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I used to believe that I understood life, that I appreciated what life is all about, man was I wrong. I grew up in a family, though not rich, that did not go without. I was popular in school as well as out of school. When I was young, I played baseball and basketball as well as fished and hunted.

As I entered the 7th grade I began to ride motorcycles. This came do the great delight of my father whom had rode and raced motorcycles prior to my birth. He was ecstatic about my newfound love for motorcycles, and he quickly, without hesitation, purchased everything I would need to be a contender in the world of motocross and supercross.

After a year of trail riding, I decided that it was time to compete on the closed circuit. I was in the 8th grade and 14 years old. To everyone's amazement, including mine, I quickly rose to the top of the ranks. Within four months of racing competitively, I began to win just about every event I entered. I was told by many people, including strangers I had never met before, that I had a definite shot at becoming a professional rider. That was until a day that will forever be embedded into my mind.

The day, May 27th, 1995 will always be known as the day my life changed forever. It started off the same as any other day did, but it wouldn't end like every other day. Practice went great and I was feeling really comfortable with the track and its layout. The jumps were smooth and high flying and the dirt was sticky but not muddy which allowed for ideal traction control.

As I sit on my motorcycle, keeping the engine reved, waiting for the gate to drop I felt the adrenaline begin to rush through my body. As the gate dropped I flew off of the starting line. I ended up with the holeshot and led the race for three laps. On the fourth lap I went off a double jump and did an endo landing directly on my head perpendicular to the ground.

As I lie there on the ground motionless, the sun shining extremely bright in my eyes, I quickly realize that I can't move. I try to get up and am unable to. I try to simply move my arms, nothing happens. It is at this point that I realize something is terribly wrong. As I lie on the ground motionless, much like a bird with broken wings, the emergency medical technicians race over to me.

Upon arrival to the local hospital via ambulance I am met by a trauma team of doctors. My mind and body were in shock by now so my memories of the occurring events are blurred, yet not forgotten.

After being sufficiently stabilized I was transported by helicopter to a nearby hospital with sufficient staff and capabilities of handling such a situation. I was admitted into ICU, ironically into room number 13 (call me superstitious). A couple of short hours later my parents, older sister, and cousin whom was living with us at the time arrived and were permitted to see me. Before any of them were able to say a word, I looked at my mother, with tears leaking from both of our eyes, and said "I don't know if you have heard, but I will probably be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life."

On May 30th, I underwent surgery to correct the fractured cervical vertebrates in my neck. The surgery was a success, if success can emerge from such misfortune, and I was admitted back into ICU. For the next 21 days I would go through numerous procedures to re-expand my lungs which were collapsing and numerous procedures to remove excess fluids from my lungs as well.

After my trauma doctors and surgeons felt that I had progressed enough to leave ICU I was admitted to the third floor where I would begin my rehabilitation. Of the 48 days that I was in this new unit, I was dependent upon a respirator to breathe for me for about 30 of those days.

Recovery was extremely slow. It took me over three weeks just to be able to move my left arm. By the time I was released from the hospital, I could barely drive a powered wheelchair. I wasn't even able to scratch my own face. Effectively, I was like the injured prey, helpless to the world of fierce predators.

After spending all but two weeks of my summer in the hospital, it was now time to return to school. I swear that I must have been more nervous than the incoming freshman, for I was not just another incoming student, I pictured myself as the incoming oddity. It is at this time that I would find out just exactly who my real friends are.

I started my sophomore year of on time and with the same courseload as did every other student. It was terribly awkward to return to school in such circumstances that I did. Because of my injury, I was unable to do my own writing, I couldn't feed myself, I even had troubles turning pages in a book.

I wasn't looked at as an individual within the school anymore. People didn't have to know me anymore, they just knew of me. I was simply labeled as the "kid" in the wheelchair by those who didn't know me. Additionally, people who did know me and whom I considered to be friends would no longer need to describe me as the blonde haired, blue eyed guy who played basketball, led his JV baseball team in batting average and onbase percentage, and also raced motorcycles outside of school. No, all that would need to be mentioned is the word wheelchair.

I must apologize for the animosity in my voice and words, its just that I got so frustrated with the fact that so many people assumed that because of my accident that I had changed as a person. I am forced to recollect a quote that read a couple of years back, "The worst thing about a disability is that people meet it before they meet you."

Even though those issues seemed to have great significance in my life, I was much more concerned with another issue, my social life. Not just in, but as well as out of school. This is where dilemmas arose and my friends began to cast me out. Now obviously, I hung out with individuals that possessed the same interests as I did, i.e. motorcycles, athletics, and outdoors. The question that kept confronting me was, "How am I suppose to relate and interact with my friends if I am no longer able to participate in our common interests?" Unfortunately, this is a question that wasn't answered soon enough.

Shortly after the school year started I became somewhat depressed. Rightfully so, however my life had just hit a cement wall as far as I was concerned. In school I was able to hide my depression and anger, and branded a fake persona which many commented on how strong and inspirational I was. I wasn't strong nor inspirational, I was pissed, at myself and at the world for doing what it had done to me. My dreams, my hopes, my desire, and my will to persavere had been ripped from my possession like candy from a baby.

Unfortunately, I can honestly say that the majority of my friends were not there for me when I needed them most. I quickly slipped into a pattern of depression which consisted of going to school in the morning and afternoon, then going home and wanting nothing more than to go sleep. I guess I figured that if I was sleeping, I wasn't having to face my problems.

I soon realized that almost all of my friends had become nothing more than acquaintances. There was only about 5 friends that looked at me as the same person whom I always had been. These people would soon become the backbone to my recovery other than my family. My family was more than outstanding in support. Though it was tough on them, they were always there offering me emotional and physical support. My father would always offer to take me out to do things which was great. However, at this point in my life I was supposed to be identifying myself as an individual which requires social interaction. And unfortunately he could not offer the interaction I needed, as it was my peers that I needed.

I'm not going to concentrate so much upon the names of friends that stuck by my side, much more importantly, on what they did to help me. Ironically the simplest of things made the most difference. They would come over to my house and offer to take me to the movies, beach, and even parties. I wasn't much into drinking and sadly it became obvious that the only place I could be in an atmosphere of my peers was at a party.

After the first few months my social life outside of school was practically nonexistent. There was one friend in particular whom looked at me as the same person. On top of the fact that we raced motorcycles together so we had similar interests which kept us friends.

After Christmas break school resumed and things were going quite all right. That is, until another day would be branded into my mind forever. It was a Saturday morning in the middle January when my mom came into my room and woke me up.

I lie there in my bed motionless, staring up at the ceiling, numb to the news that I had just received. One of my best friends, one that was there for me through thick and thin was killed in a car accident while on his way to a motorcycle race. I didn't know what to think nor did I know what I was supposed to think. So I just laid there feeling absolutely nothing.

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