The strong wind coming off Lake Michigan makes it difficult to pin bib number 771 to my new Fishtown 5K T-shirt. I struggle to connect it with 4 tiny safety pins without poking myself. I am relaxed, sitting on a curb next to my bike while I watch racers stretch, run in place, and otherwise prepare for the big race. I am at ease, unfazed by the elaborate preparations of most of the 800 other people, as I wait for my daughter and her boyfriend to arrive in a white van, escorted through the throngs to a handicap space down by the marina.
The evening before, we had dinner in Leland together and went down to Fishtown to catch the sunset. My daughter’s boyfriend recently suffered a spinal cord injury while snowboarding with his cousin. This accident occurred in February of this year and left him without the use of his body below his chest. Fortunately, he has limited use of his arms and can bend his elbows and move his biceps. Sadly, no use of his triceps yet. This makes it difficult to push his wheelchair. His hands fail to grasp, and he is unable to bend his fingers.
“I wonder if it’s too late to participate in the 5k?” He said as he saw the signs promoting the race.
I asked if he was serious, and if so, we could most definitely get him registered.
“I’d like to try it.”
Who am I to try and dissuade him from once again pushing boundaries? I know this course and know it to involve a very big hill coming up Pearl Street from Neadow’s Bay past the Leland Lodge. In my head, I tried to picture him feebly pushing himself up that hill. I wanted desperately to support his efforts and thought my daughter would have a hard time pushing him up the hill if he couldn’t power himself.
I said, “I will come down early in the morning to get you registered under the condition that I will be there with you just in case.”
“Sure, you’re welcome to join us.”
His manual chair only arrived weeks earlier and the extant of his movement has been around his kitchen island and to and from the van. He had never gone any long distances and had never attempted any hill let alone the several he would face in the morning. I figured I would need plenty of sleep if I was going to push him up any of those hills.
Once he decided he was going to attempt this gnarly course, something switched in his demeanor. Something resembling determination. He pushed from the loose gravel to the newly installed ramp in Fishtown and struggled with the transition. My daughter instinctively reached for the handles of his chair to get him going.
“Don’t help.” He said, “I’m training for a 5k.”
This man is an extreme athlete and formerly would have been unaware of the runners getting into position and most certainly would have been out on the big lake with his friends kite surfing in this very strong wind. So removed from the pedantic sport of running, his passions ran to pushing boundaries, both physical and harnessing the natural elements.
The van pulls up and is escorted to the special parking space. I rush over with his Fishtown 5k T-shirt, bib, and 4 safety pins. My daughter got him out of the van and pinned “769” onto his own shirt. The Fishtown shirt would have taken too long, and the race would begin in a few minutes.
Racers were lined up by expected time for each mile. 8-minute milers, 10-minute milers, etc., until the very end, which was reserved for walkers. Here amidst the strollers, toddlers, friends with dogs on leashes, he wheeled himself into position.
There was no crack of the starter’s pistol; the beginning represented an amorphous blob of bibs pushing up the first hill from the marina parking lot to the street. Sebastian struggled up this first hill, and I was glad that I was there for when he needed me to push him part of the way. We made it up the first hill after careening from one side of the road to the other as he quickly learned how to adjust for the camber of the road. Roads are designed to shed water to either side, which is invisible to most people, but for him, pushing himself, it became yet another obstacle in this adventure.
As we approached the one-mile mark, my daughter and I could see the fatigue manifesting on his face. She offered to help for a little while so that he could rest.
In the nicest way possible, he said, “If I need your help, I will ask for it.”
I took note and settled into my stride ten feet behind his chair. He was moving smoothly yet slowly, no longer drifting from one side of the road to the other. The dogs were 100 feet in front of us, and a few strollers were still behind us.
Neighbors were out in front of their houses cheering for the runners. Some played music, others offered water, and all were very encouraging. The encouragement for Sebastian was every bit as enthusiastic as for those in the front of the pack.
As we rounded one corner about halfway through, I could hear the theme from Rocky. It seemed so appropriate. The man playing the music wore a cowboy hat and was jumping up and down as we approached; he offered a fist bump for Sebastian, which he obliged. This led to a straightaway before a steep downhill with a sharp curve. I know this hill well. I had fallen on my backside multiple times this winter on the ice and snow going down this hill.
I relayed this intel and suggested he let us help. He eschewed our offer and said, “Let me try.” He did it.
At about two and a quarter miles, we hit the hill I had most feared for him. Pearl Street. He attacked the hill in stride and started to slow about halfway up. His arms trembled from exhaustion. I gave a concerned look to my daughter. I could tell that he was in his own private hell, but he is a fighter, and we just watched.
I can’t express the great restraint it took not to help. Towards the last, steepest part, forward movement became impossible. His slow pace and the hill’s resistance were not an equal match, and the hill was winning. His chair shot towards the side of the road, to which he had to put on the brakes. He regrouped and once again made forward movement up the hill. This happened about four more times, until he reached the top, where there was much rejoicing.
He wasn’t done yet. There was an equally steep descent down a seasonal road and across M22 before reaching the finish line. At this point, I was a believer. I knew that he could finish unassisted. I can’t believe I ever doubted him.
The race official appeared on bicycle to escort us in to the finish line. The fire department blocked traffic on the highway and provided a safe crossing. Sebastian kept going. The finish line was in sight. It was an empty section of Fishtown overlooking the marina on high ground. There were no supporters there to cheer; it was anticlimactic in some ways and perfect in other ways. This was his private challenge. It was fitting that it was his private finish as well.
One hour and 19 minutes of 100% effort and determination. This race which is almost laughable to real runners. 5k’s are like mini races, a warm-up for their real run. But for Sebastian, this was a marathon. I knew that he doesn’t back away from challenges, and he is learning to recalibrate what those challenges are.
“That’s one,” I said. “Now we have a baseline.”
I suspect next year he will take a full ten minutes or more off of his time. Which is not the important part, of course, but I can see him continue to break barriers and explore new ways to find challenges and overcome them. I have never been more proud. He is a fighter, and I love that about him.