Life Without Limits, A (26 page)

The trip was one of the hardest things I have ever done – harder than any race, certainly. There were times I didn’t think we would make it, times when we turned another corner only to see the path snaking up the side of yet another mountain, biceps screaming as we hauled our tractor-bikes over rocks the size of houses, the wind blowing sand into every orifice.

But what a backdrop! All around us, against clear blue skies, soared the Andean peaks. Among the rocks were vivid fossils and wild flowers, and overhead circled vast condors.

We ran out of food on our last night, having spent a day cycling downhill, albeit on sand with a headwind whipping it up into our faces. A local weather-beaten farmer and his wife took pity on us and welcomed us into their humble, stone home. They slaughtered one of their goats, there and then, and served it up spread-eagled on a plate. Billi and Helen are vegetarians, but even they had some of this fresh, delicious meat. The next day, full to the brim with goat, we made it back to Malargüe, battered, bruised, blistered and bitten.

It was the best honeymoon I’d ever been on! I felt so grounded with my old friends, who’d all known me pre-triathlon. I was just Chrissie again, and it felt good. As it did on the bus I then took from Mendoza across the amazing mountain pass into Chile to catch my flight from Santiago. There was a traffic jam at border control, which is in the heart of the mountains. They check every single vehicle and all the people in them. The estimate for the wait was five hours. I would have missed my flight, but I managed, with my pidgin Spanish, to get myself through. I made it to the airport just in time, having hitched a ride on a ramshackle local minibus, with gubbins piled high around me. It was an appropriate way to finish a trip that had so revived the spirit of my time in Nepal. Dear friends, beautiful mountains, some never-say-die spirit and a goat. I left invigorated.

There were times on the trek when I thought of Brett, and the situation awaiting me on my return to reality – a new season, a new coach. There were times when I wondered what a triathlon coach would think of what I was doing in those mountains. Brett, I feel sure, would have approved. He knows I need to switch off, and he was always encouraging me to do that. He told me never to read the internet forums, never to become obsessed with the sport. He wanted me to take another degree, or to learn a language. Trekking through the Andes, however incompatible it may have been with a conventional training programme, represented just such a refreshing change from the norm.

The trip did me the world of good. I did think of ironman, but it seemed a long way away. I was able to find myself again, to feel independent.

From Santiago I flew to Boulder, where I spent three days with Simon, his wife, Lisa and their two girls. Simon was certainly confident that I could succeed without Brett. The self-assured part of me agreed, but still the nagging doubts plagued me. I had been Brett’s puppet for two years. Could I still dance without him above me to pull the strings? I was determined to try.

It meant that I went home for Christmas ready for life without him. That feeling was further sharpened when I was greeted upon my return by more posturing from Brett over the payment of his bonus. The dynamic was exactly the same as the year before – he wanted me to pay him his 20 per cent cut of my Kona prize money now; I couldn’t pay him until they paid me, which was going to be in January. There was never any question of my not paying him, just as there hadn’t been the year before. He got his money when I’d been paid mine, and he spent it on a new bathroom. The Chrissie shitter, he calls it. He sends me emails intermittently, saying, ‘I sit there thinking of you.’

But as one man left my life (or took a back seat, at least), another walked in.

It was January, and, while I was waiting for my US visa to come through, I headed to Club La Santa in Lanzarote for some warm-weather training. It wasn’t very warm, though, so on this particular day I was wearing a puffer jacket, £9 from a discount store. They were holding a duathlon, and I was the starter. Brandishing my gun, I noticed this tall, good-looking guy hanging round the finish line. He was wearing a puffer jacket just like mine (only somewhat more expensive), he had streaky hair and I vaguely recognised him.

I thought no more of it, but the next day I received a message through Facebook from a guy by the name of Tom Lowe. I get a lot of messages through Facebook, but he made reference to the puffer and looked mighty fine in his photo, so I replied. It turns out he was there to train with the winner of the duathlon that day, Joerie Vansteelant. And we had met once before, at the British Triathlon Awards in 2007. We flirted by email and then arranged to meet at the TCR (Triathlon, Cycling and Running) Show the next weekend.

This is an annual expo for all things triathlon, held at Sandown Park in Esher, on the fringes of south-west London. I was doing a signing when we met again. It was difficult for us to talk, because I was being pulled this way and that by sponsors and fans. He seemed relaxed and undemanding of my time, which I liked.

After the awards dinner, though, we got to talk properly. I was immediately attracted to him. He was so engaging, funny and seriously good looking. I remember thinking that this was someone very special.

Me being me, at midnight I ran for my pumpkin. I was with Steph Cox and a friend called Caroline. I said goodbye to Tom, but at the moment of reckoning we didn’t kiss.

I walked downstairs with the girls to get my coat. ‘Nothing happened! Nothing happened!’ I practically wailed at them. ‘In a few days I go to Boulder, and that will be it!’

Steph said, quite decisively: ‘Wait here, I’ve left my scarf behind!’ Off she bolted.

Moments later, I heard her calling out behind me: ‘Chrissie! I brought him back!’

I turned round, and there he was, smiling awkwardly.

This is sounding like one of those situations at a disco when you’re about twelve – and it was exactly like that. Steph and Caroline went out to hail a cab, leaving the two of us face to face under the glaring lights. We said goodbye again, and this time he gave me a hug, and I went in for the kiss. Being world champion really had given me confidence! He didn’t resist, and in the taxi home we girls were wild with excitement, all the more so when I got my first text from him before we’d even left the venue. We went back to the room I rented in Putney and gossiped the night away over a whole tub of chocolate Carnation milk and a huge bag of crisps.

Tom and I spoke on the phone a lot over the next week. My birthday was coming up, and I had organised a party at a bar near Waterloo for around forty to fifty friends. I suggested he come along. Without a thought he said yes, which just showed what a warm and open person he is, up for anything. This is a big deal for me. I had always said that the most important attribute in a prospective boyfriend would be an ability to fend for himself in a large group of my friends. He passed the test with flying colours. I more or less dumped him among them, coming back every now and then for a kiss and a chat. Everything felt so natural. I was on a cloud.

He came back with me to Putney and stayed the night, which was very unusual for me, to have that level of intimacy so quickly. The next day, as luck would have it, was Valentine’s Day. We had both bought each other a card, and he had gone so far as to buy me a rose. More brownie points – he could stay again.

So he did. We went for a pub dinner at the Telegraph on Putney Heath. The next day I was going for lunch with my parents and brother, to say farewell before I left for Boulder. After Tom had stayed again, I took a deep breath and told him I was meeting my family that day, feel totally free to say no, I mean, this is all a bit soon, isn’t it, but I’m going to America tomorrow, you probably won’t want to, but do you think, um, would it be a not totally stupid idea if you, er . . . Do you want to come?

He smiled and said, yes, of course he did.

Oh, wow, this was getting serious, I thought. I’d known this guy for barely a fortnight, and he was about to meet my family! But I knew it was the right thing to do. I was off the next day, so there had been no choice but to force the pace in our relationship, and he handled it effortlessly. We went to my brother’s flat in Streatham and then for a pub lunch. He got on so well with them. My brother, in particular, really liked him, which was very important to me.

Even if I was off to another continent, I was determined now to make this work. I hadn’t had a boyfriend for the best part of a decade, but for the first time I had found a man who made me want to change that. Tom is easygoing, yet authoritative. He is accommodating, but not the sort to be walked over. He didn’t seem to be at all bothered about the fact that I was world champion. Indeed, he made it clear from an early stage that he intended to beat me at ironman.

He had been in the army for twelve years, working on telecommunications. They had given him time off to train and race competitively at middle-distance running and duathlon, in which he had represented Great Britain. He was fighting a three-year battle with a knee injury, but he was about to leave the army to train full time. In other words, he knew what kind of life I was leading. He had the same aspirations, too – the pursuit of sporting excellence, a desire to travel and an open mind. He was perfect.

The next day, he drove me to Heathrow, and I flew off to Boulder to start training properly with Simon. Everything went smoothly from the moment I got there. Simon went to great lengths to settle me, showing me round and introducing me to people. I took a room in the house of a friend of his, Mark Gavach, just round the corner from where Simon lived.

Boulder is a great place, liberal, relaxed and vibrant. The University of Colorado dominates the city, which is politically left of centre, until you venture out into the rolling farmland beyond, where it swings the other way. The bumper stickers at any point will tell you all you need to know.

In the centre of town there is a pedestrianised precinct, lined with independent shops, buskers and street artists. You never have to go far to find a vibrant bar and music scene and alternative therapies, including legalised marijuna, are popular. But there is another side to the place, which attracts athletes by the bucketload – its sporty, health-conscious spirit. Triathletes of every level flock there. Dave Scott and Mark Allen came and made it their home; hordes of others have followed.

In terms of training for a triathlon, it has everything. Boulder lies on a plateau around 1,600m above sea level. From out of that plateau rise the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The city is overlooked by a famous rocky structure known as the Flatirons, five smooth flat faces each rising to a peak, which have the look of five irons resting on the ironing board of the Great Plains. Beyond them, the hills swell into the Rockies.

It is perfect for cycling and running. There is rolling farmland, there are the climbs through the hills into the mountains. For runners there are some wonderful trails, and then there is the Res, as it is known – a large reservoir where all manner of water sports are accommodated.

Flatiron Athletic Club is where most athletes train, elite athletes right the way down to Dave Scott’s father, Vern, who is still cranking out 4km swims, aged eighty-seven. This was not Leysin, where we were tucked away in a mountain retreat. Here you were thrown in with hundreds of other athletes, only a few of whom were pros. I found it hard initially. I felt as if I were being watched, as if I had to put on a performance the whole time. As someone who loathes showing any weakness, I hated it if I had a bad day in front of everybody. But it also helped me to let go. I began to realise, as I do now, that people weren’t judging me as much as I presumed they were. If I had a bad swim session, for example, no one thought any less of me for it.

But the goldfish-bowl phenomenon formed the background in those early days to what quickly became an unhappy relationship with Simon. It was always going to be difficult, I guess, for whoever coached me after Brett. I probably did Cliff a big favour by not going with him, and I probably did Simon none by choosing him instead. But Simon didn’t do himself many favours, either.

He has mellowed a lot since then and now has a deservedly successful coaching practice, but at this stage he was only recently retired from his glittering career as an athlete. It seemed to me as if he couldn’t let go of it. These weren’t training sessions he was organising, they were competitions. We would go on a three-hour ride, and he would shoot off into the distance. Then he’d come back and say, ‘Chrissie, you’re pushing too big a gear,’ and I would think, ‘How do you know? You’re ten miles up the road!’ They felt like Simon’s training sessions, not mine. It was also demoralising to spend your time chasing, literally, the man you were paying to be your coach. I think he still felt he had a lot to offer as an athlete, which – believe me, as someone who has spent so much time trying to keep up with him – he did. It was as if he was constantly trying to prove himself to us, physically. But I didn’t want someone who could prove himself physically, and being a competitive sort myself I really didn’t enjoy the way he kept proving how much faster he was than me. I wanted someone who could watch me as I trained and make sound judgements on what was happening, rather than on what he thought was happening from several miles down the road.

And, OK, I admit it – I couldn’t shake off the shadow of Brett either. I was constantly comparing Simon’s programmes with his. I was constantly asking myself what Brett would say about this and that. In most cases, the answer was unprintable. I would challenge Simon with this, but he stood his ground. Who would want to have their methods constantly compared to those of someone else? Simon felt he was always playing second fiddle to this ghost, but he had consummate faith in his programme and remained inflexible. A coach does need to have faith in his methods – Simon was no different from Brett in that regard – but, if you can’t convince your athlete, the relationship is doomed.