Blade Runner (3 page)

From the ground it looked great. Casually Craig said,
'Hey, Oz, I think now is the moment to try out the cable car
and see if it works. Why don't you go first?'

Calmly I answered, 'Thanks, my friend, but it is all the
same to me. Why don't you go first?'

Silence.

Then we both burst out, at exactly the same time, 'It
certainly is high up! Do you think the cable will hold?'
Neither of us wanted to be the first to try out the cable: the
cable was at least 6.5 metres from the ground and the pulley
was showing signs of rust.

Throughout the construction period Aimée, who must
have been about eight years old, had been hassling us to let
her join in. As we stood pondering our construction, it
became clear that there was no real obligation for the tree
house to remain an exclusively male domain. In fact, we had
come upon the perfect role for Aimée, a position that would
allow her to join in the prestigious final phase. She was
simply delighted to be included and it never crossed her mind
that we were too scared to try out our invention and that this
was our only motive for including her. We all returned to the
tree, climbed up to the second floor and then instructed
Aimée as to what we expected from her. She was to hold
tight, very tight, as she was high up.

As Aimée was worried that her grip might become slippery
we decided to tie a rope around her wrist and then tie that
to the handle. The time had come to take 'one giant leap for
mankind' and step out of the jacaranda blossoms, off the
platform and towards the Land Rover. At the last moment
we decided to tie another piece of rope to the handle,
enabling us to control the handle and pull from the ground
in order to return the pulley back to the tree house after each
descent.

Aimée was ready, or as ready as she was ever going to be,
and with a little bit of help (if that's the word) from us, she
jumped. We were beside ourselves with excitement; it looked
like she was flying!

Unfortunately our grand endeavour was destined to fail.

After about 10 metres (and still at least 5 metres above
ground) the rusted pulley jammed and Aimée lost her grip on
the handlebars: she found herself dangling precariously in
mid-air.

Craig and I rolled around laughing while she hollered in
despair, regretting ever trusting us. Quickly we climbed
down and pulled her to safety. After a couple of minutes
hanging like that Aimée had become positively blue in the
face. Our little guinea pig had hardly set her feet on the
ground when Craig had already oiled the pulley and within
five minutes we were ready to go again. We spent the entire
afternoon whizzing backwards and forwards until we were
exhausted.

The next morning we picked up where we had left off,
when during one particularly beautiful slide, while Craig was
about halfway across, the cable snapped and he fell to the
ground. He fell hard onto a stone and hurt his feet, losing a
few toenails in the process. He was splattered with blood, but
this was the least of our problems: the Land Rover was so
old that the handbrake had packed up and the car was now
rolling down the hill.

Craig picked himself up and the two of us started running
after the car. The scene was farcical, Craig limping along
with his bleeding foot and me with my heavy prostheses; we
did not stand a chance of catching the car, particularly as it
was picking up speed as it went down the hill. Eventually it
was brought to a halt with the help of the bushes against the
fence.

With my trademark wild confidence I decided to free the
car and drive it home myself, rather than ask my father for
help. What need had I for help? However, getting the car out
of the bushes turned out to be slightly more complex than I
had imagined. Although I considered myself an expert driver
and had been driving our mini Land Rover for at least two
months, this time my skills were put to the test. We struggled
with the car, Craig's toes turning an increasingly darker
shade of red all the while, but were finally rewarded for our
tenacity. I drove the car home and parked it and then went
to see my father for help with Craig's foot. We told him that
he had tripped over a stone in the garden – which was not
that far from the truth, after all.

The experience did prompt us to stall our building plans
and take some time to think and earn some pocket money,
so that the next time we could buy a decent cable for our
cable car-cum-slide.

The Land Rover that had so ably doubled as our crane
(until the handbrake went, that is) became our main source
of entertainment. It was a white 1970s model that our Uncle
Leo had lent to our father, and I used it to learn to drive
when I was nine years old. To be honest, as soon as we saw
it parked in my father's driveway, Carl and I were determined
to get behind the wheel. It took us a while to find the
keys but less time to get the hang of driving it, and before we
could even see properly over the dashboard we could be
found driving around the garden.

The inside of the car was old and worn but the engine was
in perfect condition. I can still hear the 'dulug-dulug-dulug'
noise that the engine made. I drove Carl nuts until he agreed
to teach me to drive.

First he gave me a quick and basic lesson on how the
mechanism behind the clutch works. In summary, he explained,
the clutch separated the motor from the gear and
pushing it made it possible to select a weaker but faster gear.
The lower the gear the greater the grip and vice versa.
Nothing new, our father had explained the workings of a car
on countless different occasions. Then it was my turn. At first
I was too small to see over the dashboard so I sprinted inside
(I covered the 100 metres that separated us from the house
and back again in under ten seconds!) and grabbed a
cushion. At least with the cushion I could see in front of me
and if I sat at the edge of the seat I could simultaneously
touch the pedals with my prostheses.

The clutch was really stiff and the steering wheel heavy
and hard. I found it difficult to engage the clutch and change
gears. It was a lot to master at once. Finally I started the car,
put it into gear and released my foot from the clutch as
gradually as possible; slowly the car lurched forward and I
was driving. I was rigid with excitement and fear as I had
little clue what to do next; I had not thought that far ahead,
and I tried to avoid the trees and the piles of sand. My
brother was totally relaxed and enjoying the wind blowing
through his hair as he appreciated the scenery, which only
served to make me more nervous. Every so often he would
quip, 'Check the rear-view mirror,' or an equivalent and I
would rebuff him by telling him that I already had. The
words were no sooner out of my mouth when – bang. I
reversed into a brick wall.

I enjoyed greater success on a motorbike. I started riding
when I was four years old. It was only a pedal-powered bike,
but to me it was a rocket. We were still living in our
Johannesburg house at the top of the hill, where there was a
bit of a drop between the ground floor and the basement; the
two areas were joined by a very steep staircase (the incline
must have been at least 30 degrees). My favourite trick was
to throw myself onto my motorbike, tummy first, and then
practically propel myself rapidly down the stairs, screaming
in delight. My mother had banned me from doing this but to
no effect, so in despair she pretended not to see me.

Some things are simply not meant for a mother to witness.

W
HEN THE TIME CAME
for me to begin school, my
parents opted for mainstream education over special-needs
schooling and sent me to Constantia Kloof Primary
School along with Carl.

Increasing maturity and international travel have given me
an insight into my good fortune in growing up in South
Africa, where the national curriculum places outdoor sporting
activities on an equal footing with academic achievement
and duly allocates equal time to both. I am a natural
sportsman and immediately took up all the sports on offer
with my customary enthusiasm, although with variable
results.

Both my mother and my father encouraged our sporting
activities and extra-curricular commitments. My mother
considered it a priority that we each try out different sports
and find something that we were good at and could continue
after leaving school. Tennis had seemed the perfect option
for me and so I had private tutoring. My father, on the other
hand, was obsessed with gymnastics, and made it an
obligatory 'hobby' for each of us. He gave us pocket money
every week but required that we perform tasks for it, such as
walking and feeding the dogs but also doing gymnastics.
Physical training has always been integral to our lives; from
about age four onwards we each had our own mini set of
barbells. My first set was half a kilo, and as I grew so they
became progressively heavier. My father trained with
weights, and it became something we all did together.
Furthermore, there were incentives for us: skipping or
push-ups, abdominal exercises, the more we did the more
pocket money we earned.

My paternal grandfather still works out regularly and is
very fit. Now ninety-one years old and recently returned
from a trip around Europe, he has his own personal gym at
home and makes a point of training every day.

Cricket was nothing short of a revelation. Like most South
African kids I loved cricket, and I was a good all-rounder. One
particular source of joy for me with cricket was that I was
exempt from having to wear those ungainly leg pads. I was
especially keen on batting, and was secretly very pleased as
this way I could not be penalised for being Leg Before Wicket.

While I played a lot of tennis and football, my participation
in athletics was less enthusiastic. I was not a great fan.
I had tried both high jump and long jump and I preferred the
latter. I found high jump particularly arduous, as with my
heavy prostheses it was difficult to get much lift off the
ground. Carl was a swimmer but unlike him I found
swimming dull.

The competitive sport that I played at club level was
wrestling. My father had applied to the Amateur Wrestling
Association for a dispensation allowing me to compete with
prostheses, which they had granted since, unlike all-in
wrestlers we were only allowed to use our upper bodies. I
started when I was six years old and absolutely revelled in
the sport, perhaps because it was a natural continuation of
the physical way Carl and I played with one another. Carl
was the epitome of assertiveness, and I was determined to
earn his respect and be treated equally.

I won my first medal in wrestling. The first time you win
an award is an unforgettable moment. You are enveloped in
a warm buzz of emotions – pride, happiness, and the acute
sense of recognition that comes with applause from your
loved ones. It is addictive, almost like a drug – but a positive
drug, pushing you forward to greater success. I think that if
anything my prostheses probably furthered my wrestling
career, since their considerable weight meant that I was
solidly anchored to the ground and perhaps more stable than
other competitors.

It seems odd in retrospect that running was by far my least
favourite sport. Once a year our school organised an athletics
day in which we all had to take part. I loathed participating
as my cumbersome prostheses made the races impossibly
difficult and often painful. Each year, as the dreaded athletics
day neared, I tried out my forgery skills and sent a note to
the teacher responsible. The teacher changed year on year,
although my story usually ran broadly along the same lines:

Dear Madam,

Oscar has been unwell with the flu recently. This
morning he was feeling faint. I have sent him to school
anyway but think it would be better if he did not have to
take part in today's athletic events. Poor child.

Thank you for your understanding.

Best regards,

Sheila Pistorius

I would then attempt my best impression of her signature,
but to no avail. Inevitably the school would telephone my
mother and so not only was I obliged to partake but in
addition I would be punished for my misbehaviour at home.

While still at primary school I took part in numerous
triathlon events (600 metres swimming, 5 kilometres running
and 20 kilometres cycling). For these triathlons I had formed a
team with Kaylem and Deon, two old friends I had met fishing.
We had each chosen a discipline and were absolutely
committed to winning our individual legs. I had chosen
cycling. In our last year we triumphed and won the Junior title.

In the girls' team there was a princess; her name was Faryn
Martin. We lived on the same road and our parents knew one
another. She was blonde, blue-eyed and very sporty. She was
a tomboy who played football with the boys and who is now
part of the South African national hockey team.

As soon as I saw Faryn, I fell head over heels in love with
her. I even gave her my first rose on Valentine's Day at the
tender age of eight – although I must admit it took me much
longer to pluck up the courage actually to speak to her. My
crush lasted, unabated, until I was at least thirteen. We spent
a lot of time together, playing, going to the movies or
ice-skating and we always held hands. We kept in touch even
after I moved to Pretoria and changed schools, and in fact we
have remained close as adults. I was very happy last October
when she married a wonderful guy who also happens to be
a top rugby player.

She literally marked me for life. When I was about ten, we
were playing football at school when she tackled me from
behind, throwing her weight against my back. I ended up in
the fence at the end of the field, cutting my leg in the process.

You can still see the scar today and I consider it my gift from
Faryn so I would never forget her.

Again, it was on her account that, aged nine, I got involved
in my first fist fight – with a rival for her affections. I came
off worse, but Ashton, my rival, was just lucky. Not too long
after that I was involved in another more serious fight with
two kids who were trying to bully me at a school function.
My father did not intervene during the scuffle but that
evening at home he took me to my grandfather who had been
a boxing champion. Together they put me in front of the
boxing punch bag and began to work on my swing. The time
had come for me to learn to defend myself

My mother also taught me how to defend myself from
unwelcome attention by using more sophisticated and less
adversarial tactics. She taught me how to handle people's
curiosity and how to answer their questions with ease and
often with a sense of humour. Sometimes I told children that
my legs were a special acquisition from Toys R Us and that
if their parents worked hard enough, and saved enough
money, they too could buy a pair. One of my favourite white
lies was that I had lost my legs in a shark attack. Shark
attacks were not unheard of in Plettenberg Bay and so my
scary story was a showstopper. When I was on the beach the
children would often wait for me to finish with my sandcastle
and leave and then beg Carl to tell them all about the shark
attack. I think my presence made them awkward and nobody
wanted to hurt my feelings.

Carl was my hero and role model. He was never far from
my side – my guardian angel. I remember one evening when
we were on holiday. I must have been about ten years old.
He found me in a bar dancing shirtless on the stage with a
cigarette in my hand. At that time he smoked like a chimney
but that did not stop him from yanking me off the stage and
rebuking me for smoking in front of everyone. His scolding
was furious and then I was abruptly dispatched home.

He felt that his position as my older brother entitled him
to behave this way, however much I protested. When I think
back on the incident now I can only wonder what he himself
was doing at the bar . . . I may have been only ten at the time,
but that would have made him twelve.

One of the many advantages that came with his affection
for me was that he was always prepared to keep me company,
even during the interminable afternoons I spent after school
at the prosthetics specialist's. Often we would spend up to
three hours fitting the prostheses, making the moulds for the
upper part where my stumps would sit, checking, and then
trialling and adjusting each angle until they were perfect.

Carl, in true Pistorius fashion, watched the entire procedure
closely. With time he became an expert troubleshooter.
He was capable of spotting the technical defects or
inaccuracies that were going to create blisters and the like for
me just by watching how I moved my legs and observing my
gait. We were inseparable, and he was the first person I
complained to or confided in. He was completely involved in
my routine and often reminded me to wash my socks
(sometimes washing them for me) and put talcum powder on
my stumps. He drove me crazy lecturing me on how to take
good care of my stumps.

Every now and again, on a Friday, our mother would come
to collect us from school. Then, instead of heading home, she
would take the highway: at this point we would learn that
she was going to surprise us with a weekend away as a
special treat. I remember adoring the tranquillity of the
snow-covered Drakenberg mountains, so majestic and peaceful.
We knew that she could not really afford jaunts like this,
but she would put money aside specially for the purpose.

Over the years my family's financial fortunes have fluctuated
significantly. I think it has been a blessing because,
although my parents did their best to protect us from the
brunt of it, we all now enjoy a sense of financial responsibility
and respect for the value of money. As small children we
lived in an enormous house and were spoilt rotten, and so
when my parents divorced and we were forced to downsize
we had no understanding of real hardship. From our
standpoint of privileged naivety those living in apartments
were destitute and our new, normal-sized house seemed very
small. Fortunately there is always a constructive lesson to be
drawn from these experiences.

With time we learnt to watch our pennies and be
considerate. If one of us finished school before the others we
would wait for one another to avoid multiple car journeys
and wasted petrol. My mother did all she could while my
father's business struggled, so we tightened our belts and met
our bills each month. Fortunately our paternal grandmother
also contributed to our financial wellbeing.

During our early childhood my mother did not work; she
helped my father but was otherwise dedicated to us. My
father's bankruptcy and my parents' divorce put an end to
this idyll, and for a while our finances were precarious at
best. She took a part-time job which nonetheless entailed a
full-time commitment, but as she started work at 7 a.m. and
finished at 2 p.m. it left her free in the afternoon. She cut
back wherever possible, but still managed to ensure that I
received the best care and specialist attention for my
prostheses and benefited wherever possible from all the latest
technological advancements. I remember her baking a cake
in honour of my first set of toes! We were celebrating my first
prostheses that had moulded feet.

An optimist with a bubbly personality, a great sense of
humour and a talent for making everything fun, my mother
managed to teach us all of life's important lessons with a smile
on her face. She made sure we knew that being kitted out in
brand names from head to toe was of no importance – that one
should never attach too much importance to such superficial
considerations. It is not the make of the clothes (or how much
you spend on them) that counts but how you wear them.
These lessons may seem utterly commonplace, but they have
remained with me and I am a better person because of them.

She was incredibly creative and always managed to do the
seemingly impossible: in addition to the fun outings and
holidays we had, each of us got to celebrate our birthday
with a special party which always somehow remained within
our budget. Our mother was actively involved in every facet
of our lives, and school was no exception, where she was an
active member of the Parent Teacher Association. She
managed to juggle everything effortlessly (or so it seemed to
us). She was dynamic and charismatic and remains an
inspiration to each of us.

Although she is no longer with us, and I miss her terribly,
I still feel her presence in my life. I often reread the notes that
she left me. She liked to hide messages in our lunch boxes so
that we would have a surprise from her during the day,
things like: 'You are my special kids and I love you, Mum.'
They were always beautiful words of encouragement, excerpts
of poetry or passages from the Scriptures, and I have
kept many of them. My mother was a devout Christian and
very involved in her church, and we in turn benefited from
the support of the congregation in our lives.

Throughout their divorce my parents put our serenity and
wellbeing first and kept their relationship amicable and
mutually respectful. They tried to shelter us from any
financial hardship but as is generally the case, we children
knew far more than we let on.