Live your potential

Intense experiences

 

I've realised what's holding me back in my journey of fitness and fulfilment: it's intensity. When I used to run swim canoe cave before, they all demanded complete focus. My mind quietened and I concentrated on what I was doing. Sporting meditation, you might call it.

Now, apart from rowing, I don't have that same focus. Because I can't swim so fast, my thoughts stay with me in the water. Wheeling doesn't use enough energy. Cycling is too easy. I do these things, but my mind doesn't stop.

I realised this when I went water-skiing last week for the first time. It's hard work holding on to a tow rope as you crash through the water at 20 knots. And it's exhilarating feeling the waves hit your face, the coldness of the lake, the movement over the boat-wash. As I drove back home from the British Disabled Waterski Association, I found myself deeply at peace. This is what I've been looking for.

Finding balance

I'm struggling at the moment, feeling very out of balance. I'm wondering about the relationship between fitness and fulfilment.

Living with spinal cord injury demands certain routines. I should check my skin every day, I should stand, stretch, exercise. I've added rowing and FES leg conditioning to the mix. And they all take time. Pushing to the swimming pool, changing, swimming takes about an hour and a half. Leg conditioning takes over an hour. It's not worth standing for less than half an hour.

These all make a difference to my mood, pain and spasms. But fitting them into the day eats into the time to do other things. I'm not doing enough beyond looking after my health and taking care of the children. Coming from a high-achieving work environment of managing teams and making an impact, this change of pace is hard.

It interests me how different is my attitude to travel: I enjoy the process, I find it easy to live in the moment. But right now, back at home, I'm finding it hard to accept that change is slow, that building up a portfolio career is hard, that fitness is a (beneficial) choice, not an onerous addition. Part of the challenge is integrating this all. Pre-injury, exercise was simply part of my day, not an end in itself. I think that's where I need to refocus - to bring fitness back into proportion and think more laterally about how I can still feel I'm having an impact beyond myself. I know I'll get there. I just wish it would happen faster.

Spectator sports

An old friend came to watch me rowing last week. After a convoluted journey from Kent to Uxbridge, she arrived at Brunel just as I did. It was exam time and the International Athletics Centre (IAC) was being used for invigilation so we met in the University gym, surrounded by the usual gym accoutrements of weight machines and tvs and water coolers: a very different and far more normal space than the IAC. The rowing machine didn't look out of place - it was just another piece of gym kit and once I was on it, I looked like just another gym user. I enjoyed the sense of normality, familiar as I now am to a feeling of difference. Integrated gyms seem like a good idea. What was different though was my friend's reaction to the rowing. She knew me when I walked. "It's amazing. It's a miracle!" Indeed it is and it was good to be reminded. It's easy to let the familiarity of repetition deaden an experience. And I was deeply touched by both her effort to come to Brunel and her enthusiasm at the rowing. As I structure this new life for myself, post separation, post teaching plans, contemplating how I can remain a present father, available to look after my children on varying days, I find it easy to become isolated. I can spend days without seeing anyone other than my kids. It's lovely to have friends share and celebrate my new life. N

States of mind

  I suppose travelling is a state of mind. I find it deeply relaxing exploring, exploring, enjoying different places. And inevitably one's state of mind affects how you travel.

I've always been a spontaneous (disorganised?) traveller. I'm quite happy to stay in one place for a few days, another for a few hours. Yes, I check out the guidebooks to see where I should go. But I'm not attached to going to the "must-sees". Which prepares me well for wheelchair travelling: there are places I simply cannot go.

Flexibility is important too. I don't have to have an accessible room - I don't mind using the service lift and sharing it with dirty sheets. It doesn't feel undignified, and the means justifies the end of getting to my room. I can strip-wash - I don't have to be able to get into the shower. I suppose I've never been that bothered where I stay.

And thinking laterally helps too. I discover that Malta has the most extensive concentration of Neolithic temples in the world, "five of which are designated World Heritage Sites. Malta and Gozo's Neolithic remains are unparallelled and constitute the oldest free-standing man-made structures anywhere on the globe. The islands are also the source of the the world's largest and most artistically accomplished cache of Neolithic sculptures known as "the fat ladies".

I'd like to see them but I think it's unlikely I'll be able to get around. What about the National Museum of Archaeology in Valletta? And there they are: the Fat Ladies, including the Venus of Malta. They're breathtaking - very Henry Moore like, but sculpted unbelievably in 4,000 BC. I've done my culture...

Grand nights

The other thing I know about Malta is the Grand Knights, though I had no idea they were so powerful. "The Knights that ruled Malta for over 350 years were volunteer Christian crusaders who hailed from the cream of Europe's aristocracy. Each knight's family had to bequeath two-thirds of their annual income to the organisation, while the assets of individual knights were inherited by the brotherhood upon their death - which made Malta's Knights fabulously wealthy. Their lifestyles were hugely extravagant and their military might legendary".

Not that I can get to see their wealth in the flesh: access to the Grand Palace is down a flight of steps. Nor can I visit the church of St Paul's The Shipwrecked with a fragment of the saint's wrist bone and the pillar on which he was beheaded - the slope down to it has tiny steps cut into the stone. The fact that the guidebook talks of "grand fortifications", an "impenetrable Baroque capital surrounded on three sides by the sea" should have warned me of what to expect.

I'm not too bothered - my kind of tourism is wandering around looking at buildings and people.

I'm interested by the effect cafe ramps have on me: their rarity, in contrast to the vast majority of cafes (and shops) that have steep entrances, makes me almost automatically use them, even if I'm not needing sustenance. I realise that whilst I'm happy to ask for help, it gets wearying. I wonder how much trade accessible buildings get simply because of their ease.

Along with the ongoing presence of the Knights, Catholicism is everywhere, with Madonnas cut into doorways, endless statues along the roadside. "With about 350 churches - around one for every thousand inhabitants - Malta's distinction as the most devoutly Catholic country in the world is highly visible". It's the first place I've gone where air passengers cross themselves on landing, bus passengers cross themselves as they pass roadside shrines. I hope this is an indication of their faith, not their fear.

Maltesers

 
Malta. I know nothing about it other than it was important during World War II. Now I'm here courtesy of Air Miles and it's a very strange place. It's a mix of Marrakech with its sandstone buildings, Venice with its old waterfront, Jaipur with its timber-enclosed balconies and cacophonous buses... Cars drive on the left. There are three point plugs. The radio switches from English to Maltese which has smatterings of Italian, Arabic, French. I'm confused and thrilled.

The friend who was due to come with me had to cancel so I'm travelling alone for the first time in years. No children, no obligations, no structure. No idea about access, although I did let the airline and hotel know in advance. That was it. I checked how to get around last night, sorted my money during the day, got a guidebook from the library... And now it's time for spontaneity.

I miss my children, but I'm not sure they would have enjoyed the three hours of bus exploration getting from the airport to the hotel (at 50 cents, 25 times cheaper than more direct taxi). In some ways, I feel my earlier life has prepared me for life in a wheelchair, especially the necessary quality of patience. In Malta, only the modern buses are accessible and no one can tell you when they will arrive. So you must wait and watch, savour the bustle of the bus station and eventually a modern bus arrives.

But I don't enjoy travelling alone as much as I used to. Before I got married, I used to travel with my diary and random strangers I encountered on my journeys. That was enough. Not any more. Not because it's harder now that I'm in a chair, more because I've discovered how a shared experience is so much more powerful.

And yet it is harder now I'm wheeling. I'm glad I'm managing to keep my spontaneity. In theory, I should plan - find out what's accessible before I arrive. But I've never been a planner. I'd rather travel as the spirit and mood takes me and if there are places I can't get to, well, so be it. People always seem willing to help so the near vertical kerbs in Malta become manageable, the steep drops less scary.

I suppose that's the biggest change in the way I travel. Being in a chair forces me to interact with strangers. I have less of a choice now (unless I take the "I won't accept support" approach, which is too limiting for me). It brings out the best in people: today the bus reached its final destination before I'd realised where to get out. Rather than letting me push my way around the steep hills of St Paul's Bay, the driver took me on a tour to find the hotel and dropped me off at the entrance. Before my flight, I was going to indulge in a glass of champagne (as one does). With the bar too high, there was only one, occupied, table. "Would you like to sit here with us?" They were off to the Monaco Grand Prix and enjoying a bottle of champagne - which they shared with me. And two waiters at the Rosy Restaurant (with its "guilt-headed bream") pushed me up the long hard slope back to my room after a delicious supper. "Yes", says the hotel manager when I mention these kindnesses, "the Maltese are very helpful and generous". They are indeed.

Standing on my own two feet

  I'm bored of sitting down all the time. I'm frustrated by the powerlessness of being seated when everyone else is standing. I'm tired of craning my neck so I can converse. I want to move to a higher level.

It's time to buy a standing chair. At a cost of over £4,000 I'm going to have to do some fundraising, but I want to look people in the eye. I particularly notice when I'm networking - I find it far harder to talk on an equal level when I'm some two feet below everyone. I've talked about language before and it still strikes me: people talk down to me, I can't stand up to them, I can't take a stand, I can't stand on my own two feet. Obviously, this is only true in the most literal sense, but now that I'm in a minority, the language of the majority does not fit in the way that it used to.

A friend came up with a brilliant solution to addressing the power balance in the short-term: fix a lightweight folding stool behind my chair. When people are towering over me (and perhaps feeling awkward, unwilling to crouch because of its associations with talking to children), I can pull out the stool and offer them a seat. I'm fascinated imagining the reactions I might get...

Reaching goals

In a strange inverse of logic, I rowed my furthest today, despite a bad cold. The cold forced me to row at a slower pace (26 strokes a minute rather than my usual 30), but bizarrely with greater power, so I covered 4,040 metres in thirty minutes. 4,000 metres has been a target for a while, so it's immensely satisfying to reach it.

I've been wondering whether the time and cost justifies the benefit of rowing. It takes over two hours to drive to Brunel and, after rent, petrol is my biggest outlay by far. I'm spending over £300 a month on fuel. If I leave Devizes as soon as I drop off my daughter at school, I can get to London and back in time to pick up my son. Is it worth it?

There's no other exercise I could do that would demand so much of my system. Swimming, cycling, pushing...they only challenge my arms and don't stress my heart and breathing that much. The sense of well-being I gain is wonderful. The clear improvement and visual realisation (watching the metres build on the screen as I row is great motivation, seeing my legs move) is something I get in no other sport...

And then there are the more subtle benefits. The comfort of talking to my coach - the only regular contact I have with another spinally cord injured man. The thrill of watching the GB Athletics team train. (Although today I was rowing in the Brunel gym with people doing their regular training. A great sense of normality). The fact that the research will benefit others with spinal cord injury.

How does one quantify when something is worthwhile? It doesn't generate any income for me. It has high costs both of time and money. It's not the same as popping down to the gym at lunchtime - it's a major commitment.

I suppose its value is in the totality of the package: the hard impact of health and well-being, the soft of being part of a ground-breaking study. And I need the motivation of improvement - of seeing the distance I row increase. Exercise for exercise's sake is not enough for me. But exercise where there are many other unexpected benefits makes it worthwhile.

Birdsong