Born to Perform

by Gerard Hartmann

  Brendan had sadness in his voice when he told me his story. His Olympic chance was scuppered by the blazer brigade, who probably sent a couple of officials too many to Melbourne instead of its qualified Irish champion high jumper. Brendan explained that he would never forgive their meanness. He explained to me that the ultimate in sport is to compete for your country in the Olympic Games, representing your people. He expanded by saying: “When you are young it seems like you will stay forever young, and that there will be many opportunities to participate in the Olympics, and the reality is that an opportunity may only knock on the door once, if ever.” He encouraged me to at least start the Ironman, to be part of a very special day, to grab the opportunity and do my best.

  I always found comfort in speaking to Brendan. His was the voice of RTÉ Sport that I had grown up hearing. He was a gentle giant of a man, who in essence was a fellow athlete. He, too, had dreams and opportunities taken from him. I had worked too hard for this day and an untimely bug was not going to rob me of my chance to participate in my first-ever Hawaii Ironman World Triathlon Championship.

  I registered for the race and went through the customary regime of having to hand in the competition clothing in numbered bags. Cycling gear, helmet and shoes were put in one bag to be collected and handed out upon exiting the swim. Running shoes and the necessary singlet and shorts were put in another bag to be handed to its rightful owner once he or she came into the bike-to-run transition zone. I discovered the organisation behind the Ironman to be awesome. It takes 7,000 volunteers to support the Ironman, to make it all work like clockwork, so that 1,800 finely tuned athletes can have their day in the sun, in every sense.

  My gear was registered, and I would not see it until after the swim and again after the bike ride – if, indeed, I got that far. I had a couple of green t-shirts printed with my sponsors’ names on the front: Guinness’s logo on the top and Premier Dairies’ logo underneath. The morning before the race, Justin Nelson phoned my room wanting to come by with his film crew and Brendan O’Reilly to conduct a pre-event interview with me. When I arrived for the interview, the first person who greeted me was Premier Dairies Marketing Manager Frank Nolan. Frank went as white as a sheet when he saw me. There I was, standing in front of him with a big Guinness logo on my shirt and his branding underneath it. The truth of the matter was that he had not played ball or offered to negotiate any middle ground with me. He who pays the piper calls the tune, perhaps, but it was taking two sponsors to pay this piper’s expenses – not because I was mercenary and trying to make money out of the occasion, but because I wanted to compete at the top level, which meant getting to Hawaii a couple of weeks in advance of the race to acclimatise and ensure I had a chance. I had my principles.

  There was utter mayhem. Justin Nelson and Brendan O’Reilly came into the fray. When I sat down to talk to Frank, of course it made matters worse. As I sat, the Guinness logo was on display and the Premier Dairies logo was completely crumpled and hidden. There was a lot of bickering and barking and we were just short of throwing punches when I agreed to do the RTÉ interview wearing a polo shirt that Brendan O’Reilly took off his back. Little did Justin Nelson and Frank Nolan know that, earlier in the morning, I had done an interview for the US broadcaster NBC’s Wide World of Sport wearing a green shirt with the Guinness logo. Nobody in the US would know who Premier Dairies were, but everyone knew Guinness – and Guinness certainly got value for their sponsorship buck.

  The sports gear that I would wear in the race was checked in now, and Justin Nelson made an attempt to have me change to wearing cycle shorts and running gear that Premier Dairies had made up. But it was too late. When they didn’t bother to respond to my registered letters, I was not going to give back an inch. Ironically, the sportswear that Premier Dairies printed with their logo was blue, white and red. The racing attire I wore was a green outfit, albeit with a logo endorsing the black pint with the white head.

  7

  “To Finish Is to Win and to Win Is to Finish” – Competing in My First Ironman

  This account first appeared in the 1986 Marathon Annual magazine (vol. 1, no. 31):

  A lava moonscape; 30–50 mph trade winds, 100-degree heat – the backdrop to the most famous triathlon of them all, the Ironman Triathlon World Championship. Two-time Irish Triathlon Champion Limerick man Ger Hartmann gives his own report.

  By virtue of winning my second All-Ireland Triathlon in Sligo, I had won an all-expenses-paid trip to compete in the World Ironman Triathlon in Hawaii on 26 October 1985, compliments of sponsors Premier Dairies and Guinness. […]

  Throughout the summer I tackled my mission with great dedication. Training two and three and sometimes four times each day, on top of an eight-hour working day demands extraordinary willpower.

  My goal was to finish in the top ten. Considering that the field of 1,800 athletes had already been narrowed down from 15,000 aspiring qualifiers, such a performance would demand superb fitness. Why so many people wanted to do this race, I was keen to find out. Most people wanting to do the race had to compete in select triathlons to qualify, [but] not me or the seven other Irish athletes participating in this, the eighth ever Hawaii Ironman: RTÉ had an agreement in place for the top placers in the All-Ireland Triathlon to automatically qualify.

  In training for the race, I averaged weekly totals of 9 miles swimming (5 hours), 300 miles cycling (15–16 hours) and 60–70 miles running (7 hours), [a total] of 27 hours of training weekly.

  Two and a half weeks prior to the event, I departed for Hawaii. My big concern was the climate. It was getting cold and the nights were closing in early in Ireland, so it was vital to have adequate time to adapt.

  My first sight of the course was Ali’i Drive, which is where the swim starts and finishes at the pier, and where the famous finish line is situated. This is the nicest part of the course and the most sheltered from the sun, the only three-mile stretch in a total of 140 miles that has cover from the hot, energy-sapping sun.

  On one side of the road you have Mauna Kea (a 14,000-foot volcano) and, on the other side, the aquamarine surf of the Pacific Ocean. Everywhere I looked tanned bodies were either running or cycling.

  I was now to see the infamous cycling course. Prior to departing [for Hawaii], RTÉ executive sports producer Justin Nelson had warned me that the cycle route would be a mind-boggling experience. The road goes straight out 56 miles to the turnaround [at a tiny village named Hawi], and it is ramrod straight, with long deceptive rolling climbs […].

  Its problem, which makes it famous and tests the nerves and every sinew in the body, is the simmering, sweltering, searing heat […] and winds – not the gentle breezes associated with palm trees in paradise island, but blustering tree bending gales that sweep over the desolate lava for hours […], which have knocked athletes from their bikes.

  Heat, wind and the distance would have to be dealt with, but one week prior to the race I encountered my greatest obstacle. Dave Scott the six-time Hawaii Ironman winner stated: “Most people lose their concentration after about five hours when the mind gets delirious from the heat. It’s not physical, it’s mental. When you come to Hawaii it’s like racing on the moon.”

  Before ever getting to the starting line, my problem was physical. I’ve never doubted myself mentally. […] Within a matter of an evening my mother, who had travelled with me, and I became suddenly ill. It hit us both like a storm that blew in, and it hit us hard. […] On my own I would have labelled this as heat stroke, but with my mother falling ill at the same time, and she had not exerted herself, it was obvious that it was a fever.

  The following day, we phoned down to the hotel reception and requested a doctor to visit. The doctor called and examined us both and revealed that we both had a viral infection. There had been a viral epidemic on the islands in July and August, and it had not been fully eradicated. In a four-star hotel, he explained, you might have all the luxuries, but if the air-conditioning vents were not changed the virus
would harbour in there and spread throughout the system from room to room, unknown to visitors. We were grounded […], stuck fourteen floors up, overlooking the swim course of the Ironman I had dreamt of competing in. I accepted more and more that I would not be able to compete.

  Four days before the race, I ventured downstairs for a meal of pasta. I started to think, “Maybe it’s possible.” I tried an hour’s cycle and still felt weak. The following day I went for a run and felt better. It was two days to the start. RTÉ’s Brendan O’Reilly sat down with me and encouraged me to start. He reasoned, “Why not start?” I could see how it went and if I did not feel good I could always abandon [it].

  My mind was set to be a part of a great day, regardless of whether it took me ten or eighteen hours to complete the course. Brendan assured me that to finish was to win.

  At 5.00 a.m. on race morning I made my way to the check-in area.

  Everywhere there was nervous energy. I made final adjustments to my bike, corrected my tyre pressure, put [on] water bottles and strapped three spare tyres to my bike in case of puncturing. One year in Hawaii, some fool tried to sabotage the race by putting down hundreds of nail tacks out on the road. A lot of cyclists pump their tyres up to 120 psi to find that, when the day heats up, the tyres expand with the extreme heat and [they] blow. I was well warned.

  At 7.00 a.m., at the sounding of a cannon blast, I charged into the warm Pacific Ocean along with 1,600 other super-fitness freaks. The turbulence created by the swimmers clawing and churning their way through the relatively small area between the pier and shore was one experience I will never forget. The race starts on a small strip of beach aptly named Dig Me Beach. One hour and nine minutes later, I was back up on the pier, jostling through people to find my bike. Crowds cheered madly; the atmosphere was so electrifying that I had little time to ponder on how I felt. Minutes later, I was mounting my bike for the 112-mile journey into the moonscape. […]

  I was venturing into unknown territory. I had cycled 112 miles back in Ireland but I had never raced further than 56 miles, and now in the heat of Hawaii I was tackling double that.

  As I left the Kona Pier, I viewed the first section of the [cycle] course. It was in my face – a near vertical hill extending for half a mile. At the top, the reward was a long stretch of highway surrounded by seemingly endless miles of black crusty lava. I bargained with myself to do everything but fall off into that field of lava. The desolate lava, barren of all vegetation except for occasional colourful bougainvillea, acted as an oven, baking the cyclists as the sun climbed in the sky. […] [The] temperature measured at the Kona Airport may give an accurate high of 92 degrees but the heat index, the heat out on the road that I was cycling on, the heat that my tyres were melting on, was over 115 degrees, too hot to walk barefoot on, certainly too hot to fall off the bike on.

  Twenty-eight miles into the cycle, the RTÉ crew in their Toyota Jeep came up beside me and notified me that I had [been] placed 288th in the swim. My weakest event was over; now it was time to do some passing out, if my body could only stay strong. No one had passed me yet and as I passed dozens my confidence rose. I thanked God for the feed stations that came every five miles. At each opportunity I grabbed a bottle of water or de-fizzed Coke.

  As I neared the turnaround point, I began counting the athletes ahead of me on their homeward journey. At 56 miles I was in 106th position and starting to feel strong. Everything went well until 90 miles into the cycle. I had hit the wall or “bonked”, as the cyclist terms it. The strength in my legs, without warning, deserted me and when I looked down at my cycle computer I noticed that, instead of travelling at 22–23 miles per hour, I was helpless at 17 miles per hour. I was virtually crawling, and running out of gas. My training friend back home, Gearóid Costelloe, had warned me to expect the wall at around the 80–90-mile mark. He was spot on. The advice that he had given was not to panic because, unlike in running, one can go through the wall in cycling and come through and experience a second strength. His advice was a saviour. Sure enough, five miles later, after eating two bananas and [drinking] two Cokes, I felt strong again and was back stomping at the pedals travelling at 22 miles per hour, and faster.

  Finishing the 112 miles, I saw the leading athletes starting out on their marathon. The first at this stage was eventual winner Scott Tinley, who had won the race in 1982 and had placed second in 1983 and 1984 to the great Dave Scott.

  The runners looked well sunned and weather beaten, starting out with eyes sunken into their heads. In a few minutes I would be one of them and, with my best event to come, the chase was on. I was looking forward to getting off two wheels and legging it after them.

  It was just 2.00 p.m. when I started my run and I had been pushing myself without stop since 7.00 a.m. I had never run a marathon before but I was eager to run through the field as high up as I could get. Running was my number-one sport and I had every intention of making my mark. From 88th place starting the run, I began counting the athletes as I passed them. At 10 miles my time was 65 minutes. The heat was at its highest and everything in the distance was just a mirage with the heat dancing off the tarmac. If you focused too far in the distance, the mind would go crazy. One step at a time, keep striding out; to jog or walk is to waste valuable time.

  As I reached the turnaround, I met the lead runners on their way back. They all looked shattered, their faces drawn and glazed. I realised if I could keep my momentum going then maybe I would post the fastest run of the day. How many more could I pass as they fell off like dying flies? If I could just keep running, running all the way to the finish six miles away.

  At twenty miles I still felt strong, still passed people like they were standing still. Could my fuel tank keep me going? At each fuel station I drank a cupful of de-fizzed Coke. Throughout the cycle I had consumed 14 bananas and a bag of figs, but on the run I dared not to eat in case I got a dreaded stitch. At 22 miles, my left leg started to tighten up. I was reduced to survival now. My catching-up-and-passing-out game was over for the day. I had four miles to go. I did not want to blow up now. To have to jog and walk to the finish would take an eternity. I am an athlete, a runner. I was suffering badly but I ran on.

  The last two miles will live in my mind forever. The crowds were fantastic. “Go Ireland! Go Guinness! Do it for your country!” When you are that close to finishing your first Ironman, when the body is struggling but still willing, you don’t care about your country; all that matters is getting to the finish line. The electrifying atmosphere carried me over the finish line. As I came up to the line, race announcer Mike Reilly screamed out, “From Limerick the jeweller Gerard Hartmann. You are an Ironman!”

  My time was ten hours and four minutes. I had run down all but 23 athletes to place 24th overall in my first Ironman. Under the circumstances, I was elated; four days earlier I was in bed and too sick to contemplate competing. After 140 miles of swimming, cycling and running, I joined the exclusive club of Hawaii Ironman finishers.

  It had been a long, hard day. I had given 100 per cent and I will relish the experience and carry it with me for the rest of my life.

  After every earthquake there is an aftershock. Weeks after returning from Hawaii, all hell broke loose. Behind the scenes of every sport there is politics going on, fuelled by people with issues and agendas. They say competitive sport is war without bullets. All the national newspapers had the story in their sports pages: “Row over Gear as Premier Dairies Pull Out.” Frank Nolan put out a press release stating, “Premier Dairies do not wish to associate with a sport in which the leading participant operates to such behavioural standards.”

  I was infuriated, to put it mildly. Some executives with their big salaries were lapping it up in Hawaii on a junket, while I was pushing my body to its limit. I was having none of it. I put my response in writing: “I feel Premier Dairies are putting the full blame on me in an effort to hide their own inadequacy.”

  The Irish Triathlon Association set up a special three-man committe
e to investigate the situation. The Irish Times ran the story in December 1985, under the headline “Premier Pull Out”:

  A sponsorship worth £50,000 has been lost. The Irish Triathlon Association has set up a special three-man committee to investigate the row which blew up in Hawaii between Premier Dairies and the Irish Triathlon Champion Gerard Hartmann over the wearing of sponsor’s gear. Premier Dairies, who reportedly pumped £50,000 into sponsoring the All-Ireland Triathlon and covering the Irish participants in the Hawaii Ironman event, have pulled out of any future sponsorship of triathlon because of the row which caused widespread disquiet.

  In a hard-hitting letter, Premier’s group marketing director Frank Nolan said his company would not sponsor the All-Ireland Triathlon in 1986 or future years. Nolan said the decision was entirely influenced by Gerard Hartmann’s behaviour in seeking and accepting sponsorship for the Ironman in Hawaii from Guinness, in return for competing there in Guinness gear. “This,” said Nolan, “was in conflict with the condition of his acceptance of our sponsorship of his travel, race entry fee and accommodation costs of participating in the Hawaii Ironman. We do not wish to associate with a sport [in] which the leading participant operates to such behavioural standards.”

  I travelled to Dublin to stand up for myself at the special investigation held in the Ashling Hotel. Frank Nolan had his turn ahead of me to tell his side of the story and it all seemed very plausible. That was until I got the opportunity to tell my story. From a young age, I have been extra meticulous in keeping diaries of all my training sessions and correspondence. I arrived well prepared, with photocopies of the letters I had sent to Frank Nolan at Premier Dairies requesting to travel to Hawaii earlier than the planned few days before the race. My letters showed very clearly that, in the event that Premier would not fund me to travel earlier, I would seek alternative sponsorship to facilitate that. Record keeping had saved the day.