Curtis is a gentle giant. He says you should always try as hard as you can at whatever you do. He works on a supervised crew doing maintenance work.
Mariah says people sometimes make fun of her. She’s learned to remember she’s one of God’s angels because it makes the words hurt less.
Darrel’s proud of the job he’s had for five years. He just got his third promotion, and his manager told him about another job he can work toward. He invited us to visit “his” store. Wouldn’t it be cool if we all took that kind of ownership in our work?
Darrel’s also proud that he and his roommate own their home.
Carla has spina bifida. She wants to know if she could ever ride a handcycle.
I’m humbled and honored to meet these folks. During this ride I’ve spoken to several organizations that serve them. As we’ve chatted with staff members and direct caregivers, a frightening story has emerged.
These agencies have faced devastating budget cuts, with the prospect of deeper slashes to come. Numbers on some government balance sheet represent reduced or eliminated services to Curtis, Mariah, Darrel, Carla, and thousands like them.
They’re invisible. No powerful lobbyists spend millions of dollars protecting their interests. While gun rights and tax breaks and more defense spending dominate the attention of our “leaders” as they toss around numbers ending with nine or ten zeros, the organizations that serve these courageous people beg for nickels and dimes.
With the right setup, Carla could ride a handcycle. There’s no way to measure how much that would mean to her, how much good it would do for her and her family.
But handcycles are expensive, and Carla’s family can’t even afford a lightweight wheelchair that fits her properly.
We all know it’s wrong. I wish I knew the solution.
I’m just an old guy riding a bike.
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