The move meant Greg’s after-school jobs had to go, but he was determined to stay at Punchbowl High even though it meant a convoluted 50-km (31.1-mile) round trip each day. Every morning he bolted through breakfast and ran to catch the 6.22 am bus, which linked with the 7.07 am train to Regents Park. There he changed trains to Punchbowl. Luckily, Punchbowl Boys High was a stone’s throw from the station (sometimes literally). In fact, the rail line ran right along the school’s back fence. When Greg arrived, the school was just over 20 years old, an unexceptional, light brown, 1950s brick pile of buildings striving to live up to its motto, ‘Facta non verba’—‘Deeds, not words’. Greg took it literally. ‘The first year at high school I remember doing a ton of sport, and no school work. I started in all the top classes, then my grades plummeted. I think I was destined to be a sportsman. I dreamed of always being a champion, but I really wasn’t that good at anything, just average.’
When he got home after school, Greg continued to look after Justin. He’d bolt out of school just after 3 pm, catch one train, then swap lines to get to Campbelltown. There he’d get the bus and arrive home around 5 pm, in time to pick Justin up from the local primary school. Then he’d cook dinner by 5.30 and have it ready when everyone arrived home around 6 pm. ‘My running started to drop off, I didn’t play footy anymore and, despite the surroundings, I didn’t like living out there. But I did find friends.’
Around this time, Greg started playing a lot of squash. It started when he and Darren watched Noelene and Pat play in their competition. The two boys would pick up racquets during the breaks and after the matches. They’d be banging away on the darkened courts while the adults had their after-game drinks. As in so many sports, Greg was a natural. Noelene recalls: ‘Pat and I used to play in round robins and Greg used to come along—anything for sport. He’d sit up there and just watch—all concentration, taking in who was doing what. One day, we were short a player, so Greg took his shoes off, left his jeans on and started running around the court and hitting the ball like you wouldn’t believe.’
By the time he was 14, Greg played number one in the men’s A grade side. Pat was amazed at his progress over the years. ‘He was a freak at squash, he was absolutely brilliant. He could have won state titles, except that he played all his divisions through the week and if the snow was good, he’d go to the snow on the weekend with his friends.’
Once, during the NSW State championships, Greg played and won all his matches through the week and then won his semi-final on the Friday night. His mates arrived with news that it was blowing a blizzard on the ski-fields. So they jumped in the car and drove through the night to the snow, skied all day Saturday and then drove home early the next morning for a touch football game. Greg slipped on the icy ground in the first minute and broke his collarbone. Then he drove back to the squash centre to collect his runner-up trophy. Pat was left shaking his head. ‘He was in the final and he would have been the state champion. The other guy won it on a forfeit.’
It was to be a recurring feature of Greg’s career: natural ability would propel him to the brink of major success, then the larrikin would chime in and snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.
He started to travel to squash tournaments, and met the Hopkins boys—Cameron, Bruce and Scott—and their family. They would become a large part of his adolescent life. One of the great attractions of spending time with the Hopkins boys was that they lived in ‘the Shire’. The Sutherland Shire, on the southern Sydney metropolitan coastal border, is one of the last local government districts in Sydney to retain the old-fashioned ‘shire’ appellation, as distinct from municipality or council. Locals have always cherished the name and the attitude of mind that accompanies it. To Greg it was paradise. ‘Everything that you didn’t have in Campbelltown was in the Shire—hardly any violence, beautiful rivers and incredible beaches. There was also a different attitude. In Campbelltown, it was all about just hanging around the malls or hanging—just getting into trouble. In the Shire it was about challenging yourself to be the best, especially at sport.’
At first, Greg and his brother Darren did everything together. Pat and Noelene took them to cricket, football, athletics, the beach. Then they began to specialise, and soon Greg’s running attracted the attention of Frank McCaffery, a World War II veteran who’d been a prisoner-of-war on Crete. Frank became a respected local athletics coach and co-founded the Nowra Amateur Athletic Club. He was mentor to a team of promising runners, including future Commonwealth Games 5000-m (3.1-mile) gold medallist and multiple City to Surf winner Andrew Lloyd. They trained at Wyatt Park, adjacent to Lidcombe Oval, and went on camps down the south coast, where they honed their cross-country skills and developed their fitness on the hilly tracks around the Shoalhaven River.
Frank McCaffery died a few years ago, but he always maintained that if Greg had concentrated on running, he could have been up there with Australia’s outstanding endurance runners, Steve Moneghetti and Robert de Castella.
By this time Greg had made up his mind that the Higher School Certificate was not for him, and so he decided to leave school in year 10. He’d always thought he’d do something in the building trade. He didn’t want to go into printing, like his Dad and elder brother Darren, largely because he didn’t want to be stuck inside. He’d done woodworking at school, and working in the fresh air appealed to him.
In January 1981 he was offered an apprenticeship by a family friend. Noelene wasn’t convinced it was the right move.
‘I thought Greg should have stayed at school on a sporting scholarship. Any time they wanted someone to represent the school at sport, it was always Greg who was first out. Greg played all the teachers at squash and beat everybody. He should’ve stayed on a sporting scholarship but we had friends in the plastering game who offered him a job, so he went to work for them.’
Greg, on the other hand, was delighted. ‘It was a huge breakthrough to get an apprenticeship. It didn’t matter what trade it was. I would have taken anything. It was an apprenticeship and I thought, “There’s a future in an apprenticeship.”’
GREG WAS BEAMING WITH PRIDE when he signed on as an apprentice plasterer with a small company, run by family friends. It was a major step towards independence. However, he couldn’t afford a car, so his employers had to pick him up on the way to a job or Greg had to get himself there by train—no fun when you’re lugging around a bag of plasterer’s tools.
Unfortunately, Greg’s first flush of pride at securing his future didn’t last long. The family friends who’d given him the job found themselves in financial difficulties and had to put him off after only 18 months. To add insult to injury, he discovered they’d also underpaid him. It was a sobering reality check. Pat helped Greg take his case to the Apprenticeship Commission where he won his back pay. But he was still without a job.
His luck changed during a squash game a couple of months later. ‘I was talking to this guy after a game where he’d beaten me in five sets and he said, “What do you do for a living?” I said, “I’m a plasterer.” He said, “I am too.” I told him I was out of work and I was still an apprentice, going to tech but I’d been put off. He said, “I’ll talk to my boss and see if we’ve got any extra work.” He was as good as his word and called me the next week, telling me to give his boss a call.’
Greg made the call and Arthur Blizzard, owner of Plaster Linings of Loftus, agreed to take over his apprenticeship. Greg had struck pay dirt in two ways: first, Arthur and his wife Jan turned out to be wonderful employers and later great friends, and second, their office was in the Shire. Greg’s friendship with the Hopkins boys had developed and he ended up living with them in the Shire during the week, rather than spending long hours travelling to and from Campbelltown.
Greg was not a natural plasterer. For a start, it helps to be tall when you’re trying to hold up plaster sheets, and reaching up from scaffolds to plaster joins and cornices. Greg wasn’t called ‘Shorty’ for nothing: he’d hit his full height of a
bout 1.67 m (or 5 foot 6 inches in the old money). But he attacked his new trade with his usual fierce determination. Each day he’d turn up resplendent in a T-shirt that Noelene had insisted on ironing. He was surely the neatest and tidiest apprentice plasterer in the state. He would also sport his distinctive plasterer’s hat—a natty square, foam-padded number designed to protect his head while it supported plaster sheets as he positioned and nailed them above him. The padding was meant to help avoid the dreaded ‘plasterers’ bald spot’.
As the apprentice, Greg floated between teams of two plasterers. He would work below them, ‘buttering up’ cornices—putting lips of cement on the edge of sheets—and handing them up so the teams didn’t have to constantly climb up and down their scaffolds. Sometimes he’d team up with Arthur on a scaffold and hone his skills, hauling up sheets, some up to 5 m long, balancing them on his head while he reached into his pouch, grabbed a nail and his hammer, lined up the sheet with the adjoining one and then hammered in the nails backhand. ‘You hammer backhand as a plasterer and then you’ve got to turn around while the sheet is still on your head so you can get to the other side and stabilise it by putting two nails in. That’s why it rips your hair out.’
After some time, one of the other plasterers left, and Greg became a tradesman, teaming up with Dick Harding, then almost 60 and a gentleman. Greg quickly developed a special relationship with both Arthur and Dick. ‘Arthur was a great man, a great family man, and we got on like friends. We were all friends at that job. Dick and I used to get on so well. We’d get there in the morning and he’d say, “Come here, you little bugger.” And he’d shake my hand. Every day, he’d shake hands before we’d start work. And he’d make me warm up with funny loosening exercises and then he’d say, “OK mate, you’re ready to go.” From the very moment I started working with him, he accepted me as his partner. I ended up being very fast and efficient. And I was getting fit. Is there a better way to work your upper body than to lug around heavy sheets and work in backhand?’
During this time most of Greg’s sporting energy went on squash, and the Hopkins family played an increasing role in his life. ‘They were always inviting me to come and stay with them. Then they lost their mother to cancer and they lived with their Dad, who was a very successful businessman. In the end the boys moved to their own unit and I used to stay with them a lot, sleeping on the couch.’
While Greg was learning the ropes as a plasterer, he was also beginning his apprenticeship as a serious athlete. He was developing his lifelong discipline in training, even while he worked a full-on eight-hour day, six days a week. It was the start of his habit of squeezing every minute of fun and activity out of every waking hour. He became renowned for his ability to crash as soon as his head hit the pillow. His friend Bruce Hopkins always reckoned Greg had a special switch behind his ear. ‘Yeah, just turn Welchy’s switch off and he’s gone. Out like a light.’
Around this time Greg embarked on his first serious romance. Leonie Denny worked at the Payless Shoes shop in Cronulla. He thought she was really cute. Greg did some homework and found out she was a friend of a friend. Leonie’s sister Michelle was keen on Tony Unicomb, an out-standing triathlete, who was due to compete in the upcoming 1985 Great Lakes International Ironman. Greg snapped into action and did some lateral thinking. He found some accommodation and offered to drive Michelle to Forster to watch Tony. ‘Tony had a crash that day but he did finish. I ran the last 25 km (15.5 miles) with him. Michelle won Tony. I won Leonie over and eventually got the girl.’
Greg was around 20 when he started going out with Leonie. The romance would last about five years. Leonie was a fine water polo player and Greg would follow her to games, running there for training; he would sometimes run 30 km (18.6 miles) to help out with the scoring or timekeeping. ‘We shared a lot together. We became very close, a great girlfriend and boyfriend. We’re still good friends.’
‘LOOKING BACK, I think I knew something was WRONG. I felt funny because I felt like he was trying to say goodbye TO ME BUT HE DIDN’T WANT ME TO BE THERE WITH HIM WHEN IT HAPPENED. But that’s when I knew that...I needed to do Foster, and do it well and qualify for HAWAII.’
Chapter 5
Richie
IN 1984, GREG MET RICHARD WALKER at the Cronulla Surf Club. They immediately clicked and became mates. A year younger than Greg and quiet by nature, Richie was showing great promise as a triathlete. He was an excellent swimmer who had inherited outstanding sporting genes: his mother Liz was a 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games swimmer and his father David played football for the St George Rugby League team during its dominant years in the 1960s.
Richie had shown early promise as a swimmer and soccer player, and as a young boy revealed his unusual ability to focus, as his father David recalls: ‘Whenever he got his mind set on something, he’d just dedicate himself to it. With soccer, he’d be in the backyard, kicking the ball, up in the air, up in the air, like the pros do, and it was all soccer. Everything was soccer.’
But neither soccer nor swimming captured Richie’s imagination or stirred his passion like triathlon. He discovered triathlon through the surf club. He competed with great success across the range of club events: surf swims, belt relays and surfing ironman. Although he had inherited his mother’s swimming abilities in the pool, he much preferred swimming in the ocean. Richie was fearless on a surf ski in the most mountainous seas. Even so, he was terrified when travelling in a lift or on a plane, as his father remembers: ‘He’d walk up eight flights of stairs to avoid going in a lift, and he hated planes. He’d sit there rigid, with the sweat pouring off him.’
One year, David and Liz were very worried when Richie had to fly with his club to a surf carnival in Adelaide, but when they picked him up at the airport on his return, he was beaming. ‘He said, “I was in the cockpit next to the pilot when the plane landed.” I said, “You’re kidding!” Obviously he’d been so nervous they decided to try to overcome his fear by letting him ride up front with the pilot. Those were the days. Anyway, as we were talking, the two pilots came up behind us and said, “Did they believe you, Richard?” They thought we’d reckon he made it up.’
Along with many of his Cronulla surf club mates, Richie was caught up in the early wave of enthusiasm for the fledgling sport of triathlon in the early to mid-1980s. Surfing champion John Holt, a local, was prominent in the early competitions, some of the first in Australia. Liz and David watched as Richie and his mates raced around the streets on borrowed bikes—some with baskets on their handlebars.
By the time Richie became mates with Greg, he was enthralled by the challenge of triathlon, and he persuaded Greg to give it a go. ‘Richie said, “Why don’t you think about doing triathlon?”, and I said, “I can’t do triathlon, I’m not a very good swimmer.” I could swim, I was a good surfer, but I couldn’t swim a length of the pool to save my life. But I was bored with running. I hadn’t thought of triathlon. I really switched because of Richard Walker.’
Richie invited Greg to watch him race in the Royal National Park on Sydney’s southern fringe. ‘Why not?’ thought Greg, and promptly ran down from Caringbah—about 16 km (10 miles)—just to be a spectator. ‘I watched the race and I loved it. It was a 1.5-km (0.9-mile) swim, about a 40-km (25-mile) bike ride and a 15-km (9.3-mile) run.’
Richie came in fourth and was due some prize money, so he wanted to wait for the post-event awards ceremony. Greg was taken, hook, line and sinker and, as usual, was desperate to get started immediately on training for his newfound sport. He decided to run back home—another 16 km (10 miles). ‘Richie said, “You’re crazy.” I said, “No, I want to do a triathlon. I’m just so excited.” I ran home. That was nothing.’
Greg was hell-bent on launching his triathlon career at the next race, to be held the following weekend at Lake Illawarra near Wollongong. But he faced a few serious hurdles: first, he hadn’t entered the race and it was full; second, he didn’t have a bike; and third, he’d never swum 1600 m (1 mile).
/> As always, Greg tackled the obstacles head on. He called the race organisers. They wouldn’t let him enter. He called them back. ‘I said, “You’ve got to let me in! You’ve got to let me in!” The race director says to me, “On what premise do you deserve the right to get into this race over other people who want to get in too?” I said, “I just desperately want to race.” I sold him and I got into the race.’
Next Greg set about finding a bike. Richie put Greg in touch with Olympic champion cyclist Gary Sutton, who worked at Clarence Street Cyclery. There, Greg spent almost his entire savings on a $1000 bike.
Finally, he started swimming, training with his mate Bruce Hopkins, who was studying to be a physical education teacher at the University of Wollongong. For his course, Bruce had to pass many proficiency tests. One of them was being able to swim 400 m (437.5 yd). ‘So Bruce says, “Why don’t you come up to the pool with me and we’ll swim 400 m.” I’m like, “Yeah.” I got to the end of the first length and told him I had to get out, I was puffed. I couldn’t go on anymore. I was a runner. My legs were dragging under the water behind me at a 90-degree angle. I was an anchor. Anyway, I ended up swimming 100 m (109.4 yd) that day. But by the end of the week I was swimming 800 m (0.5 miles).’
Greg was delighted with his progress, but he soon struck a major snag. On only his third training run with his brand new $1000 bike, he was cut off and hit by a car near Campbelltown. He was fine but the bike was mangled. Mortified, Greg was determined to compete that weekend, so he went back to Gary Sutton, cap in hand. ‘I told him I’d had a crash and he said, “I’ve got a spare bike, come by tomorrow and pick it up.” How kind was that?’
Problem solved. Almost. Greg went for a test ride. The bike was far too big for him. Solution: put the seat all the way down. Greg loved it. He appreciated just having a bike, never mind the world champ’s. But then another major hitch: on another training run he had a flat tyre. He had no idea how to change a flat tyre and even if he had, there was no pump or spare tyre on the bike. He had to gingerly wheel it about 5 km (3.1 miles) to the nearest bike shop.
Heart of a Champion Page 4