By Lisa Levitt Ryckman
Denver Rocky Mountain News Staff Writer

COLORADO SPRINGS -- Put Allison Jones at the top of a mountain, and she will conquer it.

But sixth grade was uphill all the way.

Allison Jones, who is National Disabled Junior Champion in skiing and cycling, sits in the basement bedroom she shares with her boa constrictor Hobie.

That year, Allison was suspended five times and put in detention nearly every week for fighting.

"Self-defense," she explains.

That means when other kids pushed, Allison pushed back. When they knocked her down and took her wallet, she picked herself up and slugged them.

They thought Allison was an easy target because she has one leg.

They forgot she still has two good fists.

And Allison insisted on using them. She insists on using every able part of her disabled body. That is her life and her future, and it has made her a champion.

Allison, 15, was born without a thigh bone in her right leg. Proximal femoral focal deficiency -- even Allison stumbles over the words after all these years.

When she was 9 months old, doctors amputated the fully developed foot on that leg so she could be fitted with a prosthesis. At 11 months, she got her first leg.

"My mom told me I could not be babied," Allison says. "Because that's what other parents tend to do with someone who's deformed. My mom said, 'No. you're a normal kid. Grow up normal.' So I did."

Allison started skiing when she was 5, part of her mother Diane's quest for a sport that she and both her daughters could enjoy.

Allison couldn't keep up on bikes. They all liked to hike, but Allison couldn't walk that far. Five blocks or less, two miles at the outside. Allison liked rock-climbing, but younger sister Haley didn't.

So Diane took her daughters up to Winter Park, put Allison on one ski and pushed her down the bunny slope.

At that moment, skiing became the great equalizer -- but only temporarily.

Because Allison got good -- very good.

"I was having fun, right up until they told me, you can't ski with us anymore. You've learned everything and we can't teach you anymore," Allison says. "I was beating my instructor. So they took me over to the competition center."

She was 8.

Now Allison is National Disabled Junior Champion in both skiing and cycling, a sport she took up in June. She cycles on one leg. She skis on one leg.

She wants to compete in the disabled Olympics as a member of the U.S. cycling and ski teams, a goal within reach for someone with her talent.

She likes the outdoor sports she can do alone, ones that take her someplace.

"I don't like tennis," Allison says. "Tennis, you're going nowhere. I want to move. I want speed."

Allison possesses a courage that borders on the compulsive.

"My sister got Rollerblades for Christmas once. I asked my mom why I didn't get them. She said, 'Because I don't think you can do it."'

Allison strapped on Haley's skates and proved she could. The next day, she had her own Rollerblades.

"From there on, I'd show them I can do everything, and I do everything I can."

She has grown up fast, partly because skiing is an adult sport that has put her in adult company. And partly because of the cruelty of children.

"My mom, the first thing she taught me in kindergarten is, you've got to ignore it," Allison says.

There is no trace of pain in her voice or eyes when she talks about years of taunts. Names could never hurt her.

"I got into arguments in elementary school when the teachers weren't looking. Mom didn't care as long as I put it behind me and didn't come crying to her. I never did. Never."

Allison and her mom and sister live in a corner house in Colorado Springs. Allison's bedroom is the big one in the basement.

She swings herself downstairs, supporting herself on the handrails. This is a teen-age disaster area. Her bike is here. Easter baskets full of medals fill her closet. She likes Star Trek and snakes -- Hobie, her rosy-tailed boa, lazes in his terrarium.

Last year's leg lies on the floor.

"Feel this," Allison says, balancing its heft in her hands. The prosthesis is covered with colorful cartoony dinosaurs, and it's heavy.

"This one isn't much lighter," Allison says, pulling off her current prosthesis the way other people might remove a shoe. Quick, easy, no big deal. This one, adorned with Mickey Mouse, needs to be replaced.

She digs through her closet and comes up with another leg, one about the length of her arm.

"I had this one when I was about 3," she says. It is straight and stiff, no knee joint and just the hint of toes on the tiny foot. The leg of a doll.

Allison has had to replace her prosthesis every six to nine months her whole entire life, although she's had the one she's wearing for more than a year.

Replacements mean a trip to Dallas, where a man can create in a week a leg that fits Allison's unusual stump. He is a double amputee himself, so he understands the complexities.

Allison's mother is a physical therapist, so she understands many of the problems her daughter experiences because of her leg -- ankle, knee and hip problems on the other leg, back problems.

Allison's body gives her constant discomfort -- something she has learned to ignore -- but her mother doesn't try to fix it.

"She's taught herself to be a mom, not a physical therapist," Allison says. "'Cause when I was younger, she tried to critique me on everything, on how to walk. And I got rebellious, and I hated her for a long time.

"Till she realized what she was doing and stopped it. She realized I liked it better when she was just my mom."

In Allison's perfect world, the able-bodied would have respect for the disabled. And the disabled would have respect for themselves.

"People are becoming too dependent on other people," she says. "They're becoming too dependent on technology. You see all these mechanical wheelchairs. You see people using all these gizmos and gadgets so that they can get around their house. And they've lost all their physical abilities.

"You've got the vans with the wheelchair where they pop you in and out. You've got to be able to pull yourself into a van when you're really trying to go somewhere."

Allison has always relied on herself, and she believes she is stronger for it. She's never come home crying to Mom. Never.

"One day going to rock climbing, I skateboarded down to the bus stop," Allison says. "And this guy said, 'I'm sorry for what happened to you.' And I said, 'No need to be sorry. I'm going to live life to the fullest."'

December 26, 1999

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