Tunnels To Tomorrow

Everyone has a story, and every story is special. Our experiences and environment shape who we become, and that process is both lifelong and generational. An individual’s existence is one of a kind and unique, but not without the influences of our ancestors.
Welcome to Tunnels to Tomorrow.
This story began in 1979, during my first six mile marathon.
Leading the pack, Frank and I were only a mile from the finish line. Running neck and neck, we drove our feet hard into the pavement and pumped our arms, both of us attempting to take the lead.
I am not sure how my rival and friend Frank felt, but my ten-year-old body was in shock. I still remember the muscle fatigue and the burning in my lungs as I tried to push past him.
I wanted to win. I wanted the accolades. The finish line was in reach.
“Only a hundred more feet to go!”
Encouragement popped from the crowd of friends and family who gathered for the cerebral palsy fundraiser event.
The fiery pain was too much. My body wanted to stop, but my mind was determined. I concentrated on my father’s words: “Never give up and do the best you can.”
This race meant everything to me. My friends and family were watching. I couldn’t disappoint them. I had to win.
So, I pushed on to the very end, with laser focus, until my peripheral vision caught sight of Mr. Rodriguez. He was the founder and organizer of the annual fundraiser, and he cheered the runners on with all his heart from the finish line.
He walked with a terrible limp-the kind that made him look as though he were falling over with every step. The pages on the clipboard he held flipped and fluttered with his brisk movements. His entire body would sway dramatically to the left, then snap back up straight. Fall to the left, then bounce back up.
He was a stout man with wide shoulders, and his dark eyes had a motionless glare that frightened me. Long lines were etched across his dark-skinned face from years of grimacing.
The closer Frank and I got to the finish line, the more animated and intense his limp became.
So many questions zipped through my mind as he cheered us on. Why does he walk like that? What happened to him? Why does his weathered face look so uncomfortable? He looks like he’s in pain.
Winning the race suddenly lost it’s priority. There was something about Mr.Rodriguez that spoke of a much larger world-a world I knew nothing about until that point. The creases in his thick neck were painted with struggle. His heavy squint concealed most of his beady eyes that spoke of an untold story.
Very little was known about his injury, other than that he was wounded in the snowy Battle of the Bulge in Germany during World War Two.
That bit of information was enough for me. My imagination filled in the rest. What was most impressive about Mr. Rodriguez was his tireless spirit and the enthusiasm with which he supported the cerebral palsy community.
He was a true freedom fighter who had paid dearly with his severe injury to his body.
Who was he fighting? Scholars would say the Germans, marking the last German offensive on the Western front.
But I would ask: Who was he REALLY fighting? What drives madness into men like Hitler, Stalin and Mao Zedong?
Where does that force originate.
Mr Rodriquez fought those evil forces most of his adult life, His tremendous virtues of volunteerism, done with so much enthusiasm, are victories for goodness…victories for Love.

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