One More Step: My Story of Living With Cerebral Palsy, Climbing Kilimanjaro, and Surviving The Hardest Race On Earth by Bonner Paddock (Excerpt)

One More Step
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One More Step

My Story of Living with Cerebral Palsy,
Climbing Kilimanjaro, and Surviving
the Hardest Race on Earth
Bonner Paddock
with Neal Bascomb
10/29/14 3:50 PM
on e mor e st ep : My Story of Living with Cerebral Palsy, Climbing Kilimanjaro, and

Surviving the Hardest Race on Earth. Copyright 2015 by Bonner Paddock. All rights
reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case
of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address
HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotionaluse.For
information please e-mail the Special Markets [email protected].
first edition
Designed by Ralph Fowler
Library of Congress Cataloging-i n-P ublication Data
Paddock, Bonner.
One more step : my story of living with cerebral palsy, climbing Kilimanjaro,
and surviving the hardest race on earth / Bonner Paddock.
pages cm
isbn 9780062295583 (hardback)
isbn 9780062295606 (paperback)
1. Paddock, Bonner. 2. Cerebral palsiedUnited StatesBiography.
3. MountaineeringTanzaniaKilimanjaro, Mount. 4. TriathlonTraining.
I. Bascomb, Neal. II. Title.
RC388.P332015
616.8'360092dc23
2014035608
1516171819rrd(h)10987654321
10/29/14 3:50 PM
Contents
Prologue: Fight Your Fight
1.
Normal. Happy.
2.
A Boy Named Jake
17
3.
Swimming in the Riptides
33
4. The Mountain
47
5.
Its About to Get Real
69
6.
The Wall
89
7.
Fire in the Furnace
107
8. The Fun-House Mirror
125
9.
Swim. Bike. Run.
151
10. Brothers169
11. I Told You This Wasnt Going to Be Easy
191
12. Me Against the Island
211
13. Go Time
227
14. Man of Iron
243
Epilogue: One Man, One Mission.
265
Afterword by Steve Robert
275
Acknowledgments
279
10/29/14 3:50 PM
Prologue
Fight Your Fight
orce away the pain. Fight your fight. One more step. You are an Ironman, Bonner Paddock. You are an Ironman.
I silently repeat it, over and over. You are an Ironman. The
words are a promise. They are an aspiration. If I finishno, when I
finishbefore the midnight cutoff, the announcer will shout them
out to the world, and they will become fact. But right now I am
running alone in the inky blackness of a Hawaiian island night, my
headlamp is casting a small wobbling circle of light on the broken
pavement ahead, and I am struggling.
Passing into my 17th mile, I know I am in trouble. Every inch of
my body screams in pain. I want nothing more than to stop, collapse into a heap, and end this torture. With each troubled stride, my
knees bend in, and my ankles flail out: my legs are breaking down.
At some point, fast approaching, determination will no longer be
enough to keep me moving.
One second I want to quit. The next, I force away the thought. I
have battled these doubts throughout the 2.4-mile swim in swelling
[1]
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b o n n e r pa d d o ck
seas, on the 112-mile bike ride in devil-searing heat, and now during
the final miles of the marathon run of the 2012 Ironman World
Championship.
You are an Ironman. Force away the pain. Fight your fight. One more
step. You are an Ironman. My mantra keeps me moving for another
hundred yards, but then I slow down, almost to a walk.
Im running through the Natural Energy Laboratory property,
just off the Queen Kaahumanu Highway. The government installation is the farthest point away from Kailua-Kona, home base. The
Energy Lab is dark, cant-see-your-hand-in-f ront-of-your-face dark.
Day or night, it is creepy too, with windowless sheet-metal buildings and huge black pipelines that snake through the grounds before
plunging into the ocean. Worst of all, the lab boasts the reputation,
confirmed many times by my coach, Ironman legend Greg Welch,
for being the place that makes or breaks competitors. Top pros have
entered this stretch, roughly Miles 1619 of the marathon, in the lead
only to fall far behind by the time they emerge. Many other racers
have left on stretchers. The heat, the absence of a breeze, the sheer
haunting barrennessthey are often too much to bear.
Time is running out for me. Since 7 a.m., when the sun rose over
the summit of Mount Hualalai, one of the Big Islands five active
volcanoes, Ive been pushing my body. More than fourteen hours
with no rest and no reprieve. My legs feel mashed to a pulp. My feet
burn with every step, each foot a wet, bloody, swelling mess laced
into its shoe. At any moment the race officialsGrim Reapers on
scootersare going to sweep me up.
Too slow, Bonner. You wont make the cutoff, they will say.
No can do, theyll continue. Were sorry. You had a good race.
At least you gave it your best.
No.
[2]
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one more step
My best I have yet to give. I dig inside of myself, deeper than before. I quicken my pace slightly, but enough to bring the pain roaring
back. So be it. Use the pain. Ignore the rest. Step after step. I head down
toward the ocean, then bank right, going north now.
I worry that I am sweating too much. I worry that I am moving
too fast. Then I worry that I am moving too slowly. I want to know
the time, but I worry that if I look at my watch I will lose my balance
and fall. I need to use my sight to keep my balance. I worry about the
rising twinge in my ankles. I worry that my body is not keeping in
any of liquid I am drinking. I worry that I am hitting the wall, that
Ill faint. I worry that I will stumble off the road into the lava fields
and that nobody will know where Ive gone. There I will lie until
they find me, and all that will remain will be the desiccated skeleton
of Bonner Paddock. I am not thinking straight, havent for hours. I
feel so isolated and so alone.
Keep the strides long, mate. Keep your pace even, Welchy says.
Move your arms. I turn to find my coach jogging along beside me.
Hes wearing flip-flops. How I would love to be wearing flip-flops.
His wife, Sian, also an Ironman champion, is chugging down the
road on a scooter. Why are they here? I left them back on the Queen
K Highway before I turned into the Energy Lab. They said they
would meet me at the finish.
Ill never quit, Welchy, I say.
I know, he says. Just remember to drink chicken broth at the
next aid station and keep running your own race.
Okay, okay.
Theres a ton of big blue cowboy hats waiting at the finish for you.
My body trembles. My toes explode with each step. I stare down
at the road. When I look back to my coach, he is gone, as is Sian. Poof.
As if they were never there.
[3]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
I am not alone, I remind myself. I never have been. My coach is

with me. All my friends and family down at the finish line in big
blue foam cowboy hats are with me. My brother Mike, who saw
me through every bump and roadblock of this journey, is with me.
Juliana is with me. Steve Robert and his family are with me. And
Jake, dear Jakey, is with me, as he was at the very beginning when I
knew absolutely nothing of myselfand accepted even less.
Ahead I see a bright white light. Its not heaven, but close enough.
Its the Energy Lab turnaround. Once I reach it, I will be heading
back toward the finish, toward home.
Force away the pain. Fight your fight. One more step. You are an Ironman, Bonner Paddock. You are an Ironman.
[4]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
1
Normal. Happy.
he alarm buzzed. I hit the snooze button. The alarm buzzed

again. I hit snooze again and turned over. On the third buzz, I
sat up in bed. Time to get the day on. It was March 2005. Life was
good. Life was normal. At twenty-nine, I finally had some money in
my pocket and a dream sales job on a professional sports team. Yes,
I had racked up some serious credit-card and student-loan debt, but
who hadnt at my age, I figured.
I lived in Newport Coast, California, a mile from the ocean, in
a one-bedroom, 850-square-foot bachelor pad. I had the big-screen
TV, racks of CDs, a closet full of suits, an oversized couch, and a
refrigerator with all the essentials: beer, mustard, ketchup, Tabasco
sauce, and flour tortillas for bean and cheese burritos. The beige
walls, which matched the beige carpet, were bare but for a black-
and-white photograph of some hanging garlic taken by my grand
father. The apartment complex boasted a pool and a small gym. The
silver Lexus parked in the garage was perfect for rolling to work and
for getting to parties on the weekends (or even during the week
hey, I was young). Normal. Happy.
[5]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
The fact of my having cerebral palsy? Only my family and close

friends knew about thatand then not all of them did. Because
the nature of my cerebral palsy allowed me to keep it a secret, that
was exactly what I did. Sitting across from me at a meeting or over
dinner, people saw a big guy, six foot four, with the wingspan of a
basketball player and hair that was maybe thinning a little too early.
I smiled a lot and talked fast and furiously. Nothing wrong with me.
All was well.
That morning when I finally rolled out of bed and put my feet on
the floor was like every morning. There was no avoiding the stiffness
and pain. Try holding your hand tight in a fist for as long as possible.
Really concentrate and push yourself. Feel that burn start in your fingers and then move down your wrist into your forearm. That is how
my feet, calves, hamstrings, quads, glutes, and lower back feelall
the time. There is no loosening, no release. Every morning it feels as
though I hit the gym the night before for the first time ever, really
pushing it to the limit, and now my body is mad at me, really mad.
When I finally stood up from the bed, it was snap, crackle, and
pop time, from my toes to my ankles to my knees. As I moved about,
getting ready for work, my leg muscles were loosening up, but I still
made an awful racket, my feet pounding the wooden floor like a
troll let loose. I didnt trip on the stairs that morning, and I didnt
fall over in my closet putting my shoes on, but neither was unusual.
A half hour later, I parked at the Anaheim Ducks arena, where I
was into my second week as the Director of Corporate Sponsorships.
Given the NHL lockout over player salaries and the recent cancellation of the season, there was not much to sell. Out in front of the
arena, the billionaire founder of Broadcom, Henry Samueli, and his
wife, Susan, soon-to-be new owners of the Ducks, were holding a
breakfast pep rally for the troops.
[6]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
one more step
Crossing to the buffet, I focused on my walk, trying to minimize

my knees natural inward bend and trying to stop my feet swinging out in a half-moon with each step. Even so, some p eople noticed
my awkward gait, and a nice young woman asked me if I had hurt
my leg. Weekend warrior, I said, smiling but feeling uncomfortable. Nobody but my boss at the Ducks knew I had cerebral palsy.
I grabbed some pancakes and bacon, sat down at a table, and introduced myself to a few p eople.
Samueli stepped up to the podium at the front. He was tall and
lanky and wore a very nice suit. We had yet to meet, and I didnt
know what to expect. Would he offer words about keeping the faith
maybe, about the next season definitely being on, or about staying
the course because we have work to do, and so on? There was some
of that, sure.
But then he said, We have to focus on what we can control. This
time we have on our hands, its a great opportunity to help people
who need a lot more than we ever will. Go volunteer at your favorite
charity, give back to your community.
Give back, huh?
A dutiful new employee, I returned to my desk and googled cerebral palsy and Orange County and up came the United Cerebral
Palsy Foundation of Orange County (UCP-OC). I rang them and said
that I wanted to volunteer, and the executive director, Paul Pulver,
asked me to lunch. My boss had given me a task, it sounded worthwhile and well-meaning, and given my disability, UCP-OC seemed
like the right place to give back. I really didnt think about it any more
than that. By no stretch of my imagination did I think my whole life
was about to change. After all, I was happy. Good. Normal.
Paul Pulver and I met at a fish restaurant by Angels Stadium. His
own son had CP. I gave the broad strokes on my life and my new job
[7]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
and told him that I used to play goalie on my college soccer team.
Paul was surprised at how independent and physically able I was.
When he asked what specific kind of CP I had, I didnt answer. I
didnt know. At the end of our lunch, he invited me to speak to the
UCP-OC board, with a mind to joining.
So a few weeks later, early in the morning, there I was. At the
time, the UCP-OC was headquartered in a ground-floor office in a
business park off I-5. I went through the door. In a room adjacent to
the reception area, behind a wall of glass, sat the board members
around a big table. A dozen pair of eyes looked at me, and suddenly
I felt my heart sink into my wingtip shoes. Its one thing to put in
a few hours of volunteering; its another thing entirely to stand in
front of a room to speak about my CP. I had never done it and had
never wanted toever. Yet there I was.
Paul Pulver came out from the boardroom.
Hang tight, he said. Well be right with you.
Decades passed in those short moments. I sweated. My hand
trembled. If someone had opened a window, I might have crawled
out of it. Then I was led inside. I shook some hands and introduced
myself, but I wasnt seeing or hearing anything. Finally, everybody
returned to their seats except me. I stood in front of the table, feeling the way I imagined an alcoholic would at his first AA meeting,
admitting my CP as if it were something to be ashamed of. Nervous,
staring at a spot on the table in front of me, I told my storypart of
it anyway.
n May 22, 1975, during my first seconds out in this world, I gasped
for breath. The umbilical cord was wrapped twice around my
neck. My mother, Andrea, on her third natural childbirth, wondered
[8]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
one more step
why the hospital room was so quiet. I should have been crying, making a big fuss.
Shouldnt we be hearing from that baby down there? she asked,
worried.
You will, the doctor answered.
Only after he loosened the accidental noose did my pale, almost
lifeless body get some air at last. But the damage to my brain as a
result of being starved of precious blood flow was done. Numerous areas suffered from the cerebral anoxia (lack of oxygen) at this
precious moment of lifewhite matter, neural connections, and a
bunch of things that go by Latin terms, half of which I dont understand to this dayand maybe for good reason, because the anoxia
played havoc inside my head, destroying at random some serious
brain matter.
Once I had some air, though, and the doctor gave me a firm slap
on my buns, I wailed and flailed like any other newborn. The doctor told my mother and my father, Tom, that there might be some
impact from the wrapped cord, but then again there might not. Any
tests at that point would be inconclusive. They were to have faith.
Eight hours later, my mother was eager to get home, and I left the
hospital, all chubby eight pounds and two ounces of me, swaddled in
a blanket and out to make my way in life. To any and all who looked
on, I was just another standard-issue baby.
I had two older brothers, Mike and Mattmy mother called
me Me Threeand I sat up, crawled, stood, and walked earlier
than they did, but everything was just that little bit different. When
I was sitting on the floor, my legs were angled awkwardly behind
me. Crawling, Id haul my body forward by my arms, dragging my
legs behind me like a commando advancing under low barbed wire.
Standing, I wobbled in at the knees and curled my toes underneath
[9]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
my feet. Walking, I swung my legs around and rolled inward on my

big toes. I lost my balance easily and fell all the time. Truth was,
anything that required the use of my body from the waist down was
hard to watchand even harder to do.
In those early years, I looked like a straw with two knots tied at
either end, one for my knees, the other for my head. Otherwise, I
was straight and skinny, with a sunken chest and no muscles, particularly in my legs. When I was three years old, my mother told the
pediatrician that I was tripping a lot. He said I was walking a little
pigeon-toed and that some corrective shoes with metal toes would
do the trick. These succeeded only in crushing my mothers toes
(this being southern California, everyone else was in sandals), but I
continued to falla lot. Climbing steps, crossing the yard, walking
on the beachyou name it, I fell doing it. Running and learning to
ride a bike were more exercises in catastrophe than new skills to be
learned.
Broken bones came by the score. Toes, fingers, arms, ankles. I
spent more time in splints, braces, and plaster casts than Wile E.
Coyote. At four, I fell off a jungle gym at preschool and snapped my
left arm. According to family legend, I didnt cry, not once. Two days
after the cast came off, I crashed my skateboard in the church courtyard and broke the same arm, in the same place.
While I was at the hospital, I walked toward the doctor who had
set my arm the first time, and he said to my mother, Your child
doesnt walk right.
Thank you for noticing, my mother said. You have no idea
what it means for you to notice that its not an average walk.
The doctor offered to assess me. After stripping down to my underwear, I was asked to walk down the hallway and back (once). His
assessment?
[10]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
one more step
Bonner doesnt have a normal walk.

What should we do? my mother asked.
No further tests required, the doctor said. He just walks
strange.
It was around this time I started to hate doctors.
Over the next five years, as I struggled to keep up with my
brothers, at soccer, basketball, swimming, and everything else kids
do, my parents assembled a team of orthopedic doctors to see what
it was about my walk, the way I moved, that was not normal. One
guyand they were always guyssaid I needed occupational therapy. Once a week, he had a therapist push me back and forth in a
hammock, so I could learn the position of my body in space. When
I was eight, another orthopedic surgeon said I was all out of alignment: the muscles in my legs were too short for my bony frame; my
calves were knotted up. The solution? Both legs in plaster casts up
to my knees.
I still played baseball. I mean, I could still play defense and swing
the bat. The coach got me a designated runner and switched me to
catcher. A real pistol I was. Afterward, my mother would have to
use a brush to clean the gravel and dirt out of my plastered feet.
When the doctors found that their plaster casts hadnt worked,
they put me in fiberglass ones, all the way up to my hip flexors.
Nothing changed except I missed a season of soccer and swimming
in the ocean.
When I was nine years old, my mother took me to see yet another doctor, this time a neurologist. He was not covered by my familys insurance, but he was apparently the smartest guy in the room
(the room being Arcadia, California), so they paid cash. My brother
Mike, who was sixteen at the time, came with me. The neurologist
watched me walk, clipped something to the bottom of my foot, and
[ 11 ]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
had me track his finger with my eyes. No MRI, no scans, no nothing.

While I was sitting on my brothers lap beside our mother, he gave
the diagnosis: syringomyelia, a spinal-cord disorder. The prognosis,
which he delivered right then and there, was that I would be in a
wheelchair by the age of fourteen and most likely dead by twenty.
Now, none of this fazed me. I simply blocked it out, put it away in
a dark corner of my mind. The neurologist recommended a physical
therapist and prescribed some pills. The pills made me loopy, so I
stopped taking them, and the therapy was so dull and tiresome that
I loathed every session. My parents, my brothers, my grandparents,
and I never spoke about the doctors, the prognosis, or the therapy.
None of it.
Two years later, my brothers near-death experience overturned
my own death sentence. Mike was working out at the University
of CaliforniaIrvine (UCI) gym. Always a big-shot athlete in high
school, co-captain of the water polo and swim teams, Mike was involved in both again during his freshman year in college, and he
added another sport as well: crew. He was cranking away at the
indoor rowing machine, trying to pull a better erg (number of
strokes and power over time), so that he would be selected to compete that weekend. Suddenly, he got dizzy and lost consciousness.
His coach and teammates rushed him to the UCI hospital ER, where
he remained over the weekend, with a skull that felt split into a
hundred pieces.
By Monday morning, tests had revealed that Mike had suffered
a brain hemorrhage from his overzealous workout. By chance, the
blood vessel that popped was basically a loop going nowhere; otherwise, he would have died. It was nothing that some bed rest wouldnt
heal, but the hospital recommended that Mike also see a neurologist.
This doctor asked Mike if there was anything out of the ordinary
[ 12 ]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
one more step
with his family medical history. Mike, who, like the rest of us, had
pushed my syringomyelia diagnosis out of his mind, simply told the
doctor that one of his brothers walked kind of weird. The neurologist asked to see me.
My mother was all for it, but I, now eleven years old, wanted
nothing more to do with doctors. Mike offered a deal: if I went,
I could spend the night with him at college and go to his classes.
Bribes worked wonders on me.
It turned out that Mikes neurologist was not just any neurologist.
His name was Dr. Arnold Starr, the department head at UCI and a
cutting-edge researcher. He was in his late fifties, with a goatee and
a mad professor shock of hair. He peered around the mountain of
patients files on his desk and took my medical history. My mother
mentioned the syringomyelia. Dr. Starr asked if I had ever had an
MRI. The answer was no.
Then he leaned over his desk, elbows firmly placed on a low stack
of manila folders, and said to my mother, You cant diagnose syringomyelia without an MRI. There is no other diagnostic for the condition. If Bonner didnt have that test, then the diagnosis cant hold.
Dr. Starr then gave me a thorough physical exam and sent me
for a battery of tests: MRI, CT, EEG, blood tests, the works. I didnt
much want to be rolled into the MRI machine, which looked like a
tomb, but Mom dangled the bribe in front of me. Still as a stone, I
let the machine make its rat-a-tat-tat ruckus as it peered inside my
brain. Then came even more tests, poking, prodding, stabbing, and
examining my every movement, hour after hour.
While we were waiting for the test results, my big night on the
UCI campus came. Mike lived in an apartment a half block from
the beach in an area named, for its wild parties, the War Zone. I
stayed up late, ate pizza, listened to loud music, and fed roaches to
[ 13 ]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
Mikes oscar fish. Gobble. Gobble. All the girls pinched my cheeks,
and I felt like a big shot. The next day, I went to his classes with him.
Economics was a drag, but next came Humanities. I was sitting in
the back row, eyes wide open, when the professor started talking
about human sexuality. With details, lots of wondrous details. Mike
clamped his hands over my ears and ushered me out the door.
We went back to see Dr. Starr a month later. As he spoke to my
mother, his words rolled over me. I was thinking mostly about his
black convertible Porsche with the red leather interior that he had
promised to take me driving in, once all the tests were done.
Well, Ill tell you the good news, Dr. Starr said. Theres no way
Bonner has syringomyelia.
No wheelchair at fourteen? My mother replied. No
Absolutely not. No demise at twenty years of age either.
So, what is it?
Bonner has cerebral palsy.
Is that like MS? my mother asked.
No, muscular sclerosis is progressive and degenerative. Cerebral
palsy is chronic, but nonprogressive. This was doctor speak for,
You got it, and it aint going away, but it doesnt get better or worse
over time.
My cerebral palsy, Dr. Starr went on to say, was the result of the
damage inflicted during those precious first seconds of life when I
was starved of oxygen. It was a disorder of the brain, causing g arbled
messages to be sent out to the body, primarily impacting motor
function.
No two manifestations of CP were alike. Some of the most severe
cases left p eople bound to wheelchairs for life, unable to control their
movements, their arms and their legs often crooked and locked. I fell
[ 14 ]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
one more step
into the broad CP category of spastic diplegia, in which the lower

body is primarily affected. Because Mission Control in my brain was
out of whack, the muscles in my legs didnt function as they should.
To walk or run normally, some muscles must contract while others
elongate; its a delicate balance. My spastic diplegia caused my muscles to contract, leaving me with poor motor-f unction control, debilitating tightness in my hips and legs, weak muscle tone, a tendency
toward joint breakdown, rapid exhaustion, slow recovery, tendinitis,
plantar fasciitis, and plenty of other -itis fun. To add to the mix, I
had trouble maintaining my balance and equilibrium. Dr. Starr prescribed continuing with my physical therapy and keeping on with
the sports. Whatever I was doing was working marvels.
Given my previous diagnosis, all of this came as fantastic news
to my mother. Her eyes welled up with tears of relief. For my part, I
wanted to go home, kick the ball around, ride my bike, maybe head
out for a swim with my grandfather. None of these words, spastic
this, palsy that, applied to me. They might as well have been referring to some other kid.
At dinner that night, not one word was mentioned about the doctor visit. Later that year, when I won a soccer all-stars award for overcoming adversity, I didnt know what people were talking about. I
was normal, just like everybody else. Thats what I told myself.
t the end of my talk to the board at UCP-OC, I offered to do anything I could to help their work, shook hands with everyone,
passed out my business cards (a salesman always), and left. As I
walked to my car, my hands settling from the shakes, I felt a tremendous weight fall from my shoulders. This was the first time I had
[ 15 ]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
been honest about my disability to strangers, to a group of them no

less, and they had accepted methey were even considering me as a
candidate for the board.
The next day, at my desk at work, I received an e-mail from one
of the board members, Steve Robert. He had been sitting directly to
my left, but I had been so nervous throughout that meeting that I
couldnt even put a face to the name. His e-mail read:
Hi, Bonner.
Nice to meet you yesterday. I have a four-year-old son named Jake,
who has severe cerebral palsy. I went home last night and shared
your story with my wife, Alison, and I wanted to let you know how
much hope it gives to us and our little Jakey, seeing what you do,
having accomplished what you have with college and your career.
You give us hope that if we keep working hard and pushing to help
our Jakey, he can get to a better place than he is at.
Sitting in my office, reading, then rereading the note, I cried, and
yet I had absolutely no idea why.
[ 16 ]
10/29/14 3:50 PM
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8. The Fun-House Mirror

12. Me Against the Island

14. Man of Iron

Epilogue: One Man, One Mission.

Afterword by Steve Robert

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I am not alone, I remind myself. I never have been. My coach is

he alarm buzzed. I hit the snooze button. The alarm buzzed

The fact of my having cerebral palsy? Only my family and close

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Crossing to the buffet, I focused on my walk, trying to minimize

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my feet. Walking, I swung my legs around and rolled inward on my

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Bonner doesnt have a normal walk.

had me track his finger with my eyes. No MRI, no scans, no nothing.

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into the broad CP category of spastic diplegia, in which the lower

been honest about my disability to strangers, to a group of them no

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Epilogue: One Man, One Mission.

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