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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.

Chapter 3
The Princess and
the Pugilist
    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