At 5:45 am, it was pitch black. I stood nervously behind a group of front-runners busily stretching their lean bodies and chatting amongst each other. In 15 minutes, a shotgun blast would kick off the 7th Annual Honolulu Marathon. The thick tropical air pressed uncomfortably against my body as 7,000 other runners swarmed all around me. I glanced at Karen, a friend from college, standing next to me, and sensed her anxiety as well. I caught her eye, and we both grimaced not knowing what the next 4 hours would bring. I prayed that the weather would be kind to us. I prayed that I wouldn’t get a heat stroke and pass out. Mostly, I prayed that we would finish the race in one piece.
Ten months earlier I was contemplating our 26th birthday. I wanted to do something monumental to celebrate the next quarter century, and I impetuously called Karen.
“We’re running a marathon,” I told her. “A marathon is 26 miles and we’re going to turn 26. And I’ve found a race for us in Hawaii,” I said proudly.
I heard dead silence.
“We’re doing what? Running a marathon? We can’t even run around the block, Keiko! I don’t care that it’s in Hawaii. We’re NOT doing it,” Karen shouted and promptly hung up on me.
Three weeks later, Karen and I officially signed up for the race and started training. We met at the UCLA track three times a week. We started slowly, running once around the track. Barely. Then a few weeks later, we ran twice around the track. That’s half a mile. Two months later, 3 miles became an effortless run. On the weekends, we met at Manhattan Beach and ran south along the Pacific towards Redondo Beach. Six months later, we easily ran 10K races and felt confident that we would be able to do a couple of half marathons before the Big Race in December.
The incentive to run a marathon in Hawaii motivated us like crazy. We dreamt of drinking Mai Tais every night, snorkeling in the deep blue waters of Waikiki, and eating fresh papayas for breakfast every morning. Karen was getting excited about Hawaii. And so was I.
One month before the big race, we drove up to Santa Barbara and ran 18 miles. This would be the longest run before the Marathon. We were encouraged.
We flew into Honolulu 5 days before Race Day to acclimate ourselves to the humidity and to be tourists. We arrived at our dull, dumpy-looking hotel several blocks off the Waikiki strip. The lobby was small and musty with 2 plastic palm trees standing near the elevators. A Hawaiian woman, with “Kailani” on her name tag, greeted us at the check-in counter.
“Aloha. Welcome! You girls here for the Marathon?” she asked.
“Yes,” Karen and I chimed.
“We have runners who come from all over the world. This is an exciting event for our town,” Kailani said.
“Listen, if we want to just chill and enjoy Hawaii for a few days, what do you suggest?” I asked.
“The best way to see the island is to rent a car and drive counter-clockwise. Head out towards Hawaii Kai. You can do the whole island in one day,” she said.
The next day, we rented a bright red convertible and with the tropical winds blowing in our hair, we set out to explore the island. We could smell the sweet Plumerias against the salty ocean air. We drove by hundreds of bright pink wild orchids that grew along the narrow and windy highway. We stopped at Makapuu Bay overlooking Rabbit Island and rode by the turquoise green waters of Lanikai Beach. We ate freshly grilled shrimp at a food truck in North Shore’s town of Kahuku, followed by an icy cold rainbow-flavored shaved ice at Matsumoto’s in Haleiwa. “I could spend a whole month here,” Karen said dreamingly. “I know. Me too. Too bad we have to do the marathon. Maybe we’ll skip the race,” I laughed, half hoping Karen might agree to this idea.
The next few days, we ran a couple of light runs. We never got used to the humidity. The evening before the race, the organizers invited the runners to a “Carb-Out” dinner of spaghetti galore. We enjoyed meeting and talking with the other runners and felt the warm camaraderie.
At exactly 6 am the following morning, the starting pistol fired and the Honolulu Marathon officially got underway. It took nearly two minutes for the elite front-runners to pass the start line. About 3 minutes into the race, Karen and I slowly crossed the starting line. It took me another 10 minutes to get into a comfortable stride. The warm trade winds gently caressed my skin, and I felt grateful for the gray overcast skies. I looked back and saw Karen about 50 yards behind me.
As we passed through the lush green neighborhoods of Kaimuki and Aina Haina, the locals, young and old, were out on the streets cheering us on and offering ice cold water in tiny paper cups. The skies continued to be sunless, but the heat from the pavement seeped through my Nike’s. Elated to be halfway through the race in Hawaii Kai, the loop back to the Honolulu finish line still seemed long and daunting. My lungs smoldered from the hot sticky air, and deep fatigue plagued my legs. My entire body throbbed in pain. I turned back again and did not see Karen at all. I chuckled when I passed several runners with t-shirts that said: “Legs, don’t quit on me now!” By the 23rd mile, I can see the crest of Diamond Head. Droves of locals continued to cheer us on. At this point, a “subconscious” numbness engulfed my mind as if I were in a dream state. The last 2 miles were the most difficult. My legs felt like bricks as I finally overcame the hill by Diamond Head, and jogged downhill all the way to the Kapiolani Park finish line. The cheers from the sidelines got louder as I approached the finish line. “You’re almost there!”
Fifteen minutes later, I saw Karen crossing the finish line. I saw her walking towards the water station as I pushed my way through the crowd to meet her. “Oh my god. We did it,” I cried out to Karen as we hugged each other’s tattered and sunburned bodies.
“Let’s go have a Mai Tai,” I said. Feeling triumphant, we hobbled our aching bodies to the nearest bar.
I completed the 26.2 miles in 3 hours 45 minutes. Karen came in at 3 hours 59 minutes.
Photo by Michael Olsen
