We drive down Vilakazi Street, a small road that once was the home of two men who would both later win the Nobel Peace Prize, Nelson Mandela and Bishop Desmond Tutu. Their former homes are modest dwellings but they definitely occupy the moral high ground.
When you think of South Africa, it isn’t the typical tourist attractions that come to mind, it’s wild animals. Patricia and I ride from Johannesburg to Kruger National Park with Jens, one of the Kruger guides. Once a month or so, Jens ferries a group of tourists from Kruger to Johannesburg, overnights with his family members in Johannesburg, then brings a new group of visitors back to Kruger. He enjoys catching up with his family, but he detests the city life. Jens is as close to the wild heart of life as a man can be. He sees Johannesburg as the dark side of South Africa, all of the country’s worst features compressed into one place.
Jens is an Afrikaner and he loves his family, the outdoors, rugby, and beer. He’s also a great guy. Jens answers every question we ask with, “for sure.” For him, it’s a verbal tick, a universal prefix and suffix.
“Jens, will we see a lot of elephants in Kruger?” “For sure, they’re everywhere.”
Jens, how long have you worked at Kruger?” “Ten years. It’s a good job, for sure.”
“Jens, tell me about rugby. It’s not very popular at home.” “For sure, I love the game.”
I’ve pressed the right button. Jens spends the next thirty minutes explaining the details of rugby. Patricia is getting bored, I’m getting confused, and Jens is getting excited. It’s hard to explain some things with words alone so Jens realizes that it’s time for some hands-on coaching on the sport of rugby.
We stop at a rest stop and Jens demonstrates the dropkick technique, then he recruits some passersby and we lock arms for a maul or scrum, or something like that. Jens even attempts to show us how to leap high in the air to contest a line-out.
We talk at length about the great South African Rugby World Cup victory of 1995. This was the first major sporting event to take place in South Africa following the end of apartheid. Rugby is a white Afrikaner sport rarely watched by blacks, but the South African team, the Springboks, was warmly embraced by Nelson Mandela. The ultimate Springbok victory served as a form of racial reconciliation for the country.
Jens describes how he cried when Mandela, dressed in a Springbok jersey and cap, came onto the field to celebrate the South African championship. He confesses that this was a defining moment in his life, one that changed the way he views other races.
When we finally arrive at Kruger, I feel like I’ve had an intensive tutorial in rugby. My mind is loaded with rugby rules and facts, all of which seem to disappear by supper time.
Jens drops us off to his buddy Alfred, who serves as our guide for the next five days in Kruger. Alfred is a native Sotho, and is one of a growing number of blacks who have joined the middle class following the collapse of apartheid.
Kruger National Park is an amazing place. It’s roughly the size of the state of Massachusetts and has more species of mammals than any other game reserve in Africa. Every National Geographic special you’ve ever watched seems to come to life in real time at Kruger.
We spend our nights in one of the camps, completely fenced in, inside the park. Our fences don’t keep the animals in, they keep them out. No one wants to be devoured by a lion or trampled by an elephant while on vacation. We want to watch the game, but we’re not ready to be eaten.
Twice a day, at dawn and in the late afternoon, we head out with Alfred in his truck to see and photograph the animals. We always hit the waterholes, a popular spot for viewing. All the animals seem to get along well when it’s time to drink (sort of like humans).
It’s an amazing experience to be bouncing along a dirt road and see a herd of elephants emerge from the bush to lumber across the way. These massive grey dreadnoughts are always impressive and watching them in the wild never gets old. In contrast to much of Africa, elephants have thrived in Kruger, and the park now has too many pachyderms. They’ve tried everything from birth control to relocation in an effort to manage the population.
Like every other visitor, we want to see and photograph the Big Five—elephants, rhinoceros, lions, leopards, and Cape buffalo. These are the elite of Africa, the most dangerous of the wild animals. Fairly early in our trip we manage to see them all, except the buffalo. Kruger has thousands of buffalo but the big herds have supposedly moved to another area.
Much of the fun of game watching is being the first in your group to spot the wild beast. Someone in the group sees an animal, then everything stops, whispers and hand signs take over, cameras come out, and everyone jockeys for position, straining to get the best view and the clearest photo.
So, we are all excited one day when Patricia says, “Stop, buffalo!” Alfred pulls up and we glance across the road. Number five on our Big Five list is coming right up. Unfortunately, it’s not a buffalo, it’s a wildebeest. It’s big and brown and impressive in its own way, but it’s not a Cape buffalo. We all laugh and from now on Alfred refers to every wildebeest we see as “Patricia’s buffalo.”
These wildebeest are common and they seem to pop out when you least expect it. However, compared to impala, wildebeest are extremely rare. There are probably 100,000 impala in Kruger National Park. They come inside our camp at night, groups of 20 or 30 seem to be hanging out around every bend in the park. They’re as common as cows in Texas. We soon take to referring to Kruger as “Impala City.”
It’s a wonderful routine that never gets old, and I love every day of my visit to Kruger. We rise before dawn, bundle up to stay warm, spend three or four hours looking at the animals, then eat a midmorning breakfast overlooking a river full of hippos and crocodiles, take a midday nap, and repeat the game watching until dark.
We are impressed by it all—zebras, giraffes, baboons, rhinos, hippos, warthogs, elephants, lions, leopards. We have enough photos and memories to last a lifetime. It’s difficult to return to the ordinary world after visiting such an extraordinary place.
NEW ZEALAND is a different place.
For nearly all of its history, New Zealand has been a land without people.
The first humans to arrive were the Polynesian explorers who came in long canoes over vast distances. Their descendants are today’s Maori.
The new arrivals found a strange land. Except for a few bats, there were no mammals. Instead, the visitors encountered giant flightless birds, some bigger than ostriches. The islands also contained bizarre reptiles and frogs, but fortunately no snakes (this makes my wife happy). There were thousands of plants and animals unknown anywhere else on earth. It was like the flora and fauna of New Zealand had evolved without reading the rule book.
The strange creatures lived in a world of dense forests, snowcapped mountains, volcanoes, geysers, and waterfalls.
The magic persists today. New Zealand has remained, above all, a place full of surprises.
This is my fourth IRONMAN® Triathlon. I’ve huffed and puffed, twisted and turned, trying to get a few more miles out of my worn out body. I’m ready to see New Zealand and meet the Kiwis. Everything I hear is good. They say if you don’t like New Zealand, you don’t like friendly people and natural beauty.
It’s really impossible not to like the Kiwi nation. New Zealanders by and large are solid, practical, down-to-earth people. This is a land where strength, dependability, rugged independence, and above all, modesty are part of the national fiber. It’s an easy place to be at home. New Zealanders believe their land is a special place and they cherish the simple outdoor life. This is not a country for flashy, big-shot types. Kiwi society is more egalitarian than most. There’s an unspoken assumption that no person is better than any other.
The Kiwis value ingenuity; they believe they can solve any problem with whatever resources are available at the time. In New Zealand, it’s called the “number 8 wire” mentality (number 8 fencing wire can be used to fix most anything that’s broken). Kiwis are proud of
their skill with animals and machines.
There is probably no better spot in the country for the IRONMAN New Zealand race than Taupo. It’s a small town of just over twenty thousand people located at the center of the North Island, and it seems that practically the whole community has turned out to support the 25th anniversary of the race.
Since New Zealanders take every opportunity to head outdoors, Taupo is a popular holiday destination. The town is located on the banks of Lake Taupo, the country’s largest lake; a lake so big that it has its own tides. This freshwater volcanic lake, known for its crystal clear, cool water, is a source of local pride. Everyone tells me it’s clean and pure, ready to drink, no treatment necessary.
Taupo is a lovely site, the snowcapped peaks of Mt. Ruapehu and Mt. Tongariro loom in the background. There’s boating, skiing, hiking, and climbing, not to mention superb trout fishing. (The region claims to be the trout fishing capital of the world. Several different species of trout were first brought to the country in the late 1800s by sport fisherman, including rainbow trout which came all the way from California.)
New Zealand was the second country to host an IRONMAN® Triathlon. The first race, of course, was held in Hawaii in 1978. By the early 1980s, the IRONMAN concept was beginning to take off. The event was on television, the number of entrants was increasing each year, and the potential for growth was obvious to everyone.
Hawaii is a long way from almost everywhere; it was time to give athletes in other parts of the world the chance to experience the pleasures of this event.
Around the same time that IRONMAN powers were considering expansion, the marketing experts at Air New Zealand were searching for a special event to draw travelers to their country. What could be more special than an IRONMAN Triathlon? The Kiwis are great sportsmen, they love a good challenge. It was a perfect match. IRONMAN New Zealand was born, the inaugural road show for the IRONMAN brand.
In Taupo, the wind almost always blows mightily. It whips and whirls, rising and falling, rarely stopping. In 2006, it reached near gale force and the water on Lake Taupo became so rough that the swim leg was cancelled and the IRONMAN Triathlon was reduced to an anemic duathlon, a mere 56 mile bike ride and a 13.1 mile run. In 2012, the race was postponed for a day (a true logistical nightmare) and staged at the half distance.
Luckily, when race day rolls around, the weather is in my favor. The wind is from the north but the water is perfect, crystal clear and cool. It’s misty, foggy, and raining, a day without shadows. There’ll be no overheating today.
The swim is a straight shot, one loop down and back. The course parallels the shore line, maybe fifty to a hundred yards or so away from land, close enough to hear the spectators lining the lakeside.
It’s great visibility, the other swimmers seem like synchronized automatons; they all move on the same beat, everyone appears to have great form. I’m swimming along comfortably when I encounter a totally unexpected marine creature. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of these objects littering the bottom of the lake. Little, white, dimpled spheres, all the same size, just over an inch in diameter. Is this another oddball Kiwi trick of evolution? The answer proves to be much simpler, more twenty-first century. This bottom-dwelling organism is the New Zealand golf ball.
There’s a floating golf green, moored off shore in 15 feet of water, just to my left. For a modest fee, golfers on the shoreline get the chance to hit their shot over the water and onto the green and hopefully into the hole. These duffers seem to be saddled with my golfing skills, the bottom of the lake is packed with poor golf shots. I swim a hundred yards past the floating green and continue to see golf balls.
I exit the swim in 1:32 and run a good quarter mile up a hill to the first transition area. A quarter mile isn’t very far but it seems almost criminal to add this extra challenge to an already difficult task. My legs are hurting and I haven’t even started the bike. This extra run could turn out to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back (or even worse, it could be the last straw).
There are two loops on the bike with a group of hills at the beginning and again at three or four miles from the end of each circuit. Very quickly I’m out of the town and onto the flat farmland; a countryside of nothing but crops, cows, sheep, and wind.
Everyone is spread out; there are a lot of race officials out and about, and they look like men on a mission. There are no packs of riders today. The leaders pass me coming back, spread out in an echelon formation. They’re all wearing Big Guy bike helmets and are stretched out on their aerobars, molded onto their machines. I clunk along, happy to reach the bike turnaround at the town of Reporoa and get the wind at my back.
The last few miles back into Taupo are a gradual downhill, so forgiving that a slow biker like me can cruise effortlessly into town at 25 miles per hour. The gentle slope gives an illusion of speed where none exists; it creates a sad emulation of vitality. At this point, it’s raining heavily and I’m amazed to see the streets of Taupo lined two or three deep with cheering spectators. The umbrellas are out in force; the weather hasn’t dampened the enthusiasm of the citizens of Taupo.
Whenever I see someone hanging around to cheer me on, I’m both surprised and grateful. I’m neither fast nor athletic but I enjoy playing the part. An unsolicited gesture of admiration or encouragement is always appreciated. In reality, this is more likely an act of charity; much like watching the school play of a neighborhood child, it seems like it should be acknowledged.
I’ll have to admit that most of these spectators are waiting to see the Big Guys finish their second loop while I’m still on my first go-round. They’re not exactly waiting for me, but that’s okay, they are kind enough to yell words of encouragement.
The second bike loop is more of the same except that the hills are harder, the wind is stronger, and the spectators have all left to watch the professionals on the run.
I wander out of the second transition at around 8:43, happy to be done with the bike but dreading the twenty-six miles on foot.
This is the point in the race when I start to figure out how slow a running pace I can maintain while still finishing before the cutoff time. It’s a useful mental exercise, it keeps me from thinking about how much I hurt and reassures me that I’ll be able to finish. It’s good for my brain and good for my soul and gives me hope to go with the pain. Still, it can also be discouraging. I’ve been through this before; I know the worst part of the race is yet to come. True bliss lies on the other side of the marathon, a good six hours away.
The marathon course heads from the center of town, alongside the shore of Lake Taupo to the local airport and then returns via the same route back into town. It’s a two loop journey and the crowds are big, especially near the town center.
The shore of Lake Taupo is lined with parks, motels, homes, and a few apartment complexes. When heading out of town on the first loop, I notice an apartment building with a large hot tub out front. There are a handful of young women in bathing suits lounging about, laughing, drinking, enjoying the day, waiting for the lake sunset. The rain has stopped and the air is cool and fresh, it’s a good time to enjoy the warm whirlpool. These ladies are happy and content, but I hardly give them a second thought. I’m trying to keep moving forward, struggling to maintain my dead man’s shuffle.
The women are still there when I return on the first loop and again when I head out on the second loop. They wave and yell words of encouragement to everyone. I’m too tired to even acknowledge their greetings; I just push ahead to the last turnaround.
It’s after 9:00 p.m. when I reach the twenty-three mile mark, just a little over three miles to go. I wonder if I can finish in less than 15 hours. I start calculating but I just can’t do the numbers. I’m not even sure what kind of pace I’m running, each mile seems slower than the previous one. Plus, it’s so dark I can’t even read my watch, my vision seems to be failing like the rest of my body.
Besides, I tell myself, what does it matter, a finish is a finish
. No one back home knows the difference between 14 hours or 15 hours. Not only do they not know, they probably don’t care, either. I’m wallowing in self-pity and despair, a place I know all too well.
Around this time, I reach the apartment complex with the hot tub and notice that a couple of the young women are still there. One young bikini-clad gal sees me slogging along, springs out of the hot tub and runs in my direction, yelling, “She’ll be right mate, you’re doing great, keep it up, mate!”
She’s thin and blond and I can see her freckles in the dark. She grabs me, wraps two arms around me and starts squeezing me and kissing me.
I’ve got neither the might nor the means to resist this unexpected, rather pleasant assault.
She stops and says, “Mate, you’re almost there,” a couple of more kisses then, “mate, you finish up and come back here. We’ve got this hot tub and some beer waiting for you.”
I’m stunned and exhausted, nothing would suit me better than a beer and a visit to the hot tub, but I need to finish. After more than one hundred and thirty-seven miles I’ve only got three more to go. I manage to break loose, or rather my young lady friend pushes me in the right direction, and I’m on my way.
This whole episode is bizarre, surreal, and totally unanticipated. I wonder what’s going on, or how I can explain this strange turn of events. After 14 hours, I know I look more shopworn and dim-witted than usual. How have I suddenly turned into a man that young women want to hug and kiss?
My mind mulls the possibilities. After all, I am an IRONMAN®, headed to my fourth finish. Maybe I proved to be irresistible to this woman. She watched athlete after athlete pass by and she saw one she just had to have.
This possibility is of course ridiculous. She could have enjoyed some serious hot tub time with any of a thousand other athletes who preceded me. That’s crazy; it would be like passing up Brad Pitt to spend time with Grandpa Jones. Not likely.
Against the Odds Page 14
