At the start of that year I was still using the handcrafted prostheses made by our family friend Chris Hatting. They were less expensive than the mass-produced equivalents but they were brittle and temperamental, breaking very easily. Living in South Africa meant we had very limited access to the more technologically advanced prostheses designed for sportspeople, but one advantage was that I was the equivalent of a guinea pig for Chris, and he designed my prosthetics with my specific needs in mind. His talent was such that in 2003 he was headhunted by an American firm and went to live and work in America. In June 2004 he invited me to fly to the USA and trial their new brand of prostheses, known as Cheetahs. Cheetahs, first produced in the late 1990s, are probably the most popular prosthetic limb on the market. Constructed from carbon fibre, they give their users unprecedented freedom because of their particular combination of durability and lightness. Ever since that first trial Cheetahs have been my running legs.
When I began training with Ampie my sole objective was to qualify for my rugby team, but gradually I found myself developing a taste for athletics. I realised that the main reason I had hated it as a young child was because of my heavy prostheses – they weighed more than 3 kilos each – which made running incredibly difficult. The weight of the prostheses helped me develop muscle tone but made me cumbersome, whereas with the Cheetahs, which were about half the weight, athletics suddenly became fun and I began to think I might be able to achieve something.
Three weeks into my training programme, on 28 January, I took part in my first 100-metre race. My favourite teacher, Mrs Miller, had decided to register me for the race. Mrs Miller was one of my greatest fans, a charming and rather eccentric woman who, particularly after my mother's passing, took a great interest in my life. She even took it upon herself to counsel me about my romantic interests. At one of our school dances, after a row with my then girlfriend, I retreated to a corner alone. She noticed my maudlin behaviour and came to reassure me that all would right itself. She even topped it off by hugging me in front of everyone. My friends really took me to task about that one.
On this occasion she had taken the initiative of telephoning the organisers of the race in Bloemfontein to enquire whether they would allow an athlete running on prostheses to compete. She had met with a lukewarm reaction, but her faith in me made her persistent, and eventually she managed to bring them round. I think they all expected me to come last, but as it turned out I won the race easily. It was an incredible experience. All the spectators – people representing all the different schools – were on their feet shouting my name and applauding. To add to my delight, I was also part of the school's relay team. I ran the last leg, and my performance clinched the trophy for my school.
My father was watching me and was riveted by my performance. I had not seen him as excited and energised in a long time. He was jumping up and down, repeating to all who would listen to him: 'Oscar completed the 100 metres in 11.72! That's incredible, that's a really good time!'
As soon as we got home he started phoning all his closest friends to tell them about my achievement. At first I was touched at his elation and amused by his pride, but once his friends started calling to congratulate me I told him he had overstepped the mark. I thought my father was exaggerating. That evening he, ever the stubborn Pistorius, spent his time researching on the internet and compiling information about disabled athletes, comparing my time with that of other athletes in this category. At the time we knew absolutely nothing about the Paralympics. He discovered that I would be classified as a T43, the category which covers bilateral amputees, and to our collective amazement he read that my time, 11.72 for 100 metres, was in fact a new world record. Until then the record had stood at 12.20.
From that moment things started to move very quickly. Using Chris's prostheses, within the month I had improved my time from 11.72 to 11.51, breaking my own world record in the process. Then, following Ampie's encouragement and advice, I decided to compete in the South African Disabled Games. It was a first for me. Until then I had had no contact whatsoever with the world of disabled athletics and the experience of it made me approach my sporting career from a completely different perspective. I found it quite an odd experience: I felt very isolated and detached from the event, since not only did I know no one but I was still focused on returning to my career in rugby, and so I made little effort to participate. I would arrive, warm up, race and immediately leave. I did not feel that I belonged.
In truth, I had other things on my mind. I had fallen in love for the first time and my girlfriend, Nandi, was a ball of fire. I could not keep up with her as she kept changing her mind. One minute she was interested in me, the next she was less certain. She was great fun but I needed more consistency and so decided to break up. Hot on Nandi's heels love struck for real. It was May 2004 and along with a friend I decided to organise a big lunch party. Each of us had to invite ten people whom the other did not know, and he invited a girl called Vicky. I was smitten at first sight. She was beautiful, charming and unusual. We immediately hit it off and talked for hours, and later that evening I met up with her at a bonfire-night party. We were in love. As it was not long before our annual school ball I asked her to accompany me but unfortunately she had already agreed to attend the dance in the company of a friend of mine. If I had not been so disappointed it would have been amusing. Raul, the friend in question, and I had been waxing lyrical to one another about our new love interests who shared the name Vicky . . . Little did we know we were talking about the same person. The evening passed in an embarrassing blur with us staring doe-eyed at one another, and pretty much as soon as the midnight bell rang and the ball was over Vicky and I started going out. We remained together for the next two years.
In the meantime Carl had finished school and went off to work. It became almost impossible for him to keep up with my engagements and ferry me back and forth between my sporting commitments and training sessions, and so I decided to buy myself a car. I had saved quite a bit of money that I had earned by participating in a television advertisement, and in addition I received a monthly bursary from MacSteel, the company that produced the carbon prostheses I was using at the time. They considered it a contribution to my sports training. I started trawling the car dealers but fortunately about a week into my search a friend of my father's came to my aid, explaining that he could help me buy a car through the company that he worked for.
And so it was that in May 2004 I bought my first car. It was marvellous, a Smart cabriolet in black and silver; I remember absolutely everything about it, and rather in the same way that your first love remains special to you, so this car will always have a place in my heart. I have many wonderful memories of that car, but the overriding feeling it gave me – one that remains with me to this day – was the sense of freedom that came with owning my first car. It was exactly as I had dreamed, and my ultimate pleasure was to take it out at night and drive on the freeway with the music on loud and the wind in my hair.
I was training very hard at this time, and after my performance at the South African Disabled Games I was informed that, after only eight months of athletics, I had been chosen to represent South Africa at the Paralympics in Athens 2004. I was terrified at the thought of competing against some of today's sporting legends, like the Americans Brian Frasure and Marlon Shirley – monolateral amputees and therefore potentially much more powerful than me. Athletics was still new to me (I had not yet learnt to use the starting blocks correctly) and I did not feel ready to compete on the international stage.
In rugby, when you run your body is in a state of alertness and you are conditioned to be aware of what is happening on the entire field. You watch the other players, calibrate the distances between you and watch carefully for any gaps or changes in the rhythm of the play. Athletics is the exact opposite. In athletics you need to be absolutely focused within yourself: indeed, were it not for the fact you need to see to keep within your lane it would be better to run with your eyes shut.
Peripheral vision only serves to distract you, detracting from the energy and focus you need to win.
Rugby is a very physical game: you are in a state of perpetual tension waiting and watching for your opponents to move. Your entire body is required as you scrum, tackle, jump, score and run. In athletics it is vital to relax: I found this very difficult and had to work at it considerably. While I was at the Athens Paralympics a journalist asked me why I was chewing gum. The truth is that it helps me to relax. I find it loosens my jaw, which is a great help – to run well you need to loosen your jaw and neck in order to facilitate movement in the shoulders. My coach is forever reminding me: Relax, Oscar. Initially relaxation seemed to me to be a contradiction in terms – how can you relax at the very moment you are required to run as fast as you possibly can? But slowly I have come to understand the thought process behind this.
Posture is also of paramount importance, and I am still working at perfecting mine. Take Maurice Greene, the great American sprinter: when he begins a race, he pushes from the block with his legs spread far apart and then he gradually narrows the distance between his feet. As he is very fast I thought I should try to imitate his style, but of course the way in which you run is determined by your size, weight and frame. For a shorter athlete, the choppy style adopted by Maurice Greene is very powerful, but for a taller athlete that same style will simply cause him to waste energy and lose speed accordingly. As an athlete you need to calibrate the technique and elegance of movement with the energetic yield of the sprint so as to obtain maximum speed and therefore results. The more aggressive or tense you are the more energy you waste. You need to be calm and in harmony with yourself to feel the moment that your foot touches the ground and then judge the instant at which you must again push forward.
I have also had to learn to use my arms. To be honest I still struggle with the concept of the kinetic chain, which means simply that everything is connected. In other words, if you push your pelvis forward your bottom will stick out and so you will lose momentum. This is known technically as being seated, and it prevents you from developing speed. You need to pull your pelvis inward and bring your spine forward. These may seem tiny adjustments (sometimes it is just a millimetre forwards or backwards), but they make all the difference.
I struggle with the initial part of the race. The weakest element of my sprinting is the point at which I am ready to go, bent over with my feet on the blocks. Your body follows your head, and as I am a naturally inquisitive person I like to look around me. The instant the gun goes and the race begins I look up too quickly, and so my back straightens too soon. I have to concentrate on keeping my head down for at least the first 30 metres of the race so that I keep my body in the correct position, straightening my back gradually without any brusque movements. I am still working at this as I know there is much room for improvement, but with Ampie's help I am sure I will get there.
Ampie is an excellent coach. With me he uses the 'zones method', a sporting technique made famous by Michael Johnson. When I race, I do a lot of stretching during my warm-up, then I enter the first 'zone': I relax by deep breathing and by visualising the race in my mind. It is as though I am mentally programming myself, as I map out the points at which I need to accelerate, others where I need to conserve energy, and then the stretch in which I have to give the race everything I have got. Once I have accomplished this mental preparation I put it aside. It is time to move into the next 'zone': at this point I prepare my starting blocks. I adjust them and balance them until I am certain that they are perfect. Then I move away.
As I have said, initially I really struggled with the starting blocks. To help me out Ampie agreed with the race starter (who has since become a friend) that I should be allowed to begin on my feet and not the blocks. But even then I struggled to stay still: I fidgeted too much and so inevitably got off to a bad start. If you are not crouched with your feet on the blocks your initial push-off lacks coordination and is significantly less energy-efficient. I have worked very hard to master the blocks but I know that I have not conquered them yet as I am still not entirely comfortable and at ease.
No athlete manages a perfect start at every race. It is an ongoing process, but I have found it particularly difficult not only because I am not used to being in that position, but also because I cannot feel the blocks as I do not have feet. However, I have learnt an immense amount with Ampie. He has taught me to position my body correctly, basically by crouching down but with my body slanted forwards as the gun goes off, ensuring that I spring off: this enables me to gain up to 40 centimetres over the duration of the race. As you wait for the gun to go, it is important to push your feet into the blocks, as this will increase the drive behind you as you push off at the start of the race.
Returning to my 'zones', once I have checked that the blocks are correctly positioned in the ground and will not slip then all is ready, and it is time to wait for the race to begin. In my opinion this is the most stressful moment: you know that you need to relax but your mind is racing with anxiety and concerns about the other competitors. The next 'zone' is when you are ready to race. You must be concentrated but calm. Competitive, but focused only on the lane in which you will race, not on your competitors or the general excitement around you.
I am the kind of athlete who performs better when running from behind. In short, I prefer chasing to leading and so I try to avoid the eighth running lane where you are out in front of everyone else. I like the first three lanes, since that way I always have someone in front of me to chase. It motivates me as I push myself to catch the person and overtake them. It helps me to give my best at the end of the race.
But in the moment before the race begins, when you are squatting down with your feet on the blocks you need to inhale deeply a couple of times and then hold your breath. It is vital that instead of waiting for the noise of the gun that starts the race you concentrate on your movement. Many athletes are so focused on the sound of the gun that when it eventually goes off they remain immobile for a fraction of a second. It is almost as though they have forgotten what the gun signals and so they waste precious seconds. Instead, it is better to assume something resembling a trance-like state, in which you remind yourself that you are ready to run and that it is the noise of the gun that will signal when you can go. That way you are concentrated on the moment you propel yourself forwards and not on the noise itself. It may seem a small difference, but it will make you mentally stronger and faster on the track.
From a strictly personal perspective, it is crucial for me to have a technique to help me cope with the enormous psychological pressure that comes with the competition and the racing environment. I found the nervous tension that is inherent in the build-up to a race hard to handle. On the day before a race I am often so nervous that I am physically nauseous. I want to race but all my fears and self-doubt resurface and I am a jittering wreck. On the day of the race itself I always find twenty good excuses why I can't race – I am not up to it, I have a stiff neck or I slept badly – nothing really important, but still I have to mentally work myself towards a healthy competitive state. Yet once I cross the finishing line, all I want to do is start the whole process all over again. I believe that if you can channel this nervous energy it can work to your advantage. Many athletes contend that nervous tension is simply proof of your ambition.
I will never forget my 200-metre race at the Paralympics in Athens. There I was on my starting blocks, racing in lane number seven, surrounded by athletes who were both much older and much more experienced than me. In the sixth lane was Brian Frasure, the reigning World Champion, while in the eighth was a French athlete called Dominique André who during his warm-up began grunting and spitting. I found his behaviour both disturbing and nerve-racking. I could not concentrate (which in hindsight was probably exactly the point of his behaviour). I was completely intimidated. I was only seventeen years old and a newcomer at that. To complicate matters there were four false starts. When the gun marking the f
ifth start sounded, I froze. I had convinced myself that it was going to be another false start, and when it was not I was so taken by surprise that I was immobilised. It was horrible – by the time I realised that the second shot was never coming I was already 1.8 seconds behind the others. In retrospect my confusion was one of the things that made my performance in that race so special to me. I ran for all I was worth, managed to catch the pack, and went on to win the gold medal. Marlon Shirley and Brian Frasure came respectively second and third. My time (21.97) set a new world record, which I have since improved on. It is hard to describe my emotion – it was an incredible achievement and a great triumph.
It is astounding to think back on that moment of my life: so much has happened since that it seems a lifetime ago. When I look at the photographs of me on the winner's podium with the laurel leaves around my head and gold medal around my neck I am struck by how young I look.
The Athens Paralympics were a fantastic experience. The Olympic Village was mind-boggling: it was 4,000 square metres in size and the food hall boasted the capacity to feed 16,000 people simultaneously and at any time of day or night. There was no limit to what you could eat: the choice went right across the culinary spectrum. Even McDonald's had a counter that was 30 metres long, and all this was entirely free for the athletes. As we were in Greece, the fruit was delicious and plentiful. Once I had finished my races I went straight to McDonald's, ordered five Big Macs and proceeded to devour them one after the other. Pre-race Big Macs are of course strictly prohibited, but once I was finished I gave myself free rein.
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