One More Step

by Bonner Paddock

  Bonner Paddock, you are an Ironman. Force away the pain. Fight your fight. One more step. You are an Ironman.

  At the turn down Palani, a crowd of blue cowboy hats greeted me with cheers that swelled my heart. I came to the final aid station, where I grabbed a quick drink of water.

  As I made my way toward Alii Drive and the chute to the finish, more and more people patted me on the back, urging me forward. Their touch startled and unsettled me, and for a brief stretch I accelerated, feeling as if I were being chased. I’d left sanity behind long ago on the Queen K.

  Then came the turn onto Alii Drive. My close friend Fitzy handed me a foam cowboy hat and passed me the blue OM Foundation flag as I swept into the chute lined on both sides with hundreds of spectators. They banged ThunderStix together to a steady beat and hollered and clapped and cheered.

  Force away the pain. Fight your fight. One more step.

  The bright lights of the finish were straight ahead. The roar from the crowd sounded like one long roll of thunder. All the weariness, all the pain drained away.

  We did it! We did it! We did it!

  “You are the man, Bonner!” someone yelled as I passed. I cracked my first smile in hours. Twenty-two minutes before midnight, I came down the final stretch. This is happening. It’s actually happening.

  Suddenly I found myself jumping and hopping and smiling and pumping my fist. I leapt, sidestepped, high-stepped, hollered, and stomped, total euphoria overcoming me like nothing I have ever known. I cried. I laughed. I pumped my fist again, raised my flag overhead, and crossed the finish line at last.

  “Bonner Paddock, Newport Coast, California. You are an Ironman! Look out!” Reilly cheered over the loudspeakers, the clock reading sixteen hours, thirty-eight minutes. “Are you happy? Or what?” He slapped me on the arm in congratulation. “There he is. The only man to ever finish this race with cerebral palsy. Bonner has cerebral palsy. He battles it every day, but he just finished Ironman.”

  Right ahead of me stood Welchy, a big smile on his face. I staggered toward him and fell into his outstretched arms. My cowboy hat fell off. My legs gave out. But Welchy braced me.

  “It’s over. You did it,” he said, holding me tight. “Well done, mate.”

  Tears coming down my face, I said. “No. We did it. We did it.”

  In victory, Welchy raised my left arm high into the air.

  “One more time for Bonner Paddock,” Reilly reveled. “You are an Ironman. Wow.”

  Photo Section

  Baby Bonner.

  With my chicken legs in all their glory.

  My family and a neighborhood friend. Top row: Mike, Dad, Mom. Bottom row: Me, Matt, and family friend.

  On the night before his death, Jake with his father Steve’s marathon medal. Photo by Alison Robert.

  Giving Bompa the African stone necklace before leaving for Kilimanjaro.

  The children of the Usa River School gave me hope during some of the darkest hours of the climb.

  Team Kilimanjaro, including documentary crew and guides. My guide, Minja, is on the bottom row, far right. Photo by Nancy A. Sinclair.

  These braces were the only way I could survive climbing Kili.

  Base Camp before the daunting Barranco Wall, seen here on the far right of the mountain. Photo by Shirley “Turtle” Ala.

  Day Five of the climb, with Paul and Dilly behind me, my support team every step of the way.

  Dilly “bronzing” in the sun.

  Summit morning. Dazed and exhausted before the final push upwards.

  After a grueling night, I made it to the rooftop of Africa.

  Celebrating after the summit. Photo by Shirley “Turtle” Ala.

  With Ashley, one of my foundation’s leading lights. Photo by Shane Reichardt.

  Dr. Aminian (on right) has been an invaluable partner in helping spread the OM Foundation’s work.

  With Michael Clarke Duncan, narrator of my documentary.

  Juliana before her double amputation surgery. Photo by Joan Coleman.

  Preoperative exam of Juliana by Dr. Aminian

  Juliana getting fitted for her new prosthetics.

  At the center in Africa the foundation helped build, Juliana walks. Photo by Joan Coleman.

  My trainer Greg LeFever (left) and my Yoda master (Greg Welch).

  With Jakey’s brothers Brady and Cody and cousin Daly at my final training race for Ironman. Photo by Alison Robert.

  At Crystal Cove with Mike for my final training swim. This was the same ocean Bompa swam everyday. Photo by Michelle Rodriguez.

  Mike on the day before Ironman race, setting up my gear. Reuniting with my brother got me through two years of arduous training.

  Go time. 5 a.m. race day. Image courtesy of E-PR.

  With Kevin Robson at the start, both nervous and eager. Image courtesy of E-PR.

  Swim done. Now 112 miles on the bike. Preparing. Photo by Jesse Brewer.

  The Blue Hat Army, 125 strong, supported me every step. Image courtesy of E-PR.

  With Bill Ruddel of Cannondale and 4-time Ironman World Champion Chrissie Wellington.

  My close friend Jesse Brewer urging me onward at the start of the marathon. Photo by Jesse Brewer.

  A high-ten and hug with Kevin Robson. Many miles still to run. Photo by Jesse Brewer.

  My jump-dance across the finish line, 22 minutes before the cutoff. Image courtesy of E-PR.

  Welchy was the first to greet me at the finish. Image courtesy of E-PR.

  In the medical tent with Ironman race director Diana Bertsch.

  With Dad, Mike, and Matt the day after the race. Image courtesy of E-PR.

  Welchy and I came back to watch the 2013 Ironman World Championship.

  My sleep companions for 1.5 years of training and recovery.

  At Oakley’s headquarters for the launch of my signature eyewear. Photo by Shane Reichardt.

  The children at the Faraja School in Tanzania supported by the foundation.

  With Dr. Aminian and a member of the Arpan medical team, meeting with staff at the Faraja School.

  Jake’s gravesite is adorned with dozens of marathon medals to celebrate his life and lasting inspiration.

  My biggest supporters, the Robert family. Photo by Alison Robert.

  Jake’s family at Orange County marathon supporting the OM Foundation.

  EPILOGUE

  One Man, One Mission.

  Moments after the finish, Welchy and a pair of Ironman volunteers pulled me toward the medical tent. Halfway there, Mike hopped a nearby barrier and helped haul me inside. His face was pure, raw emotion, doing the same kind of somersaults between joy and worry and relief that my body had crossing the line.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Mike said, tears streaming down his face.

  “This is for both of us,” I muttered as they lowered me onto a makeshift stretcher. “For everybody.”

  “You did it,” Mike said. “You’re an Ironman!”

  We grasped hands, and then, after another second of triumphant elation, my body crumbled in on itself. My limbs shook. My teeth chattered. My eyes refused to focus.

  “Where’s Dr. Bob?” I mumbled, worried about what was happening to me.

  Another doctor began speaking quietly to me. I couldn’t understand his words and put my hands over my face, withered with exhaustion. Someone brought my hands down and crossed my arms over my chest. Another elevated my feet and put a foil blanket over me.

  Dr. Bob threaded through the tent toward me. In the mellow voice of a man who had seen every weakness of the human body revealed in the wake of Ironman’s extreme punishment, he said, “Hi, Bonner. Congratulations. We have been waiting for you. Congratulations.”

  After those brief words, a flush of relief overcame me. “Thanks for believing in me.”

  “It’s impossible not to believe in you,” Dr. Bob said.

  Under his guidance, the Ironman’s medical team took my blood pressure, monitored my heart rate, and administered a f
ew tests. They asked some questions to see if I was delirious. I certainly was. Once they removed my shoes, the pain returned. The bottoms of my feet looked as though someone had taken a cheese grater to them. Bright spots of light flashed across my eyes. Everywhere there was a searing, unstoppable pain. I felt as though I had gone five hundred rounds with Muhammad Ali and lost every damn one of them but the last.

  To calm down, I forced myself to suck in air through my nose and expel it out my mouth. Mike kept a hand on my shoulder to ease me as well. A few minutes after they inserted a second bag of IV drip into my arm, my body settled. Occasional bursts of pain overcame me, stealing my breath and making my face tighten. But slowly these dissipated, and I recovered enough to speak again.

  Turning to Mike, I asked, “Did you see my finish-line dance?”

  Mike shook his head yes. He wiped a tear from his face and, through a clenched throat, said, “I’m so emotional.”

  A nurse stopped beside me. “Looking good. You’re getting color back.”

  “I hear they’re serving martinis in here,” I joked before my tortured feet sent another jolt of pain splitting through my skull.

  Over the next two hours, I remained on the stretcher, the words, “We did it. We did it,” passing my lips over and over, as if I didn’t quite believe them. Welchy and his wife stayed at my side a while. My dad and brother Matt stopped by for a hug and a cheer as well. After taking in two whole IV bags, I felt strong enough to sit up and then, after a few minutes, stand. My shoes were a mess, so Mike gave me his flip-flops and went barefoot himself. Leaning heavily on his arm and shoulder, I staggered from the tent, my Ironman journey complete at last.

  Many months after Hawaii, my body continued to suffer the consequences of the triathlon. I wore orthopedic boots every night to heal my feet. Muscle spasms gripped my body. Numbness permeated my toes. And on the inside, blood levels and the like remained a mess. Even after a year, an attempt to do a short jog and light workout with weights left me almost incapacitated for days. My doctors expected it might take me three to five years to recover completely, and that was not even a guarantee. This diagnosis was sure proof of how close to the edge I had come.

  Thankfully, the healing process with my family proved much smoother. After Kona, Mike and I were closer than we had been at any point in our lives. Even though we no longer had the crucible of the Ironman to bring us together, we looked to each other every day still for support—and companionship. It was amazing to think that in many ways he was now my best friend.

  Through the course of Ironman, I came to realize that a lot of the damage in our relationship had come because we simply did not accept each other for who we were, faults and all. Further, I understood that in the past I had seen his absence from my life as a statement that he did not want me in his own, instead of considering that he might have had personal challenges that kept us at a distance. This might not sound like rocket science, but for a long time it was for me. This same new understanding brought me much closer to my father and spurred me to take the first steps to reconcile with my mother.

  Six months after Ironman, I reached out to her for the first time in years. We met at a little vegan place on the Pacific Coast Highway for breakfast. On my approach, she smiled and then shuffled toward me for a big hug. Waiting in line to order, she told me of her church, her house, her neighbors—anything but the reason why we had not spoken really since Bompa’s death. At the table outside, overlooking the ocean, I told her about my work, my foundation—again, anything but the heart of the matter.

  At last, thirty minutes into our breakfast, I explained how my climb of Kilimanjaro, my Ironman journey, had forced me to take a look at myself, and my upbringing, and come to terms with it, both the good and the bad and the in-between.

  “I’m the happiest I’ve ever been now,” I said. “All the stuff that’s happened between us, regardless of who was right or wrong, I want to get past it. I apologize for my part in our relationship breaking down, and I want you in my life again if you’re open to it.”

  “I was waiting for that,” she replied. “Now we can move on.”

  No apology came from her end, nor did I need one anymore. She was my mom. I would never walk away from her again, but I hoped one day she would do her own soul-searching so that we could be close in the way Mike and I had become. The breakfast was a start though.

  After Kona, my mother, and pretty much every single person I met, asked me the same question: “What’s next?” Any fun-house mirror ambitions I might have had to push my body to its breaking point again, to trek across the Sahara, to summit Everest, to swim in Antarctica—whatever madness I could find—were well and truly gone. Any demons I might have had about my cerebral palsy, any need to show the world that I was normal no longer remained.

  I had a single purpose now: to support the building of centers across the world for children with disabilities. In Orange County, the one we had already supported was serving as a model for success, and the OM Foundation was partnering with Dr. Aminian to construct another center to serve more children with an even wider array of therapies. In Austin, with the leadership of Jake’s dad, Steve Robert (who was on the foundation’s board), we were hoping to break ground on another center. In Tanzania, we were also expanding our work, partnering with other organizations to bring relief to children abandoned by their families because of their disabilities as well as bringing surgeons over to provide life-changing surgeries similar to the one performed on Juliana.

  In August 2014, I journeyed again to Africa. Stepping onto the tarmac, I felt that now-familiar mix of excitement and unease, as if the ground underneath me was not quite solid. The fact was my previous trips had changed me, making me see myself and my purpose in life differently, and I sensed the same would happen yet again. It was in Tanzania that I had first come to realize that I could no longer continue to neglect embracing my CP as a fundamental part of who I was. It was there that I had found the calling to start my foundation.

  At the airport exit, a young man in his late twenties with a bright polo shirt, baggy pants, and sneakers waved a sign with my name on it. He introduced himself as Jabir, my driver for the week, then he quickly ushered me to his car. On the way to the hotel, we struck up a conversation, ranging from his country’s politics, to my climb of Kilimanjaro, to his family, to the reason for my trip this year, to his Muslim beliefs. After he helped me check in with the half-asleep hotel staff, I invited him to breakfast the next day before we set out.

  In the morning, he was already waiting at the table. We drove out to Machame Hospital on the slopes of Kilimanjaro where Dr. Aminian and a group of doctors had arrived several days before to begin surgeries and other procedures on children with disabilities—as well as instructing local doctors on the same to improve the overall level of care in the area. Jabir was intently curious about our work, and between my explanations, I drew out of him stories about his two young children, and his wife who he had met in this area. While courting her, he used to walk for hours through the bush to see her for just a few moments before returning all the way home.

  Once at Machame, Jabir waited in the car as I met the hospital staff and patients with Dr. Aminian. In their short time in Tanzania, the crew of doctors had performed numerous amputations and corrective gait surgeries. They advised on physical therapy, heart defects, and high-risk pregnancies. They returned sight to five people who were medically blind and aided others to walk again. At the end of each day at the hospital, Jabir peppered me with questions, curious about the patients and their lives, which were both very much the same and yet very different from that of his own healthy kids.

  After some days at the hospital, Jabir drove Dr. Aminian and me along a remote dirt road to the Faraja School. Started by the Tolmies, a retired American couple, the school provided a safe refuge for disabled children. Like the Usa River School, it was a place I hoped to assist in caring for their young charges. This time, I invited Jabir to come along with me on
my tour. At first he was hesitant with the children, but soon he eased and then started acting as my translator, part of the team. When the children learned I had climbed Kilimanjaro, their eyes always seemed to drift to my legs in wonder that I could have done such a thing.

  On the way to one classroom, Jabir and I crossed paths with a boy whose CP left him only able to spin the wheels of his wheelchair with the back of one hand (because of the spasticity in his limbs). The way he moved with such calm and resolute will reminded me of how much strength these kids had inside of them. Later Dr. Aminian called me into a therapy room where a teenage boy was being examined. Jabir joined me to translate.

  Growing up, this boy had been burned severely in an accident. Doctors had amputated his left leg halfway down the shin, and he was barely ambulatory on his other leg. The trouble was he was growing, and the bone in his left leg was pushing out through the stump of his amputation (because the burned skin was not elastic enough). This left him in constant excruciating pain, and Dr. Aminian suggested a surgery to relieve his distress. At Machame, it would cost sixty dollars.

  As I reached for my wallet, Jabir had already produced his own, forcing ten dollars into my hand. I told him to keep it, but Jabir insisted. Added with money of my own, this boy would get his surgery. It amazed me that only sixty dollars could dramatically change a life for the better. It amazed me more that Jabir would contribute money of his own (ten dollars was no small sum for his family).