Finally the controversy and the insidious gossip were laid to rest. The IAAF released a statement to the press in which Lamine Dick expressed his delight at the outcome of the appeal process. This was all immensely gratifying for me; as I had said in my statement before the CAS, my life has not always been easy but I have had the good fortune to have enjoyed a normal and healthy relationship with able-bodied people, both in the sporting world and elsewhere, and at no time have I felt 'disabled' or different in the way I had been made to feel when I had been banned from participating in competitions.
Now I was free to think about my future. It was time to get back to what is most important for me: running. My dream is to be the fastest man in South Africa and, with time and a lot of hard work, perhaps even the fastest man in the world, with or without legs.
In my opinion, one of the most important legacies of the CAS decision is to state clearly that the excellent qualifying times and the many achievements of athletes like myself, amputees who run with prostheses, are entirely their own achievements based on merit and talent and not, as had been implied, due to the quality of the prostheses. And furthermore, these athletes display not just incredible talent but also immense tenacity as they have each overcome the disadvantage of having to run with prostheses in the first place. The judgement was pronounced by the most authoritative body regulating the sporting world: there is no other body to appeal to, and this fact, along with the content of the decision, will set a precedent for any future cases. I hope that it will serve to inspire people – sportsmen and -women, disabled and abled – to commit themselves and work hard in the confidence that they can achieve the highest rewards and believe in the power of sport.
I always like to quote Pietro Mannea's words: 'Sport is like an elevator, everybody should be allowed to ride in it.' I feel strongly that sport must be a unifying force in society, bringing all elements, colours, religions and sexes together, and that this can only be meaningful if it extends to uniting able-bodied and disabled people. Having grown up in South Africa with its recent past of racial discrimination and violence I can't emphasise enough how important this is to me. To know that my struggle may just help other people today or in the years to come makes a big difference to me.
Chapter 11
Beijing
NO SOONER HAD THE DRAMA of the CAS drawn to its happy conclusion than the Beijing Paralympics beckoned.
In truth, the work for Beijing had started several months earlier because of the extra training I had put in to try to qualify for the Olympic Games. What this meant was that I was more than equipped for the 400 metres, but the 100 metres and 200 metres were a completely different story. Therefore, as soon as I returned after my qualification attempts for the Olympics, the 100 metres became my sole focus for the next two months.
The 100 metres is by far the most demanding event for me at the Paralympics. There are some really strong contenders, and I knew that if my start wasn't up to scratch my goal of three gold medals would wither away. Ampie, my coach, along with Sebastian and Vincent, my body conditioners and gym trainers, needed to make me powerful and lean. Giving them the task of achieving that within a two-month period was some demand. But I was lucky, as everyone around me understood the time and sacrifices I needed to make in order to be ready for the world stage.
The day had come for me to pack for the Games and already there was a huge expectation that I would deliver. The team met up at the airport in Johannesburg and for the first time in months I was back in uniform. After twenty-seven hours of flights and transfers we arrived at the Paralympic Village. It was eleven o'clock at night yet it was humid, verging on uncomfortable. I remember everyone including myself being frustrated and tired. We were ready for bed more than anything, but as my head hit the pillow my mind wandered off to the challenges ahead. The next morning I woke up in my little white room and looked out of the window for a view of the village. My roommate, Arnu Fourie, an amputee sprinter, a great friend and one of the greatest examples of a gentleman I know, was also staring out at our new temporary home; neither of us could remember much about the village from the night before. It wasn't long before we were dressed and showered and ready to indulge our inquisitive minds, so off we embarked on an exploration of the village.
It was extraordinary! The dinning room was about 200 metres by 100 metres and the gardens were amazing. There was also a huge selection of arcade games and internet points located around the village to keep the athletes' nerves from eating away at their confidence.
The one thing that I particularly enjoyed was that every night at eight o'clock they had a cultural show in a small amphitheatre that offered a particularly agreeable way to unwind and reflect upon the next couple of weeks' targets. The smallest details were taken into account at the venues, including a religious centre in the village where, I must confess, I found it hard to contain my laughter while listening to the Chinese priest trying to deliver the service in English on Sundays.
The day before the opening ceremony Ossur – the leading company in sports prosthetics – decided to host a press conference for its athletes. This included some of the top Paralympic sprinters of all time. I caught a cab and arrived at the venue in downtown Beijing a little late. I guess I wasn't ready for what was to happen next, but it certainly gave me an intense surge of adrenalin. I walked straight into a waiting room, which was about 5 metres by 5 metres, full of all my strongest competitors, one of whom was Marlon Shirley. I hadn't seen him for four years as he had pulled out of every competition as soon as I entered. He had beaten me in Athens in the only 100-metre sprint we have ever run against each other, but since then I had broken his world record every year.
Awkward doesn't even come close to describing how it felt. Sprinting probably involves more elaborate mind games than any other sport. Of course, everybody acted as if they were completely relaxed, but as soon as the programme coordinator came to call us you could feel the tension as everyone made for the door. We took our places at the front of a room jam-packed with international sports journalists and media companies. Needless to say it didn't take long before each athlete was playing their game and forecasting the race. When it came to Marlon he stupidly claimed that the 100 metres would be his as he hadn't lost a race in eight years. I managed to suppress a grin. I knew that Marlon had just given me the fuel to show him that the track belonged to me.
Athletics is brutal. I went last and the press asked me what I thought, to which I answered: 'The 100 metres is going to be one of the greatest races of the Games, be sure not to miss it!' I decided to keep my ammunition for the track; I knew that there I would get my point across more than clearly.
The 100 metres is the most nerve-racking of all three races. I only run a handful of them every year, and tend to focus on the 400 metres. What this meant was that if I managed to win the 100 metres, I would feel far more confident in the 200 metres and 400 metres. My start and first thirty metres are not as good as those of the single amputees, and therefore I knew that I would have to perform at my peak to take the 100 metres.
The semi-final went well. I ran an 11.16-second race, and this placed me first, which was about right as athletes usually run 0.3–0.4 seconds slower than in the final. I was really looking forward to the final, but there was to be a greater plan for the race. I woke up on the morning of the big race and looked outside; it was overcast and windy. The weather report confirmed my fears of afternoon rain. My race was at 4 p.m. and when I got to the track it was pouring. My spirit was unsettled but Ampie talked me back into the right mindset. Seeing Marlon and Brian Frasure out on the warm-up track made me want to run like I had never run before.
An hour before the race we gathered in the final calling room where all the athletes have to meet about forty-five minutes before a race. Once again, the tension was high – uncomfortably high. At this point you wouldn't want to be anywhere else, but at the same moment you wish you were holed up in a log cabin listening to classical music in front
of a roaring fire – and yet everyone looks supremely relaxed. I reckon any sprinter could win an Oscar for their acting skills in that waiting room.
As we walked out onto the track this feeling merely intensified, but by now I actually did see red and wanted to rip the track up. Marlon and Brian weren't my only worries, however. Just as I had come from nowhere in 2004, this time there was another athlete to watch out for: Jerome Singleton, a talented sprinter and one of the most humble yet deserving athletes I have ever run against. Jerome had amazed everyone in the semi-final, in which he finished second behind me, with a really quick time. In all honesty he had no need of mind games and attitude: he was more intimidating than any other athlete as he had proved himself where it mattered, on the track the day before.
We lined up, Marlon on my left and Jerome on my right. I knew that they would both fly out of the blocks, and that I had to stay with them and not let them pull more than 2 metres ahead of me. The time had come, and down we settled in the blocks as the rain dripped from my brow and trickled into my mouth as my breathing intensified. I placed my fingers firmly on the wet Mondo track just behind the white line as the crowd of eighty thousand plus people hushed. At this moment I knew that I would have to cut my driving phase (the first 30 metres) shorter as the track was wet and I was worried about slipping to around the 20-metre mark – in effect coming upright more quickly and pulling the ground beneath me instead of pushing it. I prayed to God for the power and glory to be His and closed my eyes and waited.
At this point the 100 metres becomes the most surreal of experiences. Everything seems to slow down until you can feel your heart beat, yet the rate at which you can process thoughts is phenomenal. Once you cross the finish line your recollection of what has happened in the previous ten to eleven seconds is close to minimal. As we went on the set position I inhaled and waited . . . waited . . . wai . . .
BANG
First thought, movement of alternate arm and leg, second thought, stride placement for first complete stride. The next couple of thoughts were either misaligned or I simply wasn't thinking at all. By the time I got to the 10-metre mark I was nearly upright, and as I watched the field run away from me I had to make a serious analysis of my current position and motion. By the 30-metre mark I was about 5 metres behind Jerome, who had an overall lead of about 2 metres. He had made one of the most phenomenally quick starts I've seen in a long time. I had some serious work to do, and I can't tell you how the next 40 metres unfolded, but as I saw later in video replays, I reached the fastest speed I have ever managed in my life.
There was one particular stride around the 90-metre mark that gave me the couple of extra centimetres I needed at the end. I dipped Jerome on the line and wasn't sure who had won. Jerome ran up behind me as we looked up at the time board and as my name came up first he exclaimed, 'Where did he come from?' He had run an amazing race and as I turned around to congratulate my competitors I saw Marlon lying on the line. He looked as if he was in pain and I later heard he had twisted his ankle.
I went up to him and extended a hand to help him up; either his pain or his ego got the better of him as he refused it. This, however, was my moment, and I believe the top three fully deserved the result. I was ecstatic. I ran up to Ampie who was shaking his sixty-year-old bones like a teenager. I had missed the gold in the 100 metres in Athens but I had made sure that this one was mine. In the commentary of the race the shouting as I crossed the line was, 'You wouldn't have bet a dollar on him at the 50-metre mark but you would've made a million at the end!' That was good enough for me . . .
Going into the 200 metres and 400 metres was a lot easier. My confidence went up and I was beginning to acclimatise. The 200 metres is my favourite event as speed is still crucial, but the start has less influence on the race as a whole. The day of the 200-metre final came and I wasn't feeling great. My chest was tight and my head was thumping lightly. Nevertheless, I was really excited to be running the race. My goal for the Games was three gold medals and at least one world record. I had missed the world record in the 100 metres but I realised I had been lucky just to win the race; but the 200 metres, my next race, was up for grabs. The stadium was near its capacity of ninety thousand people. The cheers were awesome. As I walked onto the track I was shaking my head. Arnu looked at me and said, 'I know, isn't it just amazing?' The aura, the emotion, the sheer excitement was going to make this race a big one.
I ran the race with all I had, getting off to a far better start than in the 100 metres, and at last I was running on a dry track in the Bird's Nest. This track was FAST – a relatively hard surface, with the Mondo laid in such a way that its elasticity was enhanced, making for exceptionally quick times.
The 200 metres wasn't going to give me the time I needed for a world record, yet I was happy with the race. Standing on the podium and listening to the South African national anthem for the second time allowed me a moment of reflection on the year. It was a bittersweet reflection, but for the year to be ending on such a high note was more than I could have expected.
By the time the 400 metres came I had picked up a nasty chest infection and found myself tired and frustrated. I had started to compete on the second day of the Games, and now, nearly two weeks later, I was ready to bring the whole experience to a grand conclusion. Staying focused for that long really deserves a medal in itself!
I woke that morning to find that it was raining again. As I went down to breakfast Ampie handed me a paper which informed me that my race had been moved to the last athletic event of the Games. The closing event at the Bird's Nest: the final moment of truth. My physical state remained poor for the rest of the day and by the time I left for the track I was in a terrible mood. I arrived at the warm-up track in the drizzle and sat under the grandstands watching for about an hour, every now and then glimpsing an athlete as visibility was now down to about 30 metres. I thought about the Games, the job at hand, my tired muscles, but most of all I thought about my goal for the Games: three gold medals, one world record. The 400 metres was my strongest race. Could I do it? I didn't have an option: as long as I was capable, I would do it. I didn't want to look back one day and regret not using my talent to the full.
I walked out onto that track, in the rain. I did my thing. I ran a hard race but more than anything I ran a clever race. As I crossed the line I felt like death but looked up at the board. There next to my name were the two letters I longed for: WR.
For a brief moment I was in a state of pure ecstasy; I was at peace with my performance. During my third time on the podium I felt very alone. The podium was huge, and I realised I had not achieved all this on my own. My coach, trainer, body conditioner, physio, chiropractor, dietician, doctor, manager, family and friends deserved to be up there with me. They too had dedicated time and effort, made sacrifices and commitments in order to put me centre stage. I wished they could have been alongside me in that moment of glory.
They are always in my thoughts, and I will never forget their role in helping me to achieve my highest goals. In my life I have always tried to make the best of a situation, look for the positive and go forward with a smile. I feel that it was my destiny to be born as I am, and that my experiences and my life story as a double amputee have made me who I am today. But this journey has not been undertaken alone.
Most of all, I think of my mother. I know that she is watching over me, and although she died before I began sprinting and was not alive to witness my success or my gold medals, I know that she takes great pride in me. I consider myself fortunate to have had such a special and wonderful mother and shared the happy times we had together; just thinking about my mother gives me courage and peace of mind.
There is one thing that is very special to me indeed. It is the recording that my mother made during a radio interview about me that was aired in 1999 when I was fourteen years old. I listen to it so often that I can recite practically all of it off by heart, and it never fails to give me that warm fuzzy feeling and make me smile.
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'Oscar is a dynamic and sporting child; he is even-natured with a delightful, bubbly sense of humour. He loves to joke around and laugh and is always positive. I hope that my words can give hope and encouragement to those listeners who have also experienced trauma and suffering.'
It is my wish that my mother's message of hope should live on in this book.
Letter One: Carl
Pistorius to Oscar
Pistorius, Pretoria,
4 May 2008
Dear Oscar,
As a family we have always shared everything. Our parents led by example and always included us in their discussions, however delicate, and you and I have been close confidants for as long as each of us can remember. Even so, there are a few things that I have held back, within myself, perhaps because of a gauche sense of modesty mixed with prudishness, perhaps because until now the time has not been right, or there has simply not been enough time to say them properly. Here goes, let me tell you about yourself from the beginning, as I remember it. I hope my letter will bring a smile to your heart and be useful for your biography.
When I sit back and watch the family films that I store in my memory, I treasure a particular image of our mother holding you in her arms. I think you must be about nine months old and I am three. I see us clearly; in fact I think this is my first conscious memory of our life.
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