Marla Runyan is legally blind; a degenerative
retinal disease means the two-time Paralympic runner has only peripheral vision. Everything in front of her "disappears into a hole," the American says, so she has to memorize the colors of her rivals' running vests to monitor her progress. Yet Runyan-in her first foray into the Olympics-qualified for the 1,500-m final in Sydney last month. Australian Paralympic 100-m runner Tim Matthews was born minus a left arm-an important tool for driving an athlete down the track-yet his personal best time of 10.87 sec. would have won silver in the women's Olympic 100 m, bettered only by the mighty Marion Jones.
Such feats of athleticism are the stuff of the Paralympic Games. Yet five years ago, the Sydney Paralympic Organising Committee says, only 3% of Australians knew what the event was. Since then the Paralympics have been gradually creating their own stars and nudging up public-awareness levels, but there are still skeptics. "There's this uncertainty about what it's all about," concedes spoc chief executive Lois Appleby. "There's an attitude: This is really just for the athletes and their families, it's not real sport.'"
When the Games of the XI Paralympiad open on Oct. 18, 4,000 athletes from 125 countries-and the 1 in 5 Australians with a physical disability-will be hoping for the start of a new era of respect and recognition. They want the Games to be seen less as a heart-warming nod in the direction of the disabled and more as a world-class sporting event testing the limits of individual athletic ability. "Being an elite athlete is about dedicating your life to sport," says triple Olympic gold medalist Ian Thorpe. "There's no difference between able-bodied and disabled athletes. We're both dedicated to the same pursuit of excellence." And though it's terrible to contemplate, any one of the aspiring able-bodied athletes watching the Olympics this year could be competing in the Athens Paralympics in 2004.
It takes only a split second. Heinz Frei was a talented 20-year-old cross-country runner in 1978 when he lost his footing on a Swiss mountain track and fell onto a rock ledge, snapping his spine. Two years later, when he started racing in a wheelchair of his own design, few saw what he did as a sport ("I think I was poor Heinz in the wheelchair,'" he recalls). But spectators are beginning to catch on, and Frei is now the world-record holder and hot favorite for the wheelchair marathon, to be held over the same course as the Olympic marathon on Oct. 29.
The Swiss, who's won 11 gold medals at four summer and five winter Games (in cross-country skiing), trains every day, covering up to 300 km a week. "It's no different from an able-bodied sport," he says. "We just use a racing chair-a piece of equipment like a bicycle or a running shoe." The racers travel at 30 to 40 km/h, using the same subtle tactics as endurance runners or cyclists. "All the power is coming from the shoulders and arms," says Australia's wheelchair track and road coach, Andrew Dawes, whose athletes include Louise Sauvage and Kurt Fearnley. "To propel the chair they make a fist and punch at the wheels like boxers to get them moving. It's not for the faint-hearted."
Nor is wheelchair basketball. "Most of the players [have been disabled by] accidents involving speed, alcohol and testosterone in that invincible era between the ages of 17 and 25," explains Australia's star player, Troy Sachs. "Put them on court in wheelchairs chasing after a basketball-it's a recipe for disaster." Articulate and charming off-court, Sachs turns into a demon when the whistle blows, spinning his chair, crashing it against other players', and tipping it on one wheel to gain height when shooting baskets.
Sachs uses a wheelchair only when he's on court, so he has to practice twice as hard as his teammates. Born without a shinbone, he had a small, useless right foot which his parents had amputated when he was a toddler so he could wear a prosthesis. He was on the soccer field by the age of four and later represented Australia in junior athletics, against able-bodied competitors. His parents told him: "Don't whinge about what you haven't got-go out and grab what you want." At 16, Sachs was the youngest Australian Paralympian in Barcelona; in Atlanta he steered the basketball team to gold, single-handedly scoring 42 points-an Olympic and Paralympic record. The game is similar to the running version, but players have to ground the ball after two pushes and each team member is graded by mobility from 1 to 4.5 (Sachs, at 4.5 points, is the least disabled). The five players on each side must collectively have no more than 14 points.
The 18 Paralympic sports-including tennis, judo, cycling and equestrian-each have a classification system to accommodate the full range of disabilities. There are 26 100-m sprints (15 for men, 11 for women), depending on whether the athletes are amputees, visually impaired, intellectually disabled or affected by cerebral palsy. A leg amputee and arm amputee may swim against each other if they're classed as equally handicapped. In a wheelchair race, a paraplegic may be up against a double leg amputee: though the paraplegic has better balance, the amputee has the weight advantage ("It's all about power-to-weight ratio," says coach Dawes).
In each event, every country has a quota of competitors and
selection standards are rigorous. To maintain a high level
of competition, there must be six qualifiers from at least
four countries or the event is dropped. That rule is vital,
says Australian Paralympic Committee chef de mission Paul
Bird, "if we're going to show we're fair dinkum." Bird still
receives letters from the government wishing him all the best
for the "Para-Olympics" and "that grates on everyone because
it still hasn't got through that it's Paralympics, meaning
parallel." >>MORE
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