Free Heart of a Champion by Patrick Lindsay Page B

line. Then we’d reverse it and run back! Later, they added a Big Mac at McDonald’s at Caringbah and at Miranda, plus all the drinking, then onto the sand on the way back. It started to get too much for me—the Ironman was easier!’
    What had started with about 12 or 15 blokes grew to include half the local surf clubs and soon got out of hand. So Greg’s mates replaced the Toga Run with a far more sophisticated event—the Scungies Run. Every Christmas Eve, about 30 or 40 of their closest mates would meet at the Southwells’ house in Caringbah for a few drinks in their Speedos (also known as ‘scungies’, budgie smugglers, sluggos, banana hammocks or dick stickers).
    It soon became a tradition to take a photo of the starters, from the tallest bloke to the shortest, in the backyard before the race—Greg was always at the short end. It arose out of a standing joke that athletes could never run past a shop window without checking out their reflections. One of their mates was famous for always flexing and looking at his calf muscles. These idiosyncrasies were incorporated into the annual ‘scungies’ photo. ‘We’d always stretch our calves and point to them as we had our pictures taken. It happened for 15 years straight. It was the Christmas calf shot.’
    The Scungies Run would start with a run to the end of the peninsula at Lilli Pilli, followed by a swim across to Burraneer Bay and a run to the end of the point there. The group would then jump off the rock ledge into the bay and swim across the channel. From there they’d run around the foreshore to the nearby swimming baths for some marine acrobatics, then on to Cronulla Beach where they’d jump in at the point and swim into the beach for some body surfing. Finally, they’d run along the median strip of the busy road leading to Caringbah McDonald’s.
    â€˜When we got to Maccas we’d have to spend $10 exactly—on the nose, it could not be over or under—and that had to include a thick shake! Then we ran to the oval 200 m (218.7 yd) away, and then we’d have 400-m (437.5-yd) races and everyone would have to eat part of a luncheon meat roll between races. Luckily, most triathletes have iron stomachs!’
    To Greg this camaraderie was an essential part of his enjoyment of sport. Even after he turned pro, he thrived on the fun and mateship he’d grown up with in the Shire. ‘I was always the social guy. I wasn’t the overtrainer, the over-achiever. To me it was all about being social. If I could grab somebody to go training with, that was perfect. I loved training with my mates.’
    One of Greg’s unusual attributes was his ability to recover after training—or playing—sessions. It never ceased to amaze Mick Maroney. ‘We were growing and learning about racing and training. We’d race on the weekend and on Mondays I could barely walk and was sore all over. It’d take me at least until Wednesday to be able to run freely again. But Greg would be playing tennis on Monday. I used to say, “Mate, aren’t you sore?” And he’d say, “Nah, I’m all right.” Physically, he was just different. He had a looseness, a free style about his swimming, his biking, his running. I always regarded it as something really special.’
    Mick Maroney also noticed how Greg found the fun in everything he did. Mick can only remember seeing him really down once. It was at a race that fell the day after one of the annual pub runs. Mick and some of his other mates went to bed early after the pub run to give themselves some chance of recovering in time. Greg batted on well into the night and turned up for the fun run still dressed in the same clothes he’d worn partying the night before.
    Mick chuckled when he saw how gingerly Greg changed into his running gear. ‘The race was flat out over 10 km (6.2 miles). There was a lead pack of six or