Life Without Limits, A

by Wellington, Chrissie

  Brett used to organise birthday sets, whereby everyone followed the routine he had devised for the birthday girl or boy on their special day. Which meant we were all in trouble on Hillary’s birthday. Hillary is a masochist at the best of times, but for her birthday in Leysin in 2008 she asked for agony – and we all got it. The day started with 100 reps of 100m in the pool, all on 1min 30sec – that’s a 10km swim. Erica Csomor had made us muffins, which she placed by the poolside as a treat for when we’d finished. Then, at lunchtime we had a two-hour ride with an hour of hill repeats, followed in the afternoon by a two-and-a-quarter-hour ride with a 20km time trial. We finished off, of course, with that 16km climb up the mountain to Leysin. I had horse steak for dinner that night.

  After that kind of session – after any kind of session – it is vital that you recuperate. I would go so far as to describe recovery as the fourth discipline of a triathlete. This is a very hard thing for me to say, and it was even harder for me to put into practice. The idea of rest flies in the face of every value I have lived my life by. I should be the last person to preach downtime, having indulged in so little of it during my life before triathlon, but I am fully converted now. I realise it is not the actual sessions of swim, bike and run that make you fitter, it is the periods you spend recovering in between, during which your body adapts and regenerates. That’s why I say that I train 24/7 – recovery is training. It’s the most important part of it, in fact.

  Again, it might take another book to explore properly the different techniques and disciplines of recovery. Each athlete will have a personal take on what works best, each equally valid. What follows are the brushstrokes.

  Around 10 per cent of your physical training should involve ‘cooling off’ (or warming down), by which is meant gentle (really gentle, almost unnaturally so) swim/bike/running at the end of each session. This can also include targeted light stretching.

  I rest two days a month, which might not sound like much, but then I’m a pro, so I have the luxury of hours of downtime during my normal week, which the majority of amateurs are not afforded. There is no rule here, but I would suggest incorporating a rest day every seven to ten days in a typical training regime. Whatever feels right – again, listen to your body, irrespective of pre-planned training schedules. And spending the day shopping or gardening doesn’t count as rest. It has to involve sitting down, preferably on a sofa. This is not wasted time. Banish that guilt and rest assured that your sofa is making you faster, stronger and more resilient.

  Wearing skin-tight compression garments is a must, albeit it in a tasteful manner. These increase blood flow to the muscles, enhance the removal of waste products and support the muscles. Massage, too, is an important means of recovery, if time and finances allow.

  And, of course, there’s nutrition and hydration. Again, as detailed elsewhere, there have been periods in my life when I have been in no position to hold forth on this subject. But I have, despite myself at times, always loved food, and finding out that healthy practice does not rule out a diet of almost anything – as long as it is in moderation – has been one of the joys of recent years. Sports nutrition is another subject that could stretch to a book in its own right. Asker, my friend from Birmingham University, has written two of the best, and has played a key role in shaping my diet into what it is today. I have also read extensively on the subject, and would encourage anyone else to do the same. I am amazed at how many neglect this part of their training and fail to fuel their bodies with what they need in order to function effectively. The basic principles are these: keep it simple, eat natural foods as much as possible, balance intake with output and have everything in moderation. If you follow those principles, nothing is ‘naughty’, unless it’s eaten (or drunk) to excess. That’s when the balance is corrupted.

  So what does my daily diet look like? It is healthy and balanced, with fresh fruits and vegetables, whole grains and good fats (with some saturated ones thrown in too).

  I have two breakfasts. One when I wake up, before my first session. This is a couple of rice cakes or a frozen banana, with sunflower butter and honey on top, washed down with an oversized cup of Joe. Decaf is not in my vocabulary. After my first session I have my second breakfast: either hot oatmeal with some nut butter mixed in and covered with honey, or a huge bowl of raw oats, nuts, seeds, dried fruit, coconut and yogurt mixed together. For lunch I have either a baked potato, some wholegrain bread or brown rice salad with a combination of either tinned tuna, sliced meats, pulses or eggs, as well as a bigger-than-average bowl of cereal and some nuts or fruit as a snack.

  I eat meat most evenings, either fish or white meat – with red meat once a week to keep my iron levels up. I also love liver and kidneys. On the side I have salad or veggies and a big pile of ‘complex’ carbs or potatoes. Dessert is always a bowl of cereal and frozen berries with Muscle Milk. I have olive oil on everything. Even porridge.

  I don’t deprive myself of any foods. A few pieces of dark chocolate a day definitely don’t do me any harm, and as for pizza – well, I can always squeeze one of those in. The key is to find out what fuels work best for you, and to see nutrition and hydration as part of training your body to be the best it can be.

  Lastly, I would stress the need for an off-season. As with a day off, this can seem like the most heinous crime of decadence to any self-respecting sport obsessive. Well, feel guilty if you have to, but make yourself do it anyway. Six weeks is my chosen length of holiday, which begins after my last race of the season. For the first two weeks, I do nothing but enjoy myself with friends and family, reliving the life I once had – theatre, concerts, eating out. I do no exercise whatsoever. Then I embark on a two-week period of sporting activity that doesn’t involve swimming, biking or running; just enough to fire up the aerobic system once again. The third stage of my off-season is when I venture out again to the pool or on the road, but the exercise will be much less intense than normal. I can still lie in each morning, and there will be no sign of a logbook anywhere about the house. Only then, after six weeks, will I start to build up for the new season with something that might be recognisable as focused training, albeit still with an emphasis on aerobic fitness. That off-season will have given you a break from your routine and rejuvenated your body and mind. You will feel refreshed and ready to pursue new goals.

  But it is at the races that we enjoy the fruits of our labour. It’s every bit as important to develop a routine for these, as it is for your weekly training.

  I arrive a week before an ironman (ten days for Kona), or three days before a half-ironman, having gathered beforehand as much information on the race as I can. In the days before, I run part of the course with an iPod in my ear. That way, when I am out there during the race, I can hear those well-chosen motivational songs at certain landmarks. I have a gentle massage two days before to relax the mind and muscles (not the day before, as that can leave you feeling sluggish). By then I will have cut down on fibre and the more complex carbohydrates, sticking to plain foods such as white rice, bread and pasta. Together with the reduction in training, it ensures my glycogen levels are full but not overflowing. The day before, having racked my bike, I walk through the transition areas, checking where I’ll come in and leave, and picturing myself doing so. Then I will go home, close my eyes and visualise the race in my head, reinforcing my plans for dealing with the inevitable ups and downs. My pre-race meal is tuna pasta, before some time in front of the television.

  It’s early to bed (around 8 p.m.). I will have set two alarms to wake me two hours and forty-five minutes before the start, which usually means around 4 a.m. Very often I don’t need waking. Everyone gets nervous before a race – it’s human. I would be worried about any athlete that didn’t. It’s a sign of how much we care. The key is to trust in your preparation. You have done all you can, so focus on that fact. You will remain the same person before, during and after the race, so the result, however important, will not define you. The journey is what matters.


  After rising, I will shower, breathe deeply, massage my muscles, think positive thoughts and study ‘If’. Breakfast is taken two hours and fifteen minutes before the start. This has changed for me in the course of my career, but the key recipe is 500 calories (for an ironman) of low-fibre, simple carbs and a small amount of fat and protein. These days I have hot rice cereal made with water, with nut butter and honey stirred in. I sip water and drink a cup of coffee. I dress warmly for the start and leave myself plenty of time to take into account the traffic and avoid a last-minute rush.

  Your bike will be one of a few thousand in the transition area. Coming into T1 to be confronted with so many bikes always reminds me of the story my dad used to tell me of Mr Mole, who couldn’t find his home one day because of all the other molehills that had sprung up while he’d been out. So make sure you have identified a landmark to help you locate your bike when you return after the swim. Leave it and your biking gear exactly as you would hope to find them, so that you are in and out of there in as little time as possible. Once you are happy, smother yourself with lubricant – the ironman’s best friend – in all of the areas prone to chafing. Just make sure you apply it with rubber gloves on, or a plastic bag – oily hands can affect the ‘catch’ in the swim.

  Fifteen minutes before the race I start to warm up in the water. The swim is when you are at your freshest but also at your coldest. For this reason, and in order to get among a pack with the fastest swimmers, the first 200 to 400 metres are an all-out sprint. When the gun goes off, I get my head down and plough my way through the flailing hands and feet, then settle into my race pace. Once settled, I breathe once every two strokes.

  As I come into T1, I kick my legs harder to prepare them for the next stage of the race. I rehearse the transition in my mind. Remove goggles and swim cap first, and strip wetsuit down to the waist while heading for the bike. Then remove wetsuit completely, remaining calm if it doesn’t come off easily. Sunglasses on first, then helmet, then race belt with number on back. Wheel bike to mount line and start pedalling.

  Hopefully, it all goes as smoothly as that.

  It is not until I have settled into a rhythm that I first start to take on nutrition. In an ironman I take on one gram of carbs per kilo of body weight per hour. On my bike there are two bottles of energy drink (430 calories each), two gels and a chocolate bar. My first bottle is slightly less concentrated than my second to make it more palatable early in the race. The aid stations are crucial as a means of breaking up the race, and you can use the bottled water to cool your body on a hot day. Other vital techniques involve adjusting your position in the saddle and getting out of the saddle altogether in order to recruit different muscles and prevent fatigue. On the bike you will start to suffer, of that there is no doubt. That’s when the mental strategies discussed earlier will come into their own.

  In the last 500m I increase my cadence, and about 100m from T2 I loosen the strap on my bike shoes and slip my feet out. I dismount barefoot, run into transition while unclipping my helmet. I put on my pre-talcum-powdered socks and my shoes and grab my gels for the run. The race belt must be rotated so the number faces forwards. I take a few breaths. Now for the marathon.

  The first thing to do is to ignore the legs. After the bike, they feel heavy and wobbly, but within a kilometre I have settled into my rhythm. I try to maintain a shorter stride length, keep my shoulders and elbows down, lift my hips and look forwards. Following the nutritional formula above, I take one gel every twenty-five minutes, washed down with water. I think of the marathon as four sets of 10km with a little bit more at the end. It’s a way of tricking the mind into thinking the run more manageable than it might seem as an unbroken 42km haul. Landmarks can also be ticked off as I pass them as a measure of progress. I find male athletes similarly useful.

  The energy from the spectators is vital, too. My wonderful family and friends can be relied upon to appear at strategic points round the course with their Chrissie banners and t-shirts, and to indulge in the kind of antics that would have them arrested under normal circumstances. The boost this gives me is incalculable, as are the cheers of the many complete strangers. I smile and smile as much as I can. And as the pain really kicks in, I dedicate each of the final few kilometres to people or causes I care about.

  Every moment in that finish chute, whether as a professional or an age-grouper, is one to savour and remember. Look up and smile, and let the race photographer give you a tangible record of the moment you crossed the line.

  Then, one of the best parts of the day: put flip-flops on. Ahh, the relief!

  After the cocktail of emotions has abated slightly, it’s time to listen to the body and do whatever it commands. Mine usually says, ‘Pizza!’ ‘Burger!’ ‘Kebab!’ and ‘Chips!’ Whatever the command, it is your duty to obey. Two half-pound burgers, two plates of chips, one plate of onion rings and fifteen doughnuts is my ironman record. It’s one I’m as proud of as any. Moderation is swept aside. You’ve just finished an ironman. You deserve it.

  11

  Wearing the Crown

  It should have been the best time of my life. Instead, it was one of the hardest.

  I had just become a world champion. The truth is, though, that the period following a triumph like that is often difficult. There’s always a different reason for any downturn, but a downturn there so often seems to be. It’s probably not a coincidence.

  Brett was at the centre of the first one. He suffers as much as anyone in these periods. He has always borne a feeling of doom when his athletes become successful. He’ll tell you that money is the problem, something he has never been motivated by. As far as he is concerned, success is not only the motivation when it comes to coaching; it is also the great enemy. His methods demand that he has total control over his charges, but when success comes along, he knows that its trappings will provide a new threat to that control. Suddenly, he is not the only voice in their heads. He becomes fatalistic about his ability to remain the prime influence. The moment I crossed the finish line in Kona, he probably thought it was the end of our relationship. He certainly thought it well before the idea ever occurred to me.

  Nothing was occurring to me back then. Everything was a bombardment and a blur. I was even weepy at times, as I took refuge under Asker’s wing. His was one of only a few familiar faces out there. Thousands of miles away in Asia, Brett and our team manager, Alex Bok, were aware of this, too. I could tell Alex was seriously regretting his decision not to accompany the team to the biggest race in the triathlon calendar. Now I was out there on my own, naive, vulnerable and, in Brett’s view, at the mercy of the sharks who swim around at these events.

  Amid the chaos I received an email from my old coach, Tim Weeks. He knew someone who worked as a sports manager for the Wasserman Media Group, and thought I should speak with him. As it was Tim, I agreed to speak to this contact, Ben Mansford, on the phone on the Monday. I was exhausted and hoarse, but we spoke for about 45 minutes. I immediately liked him. He suggested I come back to the UK to meet up. Alex and Brett wanted me to go to Singapore. I was caught in a horrible tug of war.

  In the end, I went to Singapore. I owed Brett that, at least, and I trusted him and his judgement. I owed Alex, as well. We met at the chaotic Team TBB offices, above Alex’s bike shop, down a back alley. Nothing up to that point had ever been signed between us – it had all been gentlemen’s handshakes and back-of-the-envelope stuff. But this time there was very definitely something to sign, and it was pretty much thrust in my face upon arrival. Brett was there, as was a girl called Steph Cox, whom Alex had recently met in Thailand. Alex introduced her as my PR manager. Although she didn’t stay in the role for very long, that did turn out to be a happy relationship. Steph remains a good friend to this day.

  I felt under huge pressure. There was a voice in my head saying, ‘Whoah! Take your time. Something’s not right here!’ But overriding all that was the desire to stay with Brett. It felt as if I had no option if that was wh
at I wanted, so I signed. Alex would be my manager, Brett my coach and Steph would do the PR.

  Immediately I knew it was something I hadn’t wanted to do. I wasn’t given enough time to discuss things with people, or to straighten myself out. Why couldn’t I just go home to Norfolk for a while? There were definitely no sharks there.

  The next thing I knew, Alex was whisking me off to the airport again. He and I flew to the UK, where we were going to meet with sponsors and journalists.

  My parents greeted us at the airport with a Union Jack. This was the kind of homecoming I’d had in mind. I went straight to Norfolk – home at last. After just a few hours, a peace descended, and I regained the clarity I had lost since the race. From there, I rang Alex to voice my concerns. I didn’t feel he had the time, as manager of the team, to focus on me as much as someone else might. Now was the moment to make hay. Professional sport is a precarious business, and if you have a chance to secure your future, you must take it. I wanted a manager of my own to help me with that.

  We disagree over what was said next. I maintain that he said I could speak to other potential managers. He would tell you otherwise. Nevertheless, he was there at the meeting I organised, through Asker, with Ben Mansford at Birmingham University. It was awkward. I sat quietly and let Asker do most of the talking. Alex tried to be his usual charming self, but he was clearly not happy with the way things were going. Ben held court for much of it. I immediately warmed to him, although I was aware of the fact that he was an agent. They don’t have the most wholesome of reputations, do they? I was struck by how young he was – about twenty-eight. And I enjoyed putting a face, a cheeky round face, to the dulcet Humberside tones I’d first heard on the phone in Hawaii a week earlier. He looked like a car salesman, and he made me laugh. He also seemed to know his stuff. We struck up a strong rapport from the start.