Spare

How to talk to a man who’s just hours away from starting a holiday into rolling up his sleeves and taking on an impossible project?

There’s no way, I thought.

But the whole point of these games was: Never give up.

So I kept on. I went at him, and at him, and told him about the soldiers I’d met, their stories, and also a bit of mine. One of the first and fullest accounts I’d ever given anyone of my time at war.

Slowly I could see that my passion, my enthusiasm, were making dents in Sir Keith’s defenses.

Brow furrowed, he said: Well…Who have you got so far on this project?

I looked at Elf. Elf looked at me.

That’s the beauty of it, Sir Keith. You see…you’re the first.

He chuckled. Clever.

No, no, really. You can get the band back together, if you wish. Hire anyone you want.

Despite the overt and obvious salesmanship, there was a great deal of truth in what I was saying. We hadn’t yet managed to trick anyone else into joining us, so he’d have carte blanche. He could organize a staff however he wished, bring on every single person who’d helped him pull off such a successful Olympics.

He nodded. When are you thinking of doing this?

September.

What?

September.

You mean ten months from now?

Yes.

No way.

Has to be.

I wanted the games to coincide with the centenary commemorations of the First World War. I felt that connection was vital.

He sighed, promised to consider it.

I knew what that meant.

68.

A few weeks later I flew to the Antarctic, landed at a research station called Novolazarevskaya, a tiny village of huts and Portakabins. The few hardy souls living there were fabulous hosts. They housed me, fed me—their soups were amazing. I couldn’t get enough.

Maybe because it was thirty-five degrees below zero?

More piping-hot chicken noodle, Harry?

Yes, please.

The team and I spent a week or two carb-loading, gearing up. And, of course, quaffing vodka. At last, one bleary morning…off we went. We climbed into a plane, flew up to the ice shelf, stopped to refuel. The plane landed on a field of solid, flat white, as in a dream. There was nothing to be seen in any direction but a handful of giant fuel barrels. We taxied over to them and I got out while the pilots filled up. The silence was holy—not a bird, not a car, not a tree—but it was only one part of the larger, all-encompassing nothingness. No smells, no wind, no sharp corners or distinct features to distract from the endless and insanely beautiful vista. I walked off to be by myself for a few moments. I’d never been anywhere half so peaceful. Overcome with joy, I did a headstand. Months and months of anxiety passed away…for a few minutes.

We got back onto the plane, flew to the starting point of the trek. As we began walking, at last, I remembered: Oh, yeah, my toe’s broken.

Just recently, in fact. A boys’ weekend in Norfolk. We drank and smoked and partied till dawn, and then, while trying to reassemble one of the rooms we’d rearranged, I dropped a heavy chair with brass wheels onto my foot.

Silly injury. But debilitating. I could barely walk. No matter, I was determined not to let the team down.

Somehow I kept pace with my fellow walkers, nine hours each day, pulling a sledge that weighed about two hundred pounds. It was hard for everyone to gain traction on the snow, but for me the particular challenge was the slick, undulating patches carved out by the wind. Sastrugi, that was the Norwegian word for these patches. Trekking across sastrugi with a broken toe? Maybe this could be an event at the International Warrior Games, I thought. But any time I felt tempted to complain—about my toe, my fatigue, anything—I had only to glance at my fellow walkers. I was directly behind a Scottish soldier named Duncan, who had no legs. Behind me, an American soldier named Ivan was blind. So not one whinge would be heard from me, I vowed.

Also, an experienced polar guide had advised me before I left Britain to use this trek to “clean the hard drive.” That was his phrase. Use the repetitive motion, he said, use the biting cold, use that nothingness, that landscape’s unique blankness, to narrow your focus until your mind falls into a trance. It will become a meditation.