by Patrick Gray
“A lot!”
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It’s been several months since Patrick and I started preparing for the Camino. Since the launch of our website and Facebook page, many people have asked how they can help. Tonight, Patrick and I are sitting at a table outside Starbucks across from Josh Kinney, a mutual friend of ours from church. Josh and his wife, Kelli, are part owners of Bottle Cap Co., a business specializing in wholesaling bottle caps, and though I couldn’t imagine a more unrelated business to sponsor our trip, they are ready to jump in and help make things happen.
“What is the one thing you guys need?” Josh asks.
Without hesitation, I reply, “A wheelchair!”
Patrick and I dive into the details about the chair I’ve found, why we think it is the one we need, and the time frame for having it built. When Josh asks how much it costs, I pull no punches: “Eight grand.”
Josh sits back in his chair, takes a sip of his coffee, nods his head, and says, “Okay, I need to run this by our business partners.”
Patrick and I thank him for even considering it. Eight thousand dollars is a lot to ask.
A few days later, my phone rings.
“Justin, it’s Josh.”
Bottle Cap Co. is all in.
After thanking Josh profusely, I call Patrick. “Guess what, Paddy—we’ve got our chair.”
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After measurements are taken of my legs, torso, and hips so the chair can be customized for my body, the countdown begins. The chair will take five months to build and is scheduled to arrive in March. With a departure date set for May 29, Patrick and I have only two months to train with it before we leave. I hope it’s enough.
Patrick has been training on his own for weeks now, riding his bike and lifting weights twice a day, six days a week, in an effort to get stronger and increase his endurance. Unfortunately, all he has is a beat-up road bike that’s over forty years old.
One night, as I’m putting some finishing touches on our website, my phone rings. It’s Patrick, calling from work.
“Great news,” he says. “We’ve got another donation! It’s not cash, but it might be better!”
“What do you mean?”
“One of my coworkers, Dave, used to ride professionally, and he’s got a ton of bikes. So, I’m in my office reading through some e-mails, and Dave pokes his head in my doorway and tells me to come outside. I follow him out to his car, and there’s a beautiful, blue Bianchi road bike sitting there. I offered to buy it, but he just laughed at me and said, ‘I don’t have thousands of dollars to help sponsor you guys, but at least I can give you this.’”
“That’s awesome!”
First Josh’s company and now Dave—not to mention several thousand dollars of donations that have come in. Patrick and I are starting to feel a little overwhelmed by so much generosity.
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Since getting his new bike, Patrick has been riding every chance he gets. Even now that the ground is covered in snow and the weather is much too cold to ride outside, he is keeping the twice-a-day routine going by riding on a trainer in his garage after his kids go to bed. Though he’s quickly approaching the best shape of his life, we both know that until the chair arrives, we can’t really know how ready he is.
While Patrick trains, I’m hard at work raising funds, generating buzz for the trip on social media, and filling in the gaps with a few design jobs to help pay the bills. Thanks to the limited mobility of my hands, everything I do on my computer takes much longer than it used to, but with everything Patrick is doing, I’m determined to keep at it. We catch a huge break when a friend suggests we create a gift registry at REI and post the link on our Facebook page. The response is overwhelming. In a matter of weeks, all the equipment Patrick and I need is sitting in his garage. Everything, that is, except my wheelchair.
Then, on a warm March afternoon, Patrick calls.
“Hey Skeez, Josh just pulled into my driveway with a large crate in the bed of his truck.”
Kirstin, the kids, and I immediately head over to the Grays’.
As we roll into Patrick’s driveway, he and Josh are tearing the crate apart. Patrick is so excited, he reminds me of the dad in A Christmas Story when his prized leg lamp finally arrives. Drills are whirring, packing peanuts are flying through the air, and screws are falling everywhere.
Once all the pieces are out of the crate, Patrick attaches the quick-release wheels to the body and adjusts the handlebars at the back of the chair to accommodate his height.
“Ready to go for a ride?” he asks.
I nod my head and smile. “I’ve never been more ready!”
I park my power wheelchair to the left of the off-road chair. Bending at the knees, Patrick slightly straddles my legs, slides his arms underneath mine, bear-hugs me, picks me up, rotates, and then sets me down on the padded seat of my new chariot. Little do we know, this is the first of hundreds of transfers that will take place over the course of the next three and a half months.
All six kids are eager to see this thing in action, so we take a stroll around the park across the street from the Grays’ house. Each roll of the wheels feels exciting, and the sound of Patrick’s footfalls behind me makes everything about this journey feel a little more real. Finally, we are ready to begin training, together! It feels so good to be moving as a unit. Like a couple of kids at Christmas, we are so giddy we take another lap. “You know,” Patrick says, “this will be the first time you’ve let someone else control everything.”
He’s right. In my power wheelchair, I can determine when and where I go. I hadn’t thought about this until now.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile, “in this chair I’m completely at your mercy.”
Though I intend it as a joke, Patrick takes it to heart. “That’s a remarkable amount of trust to place in someone. I’m glad you’ve chosen me.”
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For the past six weeks, I’ve been with Patrick during his workouts. Though I have no control over where we go or how fast we get there, I am experiencing roads and trails that I’m not able to get to in my power chair. By giving up my freedom, I am gaining more of it, and I am finally beginning to appreciate what this trip is going to require—from both of us.
We’ve increased both the distance and the difficulty of the terrain we choose to tackle, with Patrick pushing me through the foothills of nearby Eagle, Idaho, where grades are as steep as 18 percent—which means an average rise of eighteen feet of elevation for every 100 feet of distance. The climbs are brutal on his legs, but each step brings new strength to his body and to both our wills. Patrick’s relentless dedication to preparing his body to help me realize this dream is a powerful motivator for me. Though I can do little to prepare physically, I have continued to generate buzz via our Facebook page and website, trying to engage as many supporters as we can.
Every day while we train, new donations come in to sponsor our trip. Whether five dollars or five thousand, the questions of cost are slowly being answered, but what about the physical? Patrick has been training like a beast, but pushing me around the backcountry hills of Idaho is one thing. Propelling 250 pounds of dead weight over and across the Pyrenees is something else.
A number of people have offered to join us for the entire journey, but feeling cautious about who we would be spending so much time with, we’ve said, “No, thank you.” But when Ted Hardy asks how he can help, it feels different. He’s a good friend—and a firefighter. Patrick has known him for years and has traveled with him on several occasions.
Ted is a few years younger than we are, and he shares our zest for life and adventure. He thinks like us, has a similar sense of humor, and is as humble as they come. So when he approached us and said, “I feel like I’m supposed to help out in some way,” we invited him to discuss it over dinner.
“We need help getting over the Pyrenees,” Patrick tells him.
“If you came along, how long would you be able to stay?” I ask.
&n
bsp; “I don’t know. Maybe ten days?”
Patrick and I exchange a quick glance, and then he says what we’re both thinking.
“You’re coming to Spain.”
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With only a few weeks left before our departure, our training sessions are now up to twelve miles at a time, and Ted has joined us to get a feel for what he’s signed up for.
On today’s practice run, Patrick and Ted take turns pushing and pulling me up and down the steepest grades we can find. The process is simple, yet grueling. Whoever is pushing is harnessed in behind me, while the other guy is out front, pulling on a long red nylon strap attached to the sides of my elevated footrest by carabiners. The whole setup resembles an ox pulling a plow, with the farmer pushing from behind. The climbs are still difficult, but it is remarkable how much strain is alleviated by having another body to help.
Ten days before departure, we agree to train very little. Patrick, Ted, and I need to rest, but not before we tackle Quail Ridge. The final piece in our preparation puzzle, Quail Ridge is the steepest grade we can find. Kristin Armstrong, a local three-time Olympic gold medalist in the women’s individual time trial in cycling, trains on this ascent, and more than a few local vehicles have had difficulties chugging up the steep road. With sections as steep as 25 percent, it’s the only hill that will come close to what we will face in the Pyrenees. If we can climb Quail Ridge, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be.
While Patrick transfers me from my power chair to my off-road chair and wraps our makeshift harness around his waist, Ted grabs the reins in front. Slowly, step-by-step, we begin the ascent. The concrete below us is a poor substitute for the trail we will face, but the grade is still punishing. The climb is a little over a mile, and only a quarter mile in, Patrick and Ted are both hurting.
“This is much more difficult than the hill from a few days ago,” Patrick wheezes. “And we haven’t even hit the steepest section yet.”
While Patrick and Ted push and pull the chair forward, I lean from side to side to counter the slopes of driveways, and I can already feel some fatigue in my core muscles.
As the road bends left and right, Patrick has to put so much leverage into pushing that his arms and face are nearly parallel to the ground, and he has to rely on Ted and me to tell him where to go. Sensing that Patrick could use a break, Ted shouts out from the front, “Let’s switch!”
Patrick locks the brakes, but because the hill is so steep, he refuses to move until Ted has unharnessed himself and made his way to the back of the chair. As Patrick moves to the side and allows Ted to grab the handles and lean his body into the chair, I feel myself inch backward before Ted puts even more of his weight into it. We all exchange knowing glances.
What are we getting ourselves into?
As Patrick wraps the waist harness around Ted and secures him to my wheelchair, Ted smiles and says, half-jokingly, “If Justin gets away from us, at least he’ll have an anchor to slow him down.”
We all laugh, but we’re a little nervous at the prospect of the chair cascading down the hill with me in it and one of them skipping behind me like a rock across a pond. Suppressing our nerves, we continue the climb. After a few hundred feet, Ted shouts, “It feels like I’m walking in wet concrete.”
“I know!” Patrick yells back. “My shoes feel heavier with every step.” Ignoring the burning in their thighs, calves, and lungs, they keep moving me forward.
After a grueling hour and fifteen minutes, we finally reach the top and take a moment to rest. Ted is on a tight timeline and has just a few minutes left before he has to get back to work, so as soon as he and Patrick catch their breath, we begin the descent.
This time, Patrick is pulling back on the handlebars, as a counterweight to my chair, and Ted is strapped in eight feet behind him, pulling back on the red nylon harness, which is now attached to the back of the wheelchair. The hill is so steep, the chair wants to lurch forward with every step. With both guys now behind me, I’m staring straight downhill, hoping the straps and carabiners are secure enough to hold me.
After we pass the steepest section, Ted says the words we’ve been dreading.
“Sorry, guys, but I gotta get back to the station.”
Unharnessing himself, he turns to Patrick, and before dashing off to his car, says, “Don’t worry. You’ve got this.”
The combination of fatigue and the steep grade are giving Patrick’s body a taste of what the Camino will be like when we’re on our own. It takes everything he has to complete the last quarter mile as he leans back, taking short steps to prevent the chair from gaining any momentum. As he bears the full weight of the load, straining to keep the chair from lurching down the hill, I begin to feel the magnitude of what I’m asking of my friend.
What are we doing? What if this is too much?
With the bottom of the hill in sight, I shout out a few words of encouragement.
“Nice work! You got this!”
When we get to the bottom, Patrick staggers to the van to get my power chair. When he transfers me from one chair to the other, I can feel the moisture from his saturated shirt. He is completely soaked and looks exhausted.
“So, what do you think?” I ask him. “Are we ready?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be.”
6DEPARTURE
— PATRICK —
A YEAR OF PREPARATION has led us to this moment.
I have never been away from my wife and kids for more than a week, but now I’m going to be gone for a month and a half. Though I’m excited, I’m also anxious about leaving Donna and the kids behind. Our one-stop flight from Boise to Paris is due to leave in an hour, and Justin and I are looking at nearly six weeks before we meet up with our wives in Santiago de Compostela. It seems like an eternity from now.
Surrounded by our families, we sense the uneasiness in our wives, children, and parents. We pause for a moment of prayer—for traveling mercies, safety, and wisdom. Many hugs are exchanged before we begin to work our way toward the security gate. After saying good-bye to my parents, I hug Kirstin and the Skeesuck kids while my family hugs Justin.
“I’ll take care of him,” I hear Justin say to Donna. “I’ll keep him safe.”
“I know you will,” she says with a smile.
As we approach security, all three of my kids are in tears, but Cambria is crying the hardest. I bend down so our foreheads touch and place my hands gently on the sides of her face.
“I love you so much!”
“Please don’t go,” she chokes out between sobs.
“I’ll be back in six weeks,” I reassure her. “We’ll Skype, and you can follow the updates on Facebook.”
“But I don’t want you to go,” she whispers as I hug her again.
“I know,” I tell her as tears fill my eyes.
The rest of my family joins us, and we become one mass of emotion.
Donna chokes out a final good-bye, followed by, “I love you so much!”
“I love you, too!”
Nearby, Justin’s older brother, Ryan, stands at his side, tears of pride and joy streaming down his face. The Skeesuck children then hug Justin again. Lauren’s face is wet, and Kirstin wipes tears from her eyes as she gives Justin one final kiss.
As we work our way through security, Justin’s three-wheeled-baby-jogger-on-steroids draws plenty of stares. Earlier, at the ticket counter, a young woman had said, “That’s quite the wheelchair. What are you guys planning on doing in Paris?”
When we told her, she just stared at us, mouth open.
Now, the TSA agent says, “I’ve never seen one like this,” pointing at Justin’s chair. “What are you planning on doing, climbing a mountain?”
“Kind of,” Justin replies, smiling.
The TSA agent tilts his head forward and raises his eyebrows.
“Seriously?”
At the gate, a bright, peppy attendant puts a tag on Justin’s chair so we can check it.
“Why do you need a chair
like this for Paris?” she asks.
When we tell her, her eyes pop open like a deer in the headlights. “Holy—” she begins before catching herself.
“You’d think they’d never heard of anyone hiking five hundred miles through mountains in a wheelchair,” Justin kids as we head toward the Jetway.
At the door of the plane, I transfer Justin into a waiting aisle chair (a small, skinny wheelchair used to assist those who have difficulty getting on and off planes). Once he is strapped into the aisle chair, I pull the quick-release pins to collapse the handlebars of the off-road chair and shorten the leg rest. After the process is complete, the chair is a good foot shorter, both in length and height. The ground crew takes the chair for stowage, while I grab Justin’s seat cushion and join him on the plane.
After putting our backpacks and Justin’s cushion into the overhead compartments, I lift Justin to transfer him to his seat. In smaller planes, like this one, I have to be careful so I don’t hit my head. The narrow aisle and minimal space between the rows of seats mean I also have to be incredibly mindful of my feet and body while I lift him.
The whole boarding process, from start to finish, takes about ten minutes.
A few hours later, we land in San Francisco for our layover, and I reverse the process. After unloading our luggage and waiting for the aisle chair, I transfer Justin, wheel him off the plane, secure the leg rests and handlebars on the off-road chair, transfer Justin again, and wait for the next plane. Then I push him down the Jetway and repeat the entire process.
It’s not until we’re on the plane to Paris that I can finally relax a little bit. Justin and I have traveled together so much that most of this has become automatic. Still, because of all the moving pieces, I’m always a little nervous until we’re settled on the plane to our final destination. The more connecting flights we have, the greater the likelihood that something on his chair will get broken or that something will accidentally be left behind.
The eleven-hour flight to Paris offers plenty of time to rest. We listen to music, watch a movie, and try to sleep, but sleep eludes us. There’s so much excitement and anticipation.
