Life Without Limits, A

by Wellington, Chrissie

  More hurtful, though, were the rumours. Even before the gun went off, they were circulating. Chrissie’s had a nervous breakdown; Chrissie’s avoiding a drugs test; Chrissie’s pregnant. The rumours hurt, because they undermine my credibility – I’m a warrior and a fighter, I race fair and I race clean. As a sensitive soul, the rumour-mongering hit me hard. How can people even think those things, I kept asking myself, let alone spread them as malicious gossip? Is everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve really so flimsy that it can be swept away at the first sign of a sore throat?

  No. Of course not. The people who said those things don’t even know me. Their opinions do not matter as much as those of the people who do, even if their tongues are free to wag. I fought the allegations that needed to be fought, and I laughed off the ridiculous ones. Pregnant?! We athletes are in bed by 8 p.m. If only!

  The drugs allegations, though, were libellous, and we dealt with them seriously. For as long as anyone has cared to listen I have been loud and forthright on the issue of doping. All professional athletes should be subjected to the most rigorous of testing, if we are to ensure our sport stays as clean as possible. And it must. As soon as I won my first World Championship, I put myself forward for regular out-of-competition testing through UK Sport, and since then I have been included in the WTC’s testing pool. I have to provide the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) with a one-hour slot in which they can turn up to test me every single day of the year. They can also appear any time outside this hour for a random test. This is supplemented with in-competition testing at most races. In 2010 I underwent eight blood tests and fifteen urine tests. I have also taken the step of publishing the results on my website. Far from avoiding drug-testing, I have submitted myself to the process without condition, and have been actively campaigning for improvements in testing across the ironman community. WADA know I’m clean; the gossip-mongers should just know better.

  As for the nervous breakdown theory, it never even crossed my mind. Of course, there is pressure, and maybe there is more for me than for the other girls. I really am deadly serious about never wanting to lose an ironman! Yet every time I line up to race, the prospect of not winning is something I have to deal with. So it’s tough. But it does surprise me, in the light of my record, that people should think I’m having a breakdown. I hope I’ve never given the impression that I’m about to have one over a race, because I really am not.

  Tom returned to the UK for his cousin’s wedding, so I flew to Boulder alone and began the process of healing. I was happy to be on my own – I enjoy the support of a network of friends and specialists out there. After a couple of weeks I started to feel better. My confidence returned as I put Kona behind me. I can throw my toys out of the pram with the best of them, but I am also quick to move on.

  With my planned finale to the season up in smoke, I needed to find another race before the year was out. The options were ironman races in Mexico, Florida or Arizona. I chose Arizona. I had heard good things about it, and it was convenient from Boulder. Held towards the end of November, six weeks after Kona, the timing was right, too.

  Even better was that Tom decided on an impulse to race there too. Until that point he had been competing over the half-ironman distance. He had never even run a marathon. But Tom, being Tom, didn’t care about that. He had always intended to do an ironman one day, just not in 2010. When I decided, about four weeks before, to race at Arizona, he thought, why not?

  He flew to Arizona from the UK, and we both arrived in Tempe, the venue for the race, on the same day. We had arranged a home stay with Craig Norquist and his wife, Laura. Craig is a medical doctor, an ironman athlete and an ultra-runner – which means he thinks nothing of running the equivalent of four marathons in a day. It was great to stay with him and Laura at their pad in Paradise Valley, where the houses are like shopping malls and the lawns, in the middle of a desert, are so perfectly landscaped.

  I thought I would be more nervous than I was. I had a point to prove – I was fit, I wasn’t having a breakdown, I wasn’t pregnant. So there was apprehension, but my nerves were steady. Having Tom around helped. This was the first time we had stayed together in race week, but he was so relaxed, even though it was his first ironman, and his calmness rubbed off on me.

  It is fair to say that I was more paranoid than normal about getting ill. Uh-oh, my throat’s getting sore, my throat’s getting sore. Is my throat getting sore? No, I think it’s OK again. This hypersensitivity is quite normal before a race, but my levels were definitely raised, for obvious reasons. More than anything, though, I was just so excited about toeing the line again.

  No last-minute withdrawal this time. I studied ‘If’ extra hard that morning. The poem had helped me more than ever in the weeks after Kona. Never had that line about Triumph and Disaster seemed so apt. Nor the one about dreaming but not making dreams my master. Nor the one about all men (and women!) doubting me. That poem speaks to us in so many ways, and the message is consistently true – that despite the ups and downs, dignity, balance and determination must remain our goal.

  The lake was freezing, but I swam well. The bike, however, was tough. There was rain, there was hail, the winds were fierce and ever-changing, and I couldn’t shake off Leanda and Rachel till about halfway.

  By then I had also been overtaken by a familiar-looking human missile. Swimming is the one discipline where I have the advantage over Tom, but it didn’t take him long to overturn that. About 20km into the bike, he came burning past me, shouting encouragement: ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ I knew then he was having a good race. As soon as I was onto the run, I started asking people how he was doing. Just knowing he was out there on the course gave me an unexpected sense of security and excitement. Part of me didn’t want to see him again, because that meant he would be slowing up; part of me thought I would. He had never run a marathon. We just didn’t know how he would fare. When I didn’t catch him I was so elated and relieved. I knew by the end of my race how he had done. He had come third and broken the British record in a time of 8hr 11min 44sec. Far from struggling, he ran the fastest marathon of the day in 2hr 48min 11sec. His bike was third fastest. And all in his first ironman!

  My race, meanwhile, was going really well, partly inspired by Tom’s success, partly by the joy of being back doing what I love. Not that it was easy. The conditions were tough, and having not had a puncture all year my luck ran out about a mile from the end of the bike. Pop went my front tyre. As I was so close to T2, I decided to carry on and bump along on the rim for the last few minutes.

  After a fine run of 2hr 52min, I came home in 8hr 36min 13sec. I had forgotten that there were two world records in ironman – the official ‘branded’ one, as recognised by the WTC, and the unofficial. In my mind, the world record was the one I had set a few months earlier at Challenge Roth, but somebody pointed out after I crossed the line in Tempe that I had just broken the Ironman (note the upper case) world record, set by Sandra Wollenhorst at Ironman Austria in 2008. By more than eleven minutes, it turned out.

  I have never felt more relief after a race than I did after that one. A huge weight had been lifted. I was reported as saying that this was my Kona. I didn’t say that. It wasn’t Kona, and Kona hadn’t been put to bed. It wouldn’t be, unless I won it again some day. But I did say that that was the performance I would have liked to put on at Kona. Had I flopped, the doubts might have come crowding in, but to have given the best performance I could have hoped for under the circumstances – and to have broken a world record, to boot – meant I was back on track.

  But the highlight of the day was to cross the finish line and be met by Tom, beaming from ear to ear. We embraced, and something did feel complete. Embraces at the end of an ironman are nothing new, but they are usually with loved ones or with people who share the bond of having just completed an ironman. I had never embraced anyone who qualified on both those counts. It was special.

  A couple of days later, I received an email from Brett. He had seen
the pictures of me and Tom at the finish line. ‘This may be the final note and closure of a very special part of my coaching career,’ he said. ‘The last piece of the puzzle that I wanted to see complete from our first meeting has been delivered. I gained incredible satisfaction from your race at the weekend. No, not from the race performance – that didn’t interest me – but to see you in full happiness in the arms of your man, looking up with all the admiration one can summon in a most happy and fulfilling time. That is what I will remember of 21 November 2010. I could tell the win was very special because your man of the moment was there sharing it with you. And therein lies my happiness. Chrissie Wellington is no longer the lone ranger. This was one of the magic moments. Priceless, just like the pics. Thank you for the journey. It has been a special time. Congratulations and best wishes for the future. Cheers, ex-boss.’

  I told him not to be so melodramatic – this was not going to be the end of our relationship. Brett had taught me nearly everything I knew about triathlon, and I would carry this with me always. But he was right – I had never been prouder or happier to share the podium with the love of my life. It is a memory that will never fade. It is true that my season had not gone exactly as planned, but life was going very nicely. Then again, I’d broken two world records and won my tenth ironman out of ten, so 2010 really hadn’t been that bad.

  It held further treats in store. There was my investiture at Buckingham Palace as an MBE to look forward to, a week before Christmas, and a couple of days before that I was summoned to the University of Birmingham to receive an honorary doctorate. Yes, that’s Dr Christine Wellington to you!

  Returning to Birmingham turned out to be incredibly emotional. I gave a speech to hundreds of graduates under the ceiling of the Great Hall, and my parents were in the front row, crying. It took me back to when they had dropped me off there all those years ago, and Dad had told me to seize every opportunity and make a mark for all the right reasons. It took me back to when they came to watch me graduate three years later in 1998. Now we were here again. We had come full circle, and so much had happened in between.

  The next day we gathered again at a hotel I had booked in St James’s Park. My parents, Tom and I went out for dinner with my brother and his fiancée, Kelly. He had recently proposed to her, so there were so many reasons to celebrate. The following morning, my brother, my mum, my dad and I donned our gladdest rags and walked from the hotel to Buckingham Palace. The Queen must have been having the day off, because Prince Charles performed the honours. To be inside the country’s most famous building was awesome, which I mean in its genuine sense – as in it inspired awe, as simple as that.

  There was pomp and circumstance. And protocol – you had to walk a certain number of paces this way, and then a certain number that. Backwards. Everything had to be done on cue. I was terrified of a muppet moment. Surely I would trip over on these high heels I wasn’t used to.

  But everything went perfectly. I snatched a few words with Prince Charles.

  ‘You have to be very fit to do what you do, don’t you?’ he said.

  I confirmed this was true. When he asked me what was next, I told him it was to try to beat the men.

  He pinned the MBE to my jacket. It was a fairy-tale way to end the year. To have my achievements recognised by the establishment, and to be surrounded by people who have done extraordinary things, was such a privilege. My parents and brother were so proud, and I kept thinking about my grandparents and how ecstatic they would have been.

  When we left it was starting to snow. We headed to the pub. I had reserved an area, and friends from all stages of my life arrived to celebrate. Some had known me since childhood, some from school, university, and work. Some arrived with babies. We had all moved on, but we were all the same as we had ever been. Friends and family are the thread that runs throughout our lives, no matter where those lives take us. After my brush with royalty that morning, this was the only way to end the day.

  14

  The Heroes of Ironman

  If you can’t fly, run; if you can’t run, walk;

  if you can’t walk, crawl.

  Martin Luther King

  Ironman inspires like no other sport. It transforms the lives of those who take it on; and those who take it on transform, in turn, the lives of others through the heroism of their deeds. The finish line at an ironman is a place awash with smiles and tears. The emotions evoked at the end of a race of that length are what help to bind our community so strongly together.

  The pantheon of legends in ironman is well populated. Having come to the sport late, I knew little of their achievements, but now they are well known to me. Dave Scott and Mark Allen won six Ironman World Championships each in the 1980s and 1990s, the reign of the former ending with the start of the latter’s in the epic race of 1989 – known ever since as the ‘Iron War’, when Mark and Dave duelled side by side for more than eight hours, Mark prevailing in the end by less than a minute. Paula Newby-Fraser, the ‘Queen of Kona’, won eight titles in the same era, including a record four in a row. Natascha Badmann won six in more recent times, including three in a row at the start of the millennium. There are others, of course; too many to mention, all of them legends, all of them huge inspirations.

  But for these athletes, as for me and most of my peers, this is our job. One of the beauties of our sport is that we professionals get to race on the same stage as the amateurs, sharing the smiles, the grimaces, the highs, the lows, the tears and the joy, united by the same goal – to cross the hallowed finish line. We race together, suffer together and celebrate together.

  Many of these athletes have contacted me to say that my achievements have helped to encourage them in their life journey, but, if that is so, it is not a one-way process. Because it is the recreational athletes who inspire me through the tough times, the everyday heroes who juggle training with a full-time job, a family and other commitments.

  Among them are people whose achievements simply beggar belief. Could you imagine swimming, biking and running 140.6 miles, all the while pulling or pushing a son who can’t walk? Or being a double amputee, and having to empty the blood and sweat from your prostheses during the marathon? Would it occur to you to enter an ironman having just been diagnosed with a terminal illness? And, despite everything, would you find it in yourself to devote still more of your time and energy to helping others?

  Yes, incredible heroes abound in our sport, most of whom get nowhere near the podium. Here are just a few of my guiding lights, in no particular order, whose stories serve as the most moving tribute to the sport of ironman I can think of.

  The Hoyts

  In 1962, Rick Hoyt was born to his parents, Dick and Judy, with cerebral palsy. He was a quadriplegic. Dick and Judy refused to have him institutionalised, despite the advice of doctors. Rick has since lived as full a life as possible, able to communicate via a specially designed computer. He graduated with a degree in Special Education in 1993. His parents’ refusal to accept the verdict of medical science has long since been vindicated, and that might be seen as quite enough of an inspiration in itself.

  But in 1977 Rick persuaded his father to help him take part in a five-mile run to raise money for a lacrosse player who had been paralysed in an accident. He wanted to show this athlete that there was much he could look forward to, even if he was to be wheelchair-bound. Despite no background as a runner, Dick agreed to push his son round the course. That night, Rick told his dad that during the race he felt as if he weren’t handicapped.

  Dick and Rick have since completed more than a thousand races – including marathons, duathlons and triathlons (six of them ironmans). In 1992, they biked and ran 3,735 miles across the US in forty-five days.

  In a triathlon, Dick attaches a bungee cord around his waist and pulls Rick along in a raft during the swim. He pedals a special two-seater bicycle for 112 miles. Then for the marathon he pushes Rick in a custom-made chair. ‘The thing I would most like’, Rick once said, ‘is for m
y dad to sit in the chair, and I would push him for once.’

  The Hoyt Foundation helps to support and inspire America’s physically challenged youth. Their slogan is ‘Yes You Can!’. Dick is now in his seventies and Rick his forties. They are still racing.

  Jon Blais

  In 2007, at my first Ironman World Championship, I saw Leanda Cave reach the finish line, lie down, stretch her arms out over her head and proceed to roll over it. I asked someone why she had done it, and they explained to me the story of Jon Blais, ‘The Blazeman’.

  Jon, a teacher of children with special needs, had died less than six months earlier, aged thirty-seven, of ALS. He had been diagnosed with the incurable condition in May 2005. Later that year, at Kona, he fulfilled a long-held dream to race in an ironman and in so doing became the first, and so far the only, person to complete an ironman with ALS. His worsening condition had meant that he had not been able to train for the race. His doctors had told him he would have to be rolled over the finish line. After sixteen and a half hours of agony, only half an hour before the cut-off time, Jon proved them wrong by finally reaching that line. Whereupon he rolled over it, in what is now known as ‘Blazeman’-style.

  I met Jon’s parents, Bob and Mary Ann, in the evening of my first World Championship, and was so moved by his story that I followed Leanda and a few other professionals in becoming a patron of the Blazeman Foundation. We join a team of Blazeman Warriors around the world, committed to promoting awareness of the disease and raising funds for further research – ‘So Others May Live’, to quote the foundation’s slogan.