Blade Runner (8 page)

If God were to ask me if I wanted my legs back, I would
really have to think carefully about my answer. I do not feel
remotely as if I have been short-changed by life. Had I been
born with normal legs I would not be the man I am today.
My less than ordinary life has helped my potential shine
through. I am not sure that I would have had the same
motivation and determination to improve myself and become
an athlete. People often ask me what it is like to have
artificial limbs but I am unable to answer that question. My
prostheses
are
my legs, I have never known others and so I
invert their question and ask them to explain to me how it
feels to have legs. There are downsides to having prostheses:
for example, should I sit down to a meal with a beautiful
woman and she started playing footsie with me under the
table I would be at a real loss! This remark may sound
flippant, but behind it is a serious point – the inestimable
importance of embracing life's vicissitudes with good humour.
One should try to celebrate, or at least enjoy, what
one cannot change.

In my experience, there is little that a sense of humour
cannot remedy. I always make fun of my legs. Recently an
older gentleman asked me if I regularly went out partying
with my friends. I was rather perplexed as I could not see the
point of the question, but I nevertheless told him that if I was
not training the following day then yes, I did, probably once
every two months or so. Not satisfied, the gentleman asked
me if I was a heavy drinker? No, I answered. With a broad
smile on his face, he then told me that he understood that as
I was already legless there was no need for me to be a heavy
drinker. I found the remark hilarious – what I particularly
appreciated was that he accorded me the same respect and
treatment as he did all the other people present. I hate being
the recipient of people's pity and am insulted when people
adjust their behaviour on my account. Being legless is not in
itself particularly funny, but this does not preclude the desire,
indeed the need, to approach it with humour. There is a
saying that I hold dear that goes as follows: It is not our
disabilities that make us disabled but our abilities that make
us able.

We all have limitations, be they mental or physical, of
varying importance, but at the same time we are all equipped
with so many more capacities that make it possible for us to
transcend disability. People often ask me how it is that with
artificial legs I can be qualified as anything but disabled. My
answer is that, being far more able than they are in more
than 90 per cent of sports, why should I be qualified as a
disabled sportsman? It has been said that using prostheses is
proof of disability, but I fail to see why this aspect of my
persona should overshadow all my sporting ability.

One project that I support is called Sole of Africa, an NGO
that was founded by Richard Branson to help landmine
victims in Mozambique. Another is called the Chaeli Campaign
and was born from the concern and initiative of five
nine-year-old girls. One of the girls was born with cerebral
palsy and degenerative neuropathy and she needed an electric
wheelchair, but her parents were unable to afford the
expense. The girls banded together and started to make
chocolate slabs, which they then sold. Within two weeks they
had raised 20,000 rand (about £1,800 at the time), which
was more than enough to cover the cost of a wheelchair. But
still the girls kept on going, donating their gains to various
charity organisations. Today they are between thirteen and
fifteen years old and they have started their own NGO,
which has financed the acquisition of over 170 electric
wheelchairs for needy South African children and an equally
significant number of pulleys to help lift paralysed people
into or out of their beds, baths and so on. It is a wonderful
example of people getting together to help one another.

Recently the Chaeli Campaign started a soup kitchen in
Cape Town staffed entirely by people with mental disability.
There is no menu; one eats whatever has been cooked that
day, and they do not accept payment, only donations. The
kitchen employs people who would otherwise struggle to find
work and also provides a forum for people to talk and
support one another – and, not least of all, keep out of the
way of trouble. The money received is divided among the
staff, with any leftovers going to different charities. It is a
fantastic project that has given people back their self-respect
and independence, and it also educates the wider community
that there is another way to integrate people into society and
provide them with genuine support. The restaurant has
become quite popular within business circles.

There is a project which I am very keen to kick-start – it
will be very expensive but worthwhile in the long run. I would
like to have a truck redesigned to contain a fully equipped
laboratory able to travel throughout Africa and help people
where they live and work. Basically we would need to be able
to arrive in the village in the morning, see the patients and
supply them with durable and affordable prostheses that same
day. There are already numerous organisations trying to clear
the land of mines but very few which specifically take care of
those who have already lost limbs.

I learnt so much from the people I met in Mozambique.
The experience has changed my life and made me into a
better human being. My only regret is not being able to share
the experience with my mother. I am sure that she would
have heartily approved of my attempts to help those less
fortunate than myself in this moment of triumph and fame in
my life. It has certainly been a privilege for me. She always
felt that things happened for a reason and that giving one's
time and support was the only way to unite and overcome
adversity. I like to think that she is proud of this part of my
life as she watches over me.

I
HAVE BEEN BLESSED
with an unusually rich and rewarding
life for one so young. Alongside my growth as a sportsman,
I have also experienced the joy of being involved in a
very strong and committed relationship. Vicky was my true
love and the power of our relationship bolstered me immensely.
Our relationship was very intense and, although
this most probably contributed to our eventual separation, it
meant that while we were together we approached every
moment as though it was our most important, indeed our
last. We had a very fiery relationship and often rowed. One
summer stands out for me and demonstrates the folly of
reacting too quickly. It was December 2005 and I had
decided to join some of my friends who were holidaying in
Durban, approximately 650 kilometres from Johannesburg.
Vicky was in Johannesburg but we spoke to one another
often. One evening after an exceptionally nasty argument I
decided that it was imperative that I immediately return to
Johannesburg and make peace. Ignoring my better judgement,
I left Durban at 3 a.m. About halfway into the journey
exhaustion set in. I should have pulled over and slept a bit
but instead I continued and of course nodded off at the
wheel. I woke up as my car ploughed into the guardrail; one
side of the vehicle was completely destroyed. I had a really
lucky escape but the car was a write-off. My behaviour was
unforgivably stupid and I regret it to this day.

For all the fire, Vicky and I were very happy together. On
Valentine's Day in 2006 Vicky awoke to find that, while
everybody was sleeping, I had been to her house to hang two
hundred coloured balloons (I blew each one up individually!)
in the trees, in her driveway and on her fence and then once
that was accomplished I took a can of spray paint and
artfully wrote 'I Love You, Tiger' on the road in front of her
front gate. That morning she awoke convinced that I had
forgotten Valentine's Day only to open her front door and
discover my tribute to her. She was deeply touched and
phoned to thank me with tears of joy.

In April 2005 a dear friend of mine, Ryan, was involved
in a terrible motor accident and after a week in hospital
passed away. I was devastated and went through a period
where I was so sad and depressed that I simply withdrew into
myself. Vicky took my behaviour as a rejection of her, and I
was unable to communicate anything different. Somehow we
lost the ability to share with one another. In May I decided
to head to England for two weeks and take part in the
Disabled World Cup in Manchester, but my real reason for
going was that I wanted to avoid dealing with the barrier
between Vicky and me. It was while I was in Manchester that
we finally split up. It was awful, and the fact that I was
abroad made it even more painful. On my return home I
tried to talk to her and sort things out but it was too late.
Vicky felt that I had alienated and rejected her and was
unmoved by my protestations to the contrary. We were
actually both incredibly angry and did not speak to each
other at all for the next eight months. It was one of the
lowest points of my life.

Despite the turmoil of my personal life, my career continued
to progress in leaps and bounds. I was training
intensively and seeing the fruit of my efforts. During 2004,
in addition to having competed in the Athens Paralympics, I
had also run in a number of different races (100, 200 and
400 metres) recognised by the International Association of
Athletics Federations (IAAF). Then in March of 2005 I
competed in the 400 metres at the South African National
Championships and came sixth. Thanks to this result I began
to receive invitations to important events in the international
athletics calendar – for example, the Helsinki Grand Prix
which takes place in August every year. I was not able to
make the journey to Helsinki that year, but the mere fact of
being invited represented an important success and a new
level of recognition for me.

Sadly, my success did little for my morale. I was most
unhappy and cried at the drop of a hat. In short, I missed
Vicky terribly. Her absence left a gaping hole in my life as
she had been both my girlfriend and best friend – the person
with whom I shared everything. I missed her intelligent
advice, her conversation and of course her physical presence.
I was preparing myself to move out of my Uncle Arnold's
house (I had lived with him and his family since my last year
at school and we remain very close) into my own home, and
as Vicky had been instrumental in choosing both the house
and the furnishings life seemed rather cruel to me.

My relationship with my father was also subject to some
new stresses and strains. When I started out in professional
athletics my father had taken on the role of managing my
career, and this change in the dynamic between us exacerbated
an already complex bond. After all, I was only
eighteen, and this change in our relationship coincided with
a new-found need to rebel and gain some independence and
freedom for myself. It was a steep learning curve for both of
us, and eventually we came to the joint realisation that
although work is very important, family is far more important.
My finding a professional manager gave each of us a
second chance. My father has since moved to Cape Town
where he has a new partner and is managing a sulphate mine,
a job from which he derives great satisfaction . . .

In 2007 (after having had three managers, including my
father) I signed up with Peet van Zyl. It is a truism to say
that for a totally committed athlete who is training intensively
and travelling frequently, a manager is a quasi-father
figure. By definition you spend a lot of time together, and
that person is involved in both the professional and more
personal aspects of your life. I remember my brother Carl
being particularly resentful when I chose to spend my
holidays with my manager; it did not help that Carl did not
like him, but I think people on the outside do not always
grasp how close this relationship can be.

Peet is a marvellous manager. He is very selective in
choosing the athletes he represents, which is ideal as it means
he is more able to focus on each of us individually. He is a
calm, level-headed and positive presence in my life and
always seems to manage to sort out the fixes I get myself into.
On one occasion I called him in a flat panic. I had lost my
legs – my blades, to be more precise. I was packing my
suitcase as we were departing later that day for America and
I had turned the house (and my car) upside down but was
still without my blades. Fortunately Peet had a spare pair at
his office so calamity was avoided, and it turned out that a
friend had played a prank on me by hiding my blades,
blissfully unaware that I was about to fly off for a competitive
race.

I wish I had had Peet at my side when I ended up behind
bars. It was the end of August 2006. I had been working out
at a shooting range with a friend of mine, and as it had been
a very physical exercise I am assuming that some of the
gunpowder must have rubbed onto my prosthetic limbs. One
week later I set off for Assen in Holland as they were hosting
the Disabled World Championships. Initially I had planned
to fly in and then out immediately after the competition, but
I needed to spend a week in Iceland working with the
technicians and design team at Ossur who produce my
Cheetahs, so at the last minute I decided to change my ticket,
fly to Iceland from Amsterdam and then back to South Africa
via Amsterdam. Before leaving Johannesburg International
Airport I went to the counter to have a new ticket issued, but
as their information systems were down they issued the ticket
manually, promising that they would update my new journey
details onto the system as soon as possible. So far so good; I
headed off to Assen and triumphed, winning a gold medal
and improving the world record in all three of my chosen
distances. Then on the return journey between Reykjavik and
Amsterdam I somehow managed to lose my ticket. In
Amsterdam I went directly to the check-in and explained
what had happened to the staff there. They struggled to
believe me, as when they checked their computer system my
name was missing from the list of passengers. They told me
they were unable to help me and sent me to the airport police
to draw up a claim for the loss of my ticket, adding that I
should then return to them with my claim in hand. This I
duly did, but the staff shift had since changed and the flight
attendant in charge feigned total incomprehension at my
explanation. Within five minutes I found myself flanked by
two police officers who asked me to follow them. When I
asked for some clarification they abruptly told me not to try
any smart tricks and that I was accused of having made a
false declaration as I had never been in possession of any
ticket to Johannesburg. I could not believe the absurdity of
my situation and all my tales of my original ticket having
been manually altered fell on deaf ears. They did tell me that
they would look into the situation but that I would have to
wait for the outcome behind bars. After three hours in the
company of a decidedly fishy-looking cellmate a police officer
arrived and without much fanfare told me I was free to go. I
was delighted, and as it was about fifty minutes before my
original flight was due to take off for Johannesburg I set off at
a run, bags and all, towards the boarding gate.

I had almost made the flight; all that remained was to pass
through the security check. My prostheses often cause
problems at security checkpoints as they tend to set off the
metal detectors, and this time was no different. I explained
to the police officer that I was an amputee and made use of
prosthetic limbs and, as had been my previous experience, he
then asked me to follow him into the cubicle where he would
be able to examine me and my prostheses more carefully. I
had started rolling up my jeans so he could examine my
prostheses when he explained that it was normal procedure
for them to check my prostheses by examining them with an
explosive-sensitive device. It was a novel experience for me
but I took his word for it and did not think much of it when
he left the cubicle with his device in hand and the polite
explanation that he would be back in a minute. As I sat
daydreaming four police officers burst into the cubicle and,
screaming at me, told me to turn with my face to the wall
and my hands behind my back, as I was now under arrest. It
looked like a scene straight out of a cop thriller, and I was
dressed for the role with a black bomber jacket, black cap
and impenetrable dark glasses. They promptly and abruptly
returned me to the police station where I had been held
earlier in the day, but this time I was treated with a whole
different type of respect, to the point that my previous
cellmate was now visibly intimidated by my presence and
would not even look me in the eye. It was as though the
police officers had been validated in suspecting me of
criminal behaviour and nefarious intentions.

It took them another twenty minutes to explain to me that
my prostheses had tested positive for explosive substances. I
was absolutely flabbergasted. Now I was being accused not
only of falsifying a ticket but, far more seriously, of
terrorism! I was horrified and panic-stricken, and yet my
situation seemed so absurd that I felt like I should be
laughing. A police officer explained in the tersest manner that
they would need to carry out further tests on my prostheses
and so left me handcuffed in the cell to sit it out. By that
point I had well and truly missed my flight and my personal
belongings and cell phone had been impounded. I spent the
next two hours worrying and wishing that I had had some
way to forewarn my Aunt Diane that I would not be arriving
in Johannesburg the following morning. Then, again without
warning, an officer appeared with my belongings in tow, and
told me that I was free to go as the security risk had been
neutralised. Miraculously I managed to find another flight
leaving Amsterdam for Johannesburg and have never been so
relieved to take off and return home.

I must confess that what most bothered me during the
whole surreal experience was the fact that my cell phone
battery was dead. I was so used to having my mobile by me,
and so reliant on being able to communicate at any time, that
I felt completely isolated. My inability to phone and forewarn
Aunt Diane and also to share what was happening to
me with Vicky weighed heavily on me. At the beginning of
2006 Vicky had enrolled at the University of Cape Town,
and, although initially it had been very difficult and painful
for us both, we had started spending time with one another
again. We both missed one another and so it was a
bittersweet relief for each of us to begin to rebuild a
friendship.

At that time I was training hard under Ampie's tutelage
with the objective of improving my speed in order to qualify
for the Beijing Olympics in 2008. All the indicators were that
this was an entirely achievable goal, as I was in perfect
physical condition and running very well. But then, as my
qualifying times continued to improve, I was surprised to
notice that they brought with them a far greater critical
interest in my performance. People within the athletics world
started to imply that my 'high tech' legs were somehow
giving me an unfair advantage and needed to be handled with
suspicion and more circumspection. I was unprepared for
this, as my carbon fibre prostheses have been on the market
for over ten years now and are commonly used by amputee
athletes. Suddenly my struggle to qualify for the Olympics
had been transformed into something far more fundamental
– it became a contest about my very right to run and
participate in the Olympics.

As I have mentioned, I had been invited to compete at the
Helsinki Grand Prix in 2005 but had been unable to attend.
At that point my qualifying times simply were not good
enough to compete at such a high level. But by 2007 my
qualifying times had improved to the extent that I had come
second in the 400 metres at the South African National
Championships, and I now felt the time was right to compete
internationally. Coincidence would have it that this was also
the moment that the International Association of Athletics
Federations (IAAF) adopted a rule which would make my
participation impossible.