Mud Sweat & Tears - Bear Grylls [76]
That meant the world to me and gave me back some of the confidence that I was struggling to find again.
Finally, I had my not insubstantial dreams of adventure. And those dreams were beginning to burn bright once more.
You see, I figure that life is a gift. I was learning that more than anyone.
My mum always taught me to be grateful for gifts. And as I slowly began to recover my strength and confidence, I realized that what mattered was doing something bold with that present.
A gift buried under a tree is wasted.
Alone one night in bed, I made a verbal, out-loud, conscious decision, that if I recovered well enough to be able to climb again, then I would get out there and follow those dreams to the max.
Cliché? To me it was my only hope.
I was choosing to live life with both arms open – I would grab life by the horns and ride it for all it was worth.
Life doesn’t often give us second chances. But if it does, be bloody grateful.
I vowed I would always be thankful to my father in heaven for having somehow helped me along this rocky road.
After three months in bed at home, I was posted to the UK’s Military Rehabilitation Centre at Headley Court, just outside of London. I could walk around a little now, but still the pain hounded me.
Headley Court and all the staff there were truly amazing. They gave me focus and structure; they gave me clear goals and helped me rediscover my hope again.
The treatment was intense. I often did up to ten hours of ‘work’ a day. An hour stretching on a mat, an hour in a hydra-pool, an hour’s counselling, an hour physio (with the pretty nurses!), an hour of movement classes, then lunch, and so on.
Slowly my movement returned and the pain lessened, until, by the time I left the centre, some eight months after the accident, I really was on the mend.
I knew I was getting better when I sneaked out one night, caught a train home, collected my 1200 c.c. motorbike, and, still strapped up in my metal back brace, rode the bike back to Headley Court before dawn.
The nurses would have gone nuts if they could have seen me, but my motorbike was my independence – and the risky but successful mission also meant my spirit was returning.
I was smiling again.
CHAPTER 70
Just before my accident, I had met a great girl who was a student at Cambridge.
With my newly found wheels, I used to ride like a lunatic up the motorway to see her after our final evening parade at the rehab centre. I would take her out for dinner, sleep over, and then get up at 4 a.m. to race the two hours back down to Headley Court, and morning parade.
The staff had no idea. No one, they imagined, could be that stupid.
It was often so cold in the middle of winter, that I remember riding along, back brace on over my leathers, and one hand at a time resting on the engine to keep warm. Talk about reckless, bad driving. But it was great fun.
The relationship petered out soon after, though – the Cambridge girl was way too clever for me. And I am not sure I was the most stable of boyfriends.
So much of my focus during my recovery was centred around Everest. It gave me something to aim for – a goal – however far away that goal may have been.
No one in my family really took it seriously. I mean, I could still hardly walk properly. But I was deadly serious.
Interestingly, none of the nurses mocked me. They all understood that recovery is all about focus, and goals. But I also sensed that few of them really thought it would be possible.
Out of the many British military attempts, only one had ever reached the summit of Everest. It was achieved by two of the fittest, strongest, most experienced mountaineers in the country.
Both were also SAS soldiers, at the peak of their physical condition. They had achieved it, just, by the skin of their teeth, narrowly escaping with their lives, having suffered horrendous frostbite and lost limbs.
For the time being, that was a bit academic. What mattered was that I had something to get stronger for. However crazy and far away from reality it might have seemed.
Life has taught me