Heart of a Champion (14 page)

He regained his wits after a short time on the bike and worked hard to make up ground. But he was forced to ride alone in no-man's land, between the lead pack and the rest of the field, while the pack increased its lead by taking advantage of the drafting that was permitted in the series. He recovered sufficiently to record the fastest run leg, running from 15th into 6th place, but it wasn't enough. ‘I had honestly felt that I had been going to win my second Olympic-distance World Triathlon Championship that day. So I was a little bit bummed about that.'

However, Greg finished 1997 on a good note by winning the Laguna Phuket Triathlon, and he looked forward to 1998—his eyes were on the prize of the World Championships because of its associated Olympic point qualifying series.

In August Greg made it into the Australian team for the World Championships in Lausanne, Switzerland, home of the IOC, and was determined to set himself up for the Olympics. But racing in a warm-up super sprint event in Koblenz, Germany—Jurgen Zack's home town— Greg struck some serious trouble. In a tight finish to the first of three sprint races, he took second place to Simon Lessing of Britain. In the second race, he led out of the water and flew into the transition. As always, he jumped onto his bike and started pedalling with his feet resting on top of the bike shoes, which were already attached to his pedals. Usually, once he had built up sufficient momentum he would seamlessly slip his feet into his shoes and power off. Not this time.

‘Normally we don't even look when we're slipping into our shoes— we do it by feel. Our wheels are thick, deep carbon rims with bladed stainless steel spokes that have a razor-sharp edge. I got my right foot in my shoe OK but then I put my left around to do the same and got it caught in the back wheel. My back wheel just stopped dead.'

Greg didn't look down. He didn't want to. He couldn't feel any pain so he slipped his foot into his shoe and pushed off. After a few laps he started feeling a strange insistent throbbing in his foot and he knew it was serious. ‘I limped into the transition on the bike, took my foot out of my shoe and I said, “I think you guys need to take me to the hospital.” When I looked down, my big toe was hanging off. I went to hospital and they sewed my toe back on. I made it back in time for the after-race party—that was good. But I had to pull out of the World Championship team and that finished my year.'

The toe was very slow to heal. More seriously, even after his toe had healed, Greg began to experience some more doubts about his mental resolve to continue racing. ‘When I was better again, I realised I wasn't psyched. I'd find myself on the start line without my usual passion for the competition. The last part of 1998 was really tough.'

By the first race of 1999, Greg had regained his hunger. He started the year with two wins and a second in his first three lead-up races to the opening ITU World Cup event in Ishigaki, Japan. ‘I was on fire in April. I went to Ishigaki and had a big win in the first World Cup of the year.'

The following week, Greg raced in Gamagori, Japan, but was ambushed by the conditions. Racing at 13°C (55.4°F), in driving rain and a 40-kph (25-mph) wind, Greg couldn't feel his body. He fought on to finish 10th—a good result considering he was battling hypothermia—and decided to look ahead to the big races, particularly Mrs. T's Pierogies Chicago Triathlon on 26 August and the ITU World Championship three weeks after that.

‘I trained with Jurgen Zack in Germany for three weeks, got on a really good roll and went to Chicago straight from Germany. I absolutely cleaned everyone's clock. It was Olympic distance and Chris McCormack, Chris Hill, Spencer Smith and Hunter Kemper were all there. We started the run together and I just ran away from them. It was incredible, it was a fantastic feeling. I knew then that everything was on track. I went to the World Championships in Montreal and I was certain that it was going to be my day.'

Because the Montreal race was scheduled for a 3 pm start, Greg had a late breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast with coffee. He followed it with a power bar and two cups of coffee at lunchtime. Big mistake. The coffee went through him like a steam train. ‘Needless to say, warming up for the race was not a very pleasant experience. I remember huddling behind the scoreboard, where they had the rowing for the 1976 Montreal Olympics, attending to nature just before the start. Then we swam in the rowing area before riding and running over a car-racing circuit. The whole time I had diarrhoea like you would not believe.'

Greg struggled through the swim and ride, and was feeling much better in the run, leading the race—until about 3 km (1.9 miles) into it, when his stomach went berserk. ‘It was really horrible. It just went. I managed to finish 12th, which was a good result. I was only 20 seconds out of a win, and my stomach was tied in knots. So I felt that was pretty good.'

Notwithstanding his disappointing finish in Montreal, as 1999 drew to a close Greg was still ranked the number one Olympic distance triathlete. With the World Championships over for the year, he was determined to finish the year on a high note. Hawaii was two months away, Sian was competing and it would be great to finish his Ironman career with her in the race. Greg also reasoned that the Ironman training would provide a solid base for Sydney 2000.

When the gold medal came up for grabs in Sydney, Greg would be 35—a great age for a triathlete, the perfect combination of peak physical capacity and experience. He had already decided that he would change his approach for 2000, starting with an early season of track and field to build up his speed. He knew that speed would be the key to gold in Sydney.

The Ironman training distances would serve as a great foundation on which to build that speed. It all made sense. Greg decided to compete in Kona one last time in 1999. It was a decision that would devastate his mother Noelene. ‘He said, “I've got some news for you,” and I didn't want to hear it. It was the first time I hadn't been charged up for Hawaii. I mean I went to Hawaii every year until about 1996. I just didn't want him to do it in 1999.

‘I had a bad feeling about it that year. I just knew something was going to go wrong. When you're a mother you know when you get that feeling. He often does that with me. I don't know what it is—I get vibes with him. I wouldn't go that year because he only told me the month before that he was going to do it and I said, “No, Greg, please don't.”'

Chapter 10
1999

L
OOKING BACK, THE PROBLEM MAY HAVE STARTED
in September at the World Triathlon Championships in Montreal, Greg's last event before the 1999 Hawaiian Ironman.

On race day in Montreal, Greg felt as sick as a dog. He put it down to the coffee-induced diarrhoea. But who knows. Elite athletes spend half their lives fighting off bugs. For long periods they push their bodies to the edge. They regularly receive signals that they've encountered a virus and their body's immune system is dealing with it. Sometimes it's a slightly elevated resting pulse rate. Sometimes it's lethargy, or a slight, hazy headache. Top athletes are so attuned to their bodies that they notice the slightest deviation from normal, but they're also used to training and competing with suppressed immune systems. Many studies have suggested that even prolonged exposure to ultraviolet light acts to suppress the immune system. Few athletic pursuits would expose their participants to more ultraviolet light than triathlon.

Often the unwell feeling disappears within a day or so. Occasionally, it develops into a full-on fight against some bug or virus. Greg knew the feeling and trusted his body to deal with it. ‘I was feeling a little anxious, my heart rate was a bit high. That could have been the first symptoms of something serious.'

As usual, he put the disappointment of Montreal behind him. Instead, he looked at the positives: he was in great Ironman shape, the Olympics were beckoning and he was in the box seat to qualify for a place on the Australian team. In high spirits Greg and Sian travelled to Kona, dreaming of double success: Greg was a genuine contender and Sian was in superb condition. However, almost as soon as Greg arrived at Kona, a virus ambushed him.

‘It laid me really low for about three or four days, about a week out from the race. Sian and I arrived on the Thursday before the race— 10 days out as usual. Then I got the virus on the Saturday. That day, then Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, I felt like crap. I didn't do a thing. Then on Wednesday I did a little bit of light training and Thursday a bit more. I had Friday off.'

On the Wednesday morning, Sian swam in Kona Bay after a heavy rainstorm and picked up a bug from the water. For 24 hours she was violently ill, with vomiting and diarrhoea. The next day she was back to peak form, but Greg was still as sick as a dog.

Greg couldn't count the number of times he'd told others not to train when they had a virus. Athletes knew the risks. They knew that being super fit didn't necessarily mean being super healthy. They knew that pushing their bodies to the outer limits when they were fighting off a virus could potentially do great damage. In exceptional cases the virus could penetrate the body's defences and attack vital organs. One real risk was myocarditis, an inflammation of the heart muscle that is caused by a viral infection. Greg knew the risks. In any case, by Saturday, race day, he was feeling better.

‘I was much better. I was about 85 per cent but I was much better. I had a decision to make, but I was always going to start. Why? Why not? The Ironman is my life. And I had to be on the start line with everybody. I had that competitive thing going—I needed to be on that start line.'

Truth be told, Greg was inhaling the heady scent of victory again. Even at 85 per cent, he backed himself to win his second Hawaiian Ironman title. He knew he was super fit and he was ready to go. Even if his riding suffered—he knew that it was on that race leg he would suffer the most from his reduced energy level—and he lost 5 or 10 minutes on the bike, he would still back himself to run around 2 hours 45 minutes for the marathon and win. As always, there was another irresistible underlying motivation: Greg felt he had to compete to do the right thing for the sake of all the people who supported him, especially those who'd come all the way from Australia and overseas to barrack for him.

So, on race morning, he went through his normal routine. Up at 4 am, he fuelled up with a good breakfast, stayed calm, sat down and mentally rehearsed his race. Kona's fresh sea breezes teased the bay and the warm morning air infused him with energy. Everything was fine. He felt nearly back to normal as he warmed up. He was ready to go. Maybe he'd still be able to star in that happy-ending movie dream he'd filed away deep in his hope chest—victory in the Ironman, followed by home-town Olympic gold and then retirement.

In the swim, Greg got away to a brilliant start. At the gun, he surged early to break away from the churning pack and quickly settled into a powerful rhythmic stroke rating. He was focused. He thought about his stroke, about feeling the water with his hands, about reaching long and making powerful strokes. Twenty minutes into the swim, he was one of four swimmers leading the pack by about 75 m (82 yd). After they passed the Hilton Hotel, Greg lined himself up on the turnaround boat about 500 m (546.8 yd) ahead and powered on, easily keeping up with the leaders and feeling optimistic because he was in such a good position so early in the race. He was just turning his thoughts to how he'd approach the turnaround when, without warning, his body went numb. It was as if someone had kicked out his power plug.

‘I was suddenly short of breath. From one stroke to the next, it just hit me. I went completely numb and then I started having trouble getting my arms over. They felt like I was carrying a load of bricks in each hand. I was suddenly short of breath, absolutely no breath. After about 10 strokes I couldn't breathe, my chest was exploding. But I didn't know what was happening. I thought I was having an asthma attack.'

Greg felt as if he was trapped in a weird dream where he'd lost control of his body. His arms became so heavy he was forced to stop swimming and tread water. A flash of panic seared through him as he fleetingly thought he might sink into the blue depths below him. His fight-or-flight response kicked in, and his lifelong familiarity with the ocean was challenged by man's primal fear of drowning. He was pulled back to reality when the TV camera boat pulled alongside him. Somehow he regained some composure as they briefly filmed him treading water before powering off to shoot the leaders as they made the turnaround.

As he stared into the rising sun and tried to gather his wits, Greg was having trouble focusing his mind. Nevertheless, he was alert enough to know he couldn't raise his arm to signal distress because the rescue paddlers would take him straight out of the race. There was no way he'd allow that. Greg Welch didn't quit races. In more than 300 starts, he'd pulled out of perhaps four races. All were effectively for mechanical reasons: that torn soleus muscle in Ironman Germany in 1995; a serious kick to the gut that completely winded him in Surfers Paradise in 1992; a smashed front wheel on a 90-kph (55-mph) descent in Nice in 1991; and maybe one other that he couldn't recall. Pulling out simply wasn't an option.

‘At first I thought, “I'm in the Ironman. I'm OK, I'm not racing again for three months, I'll go out there and just have a training run.” I wasn't pulling out. You get into sport to start and finish something. That's your goal.'

But what Greg didn't know at the time was that his heart was maxing out at 320 beats a minute. It was incapable of pumping blood properly. His blood was stagnant, his brain was being starved of vital oxygen. Yet he still managed to pull to the side of the course to let the main body of swimmers pass by. A lifeguard on a surf ski paddled over and Greg grabbed onto his board. The lifeguard told Greg to hop on and he'd take him to shore. Greg shook his head. The guard warned him that if he held on to the board for more than a minute he'd have to take him out of the race anyway. Through his haze, Greg recognised the paddler as Michael McMichael, the race water safety director.

‘I said, “Michael, it's Greg,” and pulled my goggles up. He says, “You can't hang on too long, man, you're going to have to get back in the race or you're going to have to pull out. I'll get a boat over here to take you in.” I said, “Just let me hang on, I just can't breathe for a moment. I don't know what's happened to me. Think I'm having an asthma attack.”'

Greg's initial reaction had some compelling logic to it. After some testing at the Australian Institute of Sport in 1997, he'd been stunned when he'd been diagnosed as being asthmatic. He'd never had an attack, before or since, but now he figured, “This must be what it's like.” What else could it have been? He'd been tested countless times on virtually every piece of medical equipment available. In 1995, after an exhaustive battery of tests, he'd been declared the fittest man on earth in a television story produced by
60 Minutes
.

He let go of the surf ski, and after about 2 minutes rest, started to feel his body return to normal. He felt the oxygen flood back into his brain. ‘It was as if someone had been crushing my head in a vice and then suddenly released it. It was an unbelievable relief.'

The recovery only added to Greg's conviction that he had suffered an asthma attack. The first thing that flashed through his mind was how quickly he could make up the time he'd surrendered. ‘I got straight back into it and powered off to the turnaround buoy. Then, just after the turnaround it happened again, 5 minutes later. This time I just rolled over on my back, and slowed my breathing for a little while. The second one didn't last long. I just did a bit of backstroke and I seemed to come good again. I swam off, but then it happened again about 5 minutes later.'

Again Greg waited until the attack eased and his body returned to normal before he gingerly swam off. This time he backed off his pace and it didn't happen again in the swim. Coming out of the water, Greg saw Sarah Legh, the wife of Aussie triathlete Chris Legh. ‘I just said, “Something's happening.” She didn't know what I meant but she and her group of Aussies kept an eye on me as I headed off on the bike.'

Greg felt much better coming out of the water and through the transition onto his bike. Again, the champion's mindset kicked in, and he began to focus on how he'd make up the time he had surrendered. He usually swam around 50 minutes for the 3.86-km (2.4-mile) Ironman swim leg. His best was 49 minutes, but with the attacks, this time he'd finished in just under 57 minutes.

Paula Newby-Fraser wasn't racing that year. She first noticed something was amiss with Greg when he didn't come out of the swim when she expected. Then confused reports began to filter through. ‘I'd heard that he was hanging onto the surfboard on the swim and I wondered what was happening. Was he having an asthma attack? I just knew something had gone wrong with Greg. There were a million different things that happened to Greg over the course of his career in a race. Nobody knew if he was hyperventilating or having performance anxiety. Nobody in their wildest dreams thought it was a heart problem.'

During the changeover to the bike, Greg had tossed up whether to launch a major fightback or to treat the race as an Olympic training run. ‘I eventually decided to just go out and have a training day. Not waste myself, but get some value from it.'

Once on the bike, Greg barely made it to the 3 km (1.9 miles) mark on the highway when he was hit again…and again…and again. About every 2 minutes, it struck. ‘First of all, I'd stop pedalling, and after about 20 or 30 seconds it'd go away. And then I'd go again. Then it would hit again, and I'd stop pedalling and freewheel until it went away.'

The attacks persisted and intensified. Soon Greg was forced to dismount and rest his head on his handlebars, trying to fight back by slowing his breathing down. He'd always been able to bring down his heart rate almost at will, by relaxing and slowing down his breathing. When
60 Minutes
subjected him to the comprehensive battery of tests in 1995 that led to the ‘fittest man in the world' tag, cameraman Nick Lee was watching as Greg was wired up. He noticed that Greg's heartbeat was showing up on the monitor around 80 beats a minute. ‘I nudged Greg and said, “I thought you were fit, mate.” He said, “I'm a bit nervous. Wait a sec.” Then he lent against the exercise machine, put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and began breathing really slowly. A minute or so later, he'd brought his heart rate down to about 40 beats a minute! I was pretty impressed.'

But the old tricks were having little impact now.

Each attack would eventually ease of its own accord, then Greg would remount and ride on. But still the attacks came, now irregularly: sometimes 2 or 3 minutes apart, sometimes not for another 10 km (6.2 miles), or even for another 15 km (9.3 miles). But they kept coming and, over the 180-km (111.8-mile) journey through the lava fields, Greg endured at least 15 full-strength attacks. Each time, he doggedly freewheeled or dismounted until they passed, and then he pedalled away. Incredibly, despite the attacks, by the time he finished the ride, he'd only dropped a little over 20 minutes off his normal time.

Although doubts began to creep into his mind, Greg still didn't consider quitting the race or even the possibility that his attacks could be heart related. ‘I simply didn't think it could happen to me. I just thought it was an asthma attack. I must've had my heart checked 1000 times over the years. How could there be any problem there?'

The toll of the continued attacks was beginning to tell, however, and by the transition from the bike to the run leg, Greg was questioning whether he should continue. He decided to go on. As bizarre as it may seem to most of us, to an elite triathlete this decision makes sense. Greg simply saw it as a chance to put some valuable training on his legs.

About 8 km (5 miles) into the run, while he was in about 40th place, Greg saw Sarah Legh and her parents again. He knew her father was a doctor and her mother a nurse. He stopped and talked with them. They were clearly concerned, and asked whether he was all right. ‘I just said, “I don't know if I'm having an asthma attack or what, but I'm just getting really numb all of a sudden. I'll be running and everything's fine but then I just go all numb and I can't breathe, I get short of breath.”'