Not Alone

“The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible” – Arthur C. Clarke

Luckily I’ll be able to protect my feet in my training.  I have a ‘bike’ called an Elliptigo that replicates the motion of running without the damaging effects of miles pounding the road.  It’s basically a cross trainer set free from the gym, and you’ve probably never seen anything like it.

The Ironman training was hard.  But it’s funny how quickly you forget in the endorphin-induced euphoria of crossing the finish line.  I’d got a taste and I wanted more.

So I signed up for the Ride Across Britain: a 9-day bike ride from John O’Groats to Land’s End, covering the full 960-mile length of this green and pleasant land.  And as if that wasn’t hard enough, I decided to do it on the Elliptigo, which is considerably less efficient: it burns more calories while still managing to be slower.  And you never get to sit down.

The Ride Across Britain was unbelievably tough.  But it would have been far worse if not for the superb work of Threshold Sports, the company that organised the whole thing. 

I was riding 11 hours a day but when I arrived my dinner was cooked for me and my tent already pitched so it wasn’t all bad.  I burned a total of over 50,000 calories, but the food was amazing so it wasn’t all bad.  Every day the other riders would fly past me but they’d always have a cheerful word of encouragement so it wasn’t all bad.

My legs were a wreck but I got a rejuvenating massage most nights.  Sometimes I’d have two masseuses working on me simultaneously.  So it wasn’t all bad.

Halfway through the ride, with my body having already broken down, my mind followed suit.  I collapsed at the end of day 5, convinced I couldn’t go on. 

The guys from Threshold were amazing.  They immediately whisked my bike away while James Cracknell (Threshold is his company) sat down with me and lent a sympathetic ear.  The next morning when I reluctantly collected my bike to set out on another gruelling 110 miles the security guards handed me a blank envelope. 

Inside was a simple note bearing Arthur C. Clarke's inspirational words.  That piece of paper, folded up and tucked into my pocket, travelled the remaining 400 miles with me through rain and wind and sporadic bursts of sun. 

When I rolled into Land’s End late on the 9^th day I set a new world record.  But it wasn’t just mine.  I wouldn’t have made it without the enormous support I received every mile of the way.

This taught me that the pursuit of greatness is rarely a solo endeavour.  It is not enough to simply inspire: after the initial spark the fire must be stoked and the flames fanned until dreams are realised.  If I really want to help people achieve their potential I must find a way to be the poker and the bellows.

Risk Afoot

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” – T.S. Eliot

I did tell my doctor about the Ironman.  Shortly after I’d done it. 

He chuckled and shook his head.  “Well, I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it now.  As long as you don’t plan on doing anything like that again.”

“Don’t worry,” I replied, “I’ll stick to rugby from now on.”

I laughed.  He didn’t.

This weekend I played in a tournament alongside the England Sevens team – it was awesome to watch those guys doing what they do best.  But despite only a short time on the pitch I was sore the following day.

So I’m hanging up my boots.  The doctor will be pleased.  Although less so for the reason: to avoid an injury that might jeopardise my training for the A2A.

I’m not really supposed to run at all because there’s a chance it may do long-term damage to my feet and ankles, giving me problems later in life.  I know that.  So I’m stupid right?  Stupid to have done the Ironman, stupid to play rugby, stupid to be planning to run 87 miles in a day. 

But think of it like this:

There is a chance that I might do lasting damage.  A chance.  No one, not even the doctors, can tell me what chance.  So why would I give up what I love because it may or may not affect me later?  Why avoid running now so that in 50 years – when I’m too old – then I’ll be healthy enough to run?

Greatness can be reached by many roads but this they have in common: the man unwilling to take risks and unprepared to make sacrifices will never reach his goal.

Lightning Bolts

"There's no such thing as bad weather - just wrong clothes" - James Cracknell

On Saturday I set out on a 25-mile bike ride, a familiar route that would take in much of Central London’s sights and traffic and normally lasts a shade under 2 hours. 

Soon after I left the heavens opened.  Then I got two punctures.  By the time I’d patched them I was soaked through.  And so I rode the rest of the way dripping wet, to rolls of booming thunder under a sky fractured by violent flashes of forked lightning.

Meanwhile at Old Trafford a Bolt of a different kind was appearing, not overhead but on the pitch, the flashes coming from his three glittering gold medals.  He reiterated his desire to be signed by Sir Alex Ferguson, his tongue presumably in cheek although you do get the feeling that were such an offer to come, he would join without a moment’s hesitation.

As football pundits are quick to point out, there is no substitute for genuine pace – although I fear they may be overlooking one other, rather more significant, factor: talent.  Can Usain Bolt actually play football or is he carrying a self-delusion more massive than his three medals – the largest ever to be awarded at an Olympic Games?

I had a similar feeling on Friday as I went for my first swimming lesson.  In a group lesson of almost 20 people I was the slowest swimmer in the slowest lane.

“Your leg kick is... poor” was just one of many ‘observations’ by the coach.

Am I kidding myself?  Am I as deluded as Bolt when I think I can actually do this?

Ironman

“What does not destroy me, makes me stronger” – Nietzsche

I first heard of the Ironman from a German guy who came to stay with my family.  Tom-Tom (his adopted name) had recently completed one.  I was in awe.  I said, and always maintained, “I could never do that.”

That was why it had to be the Ironman.  Having left the wheelchair behind I needed a challenge; a goal.  I needed to create my own milestone.  I needed something that I couldn’t have done before, to prove I was better, stronger, than before.

It wasn’t an easy decision, and I agonised over it for a long time.  Too long.  I had looked at the dates of the various Ironmans around the world – there was one in New Zealand that coincided with an internship I had managed to get and entry was about to open.   Yes, I thought, if I do it, that’s the one.

I continued my rehabilitation/training and checked back a month later.  Ironman New Zealand, never full in its entire history, had sold out in 2 weeks.  My plan was screwed.

I looked at the other available Ironmans: Mexico in 6 months.  Maybe.  Right timeframe but a long way and a lot of money.  Or Ironman UK.  In 2 months. 

I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice.  I signed up.  2 months to train for an Ironman.  They suggest a year and I was quite literally coming from a standing start.  I had wanted a challenge...

I doubted myself from that second until 8.45pm on 1 August 2010 when the finish line came into view.  When I crossed it I am not ashamed to say that I broke down and wept.

It was as if I had spent the previous 17 months, and run the entire race, with a huge weight on my shoulders.  I had been carrying the baggage of my accident ever since I had fallen.  And in that moment, as I crossed the finish line with the words “George Watkins, you are an Ironman” ringing in my ears, I left it behind.

Goals

“Set challenging goals: if you achieve them, amazing; if not, it’ll be a fun journey!” – Lisa Wynn

I met Lisa at the triathlon.  She’s the one on the right of my picture with Jenson Button.  A couple of years earlier Lisa had fallen down the stairs and broken her back in two places, leaving her in hospital.  Confined to bed, able to neither move nor exercise, her weight began to climb. 

When it peaked at 18½ stone she resolved to do something.  Despite never having done a triathlon before, and still recovering from her accident, she set herself her greatest challenge.  She got herself a coach and started training. 

The Jenson button Trust Triathlon would be her fourth.

Following my own accident I followed a similar path.  After the fall, psychologically I struggled.  I resented what had happened and how it had left me.  As if the accident was some external entity that had done this to me.  But at least between the accident and my first tentative steps I could always see progress: having my operation, returning to England, getting into a wheelchair, standing in a swimming pool and finally standing on dry land.  These regular milestones kept me going.

But once I could stand, they dried up.  Sure, I was still getting better, little by little, but it was barely perceptible and there was nothing to mark it.  I became more and more frustrated: I could stand; I could walk; so why didn’t I have a normal life?

I resented the accident more than ever.  Increasingly I felt the need to prove it hadn’t beaten me: that I had come back even stronger.  And there was always this nagging voice in the back of my head...

...Ironman

Recovery

“A pessimist looks at his glass and says it is half empty; an optimist looks at it and says it is half full.” – Gabriel Wells

The glass half full/half empty question works as a metaphor but not in reality.  But the accident did provide a genuine insight into my state of mind.

“You must feel so lucky you survived,” people would say.

“No,” I’d reply, “I feel unlucky that I fell.”

In an earlier post I wrote that I had completed a journey of 1000 miles.  Despite leaving me depressed and unable to move, it was the skiing accident that started me on that road.  But it was 3 months before I could take a single step.

The days after the accident passed in a morphine-induced haze.  It wasn’t as fun as it sounds.  One week later I was judged fit enough for surgery.  Well, the surgeon judged me fit enough.  The anaesthetist didn’t agree.  After a huge argument, much of which was carried out at my bedside, the surgeon won through seniority.  This is unusual as it's the anaesthetic that presents the danger.  This didn’t do much to put me at ease.

After 5 hours in surgery I emerged with bionic feet: my heels now contain as much metal as bone.  The next 3 months passed very slowly.  Here are the highlights (in the movie of my life this will be an awesome montage despite inevitably being accompanied by 'Broken Heels', Alexandra Burke's anthemic tribute to ill-shod women everywhere):

The month following the accident was spent lying in a Swiss hospital bed.  I couldn’t roll over let alone stand up.  After 4 weeks it was decided my condition was stable enough to fly and I was returned to England by Air Ambulance.  (Probably the first and last time I will ever have my own private aeroplane and I slept through the whole thing.)

After a few days in hospital in England they got me into a wheelchair and allowed me to return home (where I remained in a hospital bed - although in more familiar surroundings).  I spent the next 2 months between the bed and wheelchair.  Highpoints included attending my sister’s wedding and going to Wimbledon (each made more challenging by being in a wheelchair).  On the plus side I got a great view at both.

Finally, fully 12 weeks after my accident, I was allowed to weight-bear.  A mark of my determination (or impatience), as the clock struck midnight I decided to stand up.  “I think we should just wait to go to the hospital” my Mum advised.

“Well I’m getting up with or without you, so I suggest you help” I replied.  Definitely impatient...

As I tentatively stood up, with more than a passing resemblance to Bambi, I felt more positive: the glass of milk I’d been drinking was beginning to appear half full.  I was through the worst, I thought, and from here it would be plain sailing.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Besides, the glass of milk was neither half full nor half empty: It was just half a glass of milk.

Good Days and Bad Days

“It’s the bad days that make you who you are.” - Jenson Button

Today I completed my first warm-up event on the road to Paris: the Jenson Button Trust Triathlon.  This was a short sprint round the scenic grounds of Luton Hoo, and the spectacular surroundings were matched by the weather as temperatures soared to 29 degrees. 

Each participant competed in two races: a heat followed by either the final or ‘wooden spoon’ race.  With only 100 of the 500 capacity qualifying, and with a number of professional triathletes involved, my goal was simply to join Jenson in the final. 

I pushed hard and happily I made it - then was delighted to come home in a very respectable 38^th place. 

Following the race I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to have a chat with Jenson.  I asked him if he had any recommendations as I continue my preparation for next year.

“When I was younger I was given some advice that has always stayed with me: It’s the bad days that make you who you are.”

This message really resonated with me.  You see, in March 2009 I had a very bad day.

It started so well.  I was living in Verbier, a ski resort in Switzerland.  The previous night had seen a huge dump of snow and in the morning the sun came out.  Conditions were perfect.  On the way up the mountain I turned to my friends and said  “I think this is going to be the best skiing day of the whole season.”

Famous last words.

On the very next run I fell.  It was an innocuous fall, but it was in the wrong place.  We were off-piste and it was steep.  I fell and kept on falling, over rocks and cliffs, before coming to rest 150 metres lower down in excruciating pain. 

It took 45 minutes for the helicopter to get me off the mountain.  In hospital the Swiss doctors catalogued my injuries: 14 broken bones including 3 broken vertebrae and 2 shattered heels. 

It was a bad day.

But this is not the end of the story.  It is the beginning.  This day, more than any other, is what made me who I am.

Oh, and Jenson had one more piece of advice for me.

“Don’t wear women’s clothes.”

True story; Wise words.

Why?

"Why are on earth are you doing that?" - Various

This is the most common reaction when I tell people about the A2A.  Not exactly what I had in mind...

It may be early days yet but the Olympics have now drawn to a close.  Flags have been lowered, big screens taken down and the various Wenlock and Mandeville statues auctioned off.  International Houses are returning to their usual functions and people to their lives.  London is going back to normal.  And as the dust settles, 'Legacy' will be what remains.  Legacy, that amidst the intoxicating excitement of the Games had been fuzzy, will become stark. 

I was lucky enough to meet Alistair Brownlee, winner of triathlon gold, this week: "After a big competition I go straight back into training.  It goes back to normal.  But not after the Olympics - the last few days have been crazy.  It's been great."

Legacy means that things must not go back to normal.  Things must be different.  That is why I am doing this.  To help ensure the glow of the Olympics did not get extinguished with the flame.  To encourage people to be great.

Arch 2 Arc

"One of the most challenging endurance events in the world." - BBC News

The Arch to Arc is a triathlon, of sorts.  But it is a triathlon twisted and stretched beyond recognition.  Though comprising the same three elements - swimming, cycling and running - the Arch to Arc shuffles the order and increases the length beyond any of the officially recognised triathlon distances.

In the A2A the run comes first, not last.  Starting out at the white stone of Marble Arch in London's centre it covers 87 miles to finish atop the white cliffs of Dover.  Next, the swim.  A short 21 mile paddle across the Channel to France (providing it is swum in a straight line - no mean feat).  Then a final blast on the bike into Paris - 181 miles in the saddle.

Only 10 people have ever completed this challenge, none in less than 80 hours; some in over 100.  Many others have attempted it without success.

Sounds daunting?  I'm terrified...

A Single Step

                                                                   
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” - Laozi

Chinese philosopher Laozi recognised the challenge of embarking on a great venture.  That first step is the hardest to take, and it’s invariably triggered by a flash of inspiration.  From then on the hard work, the 99% perspiration, takes over. 

I have completed a journey of a thousand miles: in the summer of 2011 I rode an elliptical bike from John O’Groats to Land’s End, setting a new world record.  Before this I completed an Ironman, 17 months after a near-fatal ski accident and less than a year after I finally put my wheelchair away for good. 

I asked previously ‘what can I do’?  That is what I can do. 

I am very proud of these achievements.  But to inspire others to take on their own 1000-mile journeys will take my biggest challenge yet. 

The Arch to Arc.

1% Inspiration, 99% Perspiration

“Greatness is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration” -Thomas Edison

This quote adapted from Thomas Edison appeals to me for a number of reasons.  Firstly, as a Maths graduate, I appreciate the correct use of percentages (I always try my hardest but have never succeeded in actually giving 110 percent...).  But also because it gives an insight into the function of inspiration.   

Inspiration is a catalyst.  It provides the impetus
for people to unlock the greatness within.

This is what I would love to achieve. 

I want to inspire people to do something great.

But as one person, what can I do?

Inspired to Inspire

I am a normally cynical person.  The grass is always greener.  But nowhere was the grass greener on Friday night than in Stratford’s Olympic stadium.

It was a great ceremony to kick off what I have no doubt will be a great 16 days of sport. 

The Olympics tagline is ‘Inspire a Generation’.  Today I ran to the big screen in Victoria Park and, on arriving covered in sweat, was asked “did you run here?” by an incredulous (if slightly disgusted) steward.

“Yes,” I answered, “I’ve been watching the Olympics and I have been inspired.”  The buzz in London tells me the effect is widespread.

But, ever the cynic, I worry.  Seb Coe and his team won this Olympics largely on their pledge of an Olympics ‘Legacy’.  But the struggle to secure a permanent occupant for the Olympic stadium may turn out to be symbolic of a more general failure to extend the Games’ inspirational impact beyond this incredible fortnight.

This must not happen.  It can not be allowed to happen.  And so I want to do my part.  I have been inspired to inspire.