Weirwolf (7 page)

So what changed? How did I turn my life around?

It just stopped being fun. After almost three years of hammering my brain with drugs, I was starting to get paranoid. I'll never forget the moment I saw one bloke in Camden really freaking out. He had taken too much of something and was panicking. He thought people were trying to get him. That scared me. Why wasn't that
happening
to me?

A little while after that I was watching TV with a mate after a heavy night out. I was too wired to go to bed and needed something to help me get to sleep. Suddenly he started fitting. I can remember it so vividly. He was so scared he was shaking. I held him and told him he would be fine and that whatever it was he was experiencing would pass. Eventually it did pass. But it had really sobered me up. We both knew it had been quite serious. And for me, that was way too close to home. I had to stop.

At that point I got a lucky break. I met Kaylie.

For the last few years I hadn't been interested in girls or
getting involved in a relationship. I was having too much fun to get tied down. But Kaylie came along at exactly the right moment. I was attracted to her. She was a bit younger than me and my friends but she was quite streetwise. She knew what my mates and I were into. She liked a drink herself but she wasn't into taking drugs or anything like that. I don't know why but Kaylie wanted to help me get out of the mess I had made for myself. She knew I needed saving and she asked me the question the drugs had been blocking out for so long: ‘Dave, what exactly do you want to do in your life?'

I had no answer. I wanted to work but I had lost all my confidence in the system. What employer was going to give me a chance? Who would look past the wheelchair? I wasn't clever enough to study and, besides, I had tried that and couldn't stand it. I needed money but my benefits gave me more than I would probably earn. What was the point? Wheelchair racing was the only thing I was any good at, I told her.

‘So why don't you go back to it?' she said.

It sounded so simple. But I knew I had upset a lot of people. I had just vanished off the scene. I had missed the World Championships and I knew UK Athletics and my coaches were upset with me. I had been on another planet. I had let a lot of people down. No one really tried to find me while I
was out of the sport. My mum had a few phone calls from people in the sport but I wasn't interested. It must have been so upsetting for my parents because they knew that I could have had a good career.

The road back would be long and painful. I returned to training slowly, seeking out my old coaches, Chas and Dan. They said they were prepared to pick up where we left off but that there would be some new ground rules. ‘We don't know what you have been up to,' they told me. ‘And frankly we don't care. But if you are coming training, we are here at this time on these days. Don't let us down.'

So I had to prove a point. At first, it was hard. Even doing a few laps was difficult. I had put on a fair bit of weight and was wheezing from smoking fags for three years. I was in terrible shape. But I kept at it. I went to training three times a week, just for something else to do. Something to keep me from falling back into bad habits. A combination of Kaylie's encouragement, the training and my sheer
stubbornness
helped me get through it. After a while – maybe three months – I felt like I had turned a corner. In the back of my mind I was a bit worried about what might happen if I really pushed my body. After all the punishment it had taken, how might it react? Would it trigger something really nasty – either mental or physical? And how long does this shit stay in your system? What if I want to race
competitively
again and get drug tested? Will it always be there?

At first, I didn't want to think about racing and
competing
again. Dan was going to the Sydney Paralympics in the
autumn of 2000 and although I was really excited for him, I didn't think it was going to bother me too much.

But when I saw it on TV I broke down. I couldn't stop crying. I kept asking myself, ‘What have I done?'

Seeing those golden images from Australia – Tanni and all the other British athletes winning medals, the crowds, the atmosphere. It just killed me. I couldn't help but feel that I had tossed away four years of my life. And on what?

Absolutely nothing. I couldn't even remember most of it. It was just so sad. I cried for hours and hours.

Even now, I still feel that sense of regret. Things have turned out OK but I am still deeply ashamed and
embarrassed
by what I did. I wish it hadn't happened and I hate to think how my kids and other members of my family who didn't know all this will react when they read this and see how stupid I was. As a parent now, I would hate my three children to go anywhere near drugs. If there is one good thing to come out of the experience it is that I totally
understand
the damage people can do themselves. I was lucky: I don't seem to have done myself any harm. Equally, people shouldn't get the wrong impression about what went on. I wasn't some kind of junkie. I wasn't. It was a terrible phase of my life, but it was part of growing up. Rebelling. And, ultimately – like it or not – it is part of my story.

And how do I feel now that I have got it off my chest?

Lighter. Like a load has been lifted from my shoulders. It was such a long time ago and there is something
comforting
in knowing you have been through something like that
and survived. In fact, I know it made me stronger, helped shape my character.

The Sydney Games was the wake-up call I needed. Even though I had started training again it wasn't until the Games started that it really hit home. I had let so many people down: my family, my coaches and myself. I had let my sport down. Now, I finally knew that this was what I wanted. As long as I could race I would never miss a Paralympics again.

W
atching the Sydney Olympics and Paralympics in the autumn of 2000 was a devastating experience. For the rest of the nation, getting up early to see Sir Steve Redgrave winning his fifth Olympic gold medal or Tanni Grey-Thompson winning her fourth in the Paralympics must have been a joyous celebration. The Olympics had set a new gold standard – but it was the way the Australians embraced the Paralympics that really changed the game.

The organisers sold a record 1.2 million tickets and for the first time it felt like the Paralympics was being treated seriously. Compared to Atlanta, this was another world. After the Olympics closing ceremony Australians just couldn’t accept that the party was over. They threw themselves just as enthusiastically into the Paralympics. There were sell-out crowds, the media gave it big coverage and, for the first time, thanks in part to the introduction of National Lottery funding a few years earlier, there was a real turnaround in British fortunes. The Australian team
stole the show but, for me, Tanni produced the
outstanding
performance of the Games, winning the 100m, 200m, 400m and 800m. Her achievements in Sydney were a real inspiration to me.

These were exciting times for British sport and yet I was currently playing no part in it. Seeing Tanni do so well was amazing but it left me feeling distraught. I have always loved competing for my country – maybe it’s my dad’s army upbringing or growing up on a working-class council estate. You are just taught to love being English and British. I feel so passionate about pulling on the GB vest and doing battle for my country. I knew I owed my country some medals.

I had packed in taking drugs long before Sydney. Kaylie had helped me see sense. I was back training again with Chas and Dan Sadler and, while it was tough and my body was in a mess, it felt good to have a focus again. But at that point I thought representing my country again was just a pipe dream. The training was just a distraction –
something
to keep my mind off all the other rubbish. While I dearly wanted a second chance and to line up at the Athens Paralympics in 2004, deep down I didn’t really believe I could come back.

But at least I now had a routine in my life. I was training three days a week and getting back into the swing of things. At home, things were a bit more settled. I was twenty-one now and had been with Kaylie for about a year. It was my first real relationship and back then she was my saviour.
She really helped get my head straight. I was now totally focused on racing again.

To be honest, I didn’t have too many alternatives. Every time I went to the job centre it was a pretty depressing experience. I didn’t want an office job. That wasn’t me. I couldn’t contemplate sitting behind a desk doing basic filing and answering the phone. It would have driven me mad. From time to time, more practical jobs would come up. Those were much more interesting. I went for one job at a small electronics company a couple of miles away. It involved soldering parts, so I went along for an interview and did the little test every candidate was asked to do. I am pretty sure I passed but in the end the job was given to someone else, someone with more experience. And yet on the application form it specifically said you didn’t need experience. I felt so dejected I told the job centre I was no longer interested in finding work. I was done. Whenever I was sat in a waiting room for an interview and someone able bodied came in, I knew that was it. Before I had even said a word. It was a waste of time. I got fed up with being judged as stupid. No one was looking at me as a person, they just saw my chair.

These days it’s very different. It’s changed dramatically. If I was in that situation now, having to go for those same jobs, I would feel far more comfortable, like I had a genuine chance. Of course, some companies do it because they feel they have to; it’s just a token gesture. A lot of people would resent that or see it as patronising. I don’t. It doesn’t bother
me in the slightest. I am not going to quibble with anything which gives disabled people a chance of earning money and having a career. As far as I am concerned, it’s great.

But racing was my only option back then. It was the only thing that offered me a chance of making something of my life and earning some money, even if it wasn’t very much. The first priority was to get myself back into shape. In that first year or so I didn’t do a lot of racing. I needed to get up to speed. Surprisingly, the body wasn’t too bad. But I would have loads of mood swings and get very low and tired. I still get them now when I train too much. That’s why I always go off and train in the morning, then come back in the afternoon. Then the kids can scream all they like, it just washes over me. In one ear and out the other. But the mood swings I get now are nothing compared to the downs I would get then. I guess it was something to do with the drugs.

After a while, training without racing lost its attraction. Things were going all right with Chas and Dan but it had been two years since I had come back and now I needed to step up a gear. I needed a kick up the arse. So I called Jenny.

I knew her number off by heart – I had been ringing it since I was ten. She knew my voice straight away. I told her I needed some help. At first she was worried about how Chas and Dan would react. But I explained that Chas was getting on a bit and that Dan had decided to go off and join the police. They were fine about it and had even
encouraged
me to get back in touch with her. I went down and
met her on a Monday night down at the track. We talked about how I wanted to be part of the Great Britain team again. How I wanted to get to Athens.

‘Do you think it’s realistic?’ I asked her.

‘Yes. I’ll get you there, Dave.’

But it was going to hurt. Jenny nearly killed me. She made me work so hard. I realised that all this time I had been coasting. There were times when I used to say to Chas or Dan, I don’t fancy this drill or that drill or I’m not really in the mood today. Jenny made it clear from the very
beginning
that she wouldn’t accept anything like that. If I wasn’t prepared to do what she told me, it was over. Finished, there and then. I needed that boot up the arse; I needed to be pushed.

Within a month I noticed the difference. My speed was picking up and my body was getting stronger all the time. In the early part of 2002 I joined up with some of the other British athletes on a warm-weather training trip in Malaga. It went really well and as I approached the London Marathon – my first big race since I had turned my back on the sport – I knew I was in really good shape.

From the moment I first got hooked on wheelchair racing as a kid, winning the London Marathon had been my big ambition. It was the race I grew up watching and dreaming about. The one race I always watched which showed that disabled athletes could compete alongside those who were able bodied.

Lining up for the start, I felt an overwhelming sense of
pride and excitement. I couldn’t believe I was here after everything I had been through. Now I had to prove to Jenny, my family and myself that I could win.

I got a bit of luck along the way. About 14 or 15 miles into the race the leader, a French guy called Pierre Fairbank, had a nasty crash, colliding head on with a traffic island in the middle of the road. Thankfully, he was OK, but I came past him, hit the front and never looked back. I might have caught him anyway, but I wasn’t going to worry about how I won my first marathon, I was just going to make the most of the opportunity. All I could remember was Jenny telling me that if you hit the front, don’t look behind you. Just keep going. So that’s what I did. For ten miles I just drove on. It was a fantastic feeling. It was the race I had always wanted to win, from the time I did that first mini-marathon all those years back. It meant such a lot to me. It also gave me a lot of confidence – showed me that I could do it, that there was a future in the sport for me.

It was also a bit of a reality check. Stupidly, perhaps, I thought winning that marathon would change my life. I thought I had done it and I was now going to be a
superstar
. But it never happened. At first, I got phone calls saying I might get this sponsorship deal and that sponsorship deal. But after a month it all died down. There was no
sponsorship
deal. No Nike knocking on the door. People don’t
realise
it. Even your family don’t realise how it works. That it’s just not like it is for the runners. Certainly not back then.

Jenny had been such a crucial figure in getting me to the top of the podium that day. Getting her back on board as coach had been a masterstroke. But it wasn’t always plain sailing. When I went back to her, she was already working with another top British athlete called Tushar Patel. During those first few months I kept my head down. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I just turned up, trained and went home. I did everything Jenny asked me to do in the sessions and having a quality training partner like Tush really gave the training a competitive edge which pushed us both on. Jenny never showed either of us preferential treatment. Everyone was the same.

Despite that there were obviously moments when the rivalry spilled over. In the build-up to the summer’s World Championships in Lille she could obviously sense that something was wrong and that it was affecting our training. Jenny went absolutely mental at both of us, swearing loads: ‘If you want to go to these Championships and represent your country then you better pull your finger out.’

I knew what she could be like when she got angry. She was used to working in a man’s world so she had to be tough when needed. She did it to get in my mind. She was saying to me, do you really want this? I went home that night really scared – I didn’t want to lose her as she had helped me so much over the years. I rang her up that night and said, ‘Sorry, I really want your help.’ She said, ‘All right then, see you tomorrow.’ That was the end of the matter. No recriminations or grudges. Done and dusted.

And so after that row they went their separate ways and I got one-on-ones with Jenny and got better and better.

Despite being so close to her and seeing her as another mother figure in my life I didn’t tell Jenny about the
recreational
drugs for years. It wasn’t until 2009 that I finally confessed all. I can remember exactly where we were, at the Robin Hood Gate in Richmond Park. I don’t know why it came out then but it just did. I didn’t know how she would react to it. But she was fantastic about it.

‘What’s done is done,’ she said. ‘You’re not doing it now, are you?’

I told her no. ‘Then you should move on. Are you glad you told me?’

By this point I was nearly in tears. I just felt so ashamed at what I had done. But it was a massive weight off my chest. It had been crushing me for so long and if I was really going to achieve everything I wanted then I had to be open and honest with her.

‘As far as I am concerned it’s over with. Yes, it was wrong, but these things happen.’

I just wished I had told her before. I know she would have reacted in the same way if I had done that right at the start. But it was all too raw then. It was too emotional for me.

As I headed to France for the World Championships I felt like my life was back on track. I had won the marathon and I felt in really good shape again.

I was just so proud to be back competing for my
country
– something I just hadn’t believed was possible after all
those dark years in the wilderness. It was hardly a glorious return, though. I wasn’t selected for the 100m and finished just outside the medals in fourth place in the 200m and 400m. I felt so sure I was going to win a medal of some sort. When I failed to get anything I was so angry that I told the coach, Tanni’s husband Ian Thompson, ‘That’s it. I am giving up sprinting.’ I really lost it. I could have given up then. I thought, ‘I am never going to medal, I am never going to get to Athens.’ Some people might have been happy with fourth. But not me. I felt let down again.

One of the biggest fears any disabled person has is that their disability might affect their chances of having kids. Or – if they are lucky enough to be able to have children – that their disability will be passed onto them. I was no different. And until Kaylie got pregnant with Ronie in the early part of 2002, I was convinced I would never be a dad. I don’t know why. The doctors had at no point in my life suggested that my condition might prevent me from having children. They kept telling me there was nothing in the family history to base my concerns on. I still had my doubts.

Kaylie and I hadn’t been trying for Ronie. It was just one of those things that happened. I don’t think Kaylie was too happy at first – she was only nineteen – but she obviously grew to love it. I was twenty-four and it felt like the right thing to be a dad.

Kaylie’s pregnancy went pretty smoothly. There were no big scares. But her labour with Ronie was long. As any father knows, the wait is agonising. You feel so helpless. It was about twenty hours before my beautiful little girl emerged into the world, on 9 February 2003, at the same hospital where I had been born. The pride was
overwhelming
. I felt so honoured and relieved to be a dad. It also made me feel really grown up. Suddenly I was faced with a whole load of new responsibilities. We didn’t know it was going to be a girl. We didn’t find out because I didn’t care; all I cared about was that the baby was healthy.