Heart of a Champion (7 page)

While he waited for the big triathlon races, Greg joined his mates from Cronulla Surf Club at the 1988 World Surf Championships—against club teams from Japan, Germany, the United States, Canada, New Zealand, South Africa and many European countries—at Southport on the Gold Coast.

Each team comprised 12 members, selected for their special skills, such as open surf swimming, pool events, surf skis and surf ironman. Greg was chosen for the 2-km (1.2-mile) beach run. It was too close to call all the way, and as the championships drew to an end, they hinged on the final event— Greg's 2-km beach run. Four laps of 500 m (0.3 miles) on the beach. Going into it, Cronulla was in third place, with Southport and North Cronulla tying for first. For his club to win the competition, Greg had to win the race.

It was a classic Australian summer tableau—a swarm of bronzed surf lifesavers in Speedos and club caps, straining every muscle as they raced, shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, down the beach.

Greg was in his element on the sand. His natural running skill and his excellent strength-to-weight ratio gave him advantages he had honed during tortuous hours driving himself up and down the sand hills at Wanda Beach, near Cronulla. ‘It's all about keeping your knees up. In some ways it's the same as swimming in the ocean with a swell— you've just got to be smooth and efficient. With running it was just all about pulling your knees up and having a strong body core over the uneven sand.'

The race was a dogfight early on, but Greg held his line and form and gradually edged into the lead. Down the final lap, he pulled away and hit the line about 10 m (11 yd) ahead of his rivals. Cronulla had won its first world title. Greg had won his first world championship and was the toast of the Shire.

Shortly after his Southport triumph, Greg travelled to Perth as a member of yet another New South Wales team, this time contesting the Australian Road Championships. ‘I didn't run very well there, maybe I was spreading myself a bit thin then. But I had a great time.'

Greg didn't have to race at Forster in 1988 because he'd already qualified for that year's Hawaiian Ironman, so he spent the rest of the year competing, training and saving up for the trip. He felt much more confident after winning his first triathlon, and he went off to Hawaii in high spirits. ‘I had a great race in Kona. I was ecstatic because I won my age group this time. I was absolutely over the moon because I finished 19th overall as well. The only bummer was that Paula Newby-Fraser beat me! Only joking!'

In fact, the remarkable Paula Newby-Fraser won the second of her eight titles that year and took more than half an hour off the women's record. She finished 11th overall in 9 hours 1 minute 1 second. Greg finished 6 minutes later. Paula and Greg were already acquaintances and fast becoming friends. Besides his future wife Sian, Paula would become Greg's closest friend in the sport.

(Two years later, when Greg moved to San Diego to train with Scott Tinley, they would meet every Tuesday at an organised run. Paula and her boyfriend Paul Huddle, a fine runner, would come along too. They all became fast friends. As they became closer, Greg jumped at the chance when Paula asked him whether he'd like to share a flat with them. He and Paula also shared the same agent. ‘I never had a sister and Paula was always about as caring and loving as you can get outside of a family member. My respect for her has always been monumental.')

After returning from Hawaii, Greg found time to let his hair down and join in what was fast becoming one of the Shire's least salubrious endof-year traditions—the Toga Run.

It started with a posse of young bucks, dressed in togas and Speedos, who lined up at the Royal Hotel in Sutherland. The aim was as simple as the mind of the creator: a 12-km (7.5-mile) run, during which you hit every pub on the way down to Cronulla—seven of them—and had a beer or two in each one. After the run, the group would meet their partners and get into the serious New Year celebrations. Over the years, the competitive element began to dominate the event and the challenge grew.

‘By the end we started at 3 o'clock in the afternoon at North Cronulla pub and had two middies, then up to Caringbah pub for two there, two at Miranda, one at Gymea, one at Boyles on the other side of the railway line. Then we'd reverse it and run back! Later, they added a Big Mac at McDonald's at Caringbah and at Miranda, plus all the drinking, then onto the sand on the way back. It started to get too much for me—the Ironman was easier!'

What had started with about 12 or 15 blokes grew to include half the local surf clubs and soon got out of hand. So Greg's mates replaced the Toga Run with a far more sophisticated event—the Scungies Run. Every Christmas Eve, about 30 or 40 of their closest mates would meet at the Southwells' house in Caringbah for a few drinks in their Speedos (also known as ‘scungies', budgie smugglers, sluggos, banana hammocks or dick stickers).

It soon became a tradition to take a photo of the starters, from the tallest bloke to the shortest, in the backyard before the race—Greg was always at the short end. It arose out of a standing joke that athletes could never run past a shop window without checking out their reflections. One of their mates was famous for always flexing and looking at his calf muscles. These idiosyncrasies were incorporated into the annual ‘scungies' photo. ‘We'd always stretch our calves and point to them as we had our pictures taken. It happened for 15 years straight. It was the Christmas calf shot.'

The Scungies Run would start with a run to the end of the peninsula at Lilli Pilli, followed by a swim across to Burraneer Bay and a run to the end of the point there. The group would then jump off the rock ledge into the bay and swim across the channel. From there they'd run around the foreshore to the nearby swimming baths for some marine acrobatics, then on to Cronulla Beach where they'd jump in at the point and swim into the beach for some body surfing. Finally, they'd run along the median strip of the busy road leading to Caringbah McDonald's.

‘When we got to Maccas we'd have to spend $10 exactly—on the nose, it could not be over or under—and that had to include a thick shake! Then we ran to the oval 200 m (218.7 yd) away, and then we'd have 400-m (437.5-yd) races and everyone would have to eat part of a luncheon meat roll between races. Luckily, most triathletes have iron stomachs!'

To Greg this camaraderie was an essential part of his enjoyment of sport. Even after he turned pro, he thrived on the fun and mateship he'd grown up with in the Shire. ‘I was always the social guy. I wasn't the overtrainer, the over-achiever. To me it was all about being social. If I could grab somebody to go training with, that was perfect. I loved training with my mates.'

One of Greg's unusual attributes was his ability to recover after training—or playing—sessions. It never ceased to amaze Mick Maroney. ‘We were growing and learning about racing and training. We'd race on the weekend and on Mondays I could barely walk and was sore all over. It'd take me at least until Wednesday to be able to run freely again. But Greg would be playing tennis on Monday. I used to say, “Mate, aren't you sore?” And he'd say, “Nah, I'm all right.” Physically, he was just different. He had a looseness, a free style about his swimming, his biking, his running. I always regarded it as something really special.'

Mick Maroney also noticed how Greg found the fun in everything he did. Mick can only remember seeing him really down once. It was at a race that fell the day after one of the annual pub runs. Mick and some of his other mates went to bed early after the pub run to give themselves some chance of recovering in time. Greg batted on well into the night and turned up for the fun run still dressed in the same clothes he'd worn partying the night before.

Mick chuckled when he saw how gingerly Greg changed into his running gear. ‘The race was flat out over 10 km (6.2 miles). There was a lead pack of six or seven, and I was at the back just hanging on for dear life. Greg would run up the road about 200 m (218.7 yd), get ahead and stop, spew, have a bit of a stretch, wait for us to catch up to him, and then he'd run with us again and keep doing it. He did it probably 20 or 30 times in the whole of the run, crossed the line first, smashed us all. Won the fun run, won his money and did it completely hung over, in no shape at all to be athletic. He made everyone look stupid.

‘There were guys there who were serious runners who had been tapering all week. And there's Greg, turning up with a gutful of beer and smashing everyone. That was the only time I'd seen him green!'

The more Greg competed, the more he refined his athletic skills, especially in areas where he had weaknesses. In this, he was helped by his outstanding physical intelligence. Like many great athletes, he had an innate feel for his body, and he could envisage how he looked as he ran or swam or rode. This ability, combined with his capacity for observation, allowed him to model himself on the best aspects he saw in other competitors. His greatest improvements continued to be in swimming— his weakest triathlon discipline. His extremely low body fat—usually between 3 and 4 per cent—gave him a poor centre of buoyancy in the water, and the muscles he'd developed by working as a plasterer and playing squash meant his upper body and shoulder muscles were strong and rigid rather than supple. Greg worked hard to learn to relax and to improve his stroke so that he could move through the water efficiently and smoothly.

Mick Maroney saw the changes. ‘The first three or four years were just about learning technique and style. Once Greg got on top of that and realised what he could do, he used his great racing brain. He knew where to stand at the start of the race, which currents would take him out and which guys would drag him up to the lead pack. So he used all that as well as his ability.'

Greg's outstanding recuperative powers also helped him through the grind of the intensive competition that developed as triathlon gathered support. Early sponsorships were small and competitions dragged across ten consecutive weeks in summer. As the weeks passed, many competitors were unable to return consistent results, and the impact of their heavy training and competing took their toll. Greg's natural running ability enabled him to regularly record the fastest run times without absorbing the deadening effects of heavy road work.

Mick Maroney wasn't so lucky. ‘We'd be sore on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. You might go well for two or three races but after week four, you'd be gone for all money. In contrast, because Greg was such a great runner, he really didn't even have to train as much. He'd run one or two times during the week, and he'd still have the fastest run of the race, every Sunday. I wasn't a runner. I was a swimmer and a biker, so I had to run 120 km (74.6 miles) a week to run 2 minutes slower than Greg.'

Allied to Greg's physical intelligence were his natural gifts of both fast- and slow-twitch muscles. Most people are limited by genetics to one or the other: fast-twitch muscles predispose us to explosive action and sports; slow-twitch muscles are best suited to endurance events and sports. Greg was equally comfortable and capable over both short and long distances. At the time, it was rare for a triathlete to compete at the top level in Ironman and then back up immediately in short-course competitions. Greg did it with ease.

This was a time when Greg and the others competed for the love of the sport. With prize winnings, the top performers could cover their costs and come out slightly ahead, but triathlon was essentially a lifestyle choice. Each weekend, Greg and his mates would throw their bikes and gear into their cars and drive to competitions in Nowra or Newcastle or some other seaside town. They'd race, collect their prize money, drive back home and spend the winnings on the Sunday at McDonald's or their local pub. Then they'd be back up again the next weekend.

By early 1989 the word was out that Greg Welch was special. The newspapers were saying he would be the star of the season. Greg was a heavy favourite for the Royal National Park Triathlon, particularly as he was one of the ‘bushies', a group who actually trained in the Park. The distance—1.6-km (1-mile) swim, 42-km (26.2-mile) bike race and 17-km (10.6-mile) run—was considered perfect for him.

During the race, Greg swam and rode solidly. Coming off the bike into the run, he was behind Mick Maroney, Greg Stewart and Rick Pallister. He exploded after them like a madman, determined to run them down as soon as he could. He soon bolted past them, but around the 10-km (6.2-mile) mark, Greg blew up and faded to finish a disappointing ninth. He was shattered, especially given the high expectations. But he still lacked the experience and patience to wait for the right time to surge.

A rumour went around the traps that perhaps Greg couldn't handle the pressure of competition. It didn't last long.

Racing at Lake Macquarie, Greg came out of the swim with Mick Maroney. They powered off on their bikes, and after 20 km (12.4 miles), they'd built up a 3-minute lead. Mick was one of the best riders in Australia and he was confident he could smash Greg on the hilly course. Mick went as hard as he could but he couldn't budge Greg, who stuck to Mick's rear wheel. Still, Mick thought he'd done enough on the bike to destroy Greg's running legs. ‘We got off the bike and there was a transition area which you had to run around before you came out and hit the road. By the time Greg was on the road, I reckon he had 40 seconds on me. And I didn't do anything slower. I looked up and he was just running off into the distance. I came second, 4 minutes behind Greg. The guy behind me was 4 minutes later, so essentially Greg beat the first three guys by 8 minutes. We just looked at the run times. It was 10 km (6.2 miles) and he ran it in 31 minutes. That'll win a top fun run, without the swim and the bike. And that was it. Everyone just thought—Greg's on fire.'

Greg went from strength to strength. In May 1989, he won selection on the Australian team of five men and two women for the first International Triathlon World Short-Course Championships in Avignon, France. The team had seven races scheduled in eight weeks. He was delighted by his selection but was worried because he didn't have enough money for the trip. His boss Arthur Blizzard helped him out by giving him two months off, and friends organised fundraisers so Greg and team-mate Louise Bonham could pay for their air fares.