If you’ve been paying attention, I’ve known billionaires and governors and Olympians and Pulitzer prize winners and…
Some people have impressed me more than others. From July 1989. – JDW
John Rinehart is an exceptional young man. That’s the first thing you should know about him.
John Rinehart is absent his right arm and his right leg. That’s the last thing you need to know.
There’s a whole lot happening in between.
“I was born July 5, 1965, without a right leg and with a deformed left foot and deformed hands,” Rinehart writes in a two-page autobiography. “As a baby, I was put up for adoption. By age three, my right hand became infected because the bone grew faster than the skin, thus causing internal irritation. My parents decided I was too young to have my arm amputated. They didn’t want me to grow up hatine them for making that decision for me. The inevitable was postponed six more years.
“By age seven, about the same time I learned to write a bike, the infection had moved into the bone. After two years of thought and counseling, my arm was amputated at the age of nine. This same year, my parents ‘officially’ adopted me. I had lived with them and my six brothers and four sisters since the age of six months.”
No arm. No leg. No hate. No big deal.
Stone lions greet the visitor to the Rinehart home in southeast Portland, somewhere near Laurelhurst Park. It’s a large, comfortable, even stylish bungalow situated in a neighborhood with – if you’ll pardon the Leave It To Beaver cliche – manicured lawns, neatly painted garages and numerous shade trees. A nice place to grow up.
Inside there are more than a few crossword puzzle magazines. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rinehart, Louise and Bernard, are “addicts,” according to their youngest child. Raising eleven (11) kids might lead a parent to such a quiet diversion.
The day’s mail is scattered about the top of the dining room table. One envelope is addressed to John. It’s a letter from the Buick automobile company alerting him to the possibility he may be a winner of a $180,000 sweepstakes grand prize.
He could use the money.
In fact, that’s what he seemed to be working on half the day and some of the night. Only a couple weeks earlier, he had been invited to defend his 1988 cycling title at the Open Belgian Championship. At the same time, he had been asked to compete in the European Open, where last year he had missed capturing that prestigious event by just half a wheel’s length. Half the diameter of a single bicycle tire after 31.2 miles of lung-bursting effort.
A heart-breaker only in the sense he didn’t win. Rinehart certainly didn’t lose.
When interviewed, he was losing the financial battle to return this year. He was disappointed but he refused to quit. He was calling everybody he could call. He was trying. Because of the late notice, there was simply no easy way to raise the expense money.
John Rinehart didn’t become this country’s finest disabled bicycle racer by looking for the easy way. He didn’t become one of Portland’s top riders, one-legged or two, by looking for the easy way. He’s never looked for it. He’s always known it wasn’t there. Never has been.
“Whatever you do, however you write my story,” John Rinehart instructs, “don’t say that I am ‘missing’ my right leg. I am not ‘missing’ my leg, ’cause I never had it. There was never anything for me to miss. It really bothers me when writers put that in…. Now, my right arm, I do miss that.”
Any other ground rules about which a humble, untutored scribe should be forewarned?
“I don’t like the word ‘handicapped,” Rinehart offered in a since-you-asked-me tone. “I never even use the word myself. When I’m walking down the street, limping, with a missing arm, I know people look at me like I’m handicapped. That’s not what I see when I look at me.”
When he looks into a mirror, what John Rinehart sees is a winner. In the world of disabled sports – at least in cycling – there are four categories. The least disabled compete at Level 4; the most disabled compete at Level 1. Rinehart is a Level 1.
His bicycling career began at the age of seven. His father jury-rigged a Schwinn Stingray by putting a spring on the right pedal. And, just like all his buddies with twice the number of appendages, John spent his childhood biking from mischief to exploration to play, and back again.
It was pretty much you basic boyhood. He played Little League baseball. He took swimming and tennis lessons. He never really noticed he wasn’t like the rest of his classmates until he was halfway through grade school.
“It was tough, sure, when I finally figured out I was different than everybody else,” Rinehart recalls, “but I just decided I’d give it a try, whatever it was, if I was interested.
“My parents never held me back. All the doctors said they didn’t have a problem with that. Whatever I hurt, well, they could always put the pieces back together. They were more worried about how I’d respond if I wasn’t given the chance to try.”
Would you believe fencing and martial arts? How about the trumpet? John played that instrument well enough to earn several musical awards. During his senior year, he was elected student-body vice-president at Central Catholic. Class of ’83.
“In high school I even threw the shot,” he remembers with a smile, a frequent expression. “Not very far, but I threw it anyway.”
After high school, there was more school. A stint at the University of Oregon was curtailed when he injured his foot. He attended Portland State, dropped out to work full-time with a market research firm, then he returned to Eugene to attend Lane Community College.
The bicycle, now a ten-speed, went with him wherever he headed. It was a cheap form of transportation. It was good exercise. (He’s five-feet-nine and one-hundred-fifteen pounds.)
At age twenty-two, Rinehart got bored with his bike and his bike riding.
“I had always used cycling as a way to stay fit. I finally figured out that I’d either have to quit or do something to make it more interesting. I liked it too much to quit. I decided to take up racing.”
With a vengeance. “I called a friend to ask about his training,” John explains. “I thought it would be great to finish the Race Across America.”
In characteristic fashion, the novice instantly began serious preparation. Sixty miles a day up and down the steepest of the West Hills. He’s particularly fond of Terwilliger Boulevard.
Several weeks later – still pedaling like there’s no tomorrow or at least a race scheduled – Rinehart received one of those out-of-the-blue, once-in-a-lifetime phone calls. Long distance. It was the director of the United States Amputee Athletic Association, and he wanted to know if John would be willing to join the national disabled team at the World Cycling Championships in Gilly sur Loire, France.
Holy spokes! Not a bad spot for an athlete’s first serious competition.
Of 106 riders, only twenty-one never saw the finish line, except from inside a “sag” wagon. John Rinehart placed third, winning a bronze medal for his country. And his family. Most of all, for himself.
A month later, Rinehart competed in the U.S. Championships. He returned to Portland as the national title holder and a qualifier for the 1988 Paralympics.
You already know John won the Open Belgian and earned a silver medal at the European Open. He placed seventh in Seoul. His chance at a Paralympic gold was lost when his disability category was canceled at the last minute.
Rinehart was the only Paralympian who elected to race in a more competitive, higher category. He went head-to-head, wheel-to-wheel with people less, well, handicapped.
That’s his style. He’s done it every day of our life life. He’s used to it. He even thinks it’s fun.
But he doesn’t enjoy dialing for dollars. He doesn’t particularly get enthused about writing proposals or soliciting donations. “I’d rather be riding,” he concedes. “I’d rather be on my bike. I’d rather be training.”
That’s what Rinehart is doing this summer. “The reason I like riding the most is, I’m in my natural form when I’m on my bike. People take me for what I am. They get the truth when I’m on my bike.”
His bike sets him free.
Unfortunately, the level of cycling John Rinehart is capable of – he’s ranked second in the world – is not free. He needs help to compete against the rest of the best.
That’s not to say he doesn’t get plenty of assistance now. His sponsors include (appearing in alphabetical order): Bolle sunglasses, Descente skin suits, Giro helmets, Great Harvest Bread Company, Klein bicycles, Mavic components, Nike shoes & apparel, and Vortechs pedals.
“Whatever you do, please don’t forget to mention Easter Seals,” John suggested strongly. Easter Seals serves as a conduit for donations.
But this is not about money. It is about a young man who – it was said by one sponsor – is trying to be the best he can be. Rinehart is trying to be more than that; he’s trying to be his own army.
“I don’t want to nickel-and-dime the rest of my racing career,” John explains with the same determination he displays climbing Vista Boulevard. “The more time I spend trying to scare up dollars, the less time I have to spend on my bike. That just makes me less efficient, less effective, less capable of winning the big events.”
Rinehart doesn’t care to think of himself as less capable. His goal is $25,000 per year. Ten thousand for living expenses – “You have to admit that’s modest” – and the rest to cover the cost of training, travel and racing.
And what could a sponsor expect to get in return, besides a warm, fuzzy feeling all over?
“Lots of press,” Rinehart begins, his attire festooned with corporate logos. “A positive response from the community. Product testing. Local promotions.”
Tax deductions and an association with one special guy.
John thinks he has something else to give. He’s begun to visit organizations, schools in particular, and share with people, teenagers especially, his philosophy of accepting life’s challenges, about meeting obstacles and overcoming them.
“You have a choice,” John commences his presentation to an audience of one. “I was born with two strikes against me. When you learn to think positively, you’re halfway there. The mind is a powerful tool.”
The words, full of sincerity, come out in a rush. “There’s nothing worse than negative attitudes. People who tell you that you can’t do something, don’t believe them. Not for a minute. They try to keep you back, but they have nothing to lose. You are the only loser if you don’t try.”
He’s rolling now, like he’s biking downhill with a tailwind. “When you decide to do something… AND YOU TRY… you can overcome just about anything. You’ve got to be willing to do whatever it takes, anything at all, to get what you want. You have to make the choice in your mind. make that choice, really make it, and you can succeed. You will succeed.”
And after you make that choice, you must work hard. He’s training. He’s sending out proposals. He’s not done yet. There are more bike races, more championships to be won.
There are more hills to climb.