Weirwolf (11 page)

By the time I arrived in China I had no time to worry about politics or equality issues. Because despite my best intentions to manage my illness and my training the final run-in to the Games in Beijing was going badly.

A day or two before it all started I was starting to feel a little bit rough so I dropped out of going to the
opening
ceremony. It was a shame as I wanted to be there to see it first-hand. After the Olympic ceremony the
expectations
were really high. But I couldn’t take any chances. I was already taking loads of vitamin C to boost my immune system, but the day after the ceremony I woke up feeling less than great. I had a sore throat, I felt cold. ‘Here we go,’ I thought. I knew I had just done a week too much of training and now I was ill again. The glandular fever was always there. If ever I was next to someone with a cold, I would get it. Then it would become a chest infection. I just started fearing the worst. A lot of people thought it was all in my head and I was just panicking. But I knew how I felt.

To be fair, I could understand why UKA and some of the other coaches might have thought it was a psychological thing. There was undoubtedly a pattern in my behaviour before big championships. I always thought I was going to get ill, even before I got glandular fever. I wasn’t a very
positive person. Jenny always had to build me up. I am insecure about everything.

In the call room or on the warm-up track just before races, I make sure I don’t show any of my opponents my fears and insecurities. The image I project is one of
calmness
and serenity. I am just in the zone. I don’t like music or anything like that. I just sit there. I like watching the other athletes. All flapping around. Getting their
wheelchairs
ready, checking their tyres, tweaking their gloves. I always make sure I have done all that. I just sit there and watch and play mind games. I want to look as relaxed as possible.

I know the truth, though. Inside I am really nervous. I can’t wait to race and get it out the way. I want to get to the finish. Get it over. I enjoy a race if it’s going well, if I feel comfortable. But most races I want to be over before they have started.

When I met my girlfriend Emily she spotted the lack of confidence straight away. I came to accept it was a pattern that I had to confront. But it took Emily to break the cycle. She has changed me. She has made me a lot more positive about things and brought me a lot of confidence.

But back in Beijing I genuinely had something to worry about. In my first final, the 5,000m, the doctors had to give me Sudafed to clear my nose. It’s on the banned drugs list now, but I had to take something to get to the start line. I couldn’t even feel my body when the gun went off. I was completely out of it for the last three or four laps. Somehow
I got a bronze. It was a miracle, but everyone outside the team was asking how I hadn’t won. After all, I had set the world record in the distance a year earlier. But I hadn’t told any of the media or anyone outside the team doctors and coaches that I was ill before the race.

After that final I got worse. I went to the doctor and he did some tests and saw my iron count was really low. He said I shouldn’t even be out of bed. He gave me an iron shot and it did make me feel a little bit better but I wasn’t counting on anything. The doctor said it could take three months to have a real impact. But after a couple of days I felt a change. The jab had worked.

Up next was the 800m. I had come through the heats and the semi-final OK and now I felt ready to have a crack at my first gold. But it was to be one of the most
controversial
races of my career.

I remember going down to the start line – my main rivals, Kurt Fearnley and Marcel Hug, were there. After the lane draw I knew I had lane five and Kurt had lane seven. I was most worried about him because I knew he was
pushing
really strong.

So we were sitting in the call room and Kurt said to me, ‘What number have they put on my helmet?’

‘Two,’ I said.

‘But I am in lane seven or, at least I am supposed to be,’ he replied. ‘Well, that’s better than seven, isn’t it?’

Of course it is. He knew full well it was. To explain briefly, the best start lane for the 800m is number one.
That’s because for the first 100 metres you have to go in a straight line and then cut across into a bunch. Setting your chair up to steer from a wide lane like number seven or eight is really hard and you can quickly lose an advantage in a race that is only two laps of the track. In short, the wider out you are, the harder life becomes.

‘You lucky bastard, you’ve got a better lane,’ I said.

I honestly thought he might flag it up and tell the
officials
. But not once did he complain about the mistake. He kept his mouth shut. He never went to the line judge or the referee. The officials didn’t flag it up either. And you could see they were questioning it too. No one said anything. They had a big opportunity to do it. I was pretty certain Kurt was thinking that if he didn’t win then he would get a rerun. A second chance. It was dirty tactics. Up in the stands the Australian Federation were going mad that he was in the wrong lane, but apparently that message never got through to trackside. They had a good ten minutes to flag it up, but nothing happened.

We lined up, started, and I was off and away in a good position. It came to the final lap and Kurt got boxed in. He couldn’t get out. I could see he was trying but he couldn’t catch me. I crossed the line. I had won my first Paralympic gold medal. I just thought, ‘I’ve done it now.’ That’s all I wanted – one gold medal. My strategy of doing lots of events had paid off.

My mind raced straight back to Sydney and that
devastating
feeling of watching Tanni and others winning and
me feeling lost, like I had wasted my life and let my country down. I was ecstatic. It was the best feeling I had ever
experienced
. I wrapped myself in the Union flag and savoured every moment of my victory lap. Most of the Chinese had left the stadium and there were no family or friends to see my moment of triumph. Not even Jenny, who was
watching
at home on the TV. But it still tasted so sweet. After everything I had been through – the drugs, the break-up, the illness. I was still a winner.

But then as I got back to the changing rooms I saw the team manager, Tim Jones. He didn’t look very happy. I knew something was up. He told me there had been a protest.

‘A what?’ I shouted. ‘What for? I didn’t come out of my lane.’

And then I realised what had happened. There had been a complaint from the Australian team about Kurt’s lane.

At that point I completely lost the plot. The IPC didn’t even go to the referee or any other country. They took Australia’s word for it and then they were standing there telling me I might have to have a rerun. I told them, ‘I will not have a rerun. That is my gold medal. I won that fair and square.’

Underneath the stadium I was like a volcano erupting. I picked up whatever I could find and hurled it at the walls. I screamed wildly, shouting ‘fuck this’ and ‘fuck that’. It must have been a terrifying sight. But I felt so robbed. I had been ill all week. And now they were threatening to take it all away from me. Besides, I had a busy schedule. When
would I get the chance to have a rerun? How are you going to fit in another 800m?

I was supposed to get my medal that night but it was only when I got to doping that I was told the presentation wasn’t going to happen, that there could be another race.

Then I saw Kurt. He was also waiting in doping. I had it out with him.

I accused his lot of cheating. ‘Where’s the
sportsmanship
?’ I asked him.

‘You would have done the same thing,’ he said.

But I wouldn’t. I had a sense of right and wrong. A sense of fairness. And this was not fair. Kurt should have known what lane he was supposed to be in, we had discussed it before the race.

We very nearly came to blows. I told the Great Britain team doctor I was going back to the village. But they kept me at the track for ages as Tim Jones was trying to sort it out. The IPC just didn’t listen – they just took the Australian team’s word. And they call us whinging Poms, but they are the worst losers in the world. I am sorry to say it but I just felt so angry.

Kurt and I had been good friends. We had trained together a year earlier in Portugal. We would have a laugh and have a beer together after races. But all that went instantly. This was my first gold and he was threatening to take it away from me. If he had won I wouldn’t have protested. He tried to claim I would have. But I wouldn’t have done that.

I remember when I got back to the food hall very late, I could see Pete Wyman was there nearly crying. At that stage the British athletics team hadn’t won a gold. There was a lot of pressure on my shoulders. I had been watching the rest of the team in other events on the TV praying for them to win a medal before I did so I didn’t have to be the first. There had been a lot of focus on me.

It was very late when I called my mum back home. I was in tears. I told her this wasn’t racing. This wasn’t what the Paralympics should be about. I said I was coming home and told Tim Jones to book me a flight.

To try and help me come to terms with everything the team doctors and coaches suggested I go and see the British Paralympic Association’s sports psychologist. He asked me, ‘At this precise moment what would you do if you saw Kurt?’

‘Probably strangle him to death,’ I said. I was just being honest. If he had come into the room I would have lost it. I had worked so hard to get to this point and then it had been taken away from me by some whinging idiot.

He didn’t know how to take that. At that precise moment I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I needed to get out of that conversation and out of that room and think for myself. So I just left.

It was now two or three in the morning, and I called Jenny. She tried to tell me to stay and focus on the 1,500m. To prove to people I could do it. I wish Jenny had been out there in Beijing. Someone who loved me. Putting their arm
around me and picking up the pieces. I really needed her at the time of the dispute with the Australians. But she wasn’t able to get fully accredited as a member of the British coaching team in China. Places were limited and there was only so much money to go around. She really deserved to be accredited, but because she was only coaching me, it wasn’t possible. I had to make do with her on the end of the phone.

I eventually went to bed but I didn’t get much sleep that night. I was so angry.

At 11.30 the next morning Pete Wyman knocked on my door. He slumped on the floor and said, ‘I’ve just received this letter from the Australian Federation and Kurt.’

‘Read it to me.’ I could see he was crying.

Kurt had apologised. He went on, ‘Dave is a great athlete, I don’t want him to have his medal taken away from him.’

He had forced the Australian Federation to withdraw the protest.

But when I got my medal the next day it just didn’t feel special. I didn’t want to shake Kurt’s hand on the podium even though, in the end, he had done the right thing. Maybe I was old school and had different attitudes. But Kurt had been my friend. I don’t trust anyone when I race any more. It killed me. To win my first Paralympic gold medal and not be able to really appreciate it.

It should have been really special for me, that moment. Because the athletics team were doing so badly I should have felt electric when I won. The pressure was off. I had
done it and the country had something to be proud of. But on the podium I just felt empty.

I have actually tried over the years not to dwell too much on that race, which is really sad. I just want to try and forget about it.

That night, after the medal ceremony, I got back to the village, had a bit of food and then went to bed. I just kept looking at the medal. It was a great big thing with that green jade flash running through it. It was really
beautiful
. But for me it was tainted. It had been spoiled. I opened the drawer by my bed and put it in before closing it and locking it. I didn’t do what some athletes do and sleep with it under their pillow or whatever. In the morning I didn’t even take it out. I had to plan for the 1,500m and I had to mentally prepare for the next race.

I had learned from bitter experience in my early
championships
that you can’t allow yourself to get carried away and get too excited. You have to get back to normal. Because I was still struggling with fitness, I was trying to be as chilled as possible and to conserve my energy. The Beijing Games was becoming a major battle against my body and my mind.

By the time the heats of the 1,500m arrived the next morning I was feeling a lot better. The medication was working. Plus the Red Bull, two or three cans a day just to keep going.

The heat went really well. I wanted that 1,500m more than anything. I didn’t care about the time in the heat. Just
get through. Shut everything out, Dave. Go through the motions. I felt good.

Then Kurt did a really fast time in his heat. The fact that Kurt was looking so good just made me even more determined to show I could beat him, this time without any doubts or distractions. But he was at his best in Beijing over 1,500m.

The rain fell heavily during the warm-up. But that didn’t worry me one bit. I am normally pretty comfortable in the rain and when we started the track was still wet. It didn’t dry out as quickly as I expected and was still quite greasy. I shot off real fast. Like a rocket. And on the first 100 metres I hit quite good speeds. Then I hit the bend and the whole back end of my chair skidded away from underneath me. The tyres just didn’t seem to be gripping as they should have done. Then, with two laps to go I got boxed in by Marcel Hug. I was stuck. I wouldn’t normally be in that position. I would normally race away and get out of
trouble
. But because it was wet, I was holding back. I knew as the finish got closer the pace was going to go up and when that happened there was going to be some kind of crash.