Life Without Limits, A

by Wellington, Chrissie

  I never met Jon, but it feels as if he is a friend, and The Blazeman is nothing if not an inspiration – to me and countless others. He called himself the ALS Warrior Poet, and this is his poem, ‘Westward Bound’:

  Live . . .

  More than your neighbors.

  Unleash yourself upon the world and go places.

  Go now.

  Giggle, no, laugh.

  No . . . stay out past dark,

  And bark at the moon like the wild dog that you are.

  Understand that this is not a dress rehearsal.

  This is it . . . your life.

  Face your fears and live your dreams.

  Take it in.

  Yes, every chance you get . . .

  come close.

  And, by all means, whatever you do . . .

  Get it on film.

  Jane Tomlinson

  Having twice beaten breast cancer, Jane Tomlinson was told in 2000 that the disease had returned, this time in her bones and lungs. She was given six months to live.

  In the end, she lived for another seven years and, while undergoing chemotherapy, raised nearly £2 million for charity through her participation in numerous endurance events. Among them were four marathons, three London Triathlons, two half-ironmans, a bike ride from John O’Groats to Land’s End and another from Rome to Leeds.

  In 2004 she completed Ironman Florida, becoming the first terminally ill person to try an ironman, let alone finish it. She said afterwards that that would be the last of her challenges, such was the pain and stress placed on her body. Then, in 2005, she ran the New York Marathon and, in 2006, she cycled across America. She finally lost her fight against cancer in 2007.

  Jane’s story resonates with me, because my grandmother survived breast cancer but eventually died from liver and bowel cancer. When Jane’s husband, Mike, asked me to be a patron of the Jane Tomlinson Appeal, I didn’t hesitate. She is a true British hero, and millions of pounds continue to be raised in her name through the Appeal and the Run For All races that she founded with Mike in the last year of her life.

  Scott Rigsby

  At my first World Championship in 2007, I saw someone pull off the unthinkable by finishing at Kona. That year, Scott Rigsby became the first double-leg amputee to complete an ironman. Scott came in barely a quarter of an hour before the cut-off time, at 16hr 43min. During the marathon he’d had to stop every few miles to empty blood and sweat from the inside of his prostheses. I had the privilege of putting a lei around his neck at the finish line, with tears welling up in my eyes. I was honoured to be able to do it again in 2011, when Scott finished at Kona for a second time.

  In 1986, aged eighteen, Scott had been riding home from work with friends on the back of a pick-up truck in Georgia, when the truck was hit by an articulated lorry. He was dragged hundreds of yards beneath the trailer. He suffered third-degree burns up his back, his right leg was severed and his left was left barely intact. Nearly twenty years of pain and despair followed. After twelve years of operations and treatment, Scott decided to amputate what was left of his left leg. He suffered from depression and prescription-drug addiction. Then, in 2005, he had an epiphany and set himself the target of becoming an ironman. He has never looked back. Now he has set up his own foundation, and inspires people through public speaking and counselling.

  I was there to witness the culmination of his mission to be an ironman, and I realised once again what power sport wields. Having just won the World Championship for the first time, I resolved there and then to use my new position well, to try to inspire, encourage and empower, just as people like Scott do.

  Rudy Garcia Tolson

  Scott Rigsby is the first double amputee to complete an ironman; and, in 2009 at Tempe, Arizona, Rudy Garcia Tolson became the first double-above-knee amputee to complete one. By then, at the age of twenty-one, Rudy had already won gold medals in the pool at the Paralympics in Athens in 2004 (aged fifteen) and Beijing in 2008. He had raced at Kona in 2009, but missed the 5.30 p.m. cut-off time on the bike by eight minutes. He vowed to give it another shot and did so in Arizona six weeks later.

  Rudy was born with numerous genetic defects, the worst of which were in his legs. He required fifteen operations as a child, before, aged five, deciding to have his legs removed altogether, so that he could get on with living on a pair of prosthetic limbs. He has become a sporting phenomenon and a hero to thousands, devoting a huge amount of time and energy to helping others, especially through the Challenged Athletes Foundation.

  It is no wonder that Rudy struggled initially to make the cut-off time for the bike on an ironman. I cannot conceive of how anyone could ride 112 miles without any hamstrings or quads. In propelling his bike forwards, Rudy can recruit only his glutes. He can’t stand up on the pedals or shift his weight around, which robs him of yet more strategies to ease the pain. He just has to sit there on a saddle for hours and hours, effectively clenching his buttocks.

  I have met Rudy on numerous occasions, and have found his courage and determination wonderfully inspiring. He is a ‘can do’ person, who always finds a way of reaching his goal. His achievements at such a young age are astonishing and an example to us all.

  Sister Madonna Buder

  At the other end of the age spectrum is the lady they call the Iron Nun. Sister Madonna Buder started training at the age of forty-eight as a way of honing mind, body and spirit. Since then she has competed in more than 300 triathlons. At the age of fifty-five she took on her first ironman, and has now completed more than forty. ‘I train religiously,’ she says, by way of explanation.

  Now in her eighties, she has kept pushing back her own world record as the oldest female to complete an ironman. Indeed, new age categories are continually being created for her. In 2005 it was the 75-to-79 category; in 2010 it was the 80-plus.

  I met Sister Madonna properly at Ironman Arizona in 2010, and she was as kind, charming, energetic and passionate as I had imagined she would be. Truly, age is nothing but a number.

  Jordan Rapp

  Another person at Ironman Arizona that year was Jordan Rapp, a professional triathlete who was defending his title. But, since his victory the year before, he had come within a few minutes of death.

  On a training ride in March 2010, a car pulled out in front of him. He hit it at high speed, flew through one rear passenger window and then out through the other, smashing both, and was left for dead on the highway. Along came a naval officer, Tom Sanchez, who, amid all the blood, reached into the gaping wound in Jordan’s neck, felt something pulsing in there and, in a hit-and-hope fashion, applied pressure to it. He saved Jordan’s life.

  Jordan came round two days later and spent the next eighteen days in hospital, having severed two jugular veins, lost over two litres of blood and shattered his face, collarbone and shoulder. He wasn’t able, physically or mentally, to resume proper training till that October. Yet, seven weeks later, there he was lining up for the defence of his title ‘to show I’m back, still alive and healthy and strong’. He came fourth. He has registered a number of wins and podium finishes since, and is now a father. He epitomises the never-say-die spirit.

  The Southwoods

  Debbie and Tauny Southwood are the life and soul of the BRAT Club, where I was first introduced to triathlon. Debbie swam for Australia at the 1972 Munich Olympics as a sixteen year old, and still beats me out of the water. She was involved in a horrific bike crash in 2006, in which she fractured her pelvis and was left virtually immobile. Somehow, a mere seven months later, she not only started Ironman Switzerland but made the podium for her age group. In 2008 she earned a slot at Kona, where I had the privilege of racing with her on the hallowed lava fields.

  All the more pressure, then, on Tauny, her husband. He is a global leader in the field of juvenile arthritis, a professor of paediatric rheumatology at the University of Birmingham and a consultant at Birmingham Children’s Hospital. He is the chair of the BRAT club, helping to take it from a small grou
p of passionate individuals to a 600-member organisation that inspires and supports athletes of all ages and abilities. He is a husband, a father of three, a doting grandfather and a wonderful friend to countless others, myself included.

  As if all that were not enough to be getting on with, he has been set for years in the pursuit of his holy grail, a place at Kona. He is dedicated to his training programme (although four hours of sleep a night is somewhat suboptimal). He has broken bones and bled for his mission, but has never given up. And in 2011 he finally qualified by winning the 55-to-59 age group at Ironman St George, held in the desert of Utah, one of the most punishing races on the circuit. To be able to race with him at Kona in 2011 was incredibly special for me. His unadulterated joy at the finish line had me in tears once again.

  Debbie and Tauny are special to me, but ironman is full of such heroes, who make the most of their lives and inspire others to make the most of theirs. In so doing, they bring a smile to all our faces. They make our sport what it is – the most inspiring of them all.

  15

  Rising from the Crashes

  The year 2011 was always going to be a defining one. I was settled now as a professional athlete. There were no dramas over who should be my coach, no dramas over where I should live. My relationship with Tom was established, as was my wonderful network of friends and advisors in Boulder. I had just suffered the first major setback of my career and responded in as decisive a manner as possible. With all that behind me, the year ahead was a chance to explore just how far I could take things. No excuses, no dramas. Hopefully, no Muppet.

  Did I say ‘settled’? I spent a good chunk of the first few months of the year in an aeroplane. New Year was spent in France for Georgie’s wedding. Then, having waited for the renewal of my US visa, I flew to California for the Endurance LIVE Awards in San Diego, where I won Performance of the Year for Roth. Then it was off to Tucson, Arizona, where I intended to spend the winter months training, until my first race of the year, Ironman South Africa in April. While there, I changed my mind and decided that South Africa was as good a place as any to winter, so I flew there in February, via the TCR (Triathlon, Cycling and Running) Show in the UK, where I won Female Elite Triathlete of the Year in the 220 Triathlon Awards.

  I always enjoy it when I feel as if my life is coming full circle, when there is a symmetry and poignancy to it. Coming to South Africa was another example. Only this time it was as if there had been more than one revolution to this particular circle. I came to South Africa for the first time in 1999 as a young traveller just out of university; then I returned in 2002 as a civil servant in the UK Government for the World Summit on Sustainable Development; here I was in 2011, coming to train as a professional athlete. My life had brought me to South Africa three times and as three different people.

  I had chosen to base myself in Stellenbosch. I’d been there in 1999 on a wine-tasting tour. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t remember too much about the place from that time, but returning brought it all back – the whitewashed colonial buildings, the tree-lined avenues, the square, the café culture. It’s a picture-perfect university town, about 50km inland from Cape Town, at the heart of South Africa’s wine country.

  I took an apartment in the Vilaroux complex, run by the wonderful Suzette and François Le Roux. There were a few of us training out there: Dion Harrison, a fellow inmate from Hambro House in Putney; Jan Frodeno, the Olympic champion; his girlfriend, Emma Snowsill, who also happened to be an Olympic champion; Tim Don; and Fraser Cartmell. I was never short of a training partner, and there was always someone on hand to have a coffee with at one of the many cafés just around the corner.

  Another friend out there was an ultra-runner called Lizzy Hawker. I’d been introduced to her by Billi, albeit through email. Over two years we’d become friends in a pen-pal sort of way. She’s an incredible person – intelligent (PhD in physical oceanography), passionate about the environment and one of Britain’s best ultra-runners. She won the 100km World Championships in 2006; she ran from Everest Base Camp to Kathmandu in 2007 in world-record time; and in September 2011 she ran 153 miles in twenty-four hours, breaking the women’s world record of eighteen years.

  In February 2011, she was looking for somewhere to train, so I persuaded her to come to Stellenbosch. Finally, I met her, and so our friendship entered a new dimension – the face-to-face one! She was training for Comrades, an ultra-marathon of 87km between Durban and Pietermaritzburg. They love endurance sport in South Africa. Every day they show mountain biking, triathlon, ultra-running and ocean swimming on the TV. Comrades is the highlight of the year. It’s the oldest and biggest ultra-distance race in the world, with tens of thousands of competitors. It’s their equivalent of the London Marathon, except that it’s twice the length. A marathon is nothing to a South African.

  So this was a good a country to be training and racing in, and Stellenbosch one of the best bases within it. Everything is within easy reach. I could get wherever I needed to go on my bike. There are oak trees all over town, and legend has it that if you are hit on the head by an acorn it will bring you good luck. As race day approached, this was exactly what happened to me as I cycled along.

  Even before the big race started, that luck was kicking in. I’d flown to Port Elizabeth, the race venue, on the previous Tuesday. On the Saturday, I racked my bike. Before I left, I noticed a group of people crowding round it. They seemed to be taking photos of the bike. That does happen sometimes, so I thought no more of it. Just as I was leaving, though, an age-grouper by the name of Franz came up to me.

  ‘You do know there’s a huge thorn sticking out of your front tyre, don’t you?’ he said.

  Funnily enough, I didn’t. I went across to my bike, nudging aside those people too busy taking photographs to alert me, and, sure enough, there it was, the size of my thumb, a whopping great thorn. I pulled it out. Hiss. The tourists were treated to a few more shots of me getting down and dirty, wrestling with a tube change. Thank heavens for Franz. I might have spotted the thorn the next morning before the race – I do always check my tyres – but, then again, knowing Muppet, I might not. I owed the man a Chenin Blanc.

  It was a new bike, a Cannondale Slice, and I’d named it Jude, after the girl who had changed everything for me on my travels through Africa. Who knows, without Jude I might not have pursued a career in development, which means I might not have gone to Nepal, which means I might not have become so strong an endurance cyclist, which means I might not be where I am today. It was another reason why coming to South Africa felt significant. I was back in the land of Jude. After a couple of years’ radio silence, I reconnected with her. Only by email, though – she lives in the middle of nowhere, north of Johannesburg, where she works in environmental education.

  Jude (the bike) and I got off to a good start. Ironman South Africa is not known as a particularly fast course, so when I came home for the win in 8hr 33min 56sec I was euphoric. I’d improved my official world record by more than two minutes! Not bad for the first race of the season! Most pleasing was my marathon, which was the fastest of the day – of either sex. This was a serious achievement, considering the strength of the field. The men’s winner, local boy Raynard Tissink, had come fifth at Kona six months earlier and here broke the course record. I came eighth overall.

  My run was now consistently on a par with the men. I had been making dramatic progress. Finally fixing my hamstring was a huge part of it, but Dave had also started setting me treadmill sessions. This was something I had never done before, so I was initially averse to it. I’m still not entirely sure what the rationale behind it is, but that very fact alone shows that I trusted him. Although I had made no gains on the bike, which had been my strongest discipline, this improvement in my running had been so significant that I had to be excited by it. It meant I could now start to contemplate facing Mirinda Carfrae in a straight shoot-out on the marathon. The imperative to beat her on the bike was no longer quite so pressing.


  I returned to the UK in high spirits. April was already shaping up to be a great month, and at the end of it I had The Wedding to look forward to. Yes, 29 April 2011, as for many British people, had been circled on the calendar for some time. My invitation to the big event had been sitting proudly on the mantelpiece. They’d even asked me to do a reading. I was so excited.

  First, though, I went home to Norfolk and spent my days catching up with people. There was the BRAT Club’s tenth anniversary ball to attend as well, where I presented Paul Robertshaw with an award. That was an emotional moment; after all he’d done for me – introducing me to the sport, selling me my first bike and finding me my first coach, Tim Weeks.

  I was reunited with Tom, who had been in the UK the previous few months. He had taken a job with TYR as a sales manager. Although Ironman Arizona had gone well for him at the end of last year, talks with TYR were well advanced, and he decided to take the new job and try to combine it with his training. He loved the work, but it was full-time, and it quickly became obvious that it was incompatible with the lifestyle of a professional athlete. So, with regret on both sides, he tendered his resignation and we made plans to go to Boulder in early May.

  But first there was The Wedding. We took a room in the Holiday Inn on the A1 just outside Barnet. While we were getting ready, we were able to watch, as a kind of warm-up, the televised coverage of some other wedding, which was taking place in London that day at Westminster Abbey.

  But the main event was my brother’s. Matty and Kelly were married in a lovely little church in Stanstead St Margarets in Hertfordshire. The reception was at Hatfield House. It was a truly wonderful day. To see my brother and his bride so happy brought me such joy. Matty looked a million dollars in the middle of it all, so confident and charismatic. And now with a gorgeous wife!