Waikiki: A Spot of Dehydration with your Run?

Performance is lacking. 

Except for day número uno (which technically was actually half a day given our lunchtime arrival, even though to keep the marital peace I'm magnanimously giving it full day status) I've been for a run every morning. In those pre-breakfast hours I'd like to describe my demeanor as bouncing out of bed, perky from a full nights' refreshing slumber, ready to stride along at pace in the early morning Hawaiian sunshine. 

That's what I'd like to tell you.  But I'd be lying. 

It actually goes like this. Blearily wake up.  Spend time over-analyzing the merits of a potential morning run versus the guilt and malaise of not going at all. Resignedly hoist body out of bed after less than ideal sleep (damn you, jet-lag, pre-dinner aperitifs, and enormous meal comprising enough food to feed a developing nation accompanied by a splash of your finest Californian white, plus the ever-present hard sell for dessert).

And I'm weak. It's not that much of a hard sell to get me into a dessert.

There is a suspicion that too much wine the evening before may actually impair performance. I know, not something I've ever heard of either.  But my less than Olympian efforts require some justification so it's worth exploring. 

The French promote a tipple as an aid to good health. I recently finished reading a book* which suggests that the aperitif-wine-dessert wine combination I stole from the French is in fact not only an aid to good health, but an aid to inspiring athletic achievement. 

To prove their robust theory, the French even host a marathon through the Bordeaux region where the winner's prize is his weight in wine. Evidently a reward worthy of running fast for, and about the only time when the more you weigh, the better.  Each water point - let's instead call them 'rehydration' stations - offer a selection of water, energy drinks, and crates of the region's most superior drop. As you can imagine, this type of marathon attracts highly-tuned athletes from far and wide.  Even the Kenyans and Ethiopians have been known to get in on the act.

I think this could be my kind of marathon.  

Quite possibly just the kind of marathon that may be able to tempt me out of retirement and straight into forging a spectacular comeback to the marathon scene after April's less than satisfactory performance. The scent of redemption hangs from the Bordelais grape vine. 

Foolishly I mention this in an email to Online Trainer. After all, reading the book was his idea, no doubt to entice me with an easy-breezy, wine-soaked 42km trot. Because of this, I expected Online Trainer to be enthusiastic about my interest; to offer a little general applause, perhaps even a touch of encouragement at being so brave as to allow my thoughts to stray into the realm of fresh challenges so soon after the last defeat.  

I was wrong.

Instead Online Trainer sensibly reminds me that, expensive French blends or not, 42km is still 42km. 

Hopes dashed. The romanticism of the Marathon du Medoc gone in a puff of boring reality.

Potential wine-soaked marathons aside, my current reality is wrestling with early morning holiday running motivation. And despite this daily tussle I am proud to say I have so far clocked up day after day of early morning runs.  My mother will complain that this is no holiday; that to run (or exercise at all for that matter) - particularly while on a holiday, for heaven's sake - is a folly that should be cut out immediately and replaced with far more enjoyable options. Like sleeping. Or lingering over breakfast. Or at a stretch, shopping (which is, arguably, exercise). 

I have shopped. Not at a real shop, mind you, but at an online one.  I have a new toy to keep me occupied on these runs. After a short visit to the App Store - conveniently located on my iPhone - for the absolute steal of $2.49 the Nike+ GPS app is now mine and allows me to record my every run. 

Gone are the days when I would simply send Online Trainer a short note stating "Run today - 12 songs worth". 

Now, just like a professional athlete, I too can enjoy reviewing all my stats. How far I have run. My fastest, slowest, and average pace displayed in real-time colour on a map recording my fastest pace in green (swift), slowing down through shades of oranges and reds as I tire (presumably to illustrate heat-inducing delirium). It will play my music or a selection of what it quaintly calls ‘Power Songs’. It will shout encouragement at regular intervals pre-recorded by Nike-sponsored athletes. It will allow me to make notes about my run (did you feel (a) awesome, (b) so-so, (c) sluggish, or (d) injured?).  I can log the weather, the type of surface I ran on, and receive a grand mileage total of all my runs to date which can be used to boost my running image.  And if this isn't enough, I can then upload the whole lot to the Nike website where it will provide me with trophies for achieving personal milestones and a myriad of ways of showing off my achievements to my friends.  Or even to people I've never met who happen to be logged in to the same website at the same time.

And all I have to do is press 'Go'. Talk about too much fun in just one app. 

So as I run along and suffer in the early morning Hawaiian summertime heat, sweating like a miner who has just worked a two-day shift in the pits of hell, I need not look at my watch or sully my brain with attempts to calculate distances or kilometre markers or how fast or slow I am running. I don't need to do any maths at all (which is fortunate because, given my challenges with arithmetic at the best of times, trying to count while even my brain sweats in the thousand percent humidity would make my life immeasurably difficult).  Instead I can soak up the ambiance and Enjoy The Scenery, as Online Trainer likes to say; take pleasure in a 'Smell The Roses' run (Online Trainer is nothing if not poetic).  Except this is Hawaii and there are no roses so it would have to be a Smell The Hibiscus run.

My route from the Halekulani towards Diamond Head takes in many of the famous tourist sights.  The new all-glass Apple store along the main street, for example, where I usually dodge several savvy backpackers leaning against the store's front glass wall, tapping away on their iPhones and stealing the store's free WiFi even though the store is shut.  The Cheesecake Factory, where the early-morning scent of freshly baked I-don't-know-what (and don't say 'cheesecake') is so sickly sweet that the Husband refuses to ever eat there, despite it being the fictitious place of employment for Penny in The Big Bang Theory. The famous statue of Duke Paoa Kahanamoku - the Duke - father of Surfing, eternally covered in fresh leis of heavenly-scented Frangipani.  And of course, the most famous of all, the entire length of Waikiki beach.

In these early hours it is peaceful; bathed in the soft, striking glow bestowed by a rising sun. The sand is groomed neatly and I watch as other early-rising tourists, also drawn toward the beach, amble along wearing what I can only assume is their version of sporting attire.  Square, ill-fitting baseball caps (recently purchased from the nearest ABC Store), barely-worn, shiny new, white leather New Balance trainers (circa Seinfeld) all the while clutching half a gallon of Starbucks' over-sweetened brew in their chubby little hands.  In fact, it almost looks like a Seinfeld episode.  And that man there looks almost like George Costanza.

Then there are the other runners.  Serious, fit, tanned, lean, mean running machines. Well, maybe not all of them.  Some are old, some are slow, some overweight, others dressed in what I would call way too many clothes for this kind of heat.  Some even stop and (*gasp*) walk. Certainly not a habit Online Trainer would appreciate me learning. 

Diamond Head Road is always the moment of truth though. A person can bounce along with all the verve in the world because all of Waikiki seems to be flat, flat, flat until you reach Diamond Head Road.  Either turn around now (which means a round trip of about 6.5km) or take a deep breath, bite the proverbial hill-running bullet, head towards the sun and run up that mountain.  It ain't no picnic, I can tell you.

Pushing on slows me right down.  Nothing like a big hill in a thousand degree early-morning heat to ruin a good average pace. That hill and this heat is enough to bring an Australian arriving from winter to tears.  But I'm deydrated enough; I can't squander any precious fluid on tears.

To take my mind off the uphill battle I like to indulge in a few negative thoughts.  You know the kind.  Ouch, the legs. Can't breathe.  Dying.  I know; oh, the wretchedness of running along a beach in the stifling humidity of a rising Hawaiian sun while Sydney becomes more and more damp, waterlogged and cold with every passing insufferably rainy day. Poor me.

At the top of Diamond Head Road

There are two fairly immediate things which make this daily odyssey all worthwhile though. One is the stunning view from the top - all crystal-topped frothy waves glistening like diamonds under the intensifying sun's rays.  The other is the blissful knowledge that the return journey comprises a downhill slope and a flat homestretch.  A few tiny moments which offer what I like to call a ‘showoff opportunity’ to pretend I am a real runner, flying along at speeds much faster than I can actually ever really hope to achieve (I know this because my Nike+ GPS app shows this section in bright green - swift).

And finally, when I return to the serenity of the Halekulani, I know concierge will be waiting to obligingly hand me an ice cold bottle of water (although for some reason they don't have this at the ready for the Husband), as I look forward to diving into the still blue waters of the freshly cleaned pool.  Clothes and all.

Post-run, post-swim, still in
gym gear.  Happy now.

*  Bon Appétit by Peter Mayle

Waikiki: Poolside Rules according to Vigilant Chris

"Warm milk and a beer" requests a reclining Japanese man. 

Like me, Vigilant Chris, the poolside waiter, cocks his head to one side, attempts to hide the expression of bewilderment and revulsion and double-checks the order. The Japanese man nods. It seems Vigilant Chris and I both heard the odd request correctly. It is 32 degrees in Honolulu and I'd wager hot enough to grill some local Ahi tuna to the required rare on the searing but impeccably clean flagstones surrounding the poolside area, yet the Japanese man wants hot milk and beer.  As on old colleague of mine used to say, 'riddle me this'.

Vigilant Chris and I don't see eye to eye.  Stemming from a slight altercation by the pool yesterday, Vigilant Chris and I are now performing a standoff which looks set to last for the duration of my stay in Waikiki, if not for life.  It is doubtful either one of us will back down.  

Yesterday the Husband and I had committed the ultimate poolside sin of bringing outside food to the pool area and openly eating it. Because Vigilant Chris is vigilant he took keen note of our indiscretion, and in a moment of over-exuberant vigilance, shuffled past, suggesting that (despite being repeat hotel guests of some repute) no food was to be eaten by the pool other than that which had been purchased off a poolside menu.  Like the one suddenly being proffered by Vigilant Chris now, and naturally requiring the all-American tip.  I wasn't born yesterday. 

I am put out by this. In all the years I have been coming to this hotel never have I been scolded for eating non-hotel muesli bars, sandwiches, or imported energy drinks. It seems it is a new rule and one that I suspect Vigilant Chris made up on the spot in a moment of heat-induced, tip-seeking fury. And I'm not buying it (pardon the pun).  Calmly seething, I spent the remainder of the afternoon conjuring up ways to annoy Vigilant Chris by sneaking contraband food to the poolside, thereby doubling his Key Performance Indicators in what is obviously the carefully monitored luxury hotel performance area of Vigilance. Perhaps there is a poolside waiter's bonus resting on this?  Perhaps not. Either way, I don't care. 

A scuffle breaks out.  More Japanese. More demands, this time just for beer which it seems is the only English word the nearby Japanese couple know.  The male half of this young couple vies for one of my top three spots for The Darkest Tan I've Ever Seen - all current contenders are Japanese and all male (which will no doubt put Cousin Marilyn's nose well and truly out of joint). The female half is much fairer-skinned but alarmingly wears a bikini with all manner of unnecessary straps which crisscross the body in strange ways and can only be described as Tan Line Roulette.  Good God, woman, have you not thought this through?  

As even the most fledgling of bikini-wearing aficionados knows, the wrong tan line can render a carefully-gained syrupy golden tan completely useless and can take years to get rid of, ruining what may otherwise be a tan worthy of remembering. Let us not forget the Tan of 2009 - a tan so well-cultivated it lasted through an entire Sydney winter.  With no artificial help, I might add.  I have a strong policy against tans gained through electrical means. 

Deciphering the pigeon English, Vigilant Chris and I can just make out that beer was indeed ordered but never received. Which beer? Asks Vigilant Chris, mopping a dripping, furrowed brow. Who did you order with? 

Vigilant Chris is becoming short-tempered.  The late afternoon sun is searing, reflecting piercing rays off the nearby Waikiki sand and for Vigilant Chris, there is no respite.  Balancing a tray hour after hour catering to the whims of fanciful Japanese who demand such outrageous combinations as beer and warm milk has worn down his patience.   He has had enough.  Drawing himself up to his full height (which is sadly lacking), his tone becomes ominous. I will get you a beer (he emphasizes the "I"), and shuffles away, his white trainers squeaking on the wet flagstones under the weight of his well-fed American body.  

Through a combination of sign language, pointing and repeating the word "beer" twenty three times more than is entirely necessary, Vigilant Chris and I can just make out that it seems the confusion arose when an order was placed with a pool attendant instead of a poolside waiter; if indeed simply saying 'beer' several times could be interpreted as an order by anyone.  

I can understand the confusion. For the less poolside-savvy, the pool attendants ("they only do towels; no beer" hissed Vigilant Chris) are dressed almost exactly the same as the poolside waiter. A lovely uniformity no doubt intended by management which I am sure has caused headaches for Vigilant Chris on more than one occasion. 

So far it's been a long and trying day and Vigilant Chris is not happy. Which, as you can well imagine, I am enjoying immensely. Hence my own vigilant monitoring and eavesdropping. 

For our part, the remainder of the afternoon will be spent productively working on what I hope will turn out to be an enviable tan - enviable for a Sydney winter in any event but certainly no match to the current top three Japanese - interspersed with swims in the pool and the gloriously temperate, strikingly-coloured ocean. All followed closely by a taxing evening beginning with late afternoon drinks on the Lanai* and culminating in what will no doubt be a memorable dining experience of Hawaiian Fusion cuisine at Roy's restaurant, conveniently located right across the road.  While I will do my level best I know already that I won't be able to go past a shared starter of Roy's Canoe (a combination of practically everything in the entree section of the menu displayed in - yes - a long plate the size of a canoe), with a main of Roy's Trio - three types of local fish (Blackened Ahi tuna, Butterfish and Shutomi).

For Vigilant Chris it will be an evening attempting to forget today's recalcitrant hotel guests and prepare for yet another trying day of inventive poolside ordering, usually by the Japanese.

* "Lanai" is the Hawaiian word for terrace or balcony, and we have a very nice one off our room on the 16th floor with commanding ocean views all the way to Diamond Head itself.  Likely another blow to Vigilant Chris.