Life Without Limits, A

by Wellington, Chrissie

  We talked about things at length that year – not just training, but politics and international development, even my relationship status. Or he would talk at me, anyway. I remember one ‘chat’ at the poolside on a beautiful day, overlooking the mountains, which lasted for about an hour and a half. He told me that I’d achieved so much, yet a huge part of my life was missing because I didn’t have a partner. Brett was convinced that I needed someone to share things with and that I was lonely. He wondered why I didn’t have a boyfriend and hadn’t had one for a long time. Again, he asked if I was a lesbian. A love interest, he said, was the piece of the jigsaw that was not in place. I wouldn’t be complete until I had a boyfriend. This was what he wanted for me now. He didn’t give a damn about results. It was about making me into a well-rounded person.

  He seemed deadly serious. He didn’t want me to become so single minded in my pursuit of physical excellence that I shut out everything else. That really surprised me, to think that Brett put so much emphasis on my having a boyfriend. A lot of people might think that he would hate anything distracting me from the training, but the opposite was the case. Besides, he thought it would improve my performance. That was part of it. But part of it was a heartfelt desire to see me truly happy. Everyone sees him as an authoritarian, performance-driven ogre, but he actually cares for his athletes. Of course, he wanted me to reach the top of the sport, but more important to him was that I be, in his eyes, a good person and be happy. And that’s the other side of Brett, which people don’t see.

  The only bust-up I remember having with him was over my race schedule. In a reversal of our usual roles, which so often saw him reining me in, I was shocked at the amount of racing and travelling he was demanding of me in July and August. The schedule for April had been bad enough, with Ironman Australia, followed three weeks later by the Olympic-distance race in South Korea. But that was just a gentle warm-up. My schedule for the summer started off with a full ironman in Frankfurt on 6 July, followed by the Alpe d’Huez Long Course Triathlon with its mountains and switchbacks on 30 July, followed by a quick nip across the Atlantic to race in Timberman 70.3, a half-ironman in New Hampshire, on 17 August, before returning to Europe for the ITU Long Distance World Championship in Almere, Holland on 31 August. Four races; seven and a half miles in the water, 315 miles on the bike and 72 miles on foot. In eight weeks. And I don’t know how many thousands of miles of travelling. It was too much, I told him, but Brett was deaf to my concerns.

  In the end, I got sick of fighting with him and just did it. I won them all. Obviously, he felt it was a vindication. Yes, but only if I’m in a fit state to win in Kona, was my retort.

  Truth be told, I felt in good shape. It had been an exhilarating eight weeks. I set a course record at Ironman Germany, where I went under nine hours for the first time. It turned out afterwards I’d missed the world record by thirty seconds. Unfortunately, I hadn’t known what it was, and spent a bit too long high-fiving and celebrating with the crowd on my way to the finish line. Since half a million spectators turn out for this event, that can take a while. The world record, which had stood for fourteen years, was smashed a week later anyway by Yvonne van Vlerken at Challenge Roth. But Frankfurt is a remarkable race. With all those people, it is more of a spectacle even than Kona. And on a personal note, this was a special event, because it was the first time my parents had been able to make it to a big race of mine.

  Then came a return to one of my favourites, the Alpe d’Huez Long Course Triathlon. That one was special, too, because I nearly won it outright, finishing second overall, just over a minute behind Marcus Ornellas. It remains a goal of mine, but to have come so close to beating all the men was significant for women in triathlon. I was, though, the fastest of either sex over the infamous twenty-one-hairpin climb on the bike.

  But then came sad news. The day after Alpe d’Huez, my dear Nanna Romey, the last of my grandparents, passed away in her sleep, less than six months after her husband, Harry. She had been suffering the ravages of cancer, so her passing was, in many ways, a relief, but she was one of the most enthusiastic, energetic, selfless and courageous people I know, and her death hit me hard. I travelled back to the UK ten days later with a heavy heart for her funeral, which was as much a celebration of her life as a mourning of her death.

  From London I hopped across the Atlantic for Timberman 70.3, breaking the course record and, of course, dedicating my win to a woman I so dearly loved. Then it was back to Europe for the ITU Long Distance World Championship in Almere. Brett had been particularly keen for me to race in this one, so that I could go up against Yvonne van Vlerken. He saw her as one of my main challengers at Kona, and he thought it was important for me to put down a marker against her in her native land, which I did. She finished third, nineteen minutes behind me. All in all, Brett was pleased with his decision-making.

  But it was a decision he had made many years earlier that, even now, kept coming back to haunt him. Some people feel that Brett should never have been allowed to coach again after he had had sexual relations with a teenager in 1987. As a result, a lot of people question the morals of those who choose him for a coach. The issue had flared up briefly after my win in Kona the year before, when an article in the Sunday Herald had character-assassinated him. We were quite philo sophical about that, but in the build-up to Kona this year the issue suddenly burst onto the forums, and fingers started pointing at me.

  Brett is big enough and ugly enough to take the flak, but he hates it when his athletes are made to suffer, or to have their achievements overshadowed, because of his indiscretions. We were alerted to the threads, and together we agreed we should both post a response. Brett did not try to defend the indefensible, other than to say that it had all been dealt with in the courts and that the testimony of many of his athletes from the time and since had lent context to the charges brought against him. But he appealed to his critics not to bring his athletes into it.

  ‘Make me the pariah and go your hardest,’ he wrote. ‘You can’t go down to the level I feel about myself. But do a rethink on these champions. Their character is not, and should not, be placed in question, because of their ability to forgive.’

  Brett seemed to spiral into depression. Those of us racing at Kona that year were now preparing in Jeju, South Korea. He went from being very engaged in our training to becoming more distant. First, he wouldn’t get out of the car at the track, then he wouldn’t come out of his room. We grew increasingly worried about him.

  He emailed us our training schedules and told us to get on with it. I developed a niggle in my ankle and shin and wanted to speak to him face to face. He wouldn’t answer his door. Even though I was in the adjacent apartment, I emailed him, asking if I could pop round. He said no, he would rather talk about it online. So I took a photo of the leg, drew an arrow pointing to the problem area and emailed it to him through the wall. This was ludicrous, I thought. I’ve got a coach and he won’t even come out of his room to talk to me.

  He stayed in there for a day and a half. That was the worst I’d seen him.

  But then, almost as quickly as he’d spiralled, he snapped out of it again. And the week before I left for Kona he made me do a session that I would never have thought possible. Three hours on the bike, one hour at ironman pace, one at half-ironman, one at Olympic pace, followed by fifteen reps of 800m on the track, each one coming in at 2min 50sec, with 200m recovery jogs in between. As I worked through the reps, something went wrong with the sprinklers and they all came on, so that it felt as if it were pouring with rain under a burning hot sun. I powered my way through, kicking up puddles as I went. Brett was watching high in the stands, and he knew I was hitting the times. He didn’t say anything afterwards, but I thanked him for realising I could do it, because I might not have believed myself. My confidence was soaring, and I knew I was ready for Kona, even if I was still troubled by my sore ankle and shin.

  Brett didn’t shield me so carefully from Hawaii-itis this time, and I
went out a bit earlier than I had the year before. I was overjoyed to be back. I love Hawaii – the smell of the place, the open-air airport, the weather, the flowers. I was met by John and Linda Oery, friends I had made the year before. They are Kona locals, and had organised an apartment for me in the complex where they live. My mum and dad came out, as did other friends and family. Ben was there, Asker, even Alex this time. It meant I felt as if I had a support network. If I needed something, someone was always on hand to help. I had a lot of media commitments, but I was able to keep myself to myself and concentrate.

  The Sunday before the race, though, after my long run, the pain in my shin intensified, and I became deeply concerned. It was so sore I couldn’t hop on it. How could I possibly run a marathon? I did no running at all during race week. I told no one, other than my physio and close friends, and when I strapped it up I hid it under compression socks. Never give your opponents anything. I took confidence from my experience at Ironman Korea, when my coccyx agony miraculously vanished on the day. So I approached the race in good spirits. I was more nervous than the year before, but not debilitatingly so.

  That said, I shat myself at the start. Literally. Diarrhoea struck as I was in the water waiting for the off. I had suffered from gastrointestinal issues in every ironman I had raced, but never this early. This is going to be a long day, I thought to myself. The race hasn’t even started, and I’m shitting myself already. That kind of thing sets the thoughts racing through your mind. First of all, there’s the dehydration aspect. Then there are other practical issues. It’s all very well crapping into your swimskin when you’re in the water (not so great for your fellow competitors, admittedly), but doing it on a bike is horrible. And trying to run a marathon with poo dribbling down your leg is not much more fun. The key is not to let those problems affect your performance. It is what it is, and you’ve just got to get on with it.

  The swim went well, and I came out of the water in eleventh place after fifty-six minutes, an improvement of about a minute and a half on the year before. On the bike, I felt strong from the word go, much better than at that stage the year before. I took the lead at around the 30km point and felt great, despite the rumbling in my bowels. By 80km I’d opened up five minutes on the other girls and was working my way through the men.

  It was around then, halfway up the incline between Kawaihae and the turnaround at Hawi, that things went wrong. Any cyclist knows well that horrible feeling when each bump on the road suddenly shudders right through you. I looked down and, yes, the rim of my wheel had hit the tarmac – the rear tyre was flat.

  I dismounted. First of all, before I’d even looked at the tyre I knew I couldn’t waste this opportunity to relieve myself. There were cameras trained on me, so NBC viewers were treated to the sight of a girl from Norfolk crouching in a bush by the road giving the inside of her shorts a break.

  Back to the bike. I took the wheel off and removed the inner tube. I checked the rim for any debris that may have caused the puncture, but couldn’t find anything, which is always concerning. But I replaced the tube and then the tyre without any trouble. I was pretty impressed with myself at that point. I was handling this mechanical glitch with some efficiency, by my standards.

  I should have known better. It didn’t last. Despite Brett’s disapproval of anything vaguely flash (in this case, anything other than an old-fashioned pump), I was carrying two gas canisters. I released the first canister’s gas before I had attached it properly to the tyre, so it spewed its CO2 uselessly into the Pacific air. Cursing, I turned to the second one. It was faulty and didn’t work at all. I was in real trouble now. How I wished I’d just taken a pump, as you-know-who had insisted.

  I was stranded, waiting for technical support to arrive, which could be any time. But I remember feeling quite calm. I wasn’t exactly relaxed, but I wasn’t flapping. I kept thinking of what Brett would say. Don’t panic. Stay calm. What will be, will be. A mechanic will arrive eventually. And when I’m back on the road I’ll fight and fight. The thought never crossed my mind that my race was over.

  But if I could get a canister from somewhere else . . . I knew I couldn’t receive help from anyone outside the race, other than the technical support team, but I wasn’t sure if I could get it from fellow competitors. With the clock ticking, I took a chance and called out to the increasing number of athletes overtaking me.

  ‘Has anyone got any gas?’

  But the bikes were flashing past too quickly for my cries to register. After a few minutes, the message that I had a flat had made it down the road. Athletes started to shout encouragement to me and apologies for not being able to help.

  Then, after ten minutes on the roadside, my saviour rode into view. Rebekah Keat had a spare canister on her bike, which she gave to me as she went past.

  ‘You owe me one!’

  ‘Thanks, babe,’ I said, setting to work immediately.

  ‘No worries, mate,’ she cried. ‘Keep going, keep going!’

  It summed up everything that is great about ironman. For Bek to give up something like that to a rival takes huge heart. Let’s not forget how hard we all train to achieve the best for ourselves in this individual sport. To lend someone else a hand in the heat of competition is a sign of something special. It’s a gesture I will never forget.

  This time things went without a hitch, and I was soon back in the race. I’d lost eleven minutes, and I think five or six girls had overtaken me. I was more than five minutes behind Belinda Granger, who was now the lead woman. There was no water left in the bottle on the front of my bike, because it had all leaked out when I’d turned the bike upside down to get the tyre back on. And I had diarrhoea.

  But I do remember this strange feeling flooding through me that the pressure was off. No one will expect me to win now. Except me.

  About twenty minutes later I was turning round at Hawi, and I’d made up two minutes or so on Belinda, Dede Griesbauer and Leanda Cave, the three leaders. My friends and family were all there, decked out in their blue Chrissie t-shirts, all screaming their encouragement, jumping up and down.

  I shook my head at them. ‘I’ve had a bloody puncture.’

  ‘Go get ’em! Go get ’em!’

  Seeing them gave me a huge boost. I launched myself into the downhill. Normally I descend like a grandma, but this time I rode as if I had a firework up my backside, which in a way I did. I was conscious of the danger of overworking myself in this game of catch-up, but I was on a mission. I didn’t care about the howling wind, or the rising heat. These were the hardest conditions they’d seen at the World Championships for a few years, apparently.

  I made up a lot of time on that downhill. By the 130km mark, I’d overtaken everyone apart from Belinda. Another 10km after the Kawaihae intersection, on the Queen K. Highway, I suddenly happened upon her. I hadn’t expected to see her so soon, as the splits I was getting had her further ahead, but by the time they get to you they are about ten minutes out of date. I remember these purple bougainvilleas on the roadside, so vibrant and beautiful, and as I passed Belinda she seemed to do a double-take.

  ‘Stick with me!’ I said to her.

  ‘Go on, chick!’ she said. ‘You can win it!’

  I felt strong now, despite the hellish headwind that buffeted us on that long stretch back into town. I started to pick off some of the guys. My stomach had eased off a bit. Things were looking good again. As with the year before, the memory endures of the helicopter hovering as I approached the end of the bike. It makes you feel so special.

  I knew I had put a bit of distance between me and Belinda by the time I set out on the run. It turned out I had a lead of seven minutes. Yvonne van Vlerken, the new world-record holder, meanwhile, was closing in on Belinda. She is a very strong runner, too, so I knew I had to be on my mettle. At least it was just me and the road now. Any further malfunctions could happen only in my body. I pushed all thoughts of the shin injury to the back of my mind.

  It took me some time to
find my rhythm. The heat seemed so much more intense than the year before, partly because, well, it was, and partly because of the dehydration from my diarrhoea and the emptying of my water bottle.

  You go into a kind of tunnel where everything outside your head, including the rest of your body, becomes peripheral. Never once did I feel the pain in my shin.

  Then, with five miles to go, I knew I was going to make it. My hamstrings were tightening and my form was starting to fall apart, but I felt I could relax and enjoy the final stretch. I told the camera crew that this one was for my grandparents.

  The crowd support was phenomenal as I ran that last mile through the town high-fiving and waving like a madwoman. People knew who I was this time.

  I was crying as I trotted to the tape, crying and gasping at the intensity of it all. I raised my hands above my head, trailing the Union Jack from them, and, standing for a second to savour the moment, I seized the tape and hoisted it high in the air. You never get tired of that moment. Then I took a step back, lay down on the ground and rolled over the line in honour of Jon Blais.

  I’d won. My time was 9hr 6min 23sec, an improvement of just over two minutes on last year and fifteen minutes ahead of Yvonne, who came in second. And I’d broken the Kona marathon record in a time of 2hr 57min 44sec, with two diarrhoea stops. If it hadn’t been for the flat tyre, I might have threatened Paula Newby-Fraser’s sixteen-year-old course record.

  But just the fact that I knew now who Paula Newby-Fraser was, and all the other legends of the sport, moved this win onto a new level as an experience. The year before it had all been a bit of a blur. I had had no idea what to expect, or who anyone was. Now I did. I appreciated everything so much more. I felt so privileged. And I was so happy with the way I had performed. I’d overcome the flat tyre and I’d dealt with the pressure of being the champion.