Recreation
==========

Generalizations
---------------

Recreation, for a para of any level, is a cinch.
Choose from any of the sports and activities listed
below and add a dozen of your own. Recreation for a
quad is more limited, but still very available. If you are
a high injury, and if some of these activities seem like
lousy substitutes for what you once could do, you
should know this: As you and your injury mellow
through a little time, you’ll find that you don’t think
much about walking. Nor will you think wistfully about
skiing or diving or whatever you used to do. You'll start
to think, with interest and pleasure, about the things
you can do now. Your body, at least as much as your
mind, learns eventually that what *was* has very little
relevance to what *is*. What does exist, recreationally, is
a host of possibilities.

Specifics
---------

There are all the obvious diversionary activities:
reading, knitting, cards, air hockey and shuffleboard
are five of hundreds. Hobbies: stamp collecting,
photography (controls for quads have been contrived),
electronics, CB and ham radio (there’s a blow device so
quads can send morse code). Social: sex, dancing,
(disco, square or any other kind).

The arts: writing, drama, music, cinema, painting
(there are now orthodontically fitted mouthpieces for
holding brushes). There’s something rec departments
call Contemporary Activities: I think it means frisbee
and thumb wrestling. Getting out: gardening, your car,
all terrain vehicles, dune buggies, trikes, motorcycles
(with or without a sidecar which accommodates the chair
and rider and allows him to drive). Hunting and fishing
(there are anti-gravity devices to facilitate holding a gun
or rod, and laws exist which allow you to shoot from a
vehicle). Travel. Flying and soaring (hand controls are
available).

Indoor sports: Bowling (quads can use a suitcase
handle release or an aiming device), darts. Pool and
billiards. Martial arts. Fencing. Table tennis. Weight
lifting. Basketball— when played well, wheelchair
basketball beats the AB’d kind.

Outdoor sports: Croquet. Wind surfing. Sailing.
Swimming (all strokes and all distances). Riding horses
(saddles have been adapted). Pulks (sleds which can be
controlled on ski slopes or self-propelled cross country).
Tennis. Volleyball. Football—really! Cross Country.
Kayaking (a low para can roll, i.e., right himself after a
capsize, but you don’t *have* to be able to roll). Rafting.
Canoeing. Track and field events— dashes and pushes,
from 40 meters to 26-mile marathons, shot, discus,
javelin. Archery — excellent for quads.

If you want recreation, it doesn’t matter how you
get it. Take it as it comes. When you’re ready for some
fun, it’s there waiting for you. And if you’re down on
wheelchair recreation, please read the next section on
the wheelchair games. Or read the :ref:`Susan Schapiro`,
:ref:`West Brownlow`, :ref:`Mary Wilson`,
:ref:`Cliff Crase`, :ref:`Syd Jacobs`,
and :ref:`Mark Johnson` profiles.

And then again, in SCI as in the rest of life, a lot
of us get our kicks and rewards entirely from our jobs
and relationships. You don’t have to be a jock or a
chess master. But if you want to be, you can.

Wheelchair Games
----------------

May, 1979. The Rocky Mountain Regional
Wheelchair Games. I knew ahead of time that I’d hate
the whole show, because I knew that the Games require
gimps to do badly, and imitatively, what they could
once do well. Why do something that so blatantly
displays our limited function? Our courageous smiles?
Besides, I don’t like competition. To hell with the team,
show me the singular beauty of perfect execution. I
came, in short, to scoff.

Classification: This is the first event and is
dominated by doctors. They examine the contestants
and classify them according to physical function. The
idea is to allow people to compete against others with
similar abilities and disabilities. Class V includes single
below-the-knee amputations, relatively minor
neurological damage and hangnails. V’s often walk
away from their chairs after the event. Class I has three
subdivisions, but is generally for quads. As a T12, I
would be a IV. Now one of the reasons I always
thought golf was a silly game was because of the
handicap system. Here it is for real. What’s your
handicap? Uh, sir, I can’t seem to walk. OK, you’re a
III.

Things picked up when the events started for real.
That evening, it was table tennis and slalom. The table
tennis was fine, and the slalom showed me some real
skills, yet I refused to relinquish my right to wallow in
sour grapes.

Saturday morning. Light chairs, long chairs, chairs
slung low, chairs slung back, sweet swung-low chariots.
People sitting on the grass giving their chairs fine tuneups.
How’s your anti-flutter? Axle positions by the
dozens. Nine-clip wheels. One hundred psi tires. Low
mass casters. Spiders and small handrim overdrive.
Camber plates. In this crowd, quads included, my chair
and I are precambrian.

Realization: These people are real athletes.
Another: Bodies in wheelchairs can be beautiful. Lines
of perfection on Mikel Strole’s face as she psyches
herself for the discus. A quad gives everything to
complete his race, and I know I’ve seen a kind of
beauty I don’t find elsewhere. An above-the-knee
double amputee passes a low para at the end of a 1,500-meter
push, and it’s done with such spectacular strategy
and grace that I’m dewy-eyed. West Brownlow, classified
IC, joyfully fills in on relays for a missing II or III
because he really wants to run. It’s beautiful. Our lives
are partially run by the need to see things done very
well or very resolutely. There’s no difference. We’re all
suckers for the hero in one another.

All those healthy bodies speeding through classified
space. Team feelings. Competitive feelings. *Normalcy*
feelings. If you’re into it, it’s a great socialization
machine. If you’re not, try watching. It might do
something nice for your sense of self-image.

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