Chasing Louie
by Mike W. @ It's Not Over 'Til You're UndergroundThe annual "Run with Louie" day for the Ironteam is always good for some inspiration. A good reminder of why we choose to train with the team, and to raise so much money. It got me thinking, and reflecting on the last time I saw Louie smile.
It was a cold early morning in January 2002. My friends and I made the trek up to San Francisco before sunrise. Louie was carrying the torch. He didn't have much time left. He had been given a couple months to live. There were lots of logistics involved in getting Louie from the hospital to Fort Point that morning, especially when he didn't have his doctors' permission. In a rather bizarre version of the "telephone" game, the story got wilder and wilder as it passed through the TNT grapevine. At one point it involved our TNT manager flirting with paramedics at Starbucks to get them to donate their time.
We had been talking, at the hospital, about who would push Louie in his wheelchair. Everybody wanted to do it, but we figured it would be Aggie. I think none of us knew what to expect that morning. I was expecting to stand on the side of the road, and watch Louie "ride" by in the wheelchair.
When the morning arrived, there were hundreds of spectators. TNT shirts everywhere. Old friends, Louie's relatives, everybody was on hand to watch the torch relay. The ambulance came and Louie was lowered down in his wheelchair. When the torch was near, Louie surprised us all and stood up. It was a quarter mile, and no matter how he hurt, and no matter how weak he was, he was going to walk it.
So who was going to push the wheelchair? Nobody. Who was going to walk with him? Everybody. In what must have been unique in the entire torch relay, it was one small, frail man carrying the torch... surrounded by hundreds of cheering supporters... walking en-masse towards Fort Point and the Golden-Gate Bridge.
There was no shortage of cheers or tears that day. It was amazing to know that just four months earlier, Louie had finished the Ironman. Just four days earlier, he had been diagnosed to be in the Blast Crisis, and given two to four months to live. Just hours earlier he expected to be pushed in his wheelchair. But when the time came, he stood up, smiled, and carried the torch held high.
After posing for what must have been hundreds of pictures, Louie went back into the ambulance and back to the hospital. The word went out that hospital visits would be limited to family only. Louie went to sleep that afternoon and never woke up. Over the next few days his bedside was visited by a steady stream of friends. We all came by to pay our respects to our fallen hero, and say one last goodbye. He passed away a few days later, in the middle of the night, with his father at his side.
It was a cold early morning in January 2002. My friends and I made the trek up to San Francisco before sunrise. Louie was carrying the torch. He didn't have much time left. He had been given a couple months to live. There were lots of logistics involved in getting Louie from the hospital to Fort Point that morning, especially when he didn't have his doctors' permission. In a rather bizarre version of the "telephone" game, the story got wilder and wilder as it passed through the TNT grapevine. At one point it involved our TNT manager flirting with paramedics at Starbucks to get them to donate their time.
We had been talking, at the hospital, about who would push Louie in his wheelchair. Everybody wanted to do it, but we figured it would be Aggie. I think none of us knew what to expect that morning. I was expecting to stand on the side of the road, and watch Louie "ride" by in the wheelchair.
When the morning arrived, there were hundreds of spectators. TNT shirts everywhere. Old friends, Louie's relatives, everybody was on hand to watch the torch relay. The ambulance came and Louie was lowered down in his wheelchair. When the torch was near, Louie surprised us all and stood up. It was a quarter mile, and no matter how he hurt, and no matter how weak he was, he was going to walk it.
So who was going to push the wheelchair? Nobody. Who was going to walk with him? Everybody. In what must have been unique in the entire torch relay, it was one small, frail man carrying the torch... surrounded by hundreds of cheering supporters... walking en-masse towards Fort Point and the Golden-Gate Bridge.
There was no shortage of cheers or tears that day. It was amazing to know that just four months earlier, Louie had finished the Ironman. Just four days earlier, he had been diagnosed to be in the Blast Crisis, and given two to four months to live. Just hours earlier he expected to be pushed in his wheelchair. But when the time came, he stood up, smiled, and carried the torch held high.
After posing for what must have been hundreds of pictures, Louie went back into the ambulance and back to the hospital. The word went out that hospital visits would be limited to family only. Louie went to sleep that afternoon and never woke up. Over the next few days his bedside was visited by a steady stream of friends. We all came by to pay our respects to our fallen hero, and say one last goodbye. He passed away a few days later, in the middle of the night, with his father at his side.
My last picture with Louie (and Rain)... 1/19/2002
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Chasing Louie
by Mike W. @ It's Not Over 'Til You're Underground
The annual "Run with Louie" day for the Ironteam is always good for some inspiration. A good reminder of why we choose to train with the team, and to raise so much money. It got me thinking, and reflecting on the last time I saw Louie smile.
It was a cold early morning in January 2002. My friends and I made the trek up to San Francisco before sunrise. Louie was carrying the torch. He didn't have much time left. He had been given a couple months to live. There were lots of logistics involved in getting Louie from the hospital to Fort Point that morning, especially when he didn't have his doctors' permission. In a rather bizarre version of the "telephone" game, the story got wilder and wilder as it passed through the TNT grapevine. At one point it involved our TNT manager flirting with paramedics at Starbucks to get them to donate their time.
We had been talking, at the hospital, about who would push Louie in his wheelchair. Everybody wanted to do it, but we figured it would be Aggie. I think none of us knew what to expect that morning. I was expecting to stand on the side of the road, and watch Louie "ride" by in the wheelchair.
When the morning arrived, there were hundreds of spectators. TNT shirts everywhere. Old friends, Louie's relatives, everybody was on hand to watch the torch relay. The ambulance came and Louie was lowered down in his wheelchair. When the torch was near, Louie surprised us all and stood up. It was a quarter mile, and no matter how he hurt, and no matter how weak he was, he was going to walk it.
So who was going to push the wheelchair? Nobody. Who was going to walk with him? Everybody. In what must have been unique in the entire torch relay, it was one small, frail man carrying the torch... surrounded by hundreds of cheering supporters... walking en-masse towards Fort Point and the Golden-Gate Bridge.
There was no shortage of cheers or tears that day. It was amazing to know that just four months earlier, Louie had finished the Ironman. Just four days earlier, he had been diagnosed to be in the Blast Crisis, and given two to four months to live. Just hours earlier he expected to be pushed in his wheelchair. But when the time came, he stood up, smiled, and carried the torch held high.
After posing for what must have been hundreds of pictures, Louie went back into the ambulance and back to the hospital. The word went out that hospital visits would be limited to family only. Louie went to sleep that afternoon and never woke up. Over the next few days his bedside was visited by a steady stream of friends. We all came by to pay our respects to our fallen hero, and say one last goodbye. He passed away a few days later, in the middle of the night, with his father at his side.
It was a cold early morning in January 2002. My friends and I made the trek up to San Francisco before sunrise. Louie was carrying the torch. He didn't have much time left. He had been given a couple months to live. There were lots of logistics involved in getting Louie from the hospital to Fort Point that morning, especially when he didn't have his doctors' permission. In a rather bizarre version of the "telephone" game, the story got wilder and wilder as it passed through the TNT grapevine. At one point it involved our TNT manager flirting with paramedics at Starbucks to get them to donate their time.
We had been talking, at the hospital, about who would push Louie in his wheelchair. Everybody wanted to do it, but we figured it would be Aggie. I think none of us knew what to expect that morning. I was expecting to stand on the side of the road, and watch Louie "ride" by in the wheelchair.
When the morning arrived, there were hundreds of spectators. TNT shirts everywhere. Old friends, Louie's relatives, everybody was on hand to watch the torch relay. The ambulance came and Louie was lowered down in his wheelchair. When the torch was near, Louie surprised us all and stood up. It was a quarter mile, and no matter how he hurt, and no matter how weak he was, he was going to walk it.
So who was going to push the wheelchair? Nobody. Who was going to walk with him? Everybody. In what must have been unique in the entire torch relay, it was one small, frail man carrying the torch... surrounded by hundreds of cheering supporters... walking en-masse towards Fort Point and the Golden-Gate Bridge.
There was no shortage of cheers or tears that day. It was amazing to know that just four months earlier, Louie had finished the Ironman. Just four days earlier, he had been diagnosed to be in the Blast Crisis, and given two to four months to live. Just hours earlier he expected to be pushed in his wheelchair. But when the time came, he stood up, smiled, and carried the torch held high.
After posing for what must have been hundreds of pictures, Louie went back into the ambulance and back to the hospital. The word went out that hospital visits would be limited to family only. Louie went to sleep that afternoon and never woke up. Over the next few days his bedside was visited by a steady stream of friends. We all came by to pay our respects to our fallen hero, and say one last goodbye. He passed away a few days later, in the middle of the night, with his father at his side.
My last picture with Louie (and Rain)... 1/19/2002