How Far Can You Go

by John Maclean

  Twelve hours, twenty-one minutes after the start cannon sounded, I crossed the finish line within the set qualifying times and finally earned my finisher’s medal. The other two wheelies were far behind me. I’d accomplished a goal I’d set for myself three years earlier. That night I collapsed on the bed in the hotel room I shared with my brother Don. I lay there, reflecting on what had just happened. I was an Ironman. I had conquered the most difficult endurance race imaginable. It may have taken me three tries, but I never gave up and I never gave in. I now felt that I was the equal of any athlete in the world.

  “Hey, Don,” I called out in the dark.

  “What, John?” Don said, tired and annoyed.

  “What do you think about doing the English Channel next year?”

  Don told me to do something that is anatomically impossible, but I knew he was in. I’d climbed one Everest. Now it was time to go conquer the next.

  5

  More than Able, Part 2

  * * *

  Looking back at Kona, I saw it as more than a goal accomplished. All the pieces of my life up to that point fit together perfectly to create that final result. As I wrote in the preface, I am convinced nothing happens by chance. When my legs did not respond in the months after my accident, I turned my attention to my upper body. Without realising it at the time, my “wasted” efforts on legs that refused to respond were actually the perfect exercise routine to prepare me for triathlons. If I had not spent those two years building my upper body, I never would have qualified for Kona, much less become the first wheelie to complete it.

  The right people have also come into my life at just the right times. When I lost my spot on the Penrith Panthers under-23 team, I was devastated. Going to the Warragamba Wombats felt like a huge step backward. But if I had not gone to Warragamba, I never would have met my teammate John Young. After my accident, no one came to the hospital more than Johnno, and after my discharge, he and I became the best of friends as well as workout partners. We pushed one another beyond what either of us could have done on our own. If not for Johnno, I might have sunk down into the depths of self-pity and never moved on and had the success I did.

  A chance meeting at the municipal pool in Penrith not long after the 1995 Hawaiian Ironman was another instance of the right person coming into my life at just the right time. At first, I did not recognise the man who came over and introduced himself to me. But he recognised me and wanted to meet me. “Hi, John. I’m Ian Byrne. I’ve read about your sporting achievements,” he said. “I just wanted to compliment you on a job well done.”

  As soon as I heard his name, I knew I was the one who should be handing out compliments. Ian had been in all the papers, having just swum the English Channel at the age of forty-seven. “I’m honoured to meet you,” I said. “I read about your swimming the Channel, and I have to say I am very impressed. Well done, mate.”

  “Thanks,” Ian said. “But you know,” he added, “if I can do it, then surely a fit, young and motivated guy like you can too.” I don’t know what prompted Ian to throw down that challenge. I’m not even sure he was completely serious at the time. However he meant it, the seed was planted. If I can do it, then surely a fit, young and motivated guy like you can too. The words turned over and over in my mind for a very long time. I knew Ian wasn’t just handing out an empty compliment. He truly believed that if he could conquer the Channel, then surely a man who had completed the Hawaiian Ironman could too. I was struck by the fact that Ian said this to me as though he didn’t even notice my wheels. He spoke to me as one extreme athlete to another. If I can do it, then surely a fit, young and motivated guy like you can too. Fit and motivated, not disabled. I liked Ian from the start.

  Our conversation went on for a bit after that. I peppered him with questions about what the experience was like. He answered them all, which only made me more curious. By the time we parted I was hooked on the idea of swimming the Channel.

  After that “chance” meeting with Ian, I started doing a little research into the history of Channel swims. On 25 August 1875, Captain Matthew Webb became the first man to successfully swim from England to France without the use of artificial aids. Afterwards, he famously said, “Nothing great is easy.” His words sounded like a personal challenge for me to give it a try. I also learned that only about 10 per cent of those who attempt the swim succeed. It’s not that they all just run out of gas. Weather conditions can be treacherous, and they change quickly. Many endurance swimmers find themselves driven backward by the wind and waves. It is as though nature doesn’t want to surrender the Channel on those days. I also discovered that no wheelchair athlete had ever successfully made the swim. As if that were not enough motivation, I also learned one little fact that caused me to set my sights squarely on swimming the Channel: no athlete of any kind had ever completed the Hawaiian Ironman and swum the English Channel. That’s it, I told myself after I finally finished the Ironman in 1997. I will be the first.

  People have asked what it is like to swim the English Channel. Anyone can re-create the conditions at home. Simply fill a very large washing machine with several bags of ice, add a little salt, top it off with water, then strap it to a roller coaster, and climb inside and flail around for thirteen hours or so. Make sure the washing machine is set to high.

  You may think I am kidding, but if anything, a washing machine filled with ice water on a roller coaster undersells the experience. Nothing can fully prepare you for the conditions you will face when the Channel decides to take you for a spin. Five hours into my first attempt to swim the thirty-three kilometres from Dover to Calais on 17 August 1998, the winds began to pick up to force 5 on the Beaufort Wind Scale, which relates not only to wind speeds but also to the size of the swells the wind produces. The higher the number, the stronger the wind, the bigger the waves, and the crazier someone has to be to swim in it. Force 5 is a wind between eighteen and twenty-four miles per hour (28.9–38.6 kilometres per hour) and swells over two metres in height. Six hours into my swim, they hit force 6 directly in my face—that is, they kicked up to between twenty-four and thirty-one miles per hour (38.6–49 kilometres per hour), which whipped up three-metre swells. Nine hours in, the wind hit force 7, up to thirty-eight miles per hour (61.5 kilometres per hour), with gusts at force 8 or around forty-five miles per hour (72 kilometres per hour), creating a swell nearly big enough to hide a house. Nothing I did in training prepared me for that. I don’t think anything can.

  As soon as I decided I would indeed attempt the Channel, I sought out legendary Australian distance swimmer Des Renford. Des swam the channel so many times people started calling him the “Calais Commuter”. Between 1970 and 1980, Des successfully crossed the Channel nineteen times. On his first attempt, he tried a double crossing. He almost made it back to Dover when a wave threw him into the hull of his support vessel, dislocating his shoulder. Even then, Des kept on until his support team forced him to stop.

  Des was not encouraging initially. “I’m not sure you know what you are getting yourself into,” Des said to me when I told him my intentions. “The Channel is unlike any other body of water in the world. One minute it can be as flat as a carpet, the next you’re on top of twenty-foot waves.”

  Undeterred, I kept pressing him for more information about the swim. The worst news he shared was that the Channel Swimming Association (CSA), which sanctions all official attempts, does not allow wet suits. “Captain Webb didn’t have a wet suit, and anyone who tries to replicate what the captain did can’t wear one either,” I was told. This presented a bit of a challenge. Because my legs do not work, they are little more than dead weight in the water. Left to themselves, they will eventually pull me down. When the CSA consented to my request to swim the Channel (by a 3–2 vote), they made one concession for my condition. They allowed me to strap a small flotation device between my legs to keep them afloat.

  Once I received permission to attempt a swim, I threw myself into training. Two more people came into m
y life at this very strategic time, people without whom the swim would not have been possible. The first was David Knight, who was then the managing director for Gatorade in Australia. David and I first met in 1996 at the Noosa Triathlon on the Queensland Sunshine Coast. Gatorade was one of the sponsors of the event, and David came to meet a number of leading triathletes over sponsorship dinners. The two of us hit it off from the start. However, we didn’t see each other again until I happened upon him sitting on the steps of the Sydney Opera House with his wife and children, watching the start of a test race for the upcoming Sydney Olympics triathlon course. We started talking about the Noosa Triathlon. He told me I had inspired him to get in shape and do the 1997 event. “I’ll do it with you, mate,” I said. I kept my promise. The night after the 1997 race, David was riding a high from actually finishing. The two of us started talking about what we were going to do next. “I’m planning on swimming the English Channel,” I announced to him. “And what are you going to do?”

  David hesitated before finally blurting out, “I’m going to do the Hawaiian Ironman.”

  “I can help get you ready for it, if you like,” I said.

  He liked the idea. Then he said, “I want to help you with the Channel swim. And I think I may be able to get Gatorade to sponsor you.”

  That was a godsend. Training for the Channel became my full-time job. Over the course of eight months, I swam over 1,770 kilometres. With Gatorade on board as a sponsor, I was free to throw myself fully into my training without worrying about how I might support myself. Gatorade was not the first or only company to step up for me. Through my brother Don’s efforts, Nike sponsored me as an athlete. I don’t know if I fully realised it at the time, but my boyhood dream of becoming a professional athlete had come true. When Nike learned of my Channel attempt, they gave me a $20,000 grant to use for the charity of my choice. This seed led to probably the greatest accomplishment of my life, but more on that later.

  David did more than bring Gatorade on board as a sponsor. The two of us became close friends. He even agreed to join me on my swim as one of my support swimmers. The CSA allows two support swimmers who can spend up to an hour at a time in the water swimming alongside those attempting the crossing. Support swimmers lift the swimmer’s spirits and keep them going. They cannot, however, do anything to physically aid in the attempt. With David so fully invested in my endeavour, Gatorade upped their support as well. They funded a documentary of my Channel swim. A camera crew came along on several of my training swims, then followed me to England for the actual crossing.

  Thanks to Gatorade’s sponsorship, I started a regimen of marathon swim training. I was fortunate to live in Penrith, just over three kilometres from the Penrith Lakes complex. The man-made lakes formed a three-mile loop where I could swim as long as I needed to without stopping. I started in the summer months when the water was quite pleasant for a swim. Each day I did lap after lap, gradually increasing my time in the water to four hours, then well beyond. Spending so much time in the water is, to say the least, quite boring, especially alone. I was fortunate when another accomplished athlete and friend, Wally Brumniach, volunteered to swim with me. He worked for a life coach named Maurie Rayner. Wally is, I believe, the most positive-thinking, optimistic person I know. He didn’t just keep me company. He helped shape my thinking as I tackled one of the greatest sporting challenges on the planet. I called the Channel my next Everest, but in truth, four times as many people have climbed Everest as have swum the Channel. Perhaps Everest climbers should call the mountain their English Channel.

  Through the week I swam primarily at the Penrith Lakes. On weekends I headed off to the beach with David Knight. Susie Maroney, a professional marathon swimmer and the first Australian to complete a double crossing of the Channel, even joined me for a couple of my training swims. Sydney boasts some of the most beautiful and famous beaches in the world. Bondi sits atop that list. While most tourists and locals go there for a little dip or some surfing, I went out beyond the normal swimming area. Bondi is a bit of a bay with two points sticking out on either end. The bay is just under a mile wide between the two points. I swam lap after lap between those two points. David Knight or one of my other friends often joined me. In the summer months, the sea and the sun felt wonderful. But as winter set in and the water temperature dropped, the experience was not quite as pleasant. Yet swimming in cold water was exactly what I needed to do to acclimate myself to the conditions I would face in the Channel. Even in the middle of summer, the water temperature between England and France never reaches fifteen degrees. During one of my training swims at the Penrith Lakes, the water had dipped down to nine. The Channel felt absolutely balmy in comparison. The extra twenty kilos of fat I packed on in the months before I left for England helped protect me from the cold as well.

  When I first looked out upon the English Channel from Dover, I felt very, very small and ill prepared. Off in the distance I could just make out a land mass I knew was France. The thirty-three kilometres between it and me never looked longer. I took a deep breath. If only I could be so lucky as to make it across by only swimming thirty-three kilometres. Because of the swift ocean currents flowing from north to south, most attempts cover nearly double that. At least I would not make the journey alone. My brother Don flew over with his two children. My sister Marion came over, along with David Knight; Wally Brumniach and his wife; my swim coach, David Harvey; George Lawlor from Nike; photographers; and the documentary video crew. Perhaps the most important person on my team was a man I met in Dover. Reg Brickell was the captain of the Viking Princess, the fishing boat that would serve as my support vehicle. Channel swimmers don’t just dive in the water and have a go at it. A support vessel, usually a fishing boat, guides the swimmer along, keeping them on course and informing of changing conditions.

  After two weeks in England waiting for word of when I would get my chance, we were told on 15 August that my turn would come in two days. Because the boat was small, most of my crew had to stay behind in Dover. David Knight, David Harvey, Wally, George Lawlor and I got into the Viking Princess for the short ride up the coast to the official starting point. David Knight and Wally came as my support swimmers. David Harvey covered me with wool fat, the only provision against the cold water (besides the extra pounds I packed on). Under CSA rules I could not be carried out into the sea. Instead, I made my way up to the high-water mark on the beach, turned around, and did a long bum shuffle (sitting on the sand, supported by my arms, I’d shuffle—arms, bum, arms, bum) across pebbles and rocks into the water. Even though I had trained in cold water back home, the fifteen-degree waters of the North Atlantic jolted my system, kicking my adrenaline into high gear.

  I thought I had learned how little of life we truly control after my accident on the M4. The Channel re-taught me this lesson with a vengeance. Through the first several hours of my swim, conditions were okay. The seas had a bit of chop to them, but not enough to keep me from my goal. But then the winds began to pick up. And pick up. And pick up some more. At the six-hour mark the gusting winds hit over fifty kilometres per hour. Three-metre swells tossed me about. They even threatened the helicopter carrying the documentary film crew as it dipped low for footage of my swim. Reg tried to protect me by angling his boat to absorb the brunt of the waves before they crashed into me. On board the Viking Princess seasickness reigned. Reg told David Harvey, “I think he should pack it in.”

  David Knight conveyed the word to me. After swimming 1,770 training kilometres and devoting eight months of my life to this attempt, I wasn’t about to stop because of a little chop. “I’ve come this far; I don’t want to give up now,” I said. I did not realise that the wind was blowing me back toward England faster than I could push myself toward France. Undeterred, I pressed on, but the waves were relentless. Swells picked me up then dumped me back down under the water. I came up, disoriented. After dog-paddling for a moment to get my bearings, I took off swimming again, only to repeat this game over and
over for the next three hours.

  Nine hours into my swim Reg came over to the railing and delivered the bad news. “Johnny, you’ve been going backwards for the past couple of hours. It’s over. It’s not you. It’s the conditions. No one is going to get across today.”

  I nodded my assent. I had no choice. No matter how determined I might have been, no matter how hard I tried, the Channel was not going to be beaten on this day. My guys lifted me up into the boat for a very cold, quiet, bumpy ride back to England.

  After I failed to make it across the Channel, all of my support team, with the exception of David Harvey, my coach, went back to their lives. The camera crew went home to Australia, while Don flew home to Canada and David Knight went on a holiday with his family. David Harvey and I stayed behind in England, hoping for another chance. I could not give up this easily.

  Two weeks later my second chance arrived. Reg called, telling me I could give it a go on 30 August. “Meet me on the dock at four a.m. We’re going to get an earlier start this time,” he said.

  The sea cooperated on my second attempt. However, the real problem I ran into involved my support team’s schedules. Don dropped everything and came over in time to catch a place on the Viking Princess, as did the documentary film crew. Wally returned as one of my support swimmers, but David Knight was skiing on the other side of the world with his family. I called to let him know about my second attempt, full well knowing he would have to miss it. “What are you talking about?” David said. “I’m on my way.”

  David was not there when I did the bum shuffle down the sand and pebbles into the Channel for my second attempt. I started an hour earlier to give myself extra time in case of any weather surprises. I also had a faster start. On my first attempt some of the wool fat smeared across my goggles. I wasted a lot of time trying to clean them in the water before giving up and getting a second pair. On my second attempt I didn’t have any such delay. I also took fewer food breaks. The first time across I took liquid food and Gatorade every twenty minutes or so. If that seems a bit excessive, you’ve never tried swimming across thirty-three kilometres of open ocean. You burn a lot of calories even in calm seas. For my second attempt we cut the breaks down to once an hour. Once I was far enough along that it appeared I would make it, we increased the frequency just a bit.