Eugène Etsebeth
by Eugène Etsebeth
While I lay on a plinth, a Swiss doctor gestured that I should lift up my left leg. He bear-hugged my leg and resisted its elevation with his full body weight. He grunted as he fought my movement.
He wasn’t the only person prodding and inspecting me. A team of doctors, biokineti-cists and physiotherapists surrounded me. It was like the United Nations of medics. Besides the Swiss doctor, there was a lady from Israel, a young athletic Austrian and two Americans.
They were tallying up points of my strength on a clipboard. And things weren’t going too well — it was turning out that I was too strong!
It wasn’t suddenly apparent, but there was a growing unease and stillness in the room, and knowing glances were passed between the medical tribunal. I was about to be eliminated — not only from the “World Championships,” but also from a man-made categorization that determines who is “ disabled” and who is not.
I had trained hard for the equivalent of the World Paralympic Championships (called the Open European Paralympic Championships), held under the auspices of the International Paralympic Committee (IPC). My training buildup had been intense. At night I would sweat on my stationary bike as I cycled more than two hours. On weekends and early mornings, I was on the cycle track practicing starts, sprints and keeping my top-end speed at over 26 miles per hour on the cliff-like embankment.
My proudest moment was at the airport
just before the team flew to Holland, when I received my team kit with our national emblem, the Springbok, emblazoned on my tracksuit. I had achieved the ultimate — to represent South Africa at an international sporting event.
A day before my classification exam with all the examiners, I was starting to feel part of the disabled community. The opening ceremony had over 30 countries participating. We walked on to the famous Alkmaar cheese market with our country’s flags waving in front of hundreds of onlookers. I was finally making peace with my body. I displayed my imperfections proudly — along with the other athletes. I felt a sense of belonging. My body was OK. I didn’t need to conceal my imperfections.
The Swiss doctor placed my leg down alongside the other. His perspiration matched my own. The medical team finished their examination by informing me that I do not fit into any particular locomotor category. I had too much muscle to fall into a category to take part in the championships. Luckily for me, in the spirit of the competition, I was allowed to compete even though I didn’t fall into the classifications defined by the IPC, the international cycling body.
But this irony did not sit well with me. You see, muscle is actually my biggest problem. It is in a constant state of atrophy. I get weaker by the day. It is a slow weakening. I have facioscapulohumeral muscular dystrophy (FSHD), or in cycling jargon, a slow puncture.
This hereditary condition can vary by
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