Heart of a Champion (2 page)

As he heads off after Ken Glah, Greg is joined by Peter Kropko. Dave Scott follows 30 seconds behind. Greg notices Dave is looking a little stiff after the bike. By the first turnaround, about 3 km (1.9 miles) into the run, Dave is falling a little bit further back. Greg realises Dave thinks the pace is too fast: his experience is telling him he'll be able to catch them later. He hopes Dave is wrong.

Just as he did during the swim and the bike ride, Greg breaks the run into segments. First, there's the run out of the transition point, a very hard climb, then down into the pit and a hard climb all the way back to the Kona Surf. Then there's the descent and the run along Ali'i Drive. As he ticks off the segments he concentrates on holding it together, establishing his pace, getting his rhythm and keeping up his nutrition. He draws on the experience of six previous attempts. He's learnt that in the early stages of the run, when the crowd kicks him along, he will be pumped with adrenalin. Now his goal is to hold his rhythm. He knows it's easy to run a lot faster when you're swept along by the crowd, but it can burn up energy that may be critical at the end.

Along Ali'i Drive, Peter Kropko drops off the pace. Normally one of the sport's top runners, he'd gone far too hard on the bike and paid the price in the run. At one stage he bumps shoulders with Greg. First Greg thinks he's trying to psyche him but soon he realises Peter is bonking (or ‘hitting the wall'). Peter goes over in spectacular style, grabbing a dolphin-shaped letterbox and taking it to the ground with him. Greg and the others share a sly grin.

About a quarter of the way into the run, at the bottom of Palani Hill, Greg catches Ken Glah. By the top of the hill, Greg has 15 m (16.4 yd) on him. It's not the first time Greg has led the Ironman but it's the first time he's felt good doing it. A few kilometres later, Greg looks back. He's out on his own.

He's feeling very strong but continues to try to run at a controlled pace so he can combat the hard times he knows are ahead. Normally, the most testing times come when the runners are battling through the lava, far from the crowds. The leaders run through there during the hottest part of the day. In this cauldron, the tropical sun at the height of its power combines with the heat radiating from the lava onto the soles of the feet, magnifying any lingering self-doubts. Temperatures along Highway 19 regularly top 50°C (122°F) on the road. Dave Scott once said it's like racing on the moon. Only the strongest will survive this test.

As he suspected, the doubts begin to tease Greg along the Queen K Highway. Has he hydrated enough? Did he go out too hard? Will he bonk? What if someone challenges, and he's forced to run into his red zone? But each time the doubts float up, he dismisses them. Things are different this year. For the first time, Greg hasn't walked through a single aid station or resorted to taking a walking ‘breather' because he felt he was in danger of hitting the wall.

The run course winds down to the entrance gates of the Natural Energy Laboratory, a local landmark. It's a strange, sloping side street off the main road leading down to the gates of the laboratory. It's sheltered from the prevailing winds and signals that the runners have made it past halfway. Greg is looking forward to it because there's a little loop there that will give him a chance to check on any challengers—the value of experience again. The loop takes about one and a half minutes. Runners go past the Energy Lab by about 400 m (437.5 yd) and then do a U-turn before running into the Lab. Perfect, thinks Greg. If there's no one chasing by the time I do the loop, I've pretty much got it won.

He starts his watch on the turn and looks up—straight at Dave Scott, who's heading into the loop. Twelve seconds on his watch, double that for the loop and Dave is about 24 seconds behind him…and looking just as strong as you'd expect the Lord of the Lava to look.

Greg turns right and heads down to the Energy Lab, trying to hide his surprise and hold his form as he strides all the way down to the bottom, turns, goes to the end and does another U-turn.

He doesn't look around. Just as well. Dave surges and pulls to within 11 seconds on the down slope. Greg has heard Dave say many times at the pre-race press conferences that people usually fall apart in the Lab. Dave likes to point out the area is usually deserted and very hot and that's where he likes to make his move. Greg can almost feel the Lava Lord's intimidation.

He starts his watch again at the turnaround and…12 seconds again to Dave into the turn. Still 24 seconds. Greg thinks, ‘Great, no gain.' Little does he know, Dave has surged and faded.

Now Greg knows it's exactly 10.67 km (6.6 miles) to the finish. Experience again. He's going to have to run the best 10 km (6.2 miles) of his life to win this. Think positive. What was the best 10 km training he's ever run? Plant the winning seed. Recapture that feeling? Right, replay it.

Greg looks deep inside himself. He asks the hard questions: ‘Who am I? What am I made of? How much do I want this?'

He responds by holding his pace, banking that Dave won't be able to maintain his surge. Greg is certain that he's strong enough to hold his pace through the final 10 km (6.2 miles). As long as he holds his nerve and doesn't panic and blow up.

Soon it's clear that Greg's persistence is being rewarded. Dave starts to fade ever so slightly. Greg's lead edges out to 20, then 40, then to 52 seconds. Greg now knows he made the right decision at the Energy Lab. If he'd surged then, he might have used too much energy and bonked. Still, this is Dave Scott, six-time champion, Lord of the Lava. Greg fights to keep concentrating as he devours the kilometres. He sees Kona ahead and thinks it's ironic that he's powering on while the legend is fading just at the point where he always predicts he will break the field.

At the last hill, with about 3 km (1.9 miles) to go, Greg hears someone yell out: ‘You've got it. He's nowhere in sight!' He doesn't trust the spectator so he sneaks a quick look behind. Can you believe it! There's nobody. Greg walks through the last aid station to make sure he gets a long draught of cool, delicious water. His emotions start to lift. By the top of Palani Hill, the larrikin starts to emerge. The crowd is going off. Greg's fist is pumping the air. About 1 km (0.6 miles) out, a spectator hands him a huge Aussie flag on a heavy wooden pole. Greg carries it for a couple of hundred metres before his arm begins to cramp, so he hands it back into the crowd. Suddenly his father-in-law Vince appears. He runs alongside Greg and shoves a tiny Australian flag into his hand as they head down Ali'i Drive.

Over the final metres, a kaleidoscope of thoughts fast-forwards through Greg's mind. He doesn't have to worry about segmenting the race anymore. He doesn't have to worry about bonking. Or the surgeries down the years. Or the broken knee. Or the doubts. The thoughts cascade through his mind. ‘I'm going to be the Ironman Champion after six attempts. The first time it's gone to a non-American—an Australian. Enjoy it. I've got a 4-minute lead. I want that last 400 m (437.5 yd) to last a long time. I want it to be ten times as long. I want it to be one lifelong celebration.'

About 20 m (21.9 yd) before the line, Greg stops and bows to the crowd. This one is special. This is a win for the little people. The bow is a heartfelt thank you to all those who have helped Greg through the years.

Somehow Greg finds the strength for his trademark spectacular kangaroo hop over the line. Through the roar of the crowd, he hears the booming voice of the perennial Ironman finish-line commentator, Mike Reilly: ‘Greg Welch…you are the Ironman Champion!'

Chapter 2
The Astronauts of Sport

E
VERY YEAR, ON THE FIRST
S
ATURDAY IN
O
CTOBER
closest to the full moon, they gather. They come from around the world to the lava fields of Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii to subject themselves to what is surely the world's most gruelling one-day sporting event. They are the astronauts of sport and they come to explore the outer limits of human endurance. Like the original settlers of the magical Hawaiian Islands, they launch themselves into the unknown, braving the worst that nature can throw at them, while pushing their minds, bodies and spirits to breaking point.

They come to compete in the Ironman Triathlon World Championships. Those who have qualified for the right to start have already pushed themselves to superhuman lengths. The elite competitors are full-time athletes who dedicate at least 35 hours a week to Ironman training—perhaps 20 km (12.4 miles) of swimming, 700 km (435 miles) of bike riding and 120 to 130 km (74.6 to 80.8 miles) of running each week. The age-groupers (part-timers competing according to their age) can demand even more of themselves, and many exceed even these distances.

The great irony is that the Hawaiian Ironman Triathlon started as a dare, a testosterone and alcohol fuelled argument about who were the fitter athletes—swimmers, cyclists or runners.

US Navy Commander John Collins competed in the first modern triathlon in San Diego in 1974. Four years later, by then stationed in Honolulu, he was locked in a fierce debate with friends over a few drinks. Was the 4-km (2.5-mile) Waikiki Rough Water Swim tougher than an Olympic marathon? Was the 180-km (111.8-mile) annual bike race around the island of Oahu tougher still? As the glasses piled up on the table, the stakes rose higher and higher. Eventually, someone threw out the ultimate challenge: what about a combination of all three? Anyone who could finish that race would truly be an iron man!

To the average person, the challenge is at best crazy and, at worst, downright lethal. Competitors swim 2.4 miles (3.86 km), ride 112 miles (180 km), then run an Olympic distance marathon (26.2 miles, or 42 km), one after the other. To put these into perspective: the swim leg is equal to 80 laps of an Olympic pool; the cycle leg would take you from Sydney to Newcastle or from Los Angeles to San Diego; and the marathon is the equivalent of about 105 laps of a 400-m (437.5-yd) athletic track. The athletes have to endure not only these extraordinary distances but also the heat of Hawaii, the swells of the ocean, and unpredictable trade winds.

The Ironman's strange distances come from the combined event's three original components: the Waikiki Rough Water Swim out-and-back open ocean race; the Around Oahu Bike Ride that loops around the island's perimeter; and the Honolulu Marathon, one of the most popular Olympic-length races in the world. That was the challenge. The lure was best summed up by John Collins: ‘Swim 2.4, ride 112, run 26.2. Then brag for the rest of your life.'

In 1978, the original 15 men who dived into the Waikiki surf had one simple goal: survival. They were pioneers. In fact, until taxi driver and fitness fanatic Gordon Haller staggered across the finish line after almost 12 hours of torture, nobody was even sure that the feat was possible. During the run, Haller passed a badly fading US Navy Seal, John Dunbar, after Dunbar's support team had resorted to feeding him beer when they ran out of water. Dunbar stumbled into second place. John Collins finished ninth in a tick over 17 hours (now the cut-off time for finishers). He could have come home quicker had he not stopped for a bowl of chilli during the bike ride. The last to finish, Harold Irving, crossed 12th in just over 21 hours. In fact, towards the end, one of the tailenders had stopped off at the local Denny's fast-food outlet, picked up the day's local paper and read about the race in which he was still competing!

The following year, another 15 hopefuls turned up. Among them was the first woman competitor, Lyn Lemaire, who finished fifth overall in just under 13 hours. The winner, Tom Warren, was a San Diego barkeeper. He finished in 11 hours 15 minutes.

By the Ironman's third running in 1980, the word was out, helped by a
Sports Illustrated
article featuring Tom Warren, who then appeared on
The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson
. While more than 100 starters turned up, many still had only a vague idea of what they were in for. Bob Babbitt, for example, arrived with a sleeping bag and supplies because he thought it was a two-day event. Bob thought you did the swim, rode out halfway on the bike, then camped overnight before completing the ride and the marathon the next day.

That year, two things changed the event's fortunes: Dave Scott, a swimming teacher and water polo star from the University of California, lined up for the race, and the US TV network ABC's
Wide World of Sports
decided to cover it. Dave Scott won that year, beating the second placegetter by an hour. He would go on to win another five times. The
Wide World of Sports
coverage would bring the event to the world and inspire thousands to attempt to join the exclusive Ironman finishers' club.

By 1981 the race had outgrown the traffic congestion of Honolulu, so it was moved to the township of Kailua-Kona on the island of Hawaii. Nevertheless, despite its growing reputation, chances are the Ironman would have remained one of a number of extreme sport curiosities had it not been for a 23-year-old, red-haired southern Californian university student named Julie Moss. In the first of two Ironman races held in 1982, Julie Moss elevated the event to sporting legend.

Going into the run, Moss led Kathleen McCartney, another Californian college student, by 18 minutes. McCartney ran strongly and gradually cut back Moss's lead. But with about 10 km (6.2 miles) left, the gap was still 8 minutes—surely an unbeatable lead. McCartney had mentally conceded the race. But, unknown to her, only about 4 km (2.5 miles) from the finish line, Moss ‘hit the wall'.

Wide World of Sports
captured every chilling moment as Moss struggled on. Eleven hours of swimming, cycling and running had drained her body of glycogen and she was rapidly losing control. Still, driven by raw courage, she staggered on. By the time Moss wobbled on to Ali'i Drive with the finish almost in sight, she was in some strange twilight zone, her mind fighting to stop her body from shutting down. Oblivious to the crowd willing her on, she shuddered to a halt about 400 m (437.5 yd) from the finish line and slowly collapsed. She sat there staring, unable to move, for 3 minutes.

Back along the course, Kathleen McCartney realised something weird was happening ahead. She saw that the helicopter covering the leader was barely moving and her hopes soared again. She drew on that renewed hope and picked up her pace.

Somehow Julie Moss got to her feet and lurched towards the finish. Just 100 m (109.3 yd) shy of her goal, she fell again. As if in slow motion, she regained her senses and dragged herself upright. She stumbled on. She almost fell again about 50 m (54.7 yd) out, but reeled towards the glare of the lights at the finish. Her courage astounded the crowd. Most watched through tears, many sobbed openly. With perhaps 15 paces left, Julie Moss went down again. This time she couldn't get back up. Those closest to her could see she'd lost control of her bowels. Her legs refused to respond, so she crawled. She drew on some hidden inner spirit as she dragged herself forward, metre by metre.

Mesmerised by Julie Moss's titanic struggle, few saw Kathleen McCartney slip past and glide over the finish line. Kathleen herself had no idea she'd passed Julie and only realised she'd won when one of the TV crew told her she'd finished first. Kathleen crossed the line in 11 hours 9 minutes 40 seconds. Twenty-nine seconds later, Julie Moss, still crawling, pulled herself over the line.

When the footage was shown around the world, millions were moved, thousands were captivated by the emerging sport and a legend was born.

This is the world that captured the imagination of a promising young amateur runner from Sydney and drove him on. By the time he'd realised his dream and become the first non-American to win the Hawaiian Ironman World Championships, Greg Welch had effectively swum across the Pacific Ocean, ridden to the moon and run more than twice around the world.