1-2-3!”
“Nice job, 1-1-2-3!”
I said ‘Thank you’ and waved. The next two miles were flat and easy.
Mile 16:
Palmer Avenue was not flat. I thought it would be flat but I miscalculated the slopes. It ran into a thick forest and over a wooden bridge, up and up and up, then going down, down, down. Then it turned right onto Sippewissett Road.
I was there. Sippewissett was real.
Mile 17-18-19-20-21:
The next five miles were a blur. The air was quiet and full of misery. More people were walking and the runners around me became familiar. Two women looked as if they were sleepwalking side by side. They did not talk. They walked on the uphill and ran on the downhill. I passed them on the uphill, then they passed me on the downhill. We repeated that sequence on the next hill, and on the next one, and the next one. I tried to keep a steady pace. I saw a man in a yellow jacket with ‘Marathon Maniacs’ printed on the back. He was walking and I passed him. Then he passed me, and I passed him again. I wanted to count the number of times we passed each other; I wanted to beat a marathon maniac and I believe I won.
I decided to move my refueling break up by a half mile so that I could slow down and walk up the hill, and not down the incline where I had an opportunity to run faster. I walked and ate and drank and watched how everyone ran past me. When I finished I ran to reclaim my position in the pack. We ran up and down in quiet rhythmic sadness. I cursed and whined in my head about not seeing Mile Marker 19: Where are you, 19?! NINETEEN!! Damn you, 19. Come on! But ’19′ was not there. Everything was frozen. Everything remained unchanged. The road was padded with broken branches and dry leaves that were wet. I passed by a runner in a Dr. Seuss shirt. She was walking with her buddy and was sobbing loudly. He walked by her side and did not say many words. I did not want to listen, I did not want to find out why she was crying.
The endless sameness ended at Mile 19 and then started again. It ended again and once again at Mile 20 and at Mile 21. It was like the part in my yoga workout when Rodney Yee instructs to ‘exhale, exhale, and exhale’. I wanted to look at the pretty houses in Woods Hole, to appreciate the manicured yards and the luscious golf course. But I did not care. Just get me out of here.
Mile 22-23-24:
It was over, I was out. Is this it?! I felt weakness in both knees, what I would usually experience in the last two miles of a long run. My training only took me as far as 20 miles. This was my longest run this season: I was at Mile 21 and had five more miles to go. My knees going soft did not discourage me, it was normal. That did not surprise me; what surprised me was that I forgot about the tightness in my right thigh. It started in Week 11 of my training and every run would trigger deep pain in my quadriceps. For weeks, I kept training, researching, stretching, feeding them magnesium, giving them rest — but nothing helped. The pain did not go away until the night before the race. It was the first day in 41 days that my right thigh felt relaxed and completely healed.
We were back in front of the ocean in Woods Hole. Three women ran by my side and one of them announced: “I’m going to pick up here. I wanted to finish in 4:30 and it’s now 4:00.” She looked back at her friends to delay her departure, then smiled and turned right onto Church Street. I would not see her again.
I ran through the sea breezes and fixated on the white sand. I was doing it, and it was amazing. I already forgot about the horrors of Sippewissett and I wished to run this marathon again some time, to break 4:30 maybe. We approached the Nobska Point lighthouse and the ultra steep road that curved around it. It featured on the marathon website to scare away people before they signed up. Seeing the lighthouse did not scare me, it made me feel happy. They all stopped running and walked the climb. But I kept running at a constant pace — my marathon pace — and passed everyone on that hill. Some dudes in costumes on Oyster Pond Road were playing music in their front yard at Mile 24. Dancing would have been appropriate, but my body would not agree to dance, only run.
Mile 25:
I kept running toward more ocean, onto Beach Road and Surf Drive, where a man was standing by himself on the corner and sounding inspirational words. “You can see the town from there,” he told me. I made the turn and looked for the town to see if he was telling the truth. Down the road, a lady was sitting on a crate on the sand in front of a big house. She was wrapped in blankets. A massive speaker by her side blasted rock ‘n’ roll. I thanked her.
After we passed her house, runners began to slow down. We were confined to the right lane of the street, the left lane had the car traffic. A section of the road was flooded, except for a narrow strip in the sand, the width of a single shoe. We formed a line and waited to cross the body of water. A runner turned back to me and said: “You go ahead, you are running.” On the other side was Mile Marker 25. I could not believe it, none of us could.
Mile 26:
I took my last dose of Shot Bloks and started running fast. My fast pace turned into a sprint. I wanted to run this marathon again. I knew I would run it again. I turned left onto Walker Street. This is it, less than three-quarters of a mile. I could hear the music and the crowd. I was fast, I skipped over puddles, I gauged their depths and stepped up on the sidewalk, then back down to optimize my route. There was a large puddle in front of me and a runner who was slowly walking by it. There was no way around them. No time for polite nonsense now. I landed in the deep of the puddle and splashed him. My left shoe was thoroughly soaked. I turned to him and said, “Sorry,” then turned my head back and smiled, maybe laughed a little. A gang of teenagers walked toward me, away from the finish line and one of the girls shouted out: “Luv the knee sox!” My husband was watching from the corner of Main Street. He looked relieved. I sprinted to the finish when I heard the speaker announce: “From CHI-CAAAAA-GGGGO!”. I did not hear him announce my name or any mispronunciation of my name, but I must have missed it.
The finish area was the size of a room. A man gently slid a medal around my head, a woman gave me an aluminum foil blanket with a Dunkin’ Donut logo printed on it. A kid handed me a cup of red juice; that red juice was the best tasting food I had ever had. The official photographer snapped my picture from the side while I was drinking. He said: “It tastes so good, doesn’t it.”
- A Cape Cod Marathon Fact: Six Chicago runners participated in the 2011 race, three boys and three girls; I was the fastest girl.
Photos © Nurit Pazner
Playlist Monthly: October 2011
It’s a playlist. And it’s a monthly one.
Rise Above 1 (ft. Bono and The Edge) [Soundtrack] Reeve Carney
Learning to Fly [Rock] Pink Floyd
The WASP [Rock] The Doors
Second Chance [Alternative] Peter Bjorn and John
Miracle Worker [Rock] SuperHeavy
Born Alone [Alternative] Wilco
I Might [Alternative] Wilco
Trouble No More [Blues] Muddy Waters
Put Your Lights On [Rock] Santana
Wicked Game [Pop] Chris Isaak
Bigger Than My Body [Rock] John Mayer
Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk [Rock] Rufus Wainwright
Loser [Alternative] Beck
What the Water Gave Me [Alternative] Florence + The Machine
Charlie’s Angels [Soundtrack] The International TV Orchestra
Step Right Up [Rock] Tom Waits
Sweet Home Chicago [Blues] Lonnie Brooks
Called Out In the Dark [Alternative] Snow Patrol
American Girl [Rock] Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
Junk of the Heart (Happy) [Alternative] The Kooks
Missed the Boat [Alternative] Modest Mouse
The Sky Is Crying [Blues-Rock] Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble
Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out [Rock] Bruce Springsteen
Longing to Belong [Rock] Eddie Vedder
The First Cut Is the Deepest [Rock] Sheryl Crow
Playlist Monthly: August 2011
It’s a playlist. And it’s a monthly one.
The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie [Alternative] Red Hot Chili Peppers
Belief [Rock] John Mayer
A Certain Romance [Alternative] Arctic Monkeys
Creep [Alternative] Radiohead
Death of Communication [Alternative] Company of Thieves
Desert Rose [Rock] STING
Dreams [Rock] Brandi Carlile
Entourage [Soundtrack] The TV Theme Players
Every Night Is Friday Night (Without You) [Alternative] Old 97′s
Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall [Alternative] Coldplay
From the Clouds [Rock] Jack Johnson
Funny the Way it Is (Live) [Rock] Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds
Instead [Jazz] Madeleine Peyroux
Jump [Rock] Van Halen
The Kind You Can’t Afford [Jazz] Madeleine Peyroux
Lost In My Mind [Alternative] The Head and the Heart
Lotus Flower [Alternative] Radiohead
One [Rock] U2
Porcelain [Electronica/Dance] Moby
Purple Rain [Soul and R&B] Prince & the Revolution
Walk On the Wild Side [Rock] Lou Reed
Where the Streets Have No Name [Rock] U2
Will Do [Alternative] TV On the Radio
You Can’t Always Get What You Want [Rock] The Rolling Stones
Young Americans [Rock] David Bowie
How I Found My Dosha in the Big Island of Hawaii
Rock fall area on Mamalahoa Highway, Hawaii Belt Road
On Day 8 we left our hotel on Kohala Coast in the morning for an eighty-mile drive to Hilo, heading north, then east, then south on Highway 19 to the other side of the Big Island. The highway had a single lane snaking each way, and it looked as though the paving was fresh. I wished the roads in Chicago were smooth and did not have potholes. I felt suspicion, a bit of deception perhaps. Cars zoomed by us and road signs warned of falling rocks and hidden driveways. No stopping and no passing were allowed, only snapshots of perfection and wonder. My mind was composing a conspiracy theory about Obama’s infrastructure budget, but I quickly snapped out of it: It was a tiny freakin’ island; it had one highway with one lane; there clearly was no budget conspiracy. I noticed an infinite horizon form where the blue sky met the bluer sea, and spotted red origami-like blossoms resting on a branch. And we saw a runner. He was making his way from nowhere to nowhere else, carrying nothing but a bottle strapped to his hand. “Whoa,” I was thinking. “Training for the Ironman,” I said. My head turned to follow him and the car slowed down to show respect.
Fruit preserves at Mr. Ed’s Bakery on Highway 19, Big Island
We passed by Mr. Ed’s Bakery in a strip of stores on the highway at Mile 63, a minute before the right turn to Akaka Falls. On Day 4 we stopped there for ice cream. We sat in white plastic chairs out on the sidewalk and I ate a scoop of coconut in a cup. The ice cream was a precursor of what waited inside the store: The magnificent wall of jam. Hundreds of little jars of marmalades and spicy chutneys stood there on narrow shelves behind ironic paper labels: ‘Jackfruit Preserves’, ‘Sugar-Free Passion’. There were samples inside the short refrigerator in the center of the room. I tasted a purple sweet potato jam. It was creamy and thick and it had a divine purple color, but it was too sweet and I could not envision a scenario where I would want to eat it again. Mr. Ed’s Guy smiled, “Everyone wants to taste it but nobody wants to buy it.” It was a glorious marketing scheme. I sampled away and landed on a jar of poha mango chutney. It reminded me of Israeli street food; it resembled ‘amba’, a pickled mango spread in Israeli lamb kebob sandwiches, only with a milder heat and a coarser texture. The poha berry was also delicious in the fruit preserves: Orange and juicy, a bit tangy, with yellow seeds that gave it a poppy texture. I selected four jars and Mr. Ed’s Guy wrapped them in layers of paper bags and plastic, made them cozy for their flight to the mainland.
Jack Thompson’s house near Hawaii Volcanos National Park
At Hilo International Airport, we boarded a Eurocopter EC130 for a trip to Kilauea volcano. Our young declared Day 8 the awesomest; it was the bestest combination of a helicopter ride, a smoking volcano, and orange flaming lava. Pilot Tim said we got lucky. He said there usually was smoke on the mountain, or lava, but not both. With the volcano out of the way, we flew over the black sand beaches toward the village of Kalapana that sits at the bottom of the volcano mountain. Lava destroyed the town in 1990 and now a black layer coated the hillside with what looked like chocolate fudge. Most of the residents returned and rebuilt their homes. The most fascinating was Jack Thompson’s house in the path of the active volcano. He had solar panels and storage tanks for rainwater. There was no electrical or phone service in his house, and to get home, Thompson rode a motorcycle.
Aboard Blue Hawaiian’s Eco-Star at Hilo International Airport Terminal
The other parts of the helicopter ride were redundant. We saw waterfalls that from a bird’s-eye view looked like drain holes on the side of a sidewalk, and we saw a matrix of macadamia trees that looked like a bunch of trees. There were no chocolate covered macadamia nuts aboard the aircraft, and no lattes.
A Whoa sign at Parker Ranch Shopping Center in Waimea, Big Island
The day before, I had iced coffee at KiMOBEAN in Mauna Lani. The barista called it a ‘Coffee Freeze’. She put ice in a blender and poured in milk and vanilla, then she ground coffee beans into the metal basket, just the amount I needed. She tamped them, made sure they were smooth and even; she said they were from Greenwell Farms. She screwed the filter in place, pressed a button and kept an eye on the operation as if it were her kids performing on a stage. We all waited, the barista and I, the ice, the milk and the blender, until the hot shots of espresso came out. There were a few containers of ice cream behind a glass panel and a waffle maker on the counter by the window. I looked at the walls. I found waffles in the big menu and a flattened burlap coffee bag by the door with the Greenwell Farms logo. “It’s forty miles south of here,” she said. “They give tours.”
Chili Loco Moco: Rice, Angus patty, spicy homemade chili, cheddar, onions and eggs at Ken’s House of Pancakes in Hilo, Big Island
Back in Hilo, I searched TripAdvisor for lunch after we landed. The Number 1 restaurant in town was Hilo Bay Café, which shared a parking lot with the local Walmart. The place seamed neat inside. It had wine bottles on the wall, the colors were warm, the tables looked smart. The only problem was that the restaurant was closed. We were stuck in the twilight hours between lunch and dinner. I phoned the next two restaurants on TripAdvisor, except for the one with reported cases of food poisoning. Ken’s House Of Pancakes was open. It was perfect. At a long table near the entrance sat a group of Japanese American women, about ten, who ate noodles and rice dishes out of deep bowls. I wanted to have everything they were having. The menu had an insert with local favorites. I ordered a Chili Loco Moco: Steamed rice on the bottom of a bowl, layered with an Angus beef burger, chili, onions, cheddar cheese, two fried eggs, and a splash of hot sauce. It was beautiful and delicious and it was impossible to be hungry after eating that.
Tsunami evacuation area on Mauna Lani Drive, Kohala Coast, Big Island
I overslept on Day 6. I started my morning run in 80 degrees and 60% humidity. There was an open road that stretched two miles between the hotel and the highway but it seemed longer than two miles and time seemed to slow down. I was running under a salamander, my eyelids dripped sweat and I felt heavier and powerless. Fumes came out of the asphalt and my sunscreen covered me like a metal shield. I thought about the theory of relativity, and how oversleeping in Hawaii could mathematically relate to space-time and mass and energy. The setting was surreal: The earth and the sky in black and white. The black soil on both sides of the road looked like chocolate crumbs of a giant devil’s food cake that were dumped from a flying food processor. On my left, a shiny ocean lay face up and glistened like a piece of a broken mirror. The fluffy sky looked down on me and laughed at my suffering. I had a memory of seven palm trees lined up at the top of the hill where the road met the highway. The trees marked the halfway point of my run, where I would stand in the shade for a minute and drink half of my water. But I could not see the trees. I had to ration my supply of water. I devised a 3rd grade math problem: If a runner drank 3 sips of water at each stop, how many stops could she make before she ran out of water? I made up new milestones: Run to the curve; run to the orange spray paint mark on the road; run to the end of the song.
A VW Truck near Kona
After my run I made a bad decision: I went to the spa to get a Shirodhara massage. Calling it a massage was false advertising. It started with a questionnaire which was the only fun part. I marked Xs in the boxes to rate the curls in my hair and the strength of my teeth, my dreams, my focus, and the consistency of my poop. The therapist tallied my answers and calculated my dosha. It turned out I was a Pitta; I was dominated by fire and water, with mild influences of air and earth. Then she microwaved rose oil and poured it over my third eye. She talked me into having the session in the dark, with no music. “That’s how the ancient Indians used to do it,” she said. I regretted the silence as soon as she started wasting her time moving the silly bags of rice between my hands and my feet. I was blissful when it all ended. Eager to get the stupid oil out of my hair, I did not notice at first that there was no soap in the shower and only a small towel. Later I realized it was the wrong shower. I also miscalculated the tip and charged the experience to the wrong room number. I would be surprised if the ancients got it right every time.
A double rainbow at Mauna Lani Drive, Kohala Coast, Big Island
In the afternoon we headed south to Kona to visit Greenwell Farms when we saw a double rainbow. It was real. Drivers searched for a camera with one hand and steered with the other while their eyes locked on the sky, as if the rainbows would disappear if they looked away. Then, like in a well executed flash mob, the cars stopped in the shoulder and everybody stepped outside. People stood still and stared at the horizon with their arms folded on their chests. What we saw was magnificent. If it were not a double rainbow what we saw, then it must have been two alien transporters beaming up earthlings into a cloud.
Coral graffiti on Queen Kaahumanu Highway, Big Island
The drive to Kona was filled with love notes on the sides of the road. Little white corals spelled out messages on the the black lava crumble: ‘Nina Loves Chito’, ‘Ashley and Josh Forever’. At Greenwell Farms, we entered through the gift shop and then Jackie gave us a tour of the property. The Greenwells started growing coffee cherries in the 1800s. They trimmed the trees to the height of a person so that they could pick the fruit by hand, without ladders. Jackie said it tasted like pomegranate. Greenwell followed an old Japanese method of drying rice on raised beds to separate the bean from the outer layers of the cherry. We also met Alex. He is the coffee grader. Alex corrects the discrepancies after the beans come out of the sorting machine; he manually picks the sour beans or the beans that are the wrong size. They roast the coffee beans according to their grade. Greenwell calls the largest beans ‘Extra Fancy’ and labels them with big words: ‘Estate’, and ‘Private Reserve’. The knowledge I gained made the fancy roast taste better when we had a second tasting at the end of the tour, although all drip coffee tastes yucky. Real coffee is espresso and I was curious why Greenwell did not know that.
A KonaRed coffee cherry juice from Kona, Big Island
I walked away from the useless carafes and discovered a mini fridge in the corner with rows of little red bottles behind a glass door. It was a shot drink called ‘KonaRed’ which is made from coffee cherries and has aggressive amounts of antioxidants and superpowers. We each had a single shot. The next morning I regretted not buying a whole case to take home, or the entire KonaRed factory, when the magic potion cured my husband’s cold. The drink had a concentrated sweet flavor, it tasted like a condensed berry blend and had tones of coffee flavor in the background.
The Daniel Thiebaut restaurant in Waimea, Big Island
On the way back north, we made a detour into Waimea for dinner at Daniel Thiebaut‘s. I liked that the house did not look like a restaurant. Its design inconsistencies made it friendly and welcoming. Inside I spotted French-Country chairs and lamps and beautiful wooden ceiling fans. The awning windows and wall paneling seemed like someone’s do-it-yourself weekend project. The menu had no predominant theme, every dish was a surprise. We ordered a vegetarian dish that had layers and patches of colors and ingredients, too many to count or remember. The center of the plate displayed an overwhelming tower of sautéed eggplant, cheese, herbs, and sauces. Surrounding it was an entourage of root vegetable purées, and more herbs and sauces of every species of herb that lived on the island. The veggie purées were smooth and bright and flavorful; they could have made an excellent dish on their own. My main course was disappointing. I had a grilled fillet of fresh Ono, black rice risotto, and green beans that were giant. The fish was dry, the beans were under-cooked, the rice was bland. The dessert I ordered was delicious and shockingly minimalistic: Freshly picked strawberries swam in a bath of crème anglaise and Grand Marnier. The strawberries came from the Rincon Family Farm. They were divine; they were small and ripe and velvety, and it seemed as though they had traveled in time from a period when strawberries tasted like strawberries.
The herb rack at Merriman’s in Waimea, Big Island
Driving through Waimea was romantic. The west had goats and cows in brown, black, and white roaming in open fields. The east had horse ranches, white picket fences and eucalyptus trees. Waimea seemed like a model of organic farming and local economy. An epic dinner at Merriman‘s on Day 3 made the experience complete. The founder of the restaurant, Chef Peter Merriman, prides himself on sourcing local ingredients and having personal relationships with the farmers. We started with thick slices of Lokelani tomatoes, redder than red and sweeter than juice, with anchovies and capers on top. Then came fresh corn risotto that padded the plate for three large scallops, sautéed to perfection, and a swordfish dish. The herbs in the broth and the crust of the fish came from a three-tier rack that was rolled in from the patio and now stood in the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room. I should have stopped at espresso because the dessert did not play well with the other plates. The meal was a celebration of crisp, lean freshness until I ordered the coconut crème brûlée. It was the oversized fat custard that crashed the party. My mom would have said, “What a waste. It could feed a hungry village.”
Chocolate Beet Cake: Island chocolate organic beet cake, Hilo corn ice cream, and Jack and Coke sauce at Manta at the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel, Kohala Coast, Big Island
The most exquisite dinner dishes, coupled with the most despicable service, were on Day 5 at Manta at the Mauna Kea Beach Hotel. We sat outside on the terrace. Mini oil lamps beautified the tables, iron torches lit the path to the beach. The night was made for a linen dress, flat sandals, and wavy hair tied in a messy bun. Silver bangles were singing duet with the ocean. Paradoxically, our waiter was angry. He kept rushing the meal fast forward as if it were a speed eating contest. The wine list was confusing. Manta priced their wine by the ounce. I had to pause the romance and devise a solid plan for the number of ounces I would acquire with dinner. I ordered a glass of Ken Wright Pinot Noir from Oregon. It was extremely appropriate; it had a tangy sweetness and a cherry fragrance. But when I was not looking, my ounces of wine had vanished from the table, which made the experience more annoying than necessary. The food was sophisticated. We had ravioli stuffed with Keahole lobster and goat cheese, edamame, corn, and smoked bacon. And a shaved fennel salad with crisp prosciutto, Asian pear, grapefruit segments, avocado, and hearts of peach palm from Hilo. My main entrée was less memorable, but the dessert was superb: A chocolate beet cake that was dark, deep and juicy as the name implies.
A coconut weaving class at the Mauna Lani Bay Hotel, Kohala Coast, Big Island
Every night at 6 PM, a native Hawaiian in a bikini bottom and body paint was running barefoot around the village carrying a flaming torch and blowing a horn. He reminded me of David Kawena, the surfer boyfriend from Lilo and Stitch. The barefoot runner came from the cultural center at Mauna Lani which was filled with treasures and other barefoot people. Mala was teaching how to weave coconut leaves into a ohana bowl. “Ohana means family,” I remembered Lilo said that on the show. I signed up with my kids one afternoon and we each tried to make a bowl. Mala walked around and corrected our weaving. “Don’t squeeze too hard,” she said to a boy. “This is how you hug your girlfriend?” Mala had to fix the square base for everyone in the class because nobody was able to follow how she did it. The four corners represented north, south, east and west, and each leaf was a family member. The weave kept the family together, no matter were we were in the world.
Koko Brown Ale and Wailua Wheat Ale, a beer sampler at Kona Pub & Brewery in Kona, Big Island
On Day 7 we drove south to Kona Brewing Co. for pizza and beer, partly because José was making fun of the coconut cocktail he served me at the pool. “A women’s drink,” he called it, and then rested a purple orchid to float in it. The scene at the brewery looked like my Twitter feed, only in real life and with actors standing in for my tweeps. One table had eight people in loud colored gear, athletic shoes and tattoos, having a post-beach reunion. Two pairs of tourists were sitting quietly at another table wearing black, white and jeans, the type of clothes that did not wrinkle and went with everything else in their suitcases. Across from us on the right, a couple of guys on a date were sharing the same side of the table, drinking tall beers and watching the people. There was a birthday party inside with women in skinny heels and kisses and infinity smiles. The patio had a collection of mismatched wood tables and giant red umbrellas. Black tiki torches and large leafy plants filled the remaining spaces. In the corner stood a hefty piece of art by Amber Aguirre — a sculpture of a turtle covered in stained glass mosaic — and a plaque describing the art and the 36 cuts she suffered while working on that piece. We sampled the seasonal brews. We had the Black Sand Porter and the Longboard Island Lager. My favorite beer there was the Wailua Wheat Ale. It was the color of orange marmalade and it had a cloudy, unfiltered look. A wave of passion fruit aroma hit my nose before every sip and then a complimentary fruity flavor closed the deal. My other favorite beer was the Koko Brown Ale. It had a deep, clear cognac color, it smelled like coconut and tasted like a coffee toffee candy. Between sips, it left a mild taste of dark cherry on my tongue and a lingering haze of perfumed blossoms in the air.
Homemade malasadas with passion fruit custard filling at the Mauna Lani Bay Hotel, Kohala Coast, Big Island
The sign on the Alamo shuttle bus read ‘Welcome to Kona’, but it was not welcoming me; it was seeing me out. In the end there were four brown napkins on the breakfast table and the memory of the homemade malasadas: Portuguese-style doughnuts filled with passion fruit custard. I laid our lei necklaces neatly on the shelf above the bed and put pieces of Hawaii in my luggage to bring home to Chicago: Lava sea salt, a pound of Kona coffee, and four kukui nutshell bracelets. And in my heart I packed the color of the wind and the energy of the road.
Photos of the Big Island © Nurit Pazner, available on Flickr under Attribution, Noncommercial, No Derivatives license
Playlist (Almost) Monthly: July 2011
It’s a playlist. And it’s a monthly one. Well, usually a monthly one.
Changing [Alternative] The Airborne Toxic Event
Cheap Sunglasses [Rock] ZZ Top
Come Around [Pop] Counting Crows
Half Of Something Else [Alternative] The Airborne Toxic Event
Hey Hey What Can I Do [Rock] Led Zeppelin
The Hold Steady [Rock] Candy Golde
Holdin On to Black Metal [Alternative] My Morning Jacket
Kind and Generous [Pop] Natalie Merchant
La Grange [Rock] ZZ Top
Let It Bleed [Rock] The Rolling Stones
A Letter to Elise [Pop] The Cure
Lights [Pop] Ellie Goulding
Longing to Belong [Rock] Eddie Vedder
New York, New York [Rock] Ryan Adams
Pumped Up Kicks [Alternative] Foster the People
Push It [Alternative] Garbage
Riders on the Storm [Rock] The Doors
Sad Song [Pop] The Cars
Stone Rollin’ [R&B/Soul] Raphael Saadiq
Tiny Dancer [Rock] Elton John
Use Me [R&B/Soul] Bill Withers
What You Know [Alternative] Two Door Cinema Club
You Are a Tourist [Alternative] Death Cab for Cutie
Your Body Is a Wonderland [Rock] John Mayer
Your Song [Pop] Ellie Goulding
Everybody Needs A Challenge, Take Two
Not running is not fun for a runner. Seven months of waiting for my Patellofemoral to shut up; seven months of self-pity; seven months of envying people who can run. It felt as if I was sitting on an airplane on a seven-month long nonstop flight, and all I wanted to do was to open a window or get out. But funny thing, once the plane has landed, I now think that running injuries could be good for a runner’s soul.
I joined the cult of physical therapy worshipers. Because according to Twitter, that’s what injured runners do: Go to physical therapy. It would be crazy to not get physical therapy. You can’t just not do it. Well, you could, if you had a clone. If I’d had a clone, she would have gone to physical therapy for seven months. And I would have spent time elsewhere, taking a photography class or learning more Spanish. We would have converged in the spring, my clone and I, and we would have been ready to start running again.
Time heals. It’s magic like that.
Injuries are an essential evolutionary nuisance for a runner, I am convinced. It keeps the fire alive. Think about it: Why did you decide to run your first marathon? Because you chatted with a guy from Connecticut in the kiddie pool at a Mexican resort, and he said, “Everybody needs a challenge.” And you were thinking, “Yup, makes sense.” So your first marathon was all about the finish. You were following a generic training program and someone else’s baseline data, thinking, “S**t, I don’t know if I can do this.” Then you did it, you ran a marathon, and you were thinking, “Big deal, I can run faster.” There — THERE! — was the birth of your next challenge. Now you wanted to run a marathon in personal record time, and you were thinking, “I don’t know if I can do this.” Then you set a new PR — what’s next? See, you have to have an injury to think about that.
It is fifty-three degrees outside and almost spring, with a touch of daylight saving time. I build up my mileage slowly, readying my legs and mindset for long runs in the park. My goal is endurance, not speed. I am not taking running for granted, I am starting over. Let me be fragile and powerful like the fresh coat of greens on the trees.
Running injuries produce new challenges, they provide for the continuation of the species of challenges. I am up for my next one this year: To run a marathon that has hills.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Art: Rubik’s Lamp, by Eric Pautz, available under Attribution-Noncommercial license
Playlist Monthly: March 2011
It’s a playlist. And it’s a monthly one.
Sweet Jane [Rock] The Velvet Underground
Windows Are Rolled Down [Singer/Songwriter] Amos Lee
Walkin’ On the Sun [Alternative] Smash Mouth
With or Without You [Rock] U2
We Used to Wait [Alternative] Arcade Fire
Head Full of Doubt / Road Full of Promise [Rock] The Avett Brothers
Lovely Day [R&B/Soul] Bill Withers
Hello, I Love You [Rock] The Doors
Believe [Pop] Cher
This Night [Alternative] Black Lab
Spooky [Rock] Daniel Ash
Let Go [Rock] Everest
Take a Picture [Rock] Filter
Working On a Dream [Rock] Bruce Springsteen
The Fear [Pop] Lily Allen
Galileo [Singer/Songwriter] Indigo Girls
Barricade [Alternative] Interpol
Fade Into You [Rock] Mazzy Star
Life On Mars? [Rock] David Bowie
Lady Marmalade [R&B/Soul] Patti LaBelle
Under Pressure [Rock] Queen & David Bowie
The Blues Had a Baby and They Named It Rock & Roll [Blues] Muddy Waters
Fast Car [Singer/Songwriter] Tracy Chapman
Chasing Pavements [Pop] ADELE
This Is the Day [Pop] The The
Playlist Monthly: February 2011
It’s a playlist. And it’s a monthly one.
Jolene [Rock] Ray LaMontagne
I Gotta Feeling [Pop] The Black Eyed Peas
Walken [Rock] Wilco
Bitter Sweet Symphony [Rock] The Verve
Glad [Rock] Traffic
Learning to Fly [Rock] Pink Floyd
Amazing [Alternative] One eskimO
Patience [Reggae] Nas & Damian Marley
Hey Hey Hey [Alternative] Michael Franti & Spearhead
Need You Now [Country] Lady Antebellum
Alison [Rock] Elvis Costello
Babylon [Singer/Songwriter] David Gray
Dreams [Alternative] The Cranberries
Joey [Rock] Concrete Blonde
Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing (Remastered) [Pop] Chris Isaak
Forget You [R&B/Soul] Cee Lo Green
Karma Chameleon [Pop] Boy George & Culture Club
Modern Man [Alternative] Arcade Fire
Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight [Singer/Songwriter] Amos Lee
Rolling In the Deep [Pop] Adele
Viva la Vida [Alternative] Coldplay
Short Skirt/Long Jacket [Rock] Cake
Pictures Of A Masquerade [Rock] The Bad Examples
Lullaby [Pop] Shawn Mullins
Under the Milky Way [Rock] The Church
