Posted on: Thursday, November 25, 1999 Recreation: Run to the Sun - A grueling challenge from the first step at sea level, to 10,023 feet atop Haleakala by Michael Tsai Special to the Advertiser You're here because you can't get the race out of your head. You've heard the stories, seen the strange twinkle in the eyes of finishers. You have no illusions. You talked to the seasoned marathoner who fell to the ground screaming when his muscles seized at mile 23. You trained with the guy who needed an IV to rehydrate after last year's race. You know all there is to know about hypoxia and hypothermia. Those who've completed the Haleakala Run to the Sun remember the experience in their muscles, their bones and their blood. But for you, one of so many first-timers here this morning in September, what lies ahead is still too large to comprehend. To prepare for this most unique race, you've spent a dozen weekends running up and down Tantalus Drive on Oahu, up and down so many times you can close your eyes and know exactly where you are by the smell of the forest. But still you don't understand. Thirty-six miles from Kahului to the summit of Haleakala, an ascent of more than 10,000 feet. Concrete numbers with a completely abstract meaning. There are nearly a hundred of you here this morning - the biggest field ever, according to race director John Salmonson. There are several relay teams here, as well. Most of you have come from Oahu, several others from the Mainland or abroad. The start is informal, like the rest of the race. No starter's pistol or fireworks, just Salmonson and small band of sleepy friends and family to cheer loudly into the morning. You start the race with your training partners close by, but soon you're on your own. You follow the course away from Hana Highway and onto Cane Haul Road. The darkness is thick with the smell of burning cane and the sound of low, even breaths. Every few minutes, the headlights of a passing support car reveal the shapes of other runners, assuring you that you aren't alone. Here, away from the city lights, the constellations seem close enough to touch. You can see Orion and Scorpio. You see a planet - Venus, perhaps - and, just below, a tiny red light marking the summit of the volcano. Then, as dawn breaks, you see the volcano itself taking shape against the sky. The road is full of friends and acquaintances. At the third aid station, Stephanie Antonio - suffering through an untimely cold - steels herself for the second leg of the relay. Up ahead, husband John Antonio tackles the first set of rolling hills. Another couple, Eric and Millie Schatz, are also sharing the road. Today is Millie's long-awaited return to the volcano after a two-pregnancy hiatus. She was seven months pregnant last year when she served as Eric's support crew. Eric finished that race in the top 10 with a time of six hours and 44 minutes. "You have to credit Millie," he says. "Having her there just motivates me." At mile 7, your own crew scolds you for not drinking more, but your stomach is a tangle of anxious knots. "Relax," you say to yourself. By the time you hit Pulehuiki Road, the morning cool has dissipated and a series of steep rolling hills shocks your muscles to attention. You have a single goal for the day: finish before the 10-hour cutoff. To do this, you plan keep running at 10- to 11-minute per mile pace for as long as you can. At mile 12, facing about a mile of long, difficult ascents, you walk for the first of many times. For the next few miles, you try to run in five-minute intervals but the grade is relentless; you wonder if you'll be able to continue for another 20-plus miles. Lucky for you, Richard China has you in his sights. He catches you at near mile 16 and shares with you a simple, amazingly effective strategy: run a minute, walk a minute. Change of pace works You run and walk, run and walk with China for the next 14 miles, listening carefully for the timer in his watch to signal your intervals. Along the way, you learn that this run is just a tune-up; he's training for a 100-miler, his second of the year. China offers another valuable bit of advice: Look around. Sure enough, each switchback has its own unique vista. You cross a small stand of pine trees and breathe deeply. You pass nene napping on the side of the road and silverswords clinging to sheer hillsides. Along the way, Richard recruits new members for his ad hoc running clinic. First Petra Hofmann, a visitor from Heidelberg, Germany; then Dwight Yamada from Waianae and Shoko Koyama from Honolulu. "Run one minute, walk one minute," he tells them. Together you pass a dozen runners on the switchbacks. As you approach the Ranger Station, the temperature drops. Your skin is suddenly slick with moisture from a low-lying cloud. Your nose runs. You reach the station without realizing you've completed a marathon. All you know is that you have another 10 miles to go. The air will get thinner. The pain in your hip and knees and feet will only get worse. After an extended pitstop, you leave the Ranger Station. It's just after 11 a.m. In another few minutes, Pam Reed will cross the finish line to win the women's division. For the next four miles, you struggle to keep up with China and the group. You take water, Gatorade, pretzels and bananas at each stop, but there's no relief. Finally, after a roadside bathroom stop, you lose them for good. If you are to reach the summit, you'll have to do it alone. Last miles the toughest After mile 30, you're not allowed to get help from your support crew. You run for a few seconds at a time, but the effort makes you dizzy. The air parches your eyes and sinuses; you feel your scalp cooking under the sun, which is now 8,000 feet closer to your head. Sometime during the last two miles, a group of friends passes you in a van. They reach out and you slap their hands as they pass, or so they'll tell you later. You won't remember. The final aid station is empty by the time you get there, but the proximity of the finish line rekindles the fire in your belly. You jog past baffled tourists, walk the steepest portions of the turns and jog again until you see the clock at the top of the final hill: 8:51:11. Your pace quickens, you stride, then sprint. You cross the finish line at 8:51:25 and stagger to the middle of the parking lot where the parade of congratulations begins. But the race isn't over yet. Salmonson, whose wife, P.J. finished ninth among women, waits at the finish line to greet each finisher, including one he's been waiting years to see. "John has been trying to get me to do his race for years," says Jim Arnold. "But my wife said I couldn't do it until I quit smoking." Arnold, a smoker for nearly 30 years, gave up the habit for good in January 1998. He finished the race in nine hours and 23 minutes. (c) COPYRIGHT 1999 The Honolulu Advertiser, a division of Gannett Co. Inc.