The island of Hawaii’s northwest corner is in the rain shadows of Kohala, its oldest volcano, and 13,803-foot Mauna Kea, its tallest. Storms riding the trade winds from the northeast drop most of their rain on the windward side of the island before passing over the volcanoes. Thus, the stark, grassy landscape on the leeward side of the Big Island resembles the dry southeast corner of Idaho more than it does a tropical paradise. The resorts along this coast, however, still deliver quintessential tropical Hawaiian experiences, thanks to meticulous landscaping and modern sprinkler systems.
The Big Island of Hawaii, the archipelago’s youngest island, was literally still under construction when I arrived in November 2017 for the Ragnar Hawaii race. I had flown to the Big Island two days before Marie to see the newest earth on Earth. Lava was still flowing to the ocean from a vent on Kīlauea’s East Rift Zone called Pu‘u ‘Ō‘ō (pronounced poo-oo-OH-oh). I parked my rental car amid a bazaar of bike rental outfits. Although the bike rental options were tempting, I stuck to my original plan to hike the four miles to the viewing site.
The hike was on a gravel road cut into lava rock that had buried most of the town of Kalapana. I arrived at the lava viewing site at about 4:30 in the afternoon. The cordoned-off site was near the edge of a sea cliff, only about fifty yards from the Pacific Ocean, but beaches, resorts, and palm trees were nowhere to be found. Instead, I was surrounded by about thirty-five square miles of black lava rock younger than me. The warm light of the setting sun softened the starkness of the terrain.
As the sun set, the flowing lava—whose presence had been merely implied by the faint steam rising from the ocean—suddenly became illuminated.
“Dad, look! A lava dot!” a kid said loudly, breaking the solemnity of the viewing site.
The flow was no longer a gusher. The lava dripped into the Pacific Ocean like a leaky faucet, but that trickle represented the immense heat, pressure, and violence required to grow the Big Island, little by little.
As I walked back to my rental car in the dark, the chirps of the invasive coqui frogs that had inundated the Big Island beckoned me back to civilization. And the moon lit the way. Bikers whizzed past me, but I was content to be taking this slow walk back. In the distance, off to my left, I could see an orange glow from the molten lava in the Pu‘u ‘Ō‘ō vent reflecting on the bottom of a bank of clouds above it. I was in no hurry; there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
Eight months earlier, I weighed fifty pounds more. I could not run. I was so out of shape that I could barely tie my shoes without hyperventilating. But I began to wade into the turbulent waters of self-improvement, careful not to let myself get sucked in too deeply only to get spat back out. I improved my diet and started exercising four days per week for an hour per day on a small indoor track at my town’s recreation center. I reduced my daily carbohydrate intake to the amount in the salad I ate for lunch every day. Gone from my diet were all the carbohydrates in bread, pasta, candy, potatoes (in various preparations), and at least two liters of Coca-Cola per day. Dinners usually included beef, chicken, salmon, or eggs and bacon. I snacked on cheese and pepperoni.
My goal was to eliminate as many carbohydrates from my diet as possible so that my body would burn fat for energy.
“I want to do this,” I would tell myself when I walked past tastier food options on my way to the grocery store to retrieve my salad. “I want to do this,” I would tell myself when I left my apartment to go to the gym after a long, tough day at work.
I dropped weight quickly, but fitness progress was slow and painful. Early on, I hurt my shins and calves by doing too much too soon. Next, my feet protested. My one bit of advice for anyone overweight who is starting an exercise regimen is to invest in the cushiest, most supportive sneakers you can find. I learned that lesson much too late.
Most of my training consisted of long intervals of walking mixed with short intervals of running. One evening, I was feeling good, so I tried to run one mile without stopping or walking. Running a mile was a tacit goal I had set for myself. The first half of my mile run wasn’t bad, but the second half tested me. I wanted to stop—constantly, near the end. But I kept running, and I finished the mile.
Progress was slow but steady.
Ragnar Hawaii was a road relay race. Our team of twelve runners was separated into two vans with six runners apiece. The close quarters of the vans were Petri dishes for camaraderie. Teams would run continuously, day and night, until each runner finished three legs. Each leg was different. The race started in Hilo, on the east side of the Big Island. Marie and I weren’t present at the start of the race because the people in our van were spending the night in Waikoloa Village on the island’s west side. The first legs for the runners in our van didn’t start until the exchange in Honokaa, about forty miles northwest of Hilo.
I was runner ten of twelve. My goal for the race was to run each of my three legs without stopping or walking. My first Ragnar Hawaii leg was a 5.7-mile run 1,350 feet up Kohala, the dormant volcano that forms the northernmost tip of the island. As I gained altitude during my run, the views became impossible to ignore. To my left, I could see the entire coast from where the Hualālai volcano’s gentle slopes reached the ocean thirty miles to the south. The golden-hour sunlight painted the wide-open landscape with a spectacular orange hue that seems exclusive to Hawaiian sunsets.
The steady incline had slowed me, but I expended the same effort as if I were running at my typical pace. At the four-mile mark, however, my legs started to feel like they might disintegrate. I had never run more than a 5K (3.1 miles) at once. I pushed through the pain and kept going. I even reached a point during my run when I couldn’t imagine stopping. But when I turned a corner and saw the runner exchange—my finish line—I dismissed the notion of continuing forever. I finished my leg as the sun was setting.
When you’re in Hawaii and not at altitude (Hawaii’s tallest volcanoes receive snow during winter), you expect that the temperature will be comfortable. But there I was, standing on the side of a deserted highway three miles south of Waimea at three in the morning, freezing my ass off while I waited for my teammate Eric to finish his second leg so I could start mine. Hawaii’s gently sloping shield volcanoes can be tricky that way. I was only ten miles from the ocean but 2,500 feet above sea level.
My second leg was easy. It was a straight, flat, desolate 3.2-mile stretch of highway. The air was cool. The setting was quiet and peaceful. My breathing and my shoes hitting the pavement produced the only sounds. I felt small, and I felt humbled. My run had purpose. I loved that I had participated in this race.
My third and final leg was also easy, but it couldn’t have been more different than my second. This time I waited for Eric at a spot south of the bustling Waikoloa resort area on Queen Ka‘ahumanu Highway, the busy main route on the island’s west side. I was less than a mile from the ocean and less than a hundred feet above sea level. Dark lava rock surrounded me on both sides of the highway. There was no shade. It was the hottest time of the day, and strong trade winds were blowing from the northeast. I ran through that headwind for the first two miles before my route took a left turn across the highway. Resort and shopping-center traffic was a bigger obstacle than the crosswind for the final stretch. At 2:33 p.m., I slapped the bracelet—Ragnar’s version of a baton—on my teammate Amy’s wrist and accomplished my goal of running all three of my Ragnar Hawaii legs without stopping or walking.
Our team crossed the finish line a couple of hours later on a grassy plateau above Hapuna Beach. A year earlier, I was an outcast in that same spot. Marie had also run the Ragnar Hawaii race that was held in 2016. I had met her at the finish line, but instead of finishing the race with her, I was asked to take pictures and hold things while the runners reveled in post-race afterglow. I didn’t belong there among the teams’ camaraderie then. But this year, I crossed the finish line with the team. I belonged.
Note: This article is an edited excerpt from my book A Skier’s Journal.