Bladerunner: the staggering truth

What do Paul Carter and Oscar Pistorius have in common? One is fit, clean-livng and may be in line for an Olympic medal. The other is Paul Carter

Dearest readers, what I’m about to tell you is pretty shocking. In fact, it might be better if you sat down. If you’re not already. I am. As hard as it may be to believe – I have taken up running. Well, I say “taken up”, I have, at least twice, been running recently.

Even more staggeringly, I now have prosthetic blades. Yes, like the ones Oscar wears.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?!” I don’t hear anybody cry. Frankly, yes. And it’s all in the name of televisual entertainment. I’m currently in the process of making a documentary looking at the development of prosthetics in sport, and how bloody amazing they are. But as a flip-side, we wanted to show that you can’t just stick carbon fibre springs on any old fat, past-it, borderline alcoholic and turn them into a Paralympic athlete. Which is where I come in.

First thing to note is that before I even had the things fitted, all of my friends, every single one of them, found the very idea of me running the most hilarious thing they had ever heard in their lives. One called me and asked if he could buy tickets. Another asked if I had written a will. One called me Oscar Pissed-orius. Ok, that one I liked.

Now that I have them, they’ve opened up a whole new world. A whole new, bouncy, bouncy world. That’s all I can do though. Bounce. Which is fun, but not that practical in everyday life. And not, I suspect, their actual purpose. They’re not pogo-legs. I tried running, I really did. I managed about 30 metres before experiencing abject terror at the fact I was moving too fast, and didn’t know how to stop.

It gets worse. Shortly after writing this, I am supposed to be hitting the track to run with three Paralympic athletes. I am actually terrified that I’m going to be the first man with no arms or legs to die of exhaustion on television. (I haven’t checked there’s been another one, but I reckon I’d have heard about it if there had.)

If this column’s written by someone else next month, and it says ‘Paul Carter is away’ or something like that at the bottom, don’t believe them. I’ll have carked it and they’re just trying to find a way to tell you. I’ll put a secret word in just in case they try and pretend it’s me writing it. Though I’d need to tell you what that is; I haven’t thought this through.

Still, if by some miracle I do survive, I might realise I like it, which will open up a whole new world of possibilities i.e. running to the pub. This could be the start of a whole new me.