At the presentation, after Greg had received his third place medal, the MC said to him, ‘Greg, you’ve come third in the greatest triathlon in the world and the 20 guys who came after you have been doing this full-time for five years. Are you going to give up work and go full-time at this?’
Greg’s reply brought the house down: ‘I might ask the boss for Saturdays off!’
Greg’s recuperative powers were tested to the limit just two weeks after he returned from Hawaii. He raced in the Port Macquarie Triathlon, a selection trial for the 1990 Commonwealth Games, which were to be held in Auckland. Greg astonished his fellow competitors by coming second behind Spot Anderson. He surprised them even more when he lined up for the final Games qualifier in Wollongong against the cream of Australian triathletes—Brad Bevan, Steve Foster, Scott Anderson and Mick Maroney among them—and won by 2 minutes 30 seconds. Mick said: ‘He just smashed everyone and that was it. Everyone just thought, “Greg’s the king.”’
Greg won a place on the Australian Commonwealth Games team, and went off to Auckland in 1990 with high hopes. The triathlon was early in the Games program. After another good swim, Greg was in a strong position on the bike, in the lead pack with Rick Wells, Brad Bevan and Mick Maroney, when he was caught in a big fall after one of the Aussies slipped. ‘I had the big crash right in front of Prince Edward. But I recovered and had a very fast run and made up a lot of ground. I actually ran into third, so I got a bronze medal, behind Rick Wells and Brad Bevan. The party started that very night.’
Greg had built up a big head of steam during the tumultuous 12 months leading up to the Games, and he let off most of it in Auckland.
‘We all partied hard every night on that trip. The first thing we’d do each morning was turn the television on and start watching the Games. We’d just be bagging the absolute crap out of the Kiwi commentators, who were so biased. Then we’d always go to some event, specially the swimming. Janelle Elford was one of our really good friends and she swam the 200-m (218.7-yd) freestyle relay, the 400-m (437.5-yd) and the 800-m (0.5-mile). Her nickname was Big Red. We’d go and watch Big Red swim, and then we’d all go out and have fun.’
On the last night, Greg couldn’t wait to go out: Big Red never drank and it was their chance to help her let her hair down. ‘We went dancing. All the swimmers were up on the dance floor with the triathletes, and we had the best time. Julie McDonald, Janelle, Glen Houseman, Kieren Perkins and many others came, and we just had the time of our lives. Even when the Aussie boxers were there and getting into blues, it was huge fun. I didn’t want it to end because we were just having so much fun.’
It had been an amazing 12 months in which Greg had made the transition from being a promising athlete in his sport to becoming one of the best in the world. After the heady European tour, with seven races in eight weeks against the world’s best, he had returned to Hawaii to take third place while still an age grouper, and then he topped off all that by winning the bronze medal at the Commonwealth Games. He had proved he was a genuine contender in any company.
It was Arthur Blizzard who again brought things to a head. He was convinced the time was right for Greg to become a full-time professional. ‘He said, “You know what, Greg, you’ll never know unless you try it; your job’s always safe with us.” Because Arthur was a lovely person, with a great family, and because we had an exceptional relationship, I jumped at the opportunity.
‘I THINK THE REAL TRANSITION was to mould ourselves into PROFESSIONAL athletes, knowing THAT IT WAS OUR JOB and knowing that we didn’t have to go to a REAL, 9-TO-5 JOB.’
Chapter 7
The Pro
IN THE MIDDLE OF MAY 1990, GREG FINALLY TOOK THE BIG LEAP. Buoyed by the encouragement from Arthur Blizzard, his family and his mates, he packed his bike, his dreams and AU$2500 in cash, and travelled with Brad Bevan to San Diego, California. They chose San Diego for two reasons: it was Triathlon Central, and Scott Tinley had invited Greg to train with him in his home town.
Scott had befriended Greg in Hawaii at the 1987 Ironman. He was one of the sport’s originals and is still one of its best. At that stage, he had ten Hawaiian Ironman races under his belt, including wins in 1982 and 1985, three second places, two thirds and some top ten finishes. He was also one of the sport’s genuine characters—part athlete, part surfer dude. He shared Greg’s sense of humour and was a legendary practical joker. He also admired Greg’s spirit and indomitable optimism. Scott generously organised a house where Greg and Brad could board until they found their own lodgings. He even sponsored them, through his company.
Everything augured well for Greg’s first steps as a pro. Five days after they arrived in San Diego, Greg and Simon Skillicorn flew to Arizona to compete in the first race of the newly formed United States Triathlon Series—a collection of races in venues across the States, with excellent prize money and an attractive bonus system at the end of the season for the best performers.
At the race hotel, Greg ran into Simon and Stephen Foster, who had also come from Australia to compete. They were about to head off in a rental car to drive the bike and run courses and then have a swim. Greg jumped at the chance to join them. They headed off, with Skillo in the back seat behind Steve, who was driving, and Greg in the passenger seat. Halfway across town, they reached a two-way stop sign. The car stopped opposite them had the right of way but wasn’t moving.
‘Steve looked right and just went. He didn’t look left. As we moved into the intersection, travelling at about 5 km (3.1 miles) an hour, a car T-boned us from the left at about 80 km (50 miles) an hour. I remember spinning around, so fast, and then, boom! I came down on the gear stick, broke two ribs and damaged my back. Simon was speared into the roof and then fell back down. He broke some vertebrae. He was a fraction away from ending up a quadriplegic. Steve was just sitting there totally stunned. I looked around, and Simon was lying there. I thought he was dead. Blood was coming out of his ears, over his head, everywhere. We were all covered by a huge shower of broken glass.’
Greg was the first to move. He struggled out of his seat belt and moved around to the back seat to help Skillo. He was about to move him when his surf club training kicked in: don’t touch any patient with neck problems. He gently felt for a pulse. His heart sank. At first, he felt nothing. Skillo’s eyes were closed; he was completely silent and still. Greg tried again and found a weak pulse. By this time some bystanders had rung the ambulance. Greg comforted Skillo until an ambulance and then a helicopter arrived. The paramedics stabilised Skillo and flew him to the Good Samaritan Hospital in nearby Phoenix. Greg and Steve were taken by ambulance to a local hospital and checked out. Greg’s X-rays revealed he had two broken ribs. Steve was badly bruised. Some hours later they were released, but they were not out of the woods. ‘We walked out the front of the hospital and found we were 20 km (12.4 miles) from our hotel. Our rental car was a write-off and had been towed away. We had no money, so we hitchhiked back into town.’
At their hotel they found out where Skillo had been taken and hitchhiked over to the Good Samaritan Hospital. By then Greg could hardly breathe. The shock was wearing off and the pain from his strapped broken ribs kicked in. They spent most of the night waiting with Skillo as the doctors assessed his injuries. Their mate was lucky. He would have months in a halo brace and many more months of rehab, but he wasn’t expected to suffer any permanent impairment.
‘They kept Skillo in Phoenix for about a week and they put this terrible halo brace on him. His Mum and Dad came over and drove him to San Francisco, where they looked after him for a couple of weeks. He wasn’t allowed to fly for at least three months because of the pressure on the bolts supporting his brace, so they brought him down to San Diego where we’d found accommodation in a condominium.’
Greg became Skillo’s guardian and quasi nurse. ‘I had to try and clean the guy three times a day, do his bolts, feed him, look after him. Luckily, our friend Colleen Gallagher lent us her car whenever we needed it, and she’
d come and cook for us and leave stuff in the fridge.’
Greg and Brad nicked a pool chair from the club and made a special ‘bed’ with sponge pads so Skillo could sleep with his neck in a stable position. ‘Half the time I’d wake up in the middle of the night and he’d be awake. I’d just see the whites of his eyes. “Welchy, you awake?” “No, go to sleep, you bastard. Piss off, leave me alone, I’ve got to go training in the morning.” I’d have to go feed him in the middle of the night or do whatever he wanted, and so all of a sudden I was a parent!’
Greg’s ribs recovered reasonably quickly and he resumed training. He soon appreciated the benefits of training in San Diego. With a population of over a million, California’s second largest city is situated on the coast in the south-western corner of the US mainland. Its beaches, the remarkably temperate climate and its proximity to a range of major hills had already turned it into the Mecca of Triathlon. On summer evenings in 1974, the San Diego Track Club had staged the world’s first triathlon races around Mission Bay: John Collins, one of the creators of the Hawaiian Ironman, had competed in the very first race. Greg immediately felt at home in the area. ‘It was brilliant, perfect for training all year. It reminded me of Perth but with less rain. There’s some rain in San Diego from December through March, but not much. The best training times are March, April and May—spring in the United States—and September, October and November—the fall.’
Greg and his fellow triathletes relished San Diego’s seemingly endless supply of cloudless days, with temperatures ranging from 26° to 30°C (78.8°F to 86°F). In autumn the famed Santa Ana winds blow warm air through the canyons into the San Diego and Los Angeles basins. It can be very hot inland from San Diego but the coast, where Greg and Brad lived, was the ideal place for two young trainee pro triathletes to prepare themselves for their assault on the big time. ‘The training routes on the bike were incredible. You could be at an altitude of 2000 m (218.7 yd) within 60 km (37.3 miles) of our house. They also had the best trails for running too, like Rancho Santa Fe, one of the most expensive postcodes in the US. Less than 5 km (3.1 miles) away were 75 km (46.6 miles) of horse trails through stables and citrus groves. The pools are superb there too, and you’ve got the ocean and beaches. Everything’s there.’
A month later Greg was ready to race in the San Diego International Triathlon, his first American event as a pro. He borrowed Colleen Gallagher’s trusty Toyota Celica and started packing. It took him longer than he expected to fit his bike onto the roof rack and even longer to secure Skillo comfortably so he could travel with his neck brace. By the time they set off, they were running late. ‘I was speeding, doing about 110 km (68.4 miles), with Skillo in the passenger seat, in his halo brace, when we were pulled over by a highway patrol cop.’
Greg couldn’t believe it. His career seemed destined to end before it even started. It was his first race back after the crash, his first in the States, against all the top competitors, and he was not going to make it to the start line, just 30 km (18.6 miles) away. Greg looked out of the Celica’s window at the cop. He was like a character in a Hollywood movie—moustache, leathers, big gun on his belt.
‘Sir, can I have your licence and registration?’
Greg had no licence, no registration, no insurance, nothing. Then he remembered. ‘I’m actually an Australian, sir. I have an international driver’s licence.’ The cop softened when he looked across at Simon. ‘What happened to you?’
Greg and Skillo saw their chance and grabbed it. Two fledgling pro athletes, just starting their careers…a terrible accident…Skillo may never race again…Greg needed to get to the race to make their rent payments. As they chatted, they realised that the cop was fascinated by the way they spoke.
‘Wow, that’s a bummer, but you guys have got nice accents.’ The tide had turned. ‘So you guys are a bit late for the race, right?’
‘Yep, it starts at 7 and it’s 6.20 already.’
The cop snapped into action. He yelled ‘Follow me!’ over his shoulder as he jumped on his bike, kicked it into action and flicked on his siren. ‘We not only got a police escort, at 110 km (68.4 miles) an hour, down to the race, but he also let us park in the handicapped parking and wrote us a note for the car! I made the start in time after all and, not only that, I won the race. My first race as a pro!’
On the strength of that remarkable day, Mickey Morera, a local who would go on to become one of Greg’s best mates in America, decided they should throw a party, a big party, to extend their circle of friends and introduce Greg to more fellow athletes.
GREG SAW HER AS SOON AS SHE ENTERED THE ROOM—a darkly exotic beauty with almond eyes, high cheekbones and a dazzling smile. He moved over and said hello. She introduced herself as Sian Williams. Then she introduced her boyfriend Chip. Greg hadn’t noticed him. Sian explained that Chip was working as an artist and aspiring actor in Los Angeles. Greg checked him out as subtly as he could—Hollywood-handsome, a Rob Lowe look-alike, talented and a fine artist as well. Greg retired to get some drinks.
By this stage the condo was chock full. In addition to all the friends they knew in San Diego, and all the college girls in their condominium, Mickey Morera had invited some sponsors and potential sponsors to the party to meet the brand new pro triathlete from Down Under who’d broken through in his maiden US race to win the San Diego International Triathlon. Scott Tinley and a group of the top local competitors had also arrived.
Greg pulled Mickey aside and quickly ascertained that Sian was a very promising triathlete who was based in LA. She and her brother had been born in England to Welsh parents. The family had started a new life in the States when her father Vince, a brilliant biochemist, was headhunted. Sian’s mother Mary ran a company that housed and cared for quadriplegics on respirators. Greg headed back to Sian and Chip with the drinks. ‘We got talking. She was really good-looking. There was a spark between us but nothing happened. Well, I was still in a relationship with Leonie, my girlfriend in Australia. That had been going for five years. And Sian was also in a relationship.’
Sian felt the spark too, but she and Chip were about to be engaged. Greg didn’t meet her again until their paths crossed at Ironman in Kona later that year.
AFTER HIS FIRST-UP VICTORY AS A PRO, Greg was determined to establish a proper base in San Diego. He and Brad borrowed furniture and crockery, and pooled their money to cover expenses. Greg began developing the cooking skills he learnt as a kid while caring for his younger brother. But they struggled without a car. Even shopping for groceries was difficult in automobile-mad America. Once again, Scott Tinley came to the rescue, picking them up in his car to take them running. Otherwise, they would ride their bikes to most places.
‘People were really generous to us and there was a lot of the Australian-flavour-of-the-month thing. People would just accept us. But Tinley played a very big part in getting me established there. He was responsible for originally persuading me to come to the States to train and race, and he really helped us a lot in the first year. He helped us to get set up and showed us the ropes. He very generously took us under his wing. He’s sort of like an older brother to me there—but a wacky older brother!’
Any barriers Greg faced in the early days in America were small ones, such as driving on the wrong side of the road, looking to the right when crossing the road and laying claim to a spot in the fast lane in the local swimming pool. ‘I think the real transition was to mould ourselves into professional athletes, knowing that it was our job and knowing that we didn’t have to go to a real, 9-to-5 job. I think the rest came fairly naturally because we were just loving what we were doing—training all day, every day, and racing. And we were travelling, seeing new places for the very first time.’
In the meantime, Greg had won his first World Triathlon Championship at Disneyworld in Orlando, Florida, and he was one of the favourites for Hawaii. Greg met Sian’s parents in Kona and they immediately struck up a rapport. They invited Greg and Mickey to drop by wheneve
r they were in Los Angeles.
Greg came fifth in the 1990 Hawaii Ironman and Sian finished 12th. They saw each other in the crowd at the awards presentation and then went their separate ways again. Some time later, Greg heard that Sian and some of her training partners were competing in a race north of Los Angeles so, on an impulse, he and Mickey decided to make the 8-hour bike ride to LA and take up Sian’s parents’ invitation. ‘We stayed the night at Sian’s Mum and Dad’s place. They treated us like kings.’
The next day Greg and Mickey rode an extra three hours to see Sian compete in her race. They then got a ride back to San Diego where Greg resumed his hectic schedule.
Greg and Sian occasionally caught brief glimpses of each other on the road, and Greg heard that she’d become engaged to Chip. Later, he found out she planned to compete in the 1991 New Zealand Ironman. By this stage, Pat and Noelene’s new house at Bangor in the Shire had become a halfway house for itinerant competitors, as Pat recalls: ‘I think we had triathletes from every continent, nearly every country you could imagine—from all over Europe, all over Canada. And not for a day, they’d be there for a month on end. That’s how Sian first came to visit, as a billet.’
Greg had bumped into Sian at a race and invited her to stay at Bangor on her trip Down Under. He told her that he and Leonie had broken up by mutual agreement and he’d be there training with his new girlfriend, Kristin, a Canadian pro triathlete he’d met at the World Championships at Orlando. Sian went to New Zealand and competed but was forced out late in the run. She turned to Greg. ‘She called me, distressed, from New Zealand. She said she got to 30 km (18.6 miles) in the run and her foot gave out. She used to be an ice skater and a ballet dancer, and she always had injuries with her feet. She still does. So she came across to Australia.’
Heart of a Champion Page 8
