He had climbed the
cliffs back at Kaena Point, thinking that because telephone wires were up
there, a road might be. "I climbed ledge after ledge and it got awfully
hard, so I looked back and I said, 'Oh, no...the path's down there.' " His
crashing descent had been at the expense of his legs.
"Harvey is an
accumulation of everything that has ever gone wrong with a runner," said
about what a mess I am," Shultz agreed. "Look at this blister on my
Henderson asked if
he had any moleskin with him.
Shultz glanced at
the lawn to his right and to his left. "I haven't seen a mole in the
longest time," he said with innocent desperation, as though he might be
expected to catch one.
During lulls in a
four-hour lunch of Portuguese sweet bread, honey, Primo, roast beef, cheese,
Manoa lettuce, orange and more Primo, we swam in a little bay; signed a
petition against a deepwater harbor for oil tankers at nearby Barbers Point;
showered in the park lawn sprinklers; and heard the tale of the three high
school kids from Ramona, Calif. who were running with us. Bruce Breon, Ralph
Mittman and Larry Hargis had somehow talked their teachers into cutting them
loose for three weeks in April and May on the promise that they would write
extensive reports on their experience. They'd dived for golf balls in Southern
California water hazards and sold them back to pro shops to raise their plane
fare to Hawaii. "Cross-country is what I love," said Mittman, "but
I've never seen anyone do it like Harvey."
cross-country," said Henderson. "That's rock surfing. Hey, Harvey,
On the third day
we were running by 7 a.m., easing into the idea of 23 miles, when Dave Erb, 28,
a Colorado Springs builder who had been laying off the pace the first two days,
moved strongly ahead. In ragged single file we ran down the west side of Oahu,
the first 12 miles along the Farrington Highway, a four-lane glut of buses and
trucks and menacing boxy vans with darkly tinted windshields. The vehicles
blasted by our elbows with what seemed blind indifference, each tightening our
nerves one increment more as it passed.
Then we left the
main road and followed an old highway eight miles through cane fields. Sections
of cane were being burned before cutting. Rats and mongooses ran before the
fire. Through the smoke and floating ash we got our first look at the tiny
profile of Diamond Head, far off to the southeast, proof that we were making
Henderson and I, running in a little group, passed used-car lots and taverns
along Kamehameha Highway. Flimsy suburban roofs terraced the slopes of Pearl
City above us. After 22 miles, when I yearned to be done, Jones seemed to come
to. "How far are we going today?" he asked, apparently just having
thought of it. Henderson stared at him.