At the time, that opinion seemed quite logical. He was a builder, working six days a week. What were the odds that he’d ever get another chance like it? He settled back into his routine—working, training and saving his money—and counted down the days.
Around the same time, Greg’s father Pat started a new job and things started to look up again financially for the Welch family. Greg talked his parents into selling their house at Ruse and moving into the Shire. Greg was able to repay some of the Hopkins’s hospitality. ‘The boys would come over to Mum and Dad’s every Monday night. In fact, everyone would come over on Monday nights for a baked dinner. Mmm, I can still taste it.’
A change at work also meant that Greg was able to put away some extra cash for the trip. ‘Arthur paid me cash in hand for working Saturdays—it was 100 bucks in my hand on Saturday. I couldn’t believe it! My God, that was my rent and a little bit of food—everything I needed. The rest of my weekly wage went into my trip.’
Travelling to Hawaii in October 1987, Greg’s goal was to finish, and if he had a really great day, perhaps to place well enough in his age group to qualify for the next year.
But when he arrived at Kona on the Big Island of Hawaii, he was spellbound, captivated by the tropical magic of the place and the camaraderie of the event. He was 22 and on his first overseas trip. He played the tourist, roaming around the island and soaking up its history: the site of Captain Cook’s death at the hands of the locals at Kealakekua Bay in 1779; the church of Ku’emanu Heiau, the only temple in the world devoted to surfing (Greg was fascinated to learn that in ancient Hawaii only the chiefs could surf—commoners caught surfing were put to death); and Holoholoku, where US Marines practised for their famous World War II assault on Iwo Jima. He visited the island’s volcanoes: Mauna Kea (at 8900 m/29 200 ft the tallest mountain in the world if you measure it from its sea base—compared to Everest’s 8850 m/29 035 ft), Mauna Loa and Kilauea, the active volcano that every day creates the earth’s newest land as it spews out lava that is then cooled by the Pacific.
Greg threw himself into the social side of the event, revelling in being part of the boisterous mob of Aussie competitors and supporters, especially the Southwell family, who had five members in the race. He was ecstatic when he was able to rub shoulders with the sport’s legends—Dave Scott, Mark Allen, Scott Tinley, Scott Molina, Ken Glah, Mike Pigg, Erin Baker and Paula Newby-Fraser. He bought the race T-shirts and a swag of souvenirs for his family.
On race day, Greg attacked the brutal event with the nonchalance of someone who has nothing to lose. Ironman’s two heroes, Dave Scott and Mark Allen, fought another titanic battle on the lava fields. After swimming and biking side by side with Scott, Allen broke away in the run and established a 4 minute 30 second lead. But the irresistible Scott ran him down, passing him in the last 10 km (6.2 miles) and running away to win by 11 minutes. Erin Baker took the women’s title and Paula Newby-Fraser came third. Despite the extraordinary heat, Greg exceeded his wildest dreams. He swam in the middle of the pack, then made up considerable ground with a strong ride before coming home with a powerful run to finish fifth in his age group and 45th overall—out of a field of 1381. All in 9 hours 45 minutes.
His results earned him an automatic qualification for the next year. He was walking on air as he headed off to Vegas, Disneyland and his beloved planes at Boeing’s HQ in Seattle. ‘I was stunned that I qualified for the next Ironman. I really didn’t think it was possible. I thought it would be great while it lasted but that it had to come to an end.’
The day after he returned to Sydney, Greg went to see Richie’s parents and relive his experiences, taking his finisher’s medal and souvenirs with him. As he was about to leave, David Walker noticed Greg had left his treasures in Richie’s room. ‘I went after Greg and said, “Don’t forget your medal and your things.” Greg said, “I’d like to leave them with Richie for a while if that’s OK.”’
Once home from his dream trip, Greg slipped back into his life as a plasterer who played sport for fun. He continued to fit his training around his work commitments, but he soon developed a new confidence in his Ironman performances. He took this new attitude into the 1988 season and his results began to steadily improve. He broke through to win his first race at the Lake Macquarie Triathlon, beating Steve Foster, then ranked number one in Australia, in the process. Mick Maroney was there: ‘Greg actually stopped and apologised to Steve for running past him. Greg slapped him on the back and said, “See you at the finish line.” And he was genuinely apologetic, out of great respect, about having passed this guy. He crossed the line and won the race, and at the end was just completely gracious to everyone. He didn’t acknowledge the fact that he’d won the race, he acknowledged everyone else in the first ten. It was all he spoke about—it was generous. I remember sitting there, staring at him and thinking, “This guy’s just not like us, there’s something strange about him.”’
Greg’s first victory earned him the nickname that would follow him throughout the rest of his career. It came when his mates read a report of his win, written by journalist Mark Cashman in Sydney’s Daily Mirror. The opening paragraph began: ‘Plucky little Sydneysider Greg Welch won the Lake Macquarie Triathlon yesterday…’ From then on, ‘Plucky’ Welch it was.
Mick Maroney was pleased to see that the recognition didn’t change Plucky. ‘One of the things I noticed about him was that as we improved and were reported on, the egos got involved and we all got a bit too ahead of ourselves. That never happened with Greg at any stage. He was always the sort of guy who brought it back down to earth. He was always family oriented and he’d have time for everyone, but he’d still go out and he wouldn’t let a good time get in the way.’
Greg showed his versatility shortly afterwards when he was chosen for the New South Wales team to compete in the Australian Cross-Country Championships in Darwin. Greg’s triathlon commitments meant that he couldn’t take any more time off work. The race was set for 5 pm on Saturday at Darwin High School. Greg flew out of Sydney at 6 am that same day and arrived at lunchtime. He was picked up by the team manager, snatched a few hours’ rest at his hotel and then went down to the track, where he joined Steve Moneghetti, Rob ‘Deek’ de Castella, Brad Camp and the cream of Australian distance running.
‘Nobody expected little old Greg Welch the triathlete to do anything against the best runners in Australia. They’d said they would take the first six to the World Cross-Country Championships. It was still stinking hot when the race started—12 km (7.5 miles) in four 3-km (1.9-mile) loops across a river and over very hilly terrain. I think Brad Camp, de Castella and Moneghetti finished the top three. I finished ninth, out of 70 or 80.’
Greg was proud when he was selected as an active reserve for the World Cross-Country Championships because of his performance in Darwin—while still a triathlete. ‘Deek said something like, “You’re probably capable of running a 2-hour 12-minute marathon,” but I didn’t see it. I left running because I really loved the amount of racing I could do in triathlon. Who knows what would have happened if I’d focused on running? But I loved the challenge of triathlon.’
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 an
d 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.
Heart of a Champion Page 6