Kona Age-Group Coverage

The truth is, I'm not very interested in watching age-group racers. When the pros finish I dash for the exit. I know this isn't in the spirit of our great sport, but that's just me. I'm a narcissist. I'm an elitist. I'm selfish, and I have no attention span. Sue me.

But there is one exception to my disinterest in the lesser categories. Ironman. Even here I'm not hitting the Ironmanlive reload button every 20-seconds to see who finished where in what category. But the Ironman spirit starts to rise in me as sunset draws near. The Ironman zeitgiest -- the spirit that is the backbone of this sport, in which pro triathletes are irrelevant -- starts to crackle in the air. By this time the pros have long finished and the glow sticks break out. That's when it gets good.

I made my way up Palani Drive -- aka Pay 'n Save Hill -- just as the sun dipped behind the palms and the sea. At the top of this hill, many hours ago, riders looked north out the Queen K Highway in anticipation and expectation. More recently, a lot more worn and with thousands of painfull footsteps yet to be taken, the same athletes ventured north a second time. Now, finally, they're returning to this spot from the other direction, knowing it's a mostly downhill mile-and-a-quarter to the finish.

There are no streetlights looking North. That's the reason this race is always held on the October weekend closest to the full moon. But there was a lot of cloud cover on this day, so looking out the Queen K was looking into black. Well, mostly black.

When the light finally fades on a night like this what you see are dancing green lanterns. Sometimes people attach them to their singlets or shorts. Sometimes they carry them in their hands. Sometimes runners are so tired they can't hold them at all, and stick them in the pocket in the back of their singlets. But all you see are green lights dancing like fireflies against an otherwise black background.

When I see the lanterns slowly coming toward me -- bouncing up and down or swaying back and forth depending on the mechanism of attachment -- I can't help but think that each of those lanterns represents a dream years in the making, and just about to be realized.

These dreams are often shared by others who are not racing. I sat next to a Brazilian man whose wife was out there somewhere. As one who's had a wife competing, I knew what he was feeling. I watched him for 45-minutes as his eyes were fixed northward. His gaze never once varied. Is this her? No. How about this one? He was worried for her safety, and hoping that her fragile hopes would be realized, always wondering which green lantern, if any, would be her.

I used to prefer sitting on Alii Drive, watching the beaming faces during the finishing trot. Circa 13-hours is the best time. This is the time for people who've been trying just to get to this race for years, and now are finally about to cross over to the land of the finishers. People who, for the most part, aren't getting in because they're sponsors, or last year's Ironman winner's best friend, or somebody who wrote the best letter to NBC. These are 50-year-old people who've been dreaming of this day since they were 44, and when they're 90 will remember this day as one of their best. These are men and women with whole families in the crowd -- with kids who dart out into the street to run the final 100-meters with mom or dad.

Now, though, I prefer to sit on this corner and look into the darkness at the dancing green lights. This is the spot where joy -- ever so slightly -- starts elbowing its way through the pain. And the pain endemic at this point. You've been breathing so hard for so long your ribs are bruised. Your hair hurts. Everything hurts. Your clothes almost hurt. You look at your legs and realize you've discovered a whole new style of running out of necessity. But you turn the sweeping right-hand corner off that damnable highway and all-of-a-sudden the road is lined with people. There are streetlights. You go from the blackness of the Sahara Desert at midnight to the final mile of the New York City Marathon all in 20-meters. You've been rescued. No. Absolutely not. You've rescued yourself.

The Brazilian guy recognizes his wife. It's right around 12-hours. It's going to be a good finish time for her, and on a very tough day. He's up like a shot and off he goes after her. He wants to be more help than she wants him to be. I know about that too.

I see a strange sight coming toward me, like a sign running. It's four guys finishing side-by-side who've each arranged their lanterns on their singlets to spell a letter. The four men together spell HELP. Except the guy who's supposed to be P has had trouble with his lanterns, and it looks like HELF. But then it could be HELL, and that would be fitting on this day.

I've been a triathlete for 20-years, and I've only done the Ironman once, in 1981. That was enough. Like Apollo Creed in Rocky, I sputtered to myself at the end of round-15, "Aint gonna be no rematch." And I meant it.

But I remember reaching this intersection in the race like it was last year. It's just not something you forget. Mine was a daylight finish, and I know that's a big goal of many athletes. The glow stick is as much a mentally distinctive arbitrary measure of success as is 11-, 12-, or 13-hours. It's a battle lost for some people to have to carry the stick. But at this point in the race, glow stick or no, the war is about to be won.

I've been a fair-to-middlin' triathlete, the husband of a world class triathlete, a manufacturer of equipment for triathletes, and a publisher who writes to triathletes. For me, you can take everything I've been, and everything this sport is -- as I've perceived it -- and roll it all up into one dancing green glow stick. It's the headbadge of triathlon. Its logo. Its archetype. Its pinpoint.

I looked up www.glowstick.com. It's owned by a company called Omniglow that makes glow sticks. Also taken is the domain www.glostick.com, by a distributor of various companies' glow sticks (including Omniglow). This distributor lists the uses of glow sticks:

Police and security use them for traffic control, road safety.
Gas main repair crews use Lightsticks-instead of flammable flares!
Lightsticks make effective DWI checkpoint signals-to slow traffic.
Emergency Lighting for the Home or Office.
General industry safety.
EMS and Triage units identify the seriously injured-by color bands.
Use it when you change a tire on the road-for safety.
Firemen use Lightsticks to locate those trapped (see it through smoke).
Keep them in your car's glove compartment- for map reading.
Forestry crews mark routes through the brush with Lightsticks.
Boaters use them as emergency lighting-and to locate an anchor.

And Ironman racers use them to help fulfill the dream of a lifetime.






			G	DANCE OF THE GREEN LANTERNS The truth is, I'm not very interested in watching age-group racers. When the pros finish I dash for the exit. I know this isn't in the spirit of our great sport, but that's just me. I'm a narcissist. I'm an elitist. I'm selfish, and I have no attention span. Sue me. But there is one exception to my disinterest in the lesser categories. Ironman. Even here I'm not hitting the Ironmanlive reload button every 20-seconds to see who finished where in what category. But the Ironman spirit starts to rise in me as sunset draws near. The Ironman zeitgiest -- the spirit that is the backbone of this sport, in which pro triathletes are irrelevant -- starts to crackle in the air. By this time the pros have long finished and the glow sticks break out. That's when it gets good. I made my way up Palani Drive -- aka Pay 'n Save Hill -- just as the sun dipped behind the palms and the sea. At the top of this hill, many hours ago, riders looked north out the Queen K Highway in anticipation and expectation. More recently, a lot more worn and with thousands of painfull footsteps yet to be taken, the same athletes ventured north a second time. Now, finally, they're returning to this spot from the other direction, knowing it's a mostly downhill mile-and-a-quarter to the finish. There are no streetlights looking North. That's the reason this race is always held on the October weekend closest to the full moon. But there was a lot of cloud cover on this day, so looking out the Queen K was looking into black. Well, mostly black. When the light finally fades on a night like this what you see are dancing green lanterns. Sometimes people attach them to their singlets or shorts. Sometimes they carry them in their hands. Sometimes runners are so tired they can't hold them at all, and stick them in the pocket in the back of their singlets. But all you see are green lights dancing like fireflies against an otherwise black background. When I see the lanterns slowly coming toward me -- bouncing up and down or swaying back and forth depending on the mechanism of attachment -- I can't help but think that each of those lanterns represents a dream years in the making, and just about to be realized. These dreams are often shared by others who are not racing. I sat next to a Brazilian man whose wife was out there somewhere. As one who's had a wife competing, I knew what he was feeling. I watched him for 45-minutes as his eyes were fixed northward. His gaze never once varied. Is this her? No. How about this one? He was worried for her safety, and hoping that her fragile hopes would be realized, always wondering which green lantern, if any, would be her. I used to prefer sitting on Alii Drive, watching the beaming faces during the finishing trot. Circa 13-hours is the best time. This is the time for people who've been trying just to get to this race for years, and now are finally about to cross over to the land of the finishers. People who, for the most part, aren't getting in because they're sponsors, or last year's Ironman winner's best friend, or somebody who wrote the best letter to NBC. These are 50-year-old people who've been dreaming of this day since they were 44, and when they're 90 will remember this day as one of their best. These are men and women with whole families in the crowd -- with kids who dart out into the street to run the final 100-meters with mom or dad. Now, though, I prefer to sit on this corner and look into the darkness at the dancing green lights. This is the spot where joy -- ever so slightly -- starts elbowing its way through the pain. And the pain endemic at this point. You've been breathing so hard for so long your ribs are bruised. Your hair hurts. Everything hurts. Your clothes almost hurt. You look at your legs and realize you've discovered a whole new style of running out of necessity. But you turn the sweeping right-hand corner off that damnable highway and all-of-a-sudden the road is lined with people. There are streetlights. You go from the blackness of the Sahara Desert at midnight to the final mile of the New York City Marathon all in 20-meters. You've been rescued. No. Absolutely not. You've rescued yourself. The Brazilian guy recognizes his wife. It's right around 12-hours. It's going to be a good finish time for her, and on a very tough day. He's up like a shot and off he goes after her. He wants to be more help than she wants him to be. I know about that too. I see a strange sight coming toward me, like a sign running. It's four guys finishing side-by-side who've each arranged their lanterns on their singlets to spell a letter. The four men together spell HELP. Except the guy who's supposed to be P has had trouble with his lanterns, and it looks like HELF. But then it could be HELL, and that would be fitting on this day. I've been a triathlete for 20-years, and I've only done the Ironman once, in 1981. That was enough. Like Apollo Creed in Rocky, I sputtered to myself at the end of round-15, "Aint gonna be no rematch." And I meant it. But I remember reaching this intersection in the race like it was last year. It's just not something you forget. Mine was a daylight finish, and I know that's a big goal of many athletes. The glow stick is as much a mentally distinctive arbitrary measure of success as is 11-, 12-, or 13-hours. It's a battle lost for some people to have to carry the stick. But at this point in the race, glow stick or no, the war is about to be won. I've been a fair-to-middlin' triathlete, the husband of a world class triathlete, a manufacturer of equipment for triathletes, and a publisher who writes to triathletes. For me, you can take everything I've been, and everything this sport is -- as I've perceived it -- and roll it all up into one dancing green glow stick. It's the headbadge of triathlon. Its logo. Its archetype. Its pinpoint. I looked up www.glowstick.com. It's owned by a company called Omniglow that makes glow sticks. Also taken is the domain www.glostick.com, by a distributor of various companies' glow sticks (including Omniglow). This distributor lists the uses of glow sticks: Police and security use them for traffic control, road safety. Gas main repair crews use Lightsticks-instead of flammable flares! Lightsticks make effective DWI checkpoint signals-to slow traffic. Emergency Lighting for the Home or Office. General industry safety. EMS and Triage units identify the seriously injured-by color bands. Use it when you change a tire on the road-for safety. Firemen use Lightsticks to locate those trapped (see it through smoke). Keep them in your car's glove compartment- for map reading. Forestry crews mark routes through the brush with Lightsticks. Boaters use them as emergency lighting-and to locate an anchor. And Ironman racers use them to help fulfill the dream of a lifetime.