With the sun rising over the crystal-clear volcanic lake, it was time to go. I had a great swim and quickly got into the lead in my age group on the bike. After forty kilometres I heard a loud crack from underneath me, and then I felt my seat sliding away. I nearly fell. I stopped to check the damage and saw that my seat had snapped off the seat post. There was nothing I could do. No repair possible. I needed a new seat post. I tucked my seat into my tri suit and decided to finish the last fifty kilometres of the lap without a seat. I had to go back into town to support my crew anyway and the pick-up wagon was probably miles away. The more I was riding, the more my legs were screaming, but the more I was also hearing Morgo’s voice. ’But you will be racing for me. You will be racing for me’. I could not pull out anymore, so I passed my seat to Zoe who was spectating that day.
I had to honour him, his pain, and our friendship. Riding 140 kilometres without a seat was agonising, hell on earth but every time the pain threatened to overwhelm me I thought about him and how much more pain he had been through because of me. I felt an unbearable sadness and a mountain of guilt as he was now in a wheelchair because of my coaching, because I had prescribed a bike ride in his program that day. My hands, feet and lower back had never been this sore. My back was seizing up, my hands were blistering, and my toes were bleeding from hitting the front of my bike shoes.
I finished the bike ride in tears, begging the volunteers to give me Nurofen or Panadol in the change tent. But they refused. It would be considered outside assistance, which meant automatic disqualification. I sat there in transition, slowly putting my shoes on, thinking about Morgo while trying to convince myself that I could now run a marathon. I doubted it. My legs were shacking and I felt like I had been stabbed several times into my lower back. At that precise moment, Robbo ran past me and yelled, ‘Come on! Racing for Morgo.’ She was right, it was time to get out of my pity party. He had suffered 30 factures. Who was I to complain about my sore body. ‘Don’t be a soft cock!’ I yelled at myself.
