Aerodynamic Cripple
Aerodynamic Cripple
My experiences flying as a crutches user who had access booked… or thought he did
When I call myself a cripple, I do so in a flippant fashion, in a reclaiming fashion. It’s not a word I’d use if I wasn’t using a mobility aid at the time of saying it, and it’s a word I won’t use to self-refer around other people with disabilities who are uncomfortable with that. If you’re not comfortable with the word, let me know!
I was flying from London Heathrow to Barcelona and back this weekend, or LHR and BCN for short - dating an aeroplane geek is starting to rub off.
The first part of my journey entailed getting myself, a backpack, a rather ill-advised shoulder bag, and two crutches from my university campus to the airport. Finding the bus stop was relatively easy, having skipped my seminar to get there, and at the bus stop stood a man, whom I asked whether my bus had gone past. It turned out we were waiting for the same bus… to the same airport… for the same aeroplane. This was somewhat convenient, and we had a pleasant linguistic discussion on the bus. That bus driver got 10/10 for being patient with me juggling my crutches to find my wallet, and saying he’d wait to start the bus until I was ready. It started, stopped, started again etcetera, picking up and dropping off passengers until I reached LHR. There, said nice man from bus stop offered to take my shoulder bag. A backpack on crutches, is, for me, manageable, but when packing I didn’t think about how challenging a shoulder bag might prove to be. The nice man from the bus took my bag til I’d been through checkin, and then returned it to me, it proved somewhat easier to handle without the backpack as well. However, checkin was when the serious problem struck - Heathrow had no record of my request for accessibility support. I was told “I’m sure it can be arranged now if you need it”, but I had the nice man from the bus there and felt like a dick, and had the whole thing about not being disabled enough. I need a crutch to get around most days now, but not all, and some days I need two crutches, so I felt like a wheelchair was overkill and decided to manage without. Had the access been arranged, I’d have accepted it with relief but asking a person face to face for it was a bit much.
I hopped to the gate at a painstaking pace, where the plane was a bus ride away. They put me on the first bus first, meaning I was the last to get off, and by ‘get off’ I mean ‘almost fall off and be caught by the nice man from the bus’ - an experience I was uncomfortable with, feeling I’d rather have caught myself or fallen than been grabbed like that. I was relieved however that the stairs were mostly empty by the time I attempted them - stairs are so much easier without someone behind me. However, half way up the next bus arrived and spilled out, and I was glad to make it up the slippery metal stairs in one piece.
Boarding onto the plane they’d put me one row from the back in the window seat, and not allowed me to change that on their site when I checked in the night before, because they’d ‘allocated me a seat suitable for my access requirements’ - which I clearly had sorted out then. Getting down the aisle was a bit of a challenge - me plus two crutches was somewhat wider than the space between the seats, and I couldn’t swing through the crutches, which made me pretty uncomfortable after all the walking I’d done. Still, I got there, had my crutches placed, and got through to my seat. I’d really wanted a seat on the left aisle, so my right leg could be bent and stretched out every now and then to prevent stiffening, so a window seat with the woman in front having reclined her chair wasn’t ideal. Thankfully, the seat between me and the aisle seat was empty, so I had some stretching space.
When I reached BCN I was told firmly to stay put, whilst they attached the lift and got the wheelchair. Seems pretty clear that my access requirements had in fact been processed at BCN and they were ready for me. I proceeded slowly back down the aisle once the plane was empty, bursting for the toilet. I hopped into the lift, and got firmly plonked into a chair, and it started descending. They ascertained that I was in fact me, and whisked me off through a rather speedy security, talking at me in rather fast Spanish. A repetition of “no hablo español” was effective enough and we resorted to pointing at signs to work out that after the speedy security I needed to collect hold luggage. Despite the rather brisk speed that the Spanish man wheeled me at, it took a while for me to get everywhere and by the time I reached the baggage collection point it was pretty much empty. The assistant got my bag for me, and got me to my boyfriend, and then to the lift towards the taxis, at which point I escaped the chair, returned to my trusty (Spanish) crutches and headed down in the lift. I sped to the toilet, then Giles and I left the airport. I hadn’t enjoyed being wheeled one bit, it was just… really uncomfortable, but I didn’t have the language to ask if I could wheel myself.
The Saturday was my whole day in Barcelona, and we did a lot of food shopping in the morning, which exhausted me. In the afternoon we went to a huge shopping centre (Diagonal Mar) where I borrowed a wheelchair, to see if it would make life easier. It did, and I had the paradigm shift of “shopping isn’t meant to hurt”. Wheeling myself felt empowering, and I finished a trip shopping with barely any pain, something new.
Having been so empowered by the self-wheeling round the shopping centre, back at BCN to fly back, where my assistance was safely booked again, Giles persuaded my assistant to let me wheel myself, or so he thought. I said goodbye to him and she let me wheel myself to the security machine (maybe five metres). I walked through that (note to security assistants: just because I’m walking funny doesn’t mean I want to hold your hand while I walk) and it was back in the chair. I wheeled myself for maybe another five metres before she decided I was far too slow and it’d be “easier” if she pushed. Ignoring my protests, that was what happened, and I was taken to the gate where she parked me with the admonishment not to “move an inch”. There I stayed, until boarding the plane, again being pushed, and again hopping down the aisle. This time, I checked in at the airport however, and managed to change my seat to the coveted aisle seat, still right at the back - any aisle seat further forward was long gone.
The flight went fine, and when we landed I let the people sitting beside me out first, whilst checking the time of the buses back to campus - one an hour and the last one was in two hours. I was asked “can you manage steps”, and presuming no other option, nodded. Having got down the aisle, a different member of cabin crew told me to sit at the front while the lift was organised and attached. I thanked her gratefully, I was tired and stiff and the steps out of planes are particularly awkward. However, the first member of cabin crew insisted that I could manage steps, and took my bag to help whilst I went to the bus back to terminal. There, there was a brief fight between two passengers as to who would get to give up their seat for me, awkwardly, but I sat. On getting off the bus, I was asked by security if I had a wheelchair booked. Relieved, I said “yes”, and sat where I was told, only to find five minutes later that there was no such chair booked, and that it could be arranged but he was sure I was able to manage. I can’t remember the exact wording but the attitude was one of I looked fine, so I would be fine. I slowly dragged myself through the terminal, got my bag, reached the train, and made it to my bus, where I came back to campus.
In summation, BCN 1, LHR 0
My experiences flying as a crutches user who had access booked… or thought he did
When I call myself a cripple, I do so in a flippant fashion, in a reclaiming fashion. It’s not a word I’d use if I wasn’t using a mobility aid at the time of saying it, and it’s a word I won’t use to self-refer around other people with disabilities who are uncomfortable with that. If you’re not comfortable with the word, let me know!
I was flying from London Heathrow to Barcelona and back this weekend, or LHR and BCN for short - dating an aeroplane geek is starting to rub off.
The first part of my journey entailed getting myself, a backpack, a rather ill-advised shoulder bag, and two crutches from my university campus to the airport. Finding the bus stop was relatively easy, having skipped my seminar to get there, and at the bus stop stood a man, whom I asked whether my bus had gone past. It turned out we were waiting for the same bus… to the same airport… for the same aeroplane. This was somewhat convenient, and we had a pleasant linguistic discussion on the bus. That bus driver got 10/10 for being patient with me juggling my crutches to find my wallet, and saying he’d wait to start the bus until I was ready. It started, stopped, started again etcetera, picking up and dropping off passengers until I reached LHR. There, said nice man from bus stop offered to take my shoulder bag. A backpack on crutches, is, for me, manageable, but when packing I didn’t think about how challenging a shoulder bag might prove to be. The nice man from the bus took my bag til I’d been through checkin, and then returned it to me, it proved somewhat easier to handle without the backpack as well. However, checkin was when the serious problem struck - Heathrow had no record of my request for accessibility support. I was told “I’m sure it can be arranged now if you need it”, but I had the nice man from the bus there and felt like a dick, and had the whole thing about not being disabled enough. I need a crutch to get around most days now, but not all, and some days I need two crutches, so I felt like a wheelchair was overkill and decided to manage without. Had the access been arranged, I’d have accepted it with relief but asking a person face to face for it was a bit much.
I hopped to the gate at a painstaking pace, where the plane was a bus ride away. They put me on the first bus first, meaning I was the last to get off, and by ‘get off’ I mean ‘almost fall off and be caught by the nice man from the bus’ - an experience I was uncomfortable with, feeling I’d rather have caught myself or fallen than been grabbed like that. I was relieved however that the stairs were mostly empty by the time I attempted them - stairs are so much easier without someone behind me. However, half way up the next bus arrived and spilled out, and I was glad to make it up the slippery metal stairs in one piece.
Boarding onto the plane they’d put me one row from the back in the window seat, and not allowed me to change that on their site when I checked in the night before, because they’d ‘allocated me a seat suitable for my access requirements’ - which I clearly had sorted out then. Getting down the aisle was a bit of a challenge - me plus two crutches was somewhat wider than the space between the seats, and I couldn’t swing through the crutches, which made me pretty uncomfortable after all the walking I’d done. Still, I got there, had my crutches placed, and got through to my seat. I’d really wanted a seat on the left aisle, so my right leg could be bent and stretched out every now and then to prevent stiffening, so a window seat with the woman in front having reclined her chair wasn’t ideal. Thankfully, the seat between me and the aisle seat was empty, so I had some stretching space.
When I reached BCN I was told firmly to stay put, whilst they attached the lift and got the wheelchair. Seems pretty clear that my access requirements had in fact been processed at BCN and they were ready for me. I proceeded slowly back down the aisle once the plane was empty, bursting for the toilet. I hopped into the lift, and got firmly plonked into a chair, and it started descending. They ascertained that I was in fact me, and whisked me off through a rather speedy security, talking at me in rather fast Spanish. A repetition of “no hablo español” was effective enough and we resorted to pointing at signs to work out that after the speedy security I needed to collect hold luggage. Despite the rather brisk speed that the Spanish man wheeled me at, it took a while for me to get everywhere and by the time I reached the baggage collection point it was pretty much empty. The assistant got my bag for me, and got me to my boyfriend, and then to the lift towards the taxis, at which point I escaped the chair, returned to my trusty (Spanish) crutches and headed down in the lift. I sped to the toilet, then Giles and I left the airport. I hadn’t enjoyed being wheeled one bit, it was just… really uncomfortable, but I didn’t have the language to ask if I could wheel myself.
The Saturday was my whole day in Barcelona, and we did a lot of food shopping in the morning, which exhausted me. In the afternoon we went to a huge shopping centre (Diagonal Mar) where I borrowed a wheelchair, to see if it would make life easier. It did, and I had the paradigm shift of “shopping isn’t meant to hurt”. Wheeling myself felt empowering, and I finished a trip shopping with barely any pain, something new.
Having been so empowered by the self-wheeling round the shopping centre, back at BCN to fly back, where my assistance was safely booked again, Giles persuaded my assistant to let me wheel myself, or so he thought. I said goodbye to him and she let me wheel myself to the security machine (maybe five metres). I walked through that (note to security assistants: just because I’m walking funny doesn’t mean I want to hold your hand while I walk) and it was back in the chair. I wheeled myself for maybe another five metres before she decided I was far too slow and it’d be “easier” if she pushed. Ignoring my protests, that was what happened, and I was taken to the gate where she parked me with the admonishment not to “move an inch”. There I stayed, until boarding the plane, again being pushed, and again hopping down the aisle. This time, I checked in at the airport however, and managed to change my seat to the coveted aisle seat, still right at the back - any aisle seat further forward was long gone.
The flight went fine, and when we landed I let the people sitting beside me out first, whilst checking the time of the buses back to campus - one an hour and the last one was in two hours. I was asked “can you manage steps”, and presuming no other option, nodded. Having got down the aisle, a different member of cabin crew told me to sit at the front while the lift was organised and attached. I thanked her gratefully, I was tired and stiff and the steps out of planes are particularly awkward. However, the first member of cabin crew insisted that I could manage steps, and took my bag to help whilst I went to the bus back to terminal. There, there was a brief fight between two passengers as to who would get to give up their seat for me, awkwardly, but I sat. On getting off the bus, I was asked by security if I had a wheelchair booked. Relieved, I said “yes”, and sat where I was told, only to find five minutes later that there was no such chair booked, and that it could be arranged but he was sure I was able to manage. I can’t remember the exact wording but the attitude was one of I looked fine, so I would be fine. I slowly dragged myself through the terminal, got my bag, reached the train, and made it to my bus, where I came back to campus.
In summation, BCN 1, LHR 0