HANDCYCLIST - Part 1: With The Walter Reed Warriors

I pulled up to the gatehouse at Walter Reed Medical Center where military guards were checking IDs and inspecting the cars ahead of me. I was unreasonably nervous.

Was it the intimidating presence of armed guards manning the military facility entrance? Was it the many unknowns of handcycles and handcycling that I was about to confront?

Or was I worried about being mistaken for a wounded veteran in a place crawling with them?

To be honest, it was all three.

I found a spot on the garage’s lower level, did the whole wheelchair transfer thing, and made my way up to the main lobby. I wasn’t sure who I was looking for exactly, but after a minute or two of wheeling around, I caught sight of a group outside—some in chairs, some not—milling around a fleet of handcycles.

I determined this was where I’d find my Achilles contact.

A week earlier, on a muggy August afternoon, I’d come home and found Mom focused at the kitchen table looking over something important.

She then stood ceremoniously and posed a question in a tone that said she already knew my answer.

“How would youuu…” She had prompted, pausing for effect. “How would youuu like to get in really good shape…while raising money for spinal cord research at the same time?”

Raise money? Get in shape? No hesitation.

“Yup!” I answered in a hurry.

“But you don’t know what—“

“That’s okay.” I said, scratching our dog Luke behind the ears. “Sign me up… Uh. What is it, anyway?”

As Mom grinned, I noticed an excited look in her eye that suggested she’d been looking into this for a while now and couldn’t wait to spill the beans. “Weeell…”

Mom then told me about Superman, The Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation, and an offer that was passed down by a good friend of hers who had connections there.

The Reeve Foundation, I learned, would grant me a slot in the upcoming 2008 Marine Corps Marathon and connect me with a handcycle on loan if I agreed to join “Team Reeve” and start a fundraising campaign for their spinal cord injury research.

All they asked was that I raise at least $1,500 before race day.

I would raise nearly twenty times that amount.

The following week I was on the Beltway, heading to Bethesda, Maryland, to pick up a bike.

The afternoon would change my life’s trajectory forever.

*   *   *

The Achilles Freedom Team of Wounded Warriors was back at Walter Reed to showcase the growing sport of handcycling to interested veterans in residence.

Before the demonstrations kicked off, I met the bubbly brunette named Genna, the Achilles Freedom Team director and my contact via the Team Reeve connections.

Genna welcomed me warmly and told me about what she and the Achilles Freedom Team has been doing since the program launched in 2004.

Next she introduced me to Mary Bryant, the taller and even more bubbly Vice President of Achilles International, the main organization that operates in 25 countries and has been transforming the lives of people with disabilities through athletics and social connections since 1983.

Together they showed me the fleet of three-wheeled handcycles, including the few they had in mind as my indefinite loaner.

After Mary addressed the veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan (and me) she introduced Genna and the rest of the Achilles staff, then gestured to a man sitting comfortably, I noticed, in his wheelchair off to the side.

He looked to be in his mid-40s—and seemed to be neither current Walter Reed resident nor Achilles staff.

“And last but not least,” Mary announced enthusiastically, “with us today we have Geoff Hopkins!”

This Geoff guy looked happy, excited, and, I noticed, in rather good shape. From the way he sat beside a bright orange handcycle that had caught my eye—it was clearly his.

Even without doing anything you could tell he knew what he was doing. I guessed he was a seasoned paraplegic as well.

“Geoff comes to us from the Paralyzed Veterans of America community.” Continued Mary Bryant, a striking ball of energy. “PVA for short! As the director of their handcycling program, PVA Racing, we’re super lucky to have him!”

And then Mary boomed, “Let’s hear it for Geoff! Woo!”

Applause broke out, Geoff nodded and waved—and I realized I’d been right.

*   *   *

The group broke up to begin fitting riders to handcycles according to body size, injury type, and the instinct of the Achilles professionals.

Unlike Geoff’s racing bike—which, for aerodynamic purposes, he rode lying nearly flat on his back inches from the ground—the Achilles cycles were recreational.

A beginner once too, Geoff happily and humbly advocated all the wonderful benefits of the upright, “rec” style cycles, doing so with an infectious, radiant love of the sport that was unmistakable in voice and smile.

Unlike a recumbent, the rider sits up straight, legs extended forward straddling the lone front wheel—except the gears and crank arms are in front of your torso, not above.

The gears and chain rings worked like a normal bike and it had a grip-shifter attached to the right-side crank arm.

When Geoff was called over to assist a young 20-something amputee, Genna swooped in with a tutorial on the cycle she’d been eyeing for me, including the How-To’s of shifting, and helped me transfer down onto the seat.

Feeling comfortable, I gave Genna the okay to grab my shoes and place my feet into the footholds and flashed her a thumbs-up once my ankles were secured by Velcro straps.

With a handful of warriors still needing help with mechanical issues, Mary then let whoever was ready go for a test ride with Geoff leading the way.

From the front entrance, the wide sidewalk circled around the main building under a terrace-style overhang that shaded us nicely from the brutal August sun.

It made for a great little rectangular loop; perfect for a bunch of first-time handcyclists.

Riding around me were half-a-dozen soldiers, all wounded in war. There was no question these guys had eerily familiar Type A personalities with parallel needs for speed and adrenaline…

So it was no surprise to see them go from practically zero to sixty behind Geoff.

Rounding the first right-hand corner, our pack let fly down the straightaway, gaining speed. Consciously aware that I was actually cycling with my hands, and free of my wheelchair, I smiled stupidly into the wind buffeting my face and chest.

I was hooked.

I had found something special, I thought, gearing down for the next right-turn.

Was it a purpose? I wondered. Something greater, more meaningful?

While far too soon to tell, I knew unequivocally that I had found a new passion for a sport I never knew had existed.

And it happened—Bam!—just like that!

*   *   *

After the Achilles crew double-checked everyone’s equipment, Geoff Hopkins ramped the demonstration up a notch and led us on a small campus tour.

In single file we crisscrossed Walter Reed, Geoff setting an easy pace on his flashy orange recumbent.

We traced around buildings big and small, cut between dormitories and houses, and hopped on an empty service road once the sidewalk ran out, where we fanned out as a pack before resuming our neat draft lines at the next sidewalk.

The flat route was quite conducive for testing the gears and acclimating to the grip-shifter and how she handled…

Until Geoff led us into a park that was anything but conducive.

Second in line and hot on Geoff’s tail, the sidewalk, without warning, abruptly dropped into the park, descending some fifty-yards to the bottom of the hill before ascending—just as abruptly—back up again on the far side.

It was fun and fast…but fatal to my focus. As green as could be I hit the ascent unprepared in  hefty gear that made cranking virtually impossible.

I twisted my right-hand grip in a hurry, hoping to shift in time—but it was too late.

I was already battling to turn the cranks a single revolution. My movement was nearly at a standstill—and movement is the critical component.

A single click of the shifter is nothing without a steady rotation of the crank arms to move and engage the bike chain, activate the wiring, and thus initiate gear change.

I was stuck.

*   *   *

Halfway up the hill, with a train of riders on my tail, I officially couldn’t move.

Meanwhile, Geoff had scaled the hill comfortably like a Nepalese Sherpa. This was literally a walk in the park for this guy! I thought.

Sensing something amiss, he looked back as I called out to him. “Hey! Yo, Geoff!” I hollered. “I’m stuck…between gears. What do I do?”

“Just muscle through it!” He yelled over his shoulder. “You gotta turn the cranks ‘till it engages the gears. You can do it!”

Then, with the seasoned sarcasm of the Army veteran that Geoff Hopkins was, in a louder voice he added, “I’ll just be up here… Ya know, waiting for you!”

Despite my predicament I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh gee, thaaaanks!”

Realizing there was no secret and that brute strength and determination was a lot of what handcycling was about—I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, and took Geoff’s advice, throwing every ounce of brute force and effort I could muster into those cranks.

Slowly, very slowly, the revolutions came, each turn feeling easier than the last until—Finally!— I heard it—the metallic grind of gears engaging.

As the chain settled on a more appropriate set of teeth for hill climbs, I felt a jolt of vitality and soon found myself beside Geoff—happily winded, chest heaving.

Geoff Hopkins rolled his head to the side and looked up with a mischievous grin. “I was wondering where you were. You good?”

“Took the scenic route!” I quipped. “Good now though. Let’s roll!”

Geoff and I lead the way back to where the sidewalk circled a lawn between the main medical center and the entrance gate.

Mary, Genna, and the Achilles crew were out front watching, ready to help with offloading as most of the wounded Walter Reed warriors called it a day. I did not.

I wanted more. I wanted to go faster, wanted to sweat, to push myself—to feel the rush a little longer.

So, I made about half-a-dozen more laps around the lawn, seeing how much speed I could muscle out before my own final pit-stop.

Geoff even joined me some until he was drawn back by his duties as the handcyclist here.

Sensing my need-for-speed, though, he had happily obliged and set a solid pace before calling it—one that made me work to keep up, and him probably yawn.

*   *   *

As the afternoon ended, the man with the stylish orange handcycle made an early exit. He was due to meet his wife, Heather, at the doctors.

They were expecting—and in a matter of months, Geoff would be a first-time father.

The joy in his eyes as he revealed this exciting news was electric.

Before he left, Geoff and I chatted more before he left, and as he packed up, we exchanged emails. For whatever reason, some four or five months would pass before I used it.

When I finally did, in hopes of finding a new cycling and training buddy, and Geoff came back with an invitation to train with his teammates—the trajectory of my life again changed.

The gear shift from “rec rider” to “racer” had been set in motion.

Our first ride together in D.C. at Hains Point would eventually become many in the months and years to come.

But, as I continue to write, it will soon become apparent that I didn’t simply find a new cycling and training buddy in Geoff Hopkins like I’d once hoped…

I found more.

I found a wealth of knowledge, a precious source for advice about all things related to wheelchairs, paraplegia, adaptive sports, handcycling, proper training, race tactics, equipment, and stuff about life and love sitting down.

In Geoff I found a mentor, a teammate, a confidant—but most importantly, a damn good friend.

You may be battling a boat load of BS—sickness, divorce, loss, a failure, a rejection—but you are not alone. Knowing this is paramount.

Whether you’ve persevered through adversity or you are fighting still—having a Geoff Hopkins who understands what you’re going through because they’ve been there, is for the transition out of trauma or tough times.

As they show you the ropes, and because their boat load of BS aligns with yours, they’ll help you realize that you truly aren’t alone and you will find your way faster.

Your rerouted life will straighten itself out sooner.

And somewhere along you’ll discover—as I have—happiness, friendship, purpose, and direction in ways you could have never imagined.

You’ll grow closer with each sarcastic jab and every corny joke…

You’ll start to smile…

And before you know it, with a guy like Geoff by your side, that crummy cloud darkening your skies and disrupting your life suddenly won’t seem so bad.