Weirwolf (5 page)

Barcelona – blue skies and sunshine, divers leaping off the high board framed by Gaudí's Sagrada Família, Sally Gunnell winning gold for Great Britain and that archer lighting the sacred flame. That summer's Olympics was one of the most memorable for years. But it wasn't those Games which captured my imagination. It was what followed a couple of weeks later that turned my world upside down.

And the athlete who got me hooked? A Swiss wheelchair racer called Heinz Frei. He ruled the Paralympics that year and won the marathon in front of a crowd of 65,000 people in the Olympic Stadium. He was a phenomenal athlete who dominated races. I remember watching all this on the BBC as a thirteen-year-old and thinking, ‘I want to be him.' I kept a lot of this to myself, though. In those days I was very awkward and shy. When I wasn't with my friends or really close family I could feel extremely self-conscious and didn't really like talking to people. It was the same sort of feelings all teenagers have, but when you are in a wheelchair you feel even more uncomfortable expressing your ideas and ambitions. But my eyes were popping out of my head
whenever
I watched Heinz race in Barcelona. His performances had a very deep impact on me. He's well into his fifties now but during his career he won fourteen Paralympic gold medals in summer and winter Games. That is the amazing thing about him: he won gold in cross-country skiing as well as wheelchair athletics. And he's still racing now. In fact, I have to admit that he came quite close to beating me in the 2013 London Marathon.

It was hardly a surprise that with all this going on my studies at school had taken a back seat. Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was getting to the Atlanta Games in four years' time. By the time I took my GCSEs in 1994 I had already decided to focus on my sport. That partly explains my poor results: all E and F grades. Complete rubbish. I blamed the school a little bit: the English coursework was
given to us too late and there were other lessons I wanted to do which weren't available to me. In the end, PE was my best grade (hardly a shock). But it wasn't all down to the school. I should have studied more.

But at that time I simply couldn't wait to get away. So I tried studying at a couple of colleges – first, tourism at a place called Nescot, just outside Epsom in Surrey. I found it dull and, irritatingly, a load of the same kids I had grown up with at Bedelsford followed me there. My heart sank when I turned up and saw a lot of the old faces. I wanted to escape the confines of a school which reminded me of my physical limitations. I know now, looking back, that it might seem a bit childish but at that stage I didn't want to be held back any more. In the end, all I really learned was how to play pool in the college bar. Tourism wasn't for me. I was summoned to see the head of the college.

‘What are you playing at?' he asked me. ‘Why don't you get your head down and work for a qualification? Don't you want to make something of yourself?'

But my heart wasn't in it. So I told him I didn't want to do this any more. There and then, I quit. As I wheeled myself out of his office I remember feeling liberated but scared. I had a knot in my stomach and my mouth was dry. I knew I had made the right decision but I had no idea what I was going to do next.

Music has always been a big part of my life. I love house music and fancy myself as a bit of a DJ. So when the chance came up to study music at another local college in
Carshalton, I thought it might be the answer. Unlike tourism, this felt more up my street. But that didn't work either. I wasn't made to be in classrooms and, although I knew I was bright enough to learn, my confidence and self-esteem were rock bottom. I would panic whenever it was my turn to speak in a class, the nerves made me sick. I was embarrassed at my inability to read and spell properly. So once again I quit education, this time for good. I felt completely betrayed, angry and lost. Sport would have to be my escape.

T
he Barcelona Paralympics was a turning point in my life. Those golden images of my new heroes Heinz Frei and Tanni Grey-Thompson winning in front of huge, excited crowds convinced me that this was my future. Representing my country at a Paralympics now became my mission, the 1996 Games in Atlanta my dream.

For the three years after that I worked so hard to become a better athlete, developing my technique, building my strength and fitness and learning the tactical skills that you need to win races. In those days I was a pure sprinter. I was still too young to have worked out what I wanted to specialise in, although even back then I preferred the middle-distance events – the 800m and 1,500m.

The truth is, sprinting is really boring. The training is repetitive and I just don't enjoy it. Tactically, the
middle-distance
races are far more challenging, while in the 100m, if you don't get the start right then the race is over. And if you suffer from nerves, like me, then getting off to a good
start is extremely difficult. I was always so worried about false starting that I couldn't relax. In training, I could break the world record, no problem. But when it came to race day, I would freeze. Consistency was my big problem. Some days I could nail the start and move through all the various phases of the race without a single mistake. Other times it would go pear shaped from the off. If I can get myself in contention with 30 or 40 metres to go then I know I have the top-end speed to win. But often I left myself way too much to do.

Despite all those concerns the sprint events offered me my best chance of getting to Atlanta. Competition for the middle-distance events was fierce – they attracted the best athletes – and I knew I was a promising sprinter. So for now I focused on the 100m, 200m and 400m. As far as I was concerned I just wanted to represent my country, go to the Games and do my best. If the shorter distances got me my golden ticket to the Games, then so what?

As Atlanta drew ever nearer I knew I was in contention. But it was a major battle to get the qualifying times I needed to get picked by the GB selectors. So, in the early part of 1996 I was a young man on a mission. I spent weeks
chasing
around the country trying to get the standard. In the end I only made the qualifying time by the skin of my teeth – about a day short of the cut-off point in May. I knew I was improving all the time and that the selectors might be looking to blood some new talent. The team wasn't that strong and there were only a couple of real gold-medal
contenders – Tanni Grey-Thompson and Dave Holding, a four-time winner of the London Marathon who didn't win a medal in Barcelona but was favourite to win gold over 100m in Atlanta. Apart from those two, the team was in transition. I knew I had a good chance.

But would the selectors take a chance on me? I knew I could beat a lot of the older guys in the British team over lots of different distances but I was still racked with
self-doubt
, just praying to get my chance.

Then I got the phone call. It was a moment I will never forget. I felt so proud. It was such an honour, such a
privilege
. It was out of this world. There were huge cheers when I told my mum, dad and brothers. Remember, this was a huge moment for my family, who had given so much to help me reach this point. I just kept thinking how special it would be for a boy to come from a south London council estate and represent his country at the Paralympics. We were overjoyed. My brothers had boxed to a really good
standard
… but to represent your country? That was another level. They really understood what it meant and were so proud. Then there were my coaches – Chas and Dan Sadler and, of course, Jenny. Everyone had worked so hard to get me to Atlanta and now it was actually going to happen. I was so excited.

Because there were twelve days between the Olympics ending and the Paralympics starting I remember watching events unfold in America with an anticipation I had never experienced before. We had to leave just before the closing
ceremony, but those highlights still made a big impression on me. Muhammad Ali lighting the cauldron and Michael Johnson smashing the world record in the 200m – these were some of the unforgettable moments in sporting history and I was going to be a small part of it.

But it was also an Olympics cursed by a nail bomb attack in an Atlanta park which killed one person and wounded more than 100 others. And it was a Games marred by transport and organisational headaches. There had been lots of reports of athletes getting lost on buses and missing their events, and of the food being awful. But at that stage it didn't bother me. I just tried to put all that out of my mind and focus on my racing.

I remember the excitement building as I went to collect my GB kit at a special camp set up by the British Paralympic Association in Birmingham. Just meeting the other members of the team was a fantastic feeling. Then, before I knew it, I was on my way to Gatwick Airport to join the team and fly to America. My mum dropped me off. She was in floods of tears, but I wasn't scared. I was happy to go away and to be in another country, to see the other side of the world. I wasn't even worried about the flight – which was
extraordinary
because I am now so terrified of flying that I drive to most of my race meetings in Europe. Back then I wasn't afraid, though – it's only something that's developed as I got older. In fact, the plane to Atlanta had a problem and we were all sat on the tarmac for ages waiting for the
engineers
to fix it. If that happened now I would be straight out
the door. But for me, getting to compete in the Paralympics was so important that a wing would have had to fall off to stop me getting on the plane.

When we eventually landed in Atlanta we got straight onto a bus and were taken to the British team's training camp at the US Naval Air Station, Pensacola. Situated about five hours' drive south-west of Atlanta on the Gulf of Mexico, it was a great place to prepare for the Games. The facilities were first rate but it was also nice and quiet. We didn't have any distractions or disturbances. And, of course, it was totally secure. To be there training every day with the top athletes in Britain made me feel really special.

After we arrived everyone was so jet-lagged. This was my first real taste of big international competition and although I had been to Australia as a junior, this was a big step up. Sadly there was no one else of a similar age in the team that I could talk to. Instead I relied on the older, more experienced athletes like Dave Holding – my roommate – and Tanni. She looked after me quite a lot. She would always make sure I was presentable in my GB kit and said if I needed any help to just come and ask her.

Our two weeks at Pensacola flashed by. Soon it was time to head up to Atlanta. My bags packed, I sat in my day chair outside the apartment blocks, waiting to board the coach for the biggest adventure of my life. The heat was unbearable: 35 degrees in the shade. And the
humidity
– just breathing made you sweat. After a few minutes waiting, my shiny new GB kit was soaked. It was like I
had been caught in a sudden shower. I wondered to myself, ‘How on earth am I going to race in this?' Climbing onto the ice-cold, air-conditioned coach was such a relief. Now I felt shivery as I took my seat next to Dave. He checked if I was OK. I was fine. Shitting a brick with nerves, but basically OK.

As the bus pulled onto the highway I sat silently, staring out of the window at America's wide open spaces. The giant juggernauts with their shiny chrome radiators, so
distinctive
and different to what we are used to back in England. The scale of everything, the width of the highways. It was awesome. Exciting.

For the first couple of weeks in America, everything was fine. It was only when we got to the athletes' village that people started to ask questions. Was this really how an Olympic and Paralympic village was supposed to be? The accommodation was situated on a university campus, so it hadn't been specially built for the Games. But the rooms were so small. Everyone got an apartment shared between four or six people but the bedrooms and bathrooms were shared. The twin bedrooms were so tiny that by the time you got a wardrobe in there and a bedside table, there was only enough space for one wheelchair between the beds. For athletes like me this was such a terrible oversight. Only one of us could have our chair in the bedroom area at once. How were we both supposed to get into bed?

It was lucky I was sharing with Dave. He was an old hand at big events and had learned to take things as they
come. Plus he didn't snore. He was so quiet that I had to keep checking if he was still there. In the end we worked out a pretty good system so we could both manoeuvre ourselves into bed. I would wheel myself into the tiny room first. Then he got as close to the door as he could and would swing himself across the bed and under his covers. His chair would stay by the door while mine sat between the two beds. If I had rolled over I would have ended up falling into it. It was a disgrace. How on earth could the organisers say these rooms had been adapted for people like me?

But this was just the beginning. Getting to the food hall was a nightmare. There were big, steep hills across the campus so just getting from your apartment to breakfast or lunch was really hard work in a wheelchair. Fortunately we were all fit enough to cope with it but on the race days we didn't really want to be wasting energy just going to get a bite to eat. So some of the wheelchair athletes would hitch a lift on the back of the little trains the organisers were running to get people around the site. It was hilarious.

But once you got to the food hall you didn't feel like laughing. It was ridiculous. It was so small – a tiny fraction of the size of the one we had in London. You had to queue for over an hour just to get a bit of breakfast. And then there were flies everywhere. It was disgusting. I don't know if it was the same for the Olympic guys a few weeks earlier but I guess it must have been. It was supposed to be a first-class experience designed for the best athletes in the world – but it didn't feel that way. Most of it wasn't
made for us and it was clear Atlanta didn't really think of the Paralympians. Fortunately, I never got caught out on the buses – my drivers always seemed to know where they were going. Maybe by the time the Paralympics came around they had learned the various routes. But I do remember going to the warm-up area, which was in the middle of quite a rough and dangerous part of town. At the time I didn't even think about it – all I cared about was racing. But when you look back you think, ‘Blimey, that could have been deadly.'

The most shattering disappointment of Atlanta was the crowds. Hardly anyone came out to see us. Those who did sit in the stands were mostly volunteers or staff from the Atlanta organising committee. I felt so let down. They would probably tell you differently but to me it looked like very few people had actually paid to come and watch us. For the 100m final the stadium was completely empty. I don't know if the International Paralympic Committee or the American organisers were to blame. I have very little respect for the IPC – the same thing happened to us at the World Championships in New Zealand (more of which later). They just didn't seem to promote it. I am convinced that if Atlanta had been promoted properly then people would have come and watched. But we were an
afterthought
. The Paralympics is supposed to be parallel to the Olympics but we didn't feel parallel to anything. It felt like – and I hate this word – the ‘special' Games. Back in the UK there was hardly any interest either. There were highlights
on the BBC but the newspapers barely gave it a mention. It was very upsetting.

As for the British team – it was all done on a bit of a shoestring. Not like now, with hundreds of millions of pounds provided by the National Lottery. There was no backroom team of note. We had physios and medical staff, but there was no coach giving us tactics or sports
psychologist
giving advice going into a race. The British Paralympic Association even had to buy its own kit from Adidas. Some of it was made for us but the vast majority was the same as the Olympic team. Except that the ‘British Olympics 1996 Atlanta' badge had been replaced by a clunky Paralympics one sewn over the top. It was real budget stuff. I actually ended up taking the Paralympic logo off mine because I thought the Olympic one was better. The kit was very patched up. Despite that, it's the one kit I have kept: it has such sentimental value for me. I've even got the marching kit from the opening ceremony. It was all very classic British, made by Aquascutum – navy blue and a yellow tie. The opening ceremony was an impressive affair – and at least the stadium was sold out for that. I remember the
Superman
actor Christopher Reeve hosting it. Only a year earlier he had been paralysed in a horse-riding accident, so it took incredible bravery to do what he did. It was a very moving moment for everyone. But perhaps we should have seen what was coming when it was left to US Vice-President Al Gore – instead of the President, Bill Clinton – to open the Paralympics. Clinton didn't miss the Olympics, did he?

Despite all these distractions and disappointments, I had come all this way for one thing: the racing. And once at the track I just focused on my preparations. For a rookie like me it was just amazing to suddenly be alongside the very best. Athletes like the Canadian racer Jeff Adams, and the man who had inspired me four years earlier in Spain, Heinz Frei.

Jeff was the top dog. Some people thought he was a bit cocky but I thought he was a real character. Sure, he could come over as a bit full of himself but he was always nice to me. He could be very aggressive on the track but he always had respect for me. The great thing about Atlanta was that there was no pressure on me to deliver. It was my first Games and no one expected me to come home with medals of any colour. Tanni had been giving me a lot of advice in the run-up to my first heat. She had told me to keep calm and just go out and enjoy it.