It was a cool Saturday morning, with the temperatures hovering around the 50° mark.  The sky was overcast and the slight wind made it feel a bit cooler.   Jeff and I previously registered for the Milton Harvest Festival Bike Race and were ready for a few hours of cycling this mid-September day.

The twenty eight mile road race would be a relative cake-walk compared to the ride we were on a couple of months ago.   We registered to participate and to see what it would be like to “race” vs. “ride”.

About an hour before the race, cyclists began to make their way into town to get ready for the event and to pick up their race numbers, timing chips, and a goody bag each racer was given for participating.

An estimated 200 racers participated.  Most of the riders were on teams associated with local businesses or college teams.  Like us, there were a number of participants who entered for the thrill of it or to say “I did it”.

The more serious racers were contending for points based upon their hopeful finish position.  At stake was a chance at prize money awarded at the end of the season for their participation in this event, as well as other events earlier in the season, and for events yet to come.

The hard core racers most likely would finish this event with times in the 1:10 to 1:20 minute range.  Jeff and I figured we would be in the 2 hour+ group when we would cross the finish line.

As we assembled at the starting line riders jockeyed for position.  Jeff and I decided to play it safe as we made our way to the back of the pack.  There was no use risking injury and we knew shortly after the race began we would never see the front-of-the-packers again.

The horn sounded and the local peloton was off – the race began.

A mile before the first hill I passed a young guy on a cruiser style bike (the kind you might rent at the beach).  He was trying his best and I yelled a word of encouragement to him as I passed on his left.  I later learned his name was Brandon.

About three miles into the race we met our first climb of the day – in short, the hill won!  It gassed us both and we walked our bikes to the top of the hill before getting back in the saddle.

I had told earlier Jeff if he needed to ride ahead of me to do so as his bike is suited for faster travel.  As the race continued, we cycled through the rolling countryside showing its early fall colors.

I could not get Brandon out of my mind.  He obviously had some form of disability yet decided to participate.

He had every reason not to participate, yet he did.   He decided to get in the game and give it his best try.

My guess was he was about 15 years old.  I later learned that this was the first time he ever competed or attempted something like this.  There was no doubt in my where he would finish in the race’s pecking order – Dead Last!

As I continued to ride the course I made my way up the second climb of the day, a one mile hill.

What goes up must come down!  I coasted down the subsequent descent on my way back to the finish line fourteen miles later.  I crossed the finish line with a time of 2:17 minutes, with all but four riders finishing ahead of me.

My time was slightly skewed as I stopped twice to assist a young gal whose chain came loose.  Jeff finished with a 2:01 minute time.

A few moments after I reconnected with Jeff, the last of the riders began to make their way across the finish line.  As each did, a round of applause greeted them from the crowd, as well as from the race organizers and participants.

There was one lone rider still on the course, Brandon.  With the finish line in sight, the loudest applause of the day greeted him from everyone still in attendance.

Brandon persisted, crossed the finish line, and was all smiles.  The order of his finish – you guessed it,  Dead Last!

Without realizing it, Brandon’s parents were standing next to me at the finish line.  They cheered him on with a “Go son!” type of shout.   I spoke with them for a few moments and with their permission asked if I could include his story as part of this post. They agreed.

They were proud of what their son had accomplished.  Others with less of a reason to sit out might avoid participation and thereby would have given into their perceived disability.

Not Brandon, his “dis” became his “ability”.  He refused to allow what could have held him back to conquer him.   Brandon decided to enter the arena.

Teddy Roosevelt once gave a speech that has come to be known as “The Man in the Arena”.  I’ve included here for your edification:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

In the end Brandon strove valiantly and experienced, for him, the triumph of high achievement.  He dared greatly and in doing so, overcame a real-life obstacle and proved he is a winner!

Brandon, this day you are my hero – thumbs up to you too!

What real or perceived limitation might you have that could be overcome by making a decision to do so?