How Far Can You Go

by John Maclean

  Johnno and I entered the Sri Chinmoy Triathlon in Canberra. I didn’t have to talk him into it. As best mates, not only did we push one another in our training, but he was always up for any challenge. And the Sri Chinmoy looked like a big one. Each leg was exactly double the length of the Nepean, with a 2K swim, a ninety-kilometre bike leg, and a twenty-one-kilometre run. I borrowed an actual racing chair for this race. A racing chair has three wheels, like a tricycle. The front wheel is smaller and far forward, which allows for much greater downward pressure to be applied to the push rim attached to the main larger wheels. As a result, you can gain much more speed. With the racing chair I felt better about the “run” component. Unfortunately, once the race started I found myself struggling with the bike leg. For the first few kilometres I felt like the handcycle was fighting me. In a way it was. I discovered the brake had not fully disengaged. Once I released the brakes, I was off like a flash. I finished the Sri Chinmoy, which made me start thinking about the ultimate in triathlon competition: the Ironman.

  An Ironman triathlon is the ultimate endurance race, combining a 3.8 kilometre (2.4 mile) swim with a 180.2 kilometre (112 mile) bike ride followed by a full-marathon, 42.2 kilometre (26.2 mile) run. The sport originated on the island of Oahu in Hawaii in 1978 when three friends got into an argument over which of their three favourite long-distance races was the greatest challenge. US naval commander John Collins ended the argument by suggesting they combine the three and do them all in one day. As Collins put it, “Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles, then brag for the rest of your life!” For me, completing an Ironman wasn’t so much about bragging for the rest of my life as it was finally proving myself to me. Even after winning kayak races with Johnno and completing two shorter triathlons, I still struggled with accepting myself for who I was, chair and all. If I became an Ironman, I would prove myself the equal of anyone.

  When I contacted the director of an Australian Ironman which was then run in Forster-Tuncurry, I discovered I still had a long way to go. The race director turned me down cold when I asked about entering. I pressed, but he shot me down again. “Part of the course includes a narrow footpath on a bridge,” he said. “Your chair would keep other competitors from getting through.” I offered suggestions as to how to keep that from happening, but he wouldn’t hear of it. By the time I hung up the phone it was clear to me that he simply did not want a wheelie in his race.

  Not long after, I went to visit my sister Marion. We sat in her living room, talking and watching television when Wide World of Sports came on. This particular episode featured coverage of the 1994 Ironman World Championship in Kona, Hawaii. The Kona race is the annual running of the original Ironman from 1978. The first race had fifteen competitors. The 1994 race had some fifteen hundred. But that wasn’t what grabbed my attention. Part of the television coverage focused on Jon Franks, who was attempting to become the first wheelchair athlete to finish all three legs within the allotted cut-off times for each. The entire race must be completed in seventeen hours, but to go the distance you must complete the 3.8-kilometre swim in two hours, twenty minutes; the 180.2-kilometre bike ride in ten hours, thirty minutes from the start of the race; then wrap it all up in under seventeen hours. Needless to say, I was glued to the television from the moment I saw Franks. Then, when he failed to finish the bike leg in the allotted time and declined the race director’s invitation to go ahead and attempt the marathon, I knew a door had just opened. “I’ll do it,” I told Marion.

  “Do what?” she asked.

  “Kona. Next year I will be the first wheelie to finish the Hawaiian Ironman.”

  “I don’t doubt you will,” Marion replied. Everyone I told about my goal had the same reaction. Whether they believed I could do it or not wasn’t nearly as important as whether or not I believed it, and I did. I knew I could do it.

  In spite of my bold talk, I needed a little reassurance that I wasn’t just fooling myself into believing what I wanted to believe. I read that Jon Franks had completed the Surfers Paradise International Triathlon on the Gold Coast in Queensland, Australia. If Franks did it, then that’s where I had to go next. In my first two triathlons I had only raced against myself. As the first wheelie to do each race, I had no other times with which to compare myself. The Surfers Paradise triathlon would give me a chance to see how I measured up to an elite wheelchair triathlete. After finishing this race that was half the length of the Ironman in seven hours, or exactly forty-five minutes faster than Franks had the year before, I knew I could tackle Kona. Now all I had to do was qualify.

  Unlike able-bodied competitors who can qualify for the Kona world championship at any number of events around the world, wheelchair triathletes have one shot each year to punch their ticket. In 1995 that shot came in a half-Ironman triathlon in Panama City, Florida. There, for the first time, I would go head-to-head against Jon Franks. The winner went to Kona; the loser had to sit at home and watch it on television.

  Johnno could not take time off work to travel with me to Florida. Instead, another good mate, David Wells, went with me. Just as Johnno had done before, David carried me out of the water after the swim leg. When he picked me up, I led the entire field, including all the able-bodied competitors. My moment of elation at being the first one out of the water took a bit of a dive when David tripped running up the beach toward the bike area, sending both of us sprawling across the sand. I have long since learned that life’s lessons in humility are always a good thing.

  I was not surprised when I beat Franks to qualify for Kona. I was, however, very surprised by a phone call the night before the race. Don, my oldest brother from my father’s first marriage, rang me up to wish me luck and to make me a promise. Because Don, along with his sister Morag and brother Kenny, had been left behind in Scotland when my father and mother moved to Australia before I was born, I had no relationship with any of them growing up. They all later moved to Canada. Prior to his phone call I had only met Don once, and that was when I was sixteen. He had come to Australia for a quick visit, and the two of us spent perhaps an hour together. Now he was on the phone saying, “Dad told me what you are trying to do, and I want to tell you I’m touched. If you qualify, I’ll be there with you in Hawaii.”

  I was stunned. “Are you serious, Don?” I asked. “Would you honestly come all the way to Hawaii?”

  “Just qualify and I’ll be there,” he replied.

  That wasn’t Don’s only surprise for me. When I called him after the race and said, “We’re going to Hawaii,” he replied, “Let me see what I can do for you.” Don worked for Canadian Airlines, which flew out of Sydney. He spoke with the airline and arranged for them to cover my race-related travel, even flying me back to Florida, where I trained in the month leading up to the 1995 Hawaiian Ironman. Looking back, I can honestly say that connecting with my brother was the greatest thing to come out of my qualifying for my first Ironman. I later flew to Canada, where I got to know Morag and Kenny as well.

  For most people, Hawaii equals paradise. Those people have never attempted the Ironman Triathlon in Kona.

  The race begins pleasantly enough. Johnno and David Wells carried me out into the water, where I waited with my 1,500 fellow competitors from all over the world and all walks of life for the cannon to fire to start the race. I was the only one in a wet suit, a concession race officials made to give me added buoyancy due to my inability to use my legs. Very few people knew about this arrangement, which caused one of the other racers to yell over with an angry tone, “Hey, why are you in a wet suit?”

  Before I could say a word, a fellow Australian, Gordon Bell, answered, “He’s in a wheelchair, you idiot.”

  That was the last complaint I heard regarding my wet suit, and the last disparaging word I heard from another competitor. As I waited in the water, surrounded by all these people with the same dream of becoming an Ironman, I tried to take in the entire scene and grab hold of the memory. The morning sun burned off the thin blanket of mist t
hat hung on the water. Helicopters buzzed overhead while athletes shuffled and stamped in the water, loosening their muscles. A few conversations went on around me, but I didn’t really notice what anyone said. Their voices mixed into the sounds coming at me. I glanced around and gave myself a moment. I was here, in Kona, about to conquer the most difficult race conceivable. The moment felt magic.

  Then the cannon sounded and all hell broke loose. Arms and legs flew about as the water erupted into a boil. People have come away from the swim leg of a triathlon with broken noses. For that reason I pushed over toward the edge. Although my line resulted in a bit of a longer swim, moving outside of the scrum allowed me to stay clear of trouble. However, I was nearly undone by the initial flood of adrenaline that came over me. I knew I needed to pace myself, but I found I started out so fast that I was gasping for air by the time I reached the turnaround point. This is ridiculous. Calm down! I told myself. The little pep talk worked. I found a rhythm on the swim back in to shore. Small fish darted beneath me while little waves helped push me toward shore. I came out of the water in one hour, seven minutes. I looked up at my time and grinned. “We’re looking good!” I said to Johnno and David as they carried me to my bike. I felt confident that I would have no trouble completing the course well under the cut-off times.

  Then I discovered why the Hawaiian Ironman is like no other race in the world. The Hawaiian paradise became the closest thing to hell on earth one can experience without encountering a little horned man dressed in red carrying a pitchfork.

  The bike leg takes place on the Queen Kaahumanu Highway, a hilly road that cuts through ancient lava fields. The black volcanic rock absorbs and intensifies the sun’s heat. Since my handcycle seat sits down close to the bitumen, the bike leg felt like riding 180 kilometres through an oven. The sun beat down from above, giving me severe sunburn on my arms and the back of my neck. Normally a breeze would be a welcome relief, but not on the Queen K. The trade winds whip up the heat, making it even more intense. I’d been told to prepare for the heat, but I never anticipated the severity of the winds. Not long after I pedalled out onto the Queen K, the winds gusted up to nearly one hundred kilometres per hour right in my face. I had to use my lowest gear to make any progress, even when going downhill. Athletes flew past me, many of them shouting out, “Good job. Keep at it.” I tried, but the wind and the heat, coupled with the fatigue of using nothing but my arms, took their toll.

  After five hours I finally reached the turnaround at the halfway point. That’s when I discovered another of Kona’s secrets. The trade winds make a 180-degree switch in the early afternoon. I had counted on riding the tailwinds, but instead I faced the same one hundred kilometres per-hour headwinds going back that I faced riding out. The locals said these were the worst winds in over ten years. I just happened to be lucky enough to have them hit the one year I planned on conquering the Ironman. My arms burned as I tried to keep the pedals circling round and round. More racers passed me. The confidence I felt when I got out of the water had long since blown away with the wind. I glanced over toward the ocean. The sun kept sinking lower and lower in the sky. I knew it would dip below the horizon at 5:30, which was also the cut-off time for the bike leg. Doubt washed over me.

  By mid-afternoon my doubts grew. I became fairly certain that I could not finish the bike leg in the allotted time. Occasionally I caught sight of Johnno, David and Don out on the course waving little Australian flags. At first, seeing them gave me a burst of energy, but by the end of the day not even Don’s big grin could lift my spirits. I could barely force my arms to continue pushing the pedals. I was spent. I made up my mind that if I missed the cut-off time, I was done. My race was over.

  By the time I reached the last hill, about one kilometre from the transition zone, I knew it was over. The sun had set and so had my dream of becoming the first wheelie to complete the Ironman. As I started up the last hill I spotted Johnno. He’d sprinted out across a golf course to meet me. At first he walked along beside me and didn’t say a word as I strained to push myself up one more hill. Finally, he broke the silence. “Mate, you missed the cut-off time and you’ve been disqualified. But they’re going to let you go on and do the marathon. They want you to finish the race.”

  I did not say a word for a long time. I kept pushing on the pedals, slowly moving up the steep hill. I knew he thought he was bringing me a mixed bag of both good and bad news—the bad news being that I wouldn’t officially finish, but the good news was I could torture my body with 42.2 kilometres in my racing chair after more than ten hours of abusing every muscle in my upper body. I looked at my legs and grew angry that they could not push me on a bike like every other athlete. But then I reminded myself that if my legs worked, I probably would not have been in Kona to begin with.

  After what felt like an eternity of silence, Johnno spoke again. He knew what I was thinking. He could see I was feeling sorry for myself, which is never a good thing. “John, you’ve got to go on,” he said. “Today is my son’s birthday, but I came here to support you.” He paused for a moment. “You’ve got to go on,” he said again, not pleading but ordering. I looked up at Johnno. Even in the dying light I could see tears in his eyes. “You’re going to have to give a bit more,” he said.

  “Okay,” I replied. I could not do otherwise. If I stopped now, I wasn’t giving up on myself but on Johnno and everyone else who made this day happen.

  I pedalled into the transition zone where race president David Yates waited for me. “I’m sorry, John, but you’re forty minutes late,” he said. “We have to disqualify you. But we would like you to continue anyway to see whether this course can be completed by a wheelchair athlete.”

  “Okay. I’m going on,” I said. I didn’t want to continue. My arms screamed at me in pain. Rather than give in to them I let Johnno and David lift me from my handcycle onto my racing chair. For the first few moments I just sat there, exhausted. Finally I pushed myself onto the marathon course and out into the dark. Glow sticks hung from my chair while two motorcycle escorts lit my way.

  My resolve to keep going took a blow when I hit the first hill. It felt like a sheer cliff face. I pushed down hard on the rims, trying to force my chair up the hill, but the front wheel popped up and nearly caused me to flip over backward. Now I was stuck. I could not move. If I couldn’t move, I couldn’t finish. David and Johnno walked alongside me. “I’m sorry, guys,” I apologised, “but I just can’t do it.”

  “What if you turned the chair around and backed up the hill?” David suggested. Honestly, my first inclination was to tell him to climb in the chair and try it himself. But I didn’t. I pulled off my gloves so that I could grip the rims, turned the chair around and slowly backed up the hill. When I reached the crest, I thought someone was playing a cruel joke on me. Another hill just as steep lay ahead. I tried to gain as much momentum going down the first hill that I could, but it ran out halfway up the next. I stopped, defeated. Johnno and David caught up to me. “I’m not enjoying this anymore,” I said. This was my way of saying I was done.

  Johnno leaned over to me and said with a wry smile, “The pain won’t last forever, but the memories will.”

  “Get that on film, brothers,” I said to the film crew from NBC covering the event. “That was beautiful.” I then spun my chair around and backed up the hill. From the moment Johnno spoke those words, I knew there was no way I could possibly quit.

  I finished the race in fourteen hours, fifty-two minutes. How did I suddenly find the resolve to keep going when I already knew I could not possibly wheel another inch? Johnno put it like this as I neared the finish line: “You went from Struggle Street to going again because it wasn’t the hill that was stopping you—it was your mind.” He was right. Once I refused to stop myself, I found the strength to keep going. The payoff was worth the pain. A huge crowd greeted me at the finish. I did a wheelie as I crossed the line, then pulled out an Australian flag and waved it. Girls leaned over the crowd barriers and kissed
me. Don slipped a lei around my neck, which had to suffice because I did not qualify for a finisher’s medal. With that, my race was over. I had accomplished my goal. I was an Ironman.

  Only I knew I wasn’t.

  I thought I never wanted to see Kona again. I never wanted to subject my body to that kind of pain again. But one year later I was back to finish what I had started. Unfortunately, I didn’t. A flat tyre on my handcycle caused me to miss the cut-off by fifteen minutes in 1996. I went ahead and did the marathon leg anyway, finishing the race in fourteen hours, thirty-nine minutes. The officials at the finish line slipped a finisher’s medal around my neck. Grasping it, I thought to myself, Mission accomplished. I am never coming back. However, once we got back to the hotel Don looked at me and said, “You have to give that medal back.”

  “What are you talking about?” I argued. “I earned this.”

  “You didn’t finish within the qualifying times for the bike cut-off. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you keep it.”

  “You’re touched in the head,” I said.

  By the next morning I knew Don was right. I went to the race director, Sharron Ackles, and handed her the medal. Tears flooded her eyes. “Oh, John,” she said, “if anyone deserves this medal, it’s you!”

  “But I didn’t earn it, Sharron,” I replied. “When I earn it, believe me, I will never turn loose of it. But for now, you need to take this back.”

  Reluctantly, she did. However, the seed was planted. I knew it was not a question of if but when I would earn a finisher’s medal outright.

  One year later I returned to Kona. This time I came equipped with a new, lighter handcycle and it paid off. Nineteen ninety-seven was the first year that there was an official wheelchair category. Two other wheelies also qualified for Kona. Now I not only had to finish each leg in the allotted times, but I also had to beat the other guys. My goal was not to be the second wheelchair athlete to finish the Hawaiian Ironman. I was determined to be the first.