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.
Chapter 8
Golden Boy
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.
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