From 0 to 100,000 miles: The Ripple Effect of One Choice
Last Thursday, my Dad sent me a text:
“After today’s ride, I have ridden 99,888.6 miles.”
That number stopped me cold. Nearly 100,000 miles. A lifetime on two wheels. And yet, what’s most remarkable isn’t just the number—it’s how it all began.
Before the Bike
My Dad wasn’t a professional athlete. He wasn’t even what you’d call an “athlete” at all in his 20s and 30s. Life didn’t leave much room for finish lines or medals. By the time he and my Mom entered their third decade, they had five kids under the age of eight. Five. He was commuting to San Francisco for work—out the door at 5:30 a.m.—and heading to night school two days a week to finish his degree.
He was always active in the way so many dads are: yardwork, building, fixing things we all broke ‘Sorry Dad’ . But he wasn’t fit. At six feet tall, the scale was pushing 250. “In shape” wasn’t part of the story.
Then, when I was 19, everything changed.
The Trip That Changed Everything
Dad took the Boy Scouts on a 50-mile hike in the Marble Mountain wilderness. That trip was one of those that makes for a good story later—but at the time, it was more than they bargained for. A leader fell and could hardly walk. It poured rain. The group got lost, I mean, REALLY lost. And in the middle of it all, Dad woke up in his tent one morning with the crushing sensation that “a fat lady was sitting on his chest.”
There was no cell service. No rescue plan. No quick exit. Just wilderness and a prayer from his mouth to God’s ears to survive. Miracles happen.
Back home, after appointments and tests, the truth came into sharp focus: triple bypass surgery at 44. The surgeon laid it out plainly—change wasn’t optional. Heart disease ran in the family. His father and grandfather had both died in their 50s from heart issues. If he didn’t make different choices, he’d likely follow the same path.
When the scar across his chest had healed enough, he climbed onto a bicycle. It was November 1, 1996. And that day changed everything.
The Long Ride
Within a few years, he did his first century ride—100 miles in a day. And while most of us now track every heartbeat and pedal stroke with gadgets and apps, Dad had only a basic bike computer. When he got home, he’d pull out green accounting sheets and log his miles by hand. Nearly 30 years later, he still does it this way.
Did he ride every single day? No. But did he ride almost every day? Yes. And when life got in the way, he always came back to the bike.
He’s survived crashes—including one where he bounced off the hood of a van and into a ditch. My mom still remembers coming home from teaching to find a police car in the driveway. He’s never spent more than $2,000 on a bike. But mile after mile, day after day, he’s closing in on 100,000.
That’s an achievement worth celebrating—his discipline, his health, his sheer commitment. But for me, the numbers aren’t the real story.
Ripples of Quiet Strength
What I celebrate most is the ripple effect of his choice to ride.
Because I wanted to be like him. So much so that I used a student loan to buy my first bike. I did my first century with him. And because he taught me—“YOU CAN DO HARD THINGS“—I went searching for bigger, harder challenges. Longer rides. Triathlons. Ironmans.
And then, in 2010, I signed up for the Million Dollar Challenge—a 650-mile ride down the California coast to raise money for the Challenged Athletes Foundation. That ride didn’t just change my fitness. It changed my life.
Dad was there at the finish line. He’s been there every single year since.
The Million Dollar Goal
In a few weeks, I’ll head back to California for my 10th Million Dollar Challenge. The first few year, I showed up my myself. Then I brought my sister. Then I started bringing friends. Because CAF changed me—meeting their athletes changed the way I thought about “hard.”
I refuse to live in a world where kids and adults are left out of sport and mobility because of disability. That’s why my big, hairy goal is to raise $1 million for CAF. I’m more than halfway there.
When I first moved to Central Ohio 12 years ago, I was the only one showing up to group rides in a CAF kit. Now, we host an annual CAF Team Ohio Gran Fondo. It raises thousands each year, but even more important—it raises awareness and connects more people to a mission that helps athletes of all abilities access adaptive equipment and opportunities.
The Legacy He Never Planned
But here’s the thing: none of this happens without my Dad’s bypass surgery. None of it. I doubt he was lying in that hospital bed imagining the legacy his pain would set in motion.
And yet, nearly 30 years later, there are countless people who ride because of him. You won’t find him leading charity events. You won’t see him at the front of a peloton. Hell, you probably won’t ever find him IN a peloton. He prefers to ride alone. What you will find is his quiet strength—his steady example—creating ripples that spread farther than he’ll ever know.
The Lesson For All of Us
We all face moments that feel impossibly hard. For Dad, it was triple bypass surgery at 44. For you, it may look completely different. But what we do with those moments—the choice we make about our reaction—that’s what defines us. And if we’re lucky, the way we respond doesn’t just change our own lives. It ripples outward and changes the lives of others.
So here’s to you, Dad.
I’m grateful you didn’t give up in that hospital bed. I’m grateful you keep pedaling. I’m grateful for the ripples you’ve set in motion.
