I’m lying in the ER, dazed and confused—my whole body numb. I’m holding back the tears as I gasp for breath. I wonder, Will I walk again? Was it really worth the risk?
Ever since I was a little boy, racing’s been in my blood. Always pushing myself to be faster and better than the rest.
I started roller skating when I was 9 years old. Within a few years, I joined the local speed skating team and went on to win a room full of trophies. By 16, I was traveling around the country, competing on the national level. Roller skating was who I was.
The opportunity of a lifetime came up when I was 17. My skate team was racing to qualify for the Pan American Games. We were about to win the race, but one of my teammates left the block early. When he did, our dreams left along with him.
I was crushed, but I could always try again. After all, I was going to be a speed skater for the rest of my life.
The following year, I was at the starting line—this time, behind the wheel of a ‘69 Chevelle. When I wasn’t at the roller rink, I was at the race track. It was a warm Memorial Day weekend, leading up to the summer of 1979. I could smell the high-octane fuel and the dirt of the track. I looked out over the stands at Interstate Speedway outside of Jefferson, South Dakota, and I felt excitement in the air.
For the first time, I was racing against my hero, my dad. This was the most important thing to ever happen in my life.
When the flags dropped, it was every man for himself. Thundering engines roared as we fought for position. Metal bodies banged into each other. All of us were fighting for the top spot. Before I knew it, I was in second, right behind my dad. This was my moment to shine. I slid to the inside of the track and our cars banged into each other.
As I pulled away to take the lead, I looked over at Pops. He shook his finger at me, and I saw him smile. The next lap, Pops slid into my car. I hit the wall hard. He was teaching me how to race with the big boys, letting me know, even though I was his son, he wasn’t going to take it easy. Racing is racing, and I was getting a firsthand lesson from the best racer I knew.
When it looked like he might win, his car had some mechanical issues. Pops left his first place position for the pits. That put me back in the lead. The white flag waived, signaling the final lap. Once again, I could taste the thrill of victory. I was going to beat my old man!
I could see people at the fence, cheering me on as I left turn one. I was nearly home, grinning from ear to ear, telling myself, I’ve got this! Going through turn two, I looked over and saw the pit crew hollering. I could feel the rear of the car shaking.Something wasn’t right.And then it happened.
Halfway through turn three, I lost control.
The left rear tire came off the car causing the car to roll a dozen times. My five point seat belt harness broke and my body was tossed around inside the car like a rag doll.
Then, everything stopped. I heard someone yell, “The car's on fire! Get him out!” The real race for my life began that day.
There were burns and bruises all over my body. I had broken a leg, punctured a lung and busted my back at T3, 4 and 5, causing paralysis from the waist down. On the ride to the hospital, the EMT says, “I don’t think he’s going to make it.” I was 18 years old.
I spent the next month and half in intensive care. Altogether, I’d be in and out of hospitals for a year, trying to cope with my new reality. Morphine, Demerol and Valium made it a little easier handle.
I went to Omaha Nebraska Rehab Hospital, where I was taught how to get out of bed, shower and put on my clothes. But I didn’t know how to live. I didn’t know who I was without my Magic, my legs. I’d often cry myself to sleep, thinking I was a half a man.
After I was out of the hospital, I tried to numb the pain—first with alcohol, then cocaine. But cocaine is a rich man’s drug. To support my habit, I started selling it.
Drugs consumed most of my 30’s. They helped me escape how I felt in this wheelchair. But they also took away time from my mom the person who believed in me the most. They stole time from my son who didn't even know me.
I was facing a 5-year prison sentence, and I still couldn't stop using drugs. But Mom never gave up on me. She knew the pain. She knew it like it was her own. Ever since the accident, my mom kept telling me, “Lloyd, God don’t make no junk. He allows special angels with broken wings to sit in wheelchairs and touch people's hearts.”
I would scream, “There ain’t no God! If there was, he wouldn't have taken my legs!” I fought this wheelchair for 20 years until I learned that accepting our hardships is the pathway to peace.
That was something my mom knew all along.
When my mom was on her deathbed, I promised her that I would get clean. At that moment, she looked me in the eyes and said, “I got my son back.”
I became a drug and alcohol counselor and started the largest narcotics anonymous group in Iowa. I went back and raced cars again. I can ride horses and quad runners. I love to go whitewater rafting. I even got to pilot an airplane. And I carve the most beautiful walking sticks—most the time, I give them away and ask people to walk for me. This wheelchair teaches me that the only way keep what you have is by giving it away. It teaches me to be a better man.
I believe I can stand as tall as any man without standing at all. I choose to live out loud, spreading faith, hope and love.
At 58, I’m grateful for my handicaps. I found myself, my work and my God. So I ask myself was the risk worth it. Yeah, my heart says, yeah.
With these wheels, I’m in the perfect position to touch people’s hearts like my mom always believed I could. Like I always say, where there’s a wheel, there’s a way.
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Ode is a storytelling series where community members tell true stories on stage to promote positive impact through empathy. It’s produced by Siouxland Public Media.
The next show is 7 p.m. Friday, April 6 at The Marquee, 1225 Fourth St. The theme is “Just Keep Going,” inspired by this year’s One Book One Siouxland selection, “Hidden Figures.”
Tickets are $10 in advance; $15 day of show.
