Post Ultraman Race (Editorial)

Last year the Kotland crew used this blog for more than just updating the world on Peter’s performance. In a backward spirit of Aloha they made sure that no ridiculous antics went unmentioned. I would hate to break tradition.
This year the antics started, predictably, with Shanna Armstrong and her crew. Sure she was the women’s world champion, again, and sure Peter has been coaching her for years, but that doesn’t make her exempt. (It probably puts her more in the line of fire really.) Despite the easy going and lighthearted atmosphere we kept around the condo this year, leading up to the race I saw the Ultraman as nothing but a serious endeavor that required nothing but serious attitudes where the race was involved. Johnny showing up in his grass skirt and coconut bra to the swim transition changed all that. Dean, catching sight of this serious looking man in a ridiculous outfit yelled, “Back in uniform again I see Johnny!” The resentful reply came back, “I had to be”. Shanna Armstrong is the best female ultra endurance athlete in the world, but if you want the privilege of crewing for her, you’ll have to put up with any music she wants blasting all day- likely Britney Spears; you’ll have to dance to said music, in your mandatory coconut bra of course. All of this on top of the already taxing job of supporting an Ultraman athlete. There is no shortage of color and character at the Ultraman Race.
At least Shanna’s antics are good natured and well intended. Rip Oldmeadow’s story on the other hand is almost too hot to touch, even here. Details are scarce and I would be walking in murky waters to speculate much, but what is known is that Rip did not seem to be in Hawaii to make new friends. For antics unknown, two of his team members left his support crew emotionally shaken, effectively tearing the lid off a twisted can of worms. After leaving, Rip’s support team confessed to Richard Roll (affectionately known by us as Mr. Hollywood for his glamour shots and impeccable sense of style)
that Rip had talked about, and I am paraphrasing here, emotionally destroying Rich during the race. Apparently Rip didn’t know that one of his disenchanted crew members is a friend of Rich’s, who also happens to be coached by him. I am not sure whether it was that sort of attitude, his series of technical infractions while racing or the cumulative picture of the two that led to his disqualification. Whatever the situation was, having completed all three days of the event and to then not be considered a finisher is certainly punishment enough.
It wasn’t all gloom of course. After all, the entire reason d’être of the Ultraman is to get together a group of people and give them an ultimate challenge while bringing them, in every way possible, to heart and nature of the sport they love. Of course, as is the case with anything that people are passionate about, there are some individuals who stand above all the rest when it comes to expressing their Aloha spirit for the Ultraman. Steve King is one of these people. There are unbelievable views of natural beauty around the island, the race itself is something on a scale illogical, unbelievable and entirely hard to comprehend, and of course I have already told you about Peter’s run in with the frantic garden gnomes. Yet, by far, the most surreal experience I had during this Ultraman weekend was listening to Steve diligently, highly professionally and entirely inexplicably commentating the race over a loud speaker, even though there was usually no one around to listen.

At the first marathon point, Steve had set himself up and was announcing the day’s progress. Dean and I knew that he was taking time splits so Dean decided to go up and ask him how far back Peter was from Miro and Alejandro. But ever the professional, Steve could not interrupt his announcing to answer us immediately- despite the fact that Dean and I were the only two people even close to being within ear shot. The entire scene was taking place in an incredibly remote, miles long straight stretch of desert along the Queen K highway. Sitting there in beautiful nowhere, Steve did eventually give us our answer over the loudspeaker, “And I now have Peter’s time split here, Peter’s crew will probably appreciate this information, he is currently four minutes and fifty seconds behind the leaders, Alexandre Ribeiro and Miro Kregar who are setting and incredible pace.” Nobody can say this race doesn’t have character.
Perhaps one of the most notable ways that the Ultraman goes back to the roots of triathlon, besides being held in the birthplace of the Ironman of course, is that the athletes really are more than just numbers. During the race, nobody even thought about numbers. While each athlete did have one, I don’t think anybody new anybody else’s number- in fact, I couldn’t even tell you Peter’s for sure. The down side to this is that you have to keep track of athletes by their names; the upside of this is that nobody could remember everybody’s name, so nicknames got to be developed on the fly- I have already introduced you to Mr. Hollywood. As another example, during most of stage two Peter was being pursued by a man whose only defining characteristic we knew was that he was from Germany. Thanks to our limited knowledge of him, Jochen Dembeck has been known as “die German” for the entire race. “Peter, you better get climbing, die German is gaining on you.” “Peter, ignore the gnomes, die German is behind you.” (If you find this in any way offensive you may want to know that my nickname is Pecker (a long story that doesn’t involve what you think), Peter’s, who is the ex-Pecker, is now Sparky (also a long inside story which can be summed up by the fact that Peter is definitively not a “Sparky”) and Dean’s is Scuba thanks to an never forgotten incident with some oversized swim goggles.) Of course we weren’t the only ones throwing around nicknames. A fact best explained in a whole different story.

When Peter got up to make his finishers speech at the post race dinner everyone was left reeling a little when he broke the trend of references to spiritual experiences by saying the weekend was a good excuse to act like an asshole to Dean and I and get away with it. Little did they know that Peter was just warming them up for the Ultraman World Champion Alexendre Ribeiro’s speech.

Of course Alexendre included the usual sentiments about it being a great race and he talked about the particular challenges he faced this year and so on. But this national hero of Brazil took it upon himself to elaborate when it came to the details of the third day’s double marathon. As he and Miro ran together he explained, they casually chatted about having to keep up their fast pace because Peter and “the desert guy” were chasing them. Apparently in the middle of their great effort, they had forgotten Mike Leroux’s name but still chose to consider him a serious threat because it was a hot day and Leroux was experienced at running in the desert, and “it’s hot there” as Alexendre liked to make known. So at one point he decided to announce to the crowd that “Miro needed to take a shit, so I thought, o.k good, I can stop to pee while he shits.” (Part of the beauty of this exclamation is the fact that he likely knew no other English word for defecating.) That was not then end of his story though, he still had purpose he was leading towards. Later in the day the tables turned and now Alexendre had to “take a shit.” Only now Miro was not willing to return the favor and wait up during the pit stop because “Peter and the desert guy are coming.” Likely a little distressed that his day’s partner had left him, he was now alone, squatting down next to the road “taking a shit” – a position he reenacted for us on stage – while a stream of cars and the media vans rolled by to watch.
Even though I think I am now completely gossiped out, I can’t end this blog without mentioning that beautiful a moment before the start of the third day during the Hawaiian conk shell ceremony. The Pu ceremony, as it is called here, involves the athletes standing in a circle holding hands while a lone Hawaiian sounds a conk shell and says a Hawaiian prayer. Except for perhaps working in the daycare of a cruise ship or returning to live in a communist country, I can think of nothing so perfectly not Peter than standing in a circle, holding hands around a ritual spiritual ceremony. It was beautiful moment of perfect awkwardness I am not likely to ever forget.
Congratulations to all the athletes and my apologies to anyone whose quirks and blunders failed to make it on this post. I will be back next year, so you’ll get your chance.