On the longest day of the year, where better to be than on
one of Europe’s finest beaches? Tarifa beach is a vast expanse of sand at
Spain’s southernmost tip, audaciously close to Africa and the blustery
conditions make it a haven for kite surfing. One sport that I wouldn’t
recommend on Tarifa is the long jump. The sand is deceptively compact and an
overly vigorous jump can leave you scuppered, or in my case, with a spiral
fracture and break of the fibula, torn ankle ligaments and a dislodged talus
bone. The pain was quite intense, but perhaps not as bad as you might imagine.
In fact, my overriding feeling was one of disbelief. It seemed inconceivable to
me that such an innocuous thing as running and jumping could result in a period
of three months without walking. But it has and I now have almost a month’s
worth of one-legged experiences to share.
Since the moment I sustained the injury, which,
incidentally, I have christened Carlos, in homage to my Spanish alter ego, I
have used nine modes of transport, previously unnecessary in my life. The task
of getting me off the beach was no mean feat and it took six (that’s right,
six) strapping men to haul me off the sand on a stretcher, before loading me
onto a trolley and eventually into an ambulance.
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| Just about loaded onto a stretcher |
Crutches would be soon to follow; my inseparable companions
for the foreseeable future. Sleek, black and really rather trendy, they have
taken me as far as Bristol, Brighton and Belgium, and accompany me wherever I
go. While crutches are excellent for skipping queues at theme parks and closing
doors that are a little out of reach, they are a real problem for carrying
things. Settling down to a nice cup of tea in front of the Ashes is a
challenging prospect these days. It has also been exceptionally difficult not
being able to help out with household chores such as unloading the dishwasher.
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| In a Spanish hospital with my saviours |
I became acquainted with more unfamiliar modes of transport
on the journey home from Spain. I enjoyed being escorted through Gibraltar
airport in a wheelchair and was delighted to be invited to board before anyone
else. However, it soon became clear that this was less an act of Easy Jet
customer service and more a necessary requirement to set an industrial process
in motion. An unnecessarily large truck, not dissimilar to a removal van, whose
services are usually reserved for heavy goods such as sofas and wardrobes, was
required to slowly haul me onto the plane. Upon touch down in England, an airport
buggy was summoned to safely navigate my path through the crowds and passport
control.
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| A lonely cripple in Gibraltar airport |
Perhaps the most amusing things to come out of this whole
situation are Peggy and Maureen. Peggy can only be described as a ‘peg-leg’
device, which gives me the use of my hands while walking, but leaves me
hobbling awkwardly and bearing a strong resemblance to a pirate. Maureen,
however, was a real find. My granddad’s old mobility scooter had been resting
in the garage for some time. Upon discovering that she could reach a staggering
4.1mph downhill, I thought it best to christen her with a name befitting her
usual clientele. And so, Maureen was born. She beeps when she reverses, doesn’t
deal well with steep pavement camber and struggles to cross roads without very
low curbs, but these are just a few of the little things that have allowed our
relationship to blossom so much in such a short space of time. Carlos, Peggy,
Maureen and me; we’re a happy family.
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| Maz and Maureen |
