After losing both of his legs in a car accident at age 18, Scott Rigsby battled his way back from depression and addiction to achieve the unthinkable—become the first double-leg amputee ever to cross the finish line in the sporting world’s most grueling and prestigious competition, the Ironman Triathlon. Scott has since become an inspiration to hundreds of thousands of physically challenged and able-bodied athletes the world over. Unthinkable documents Scott’s remarkable journey. From the scene of the devastating crash that claimed both of his legs, and his subsequent battle with depression and alcohol addiction, through his dawning realization that God has a greater plan for his life, readers will be inspired. From his decision to participate in the Ironman competition, to the moment he crossed the finish line, readers will engage with Scott’s unthinkable courage, determination and faith. Unthinkable releases simultaneously in both hardcover and softcover. A portion of the proceeds will go to the Scott Rigsby Foundation, a Georgia-based non-profit organization dedicated to inspire, inform, and enable physically challenged individuals with loss of limb or mobility to live an active lifestyle.
Unthinkable
THE TRUE STORY ABOUT THE FIRST DOUBLE AMPUTEE TO COMPLETE THE WORLD-FAMOUS HAWAIIAN IRONMAN TRIATHLONBy SCOTT RIGSBY JENNA GLATZERTyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Scott Rigsby
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4143-3314-4Chapter One
"Please, mister, get this trailer off me! Please help me!"
I didn't remember saying that, but he sure remembered hearing it. The man had tears in his eyes as he filled in the gaps in my memory, explaining that I had grabbed his arm when he came over to ask what he could do.
He was the driver of a truck that was behind the eighteen-wheeler that had sideswiped our pickup, causing me to go flying off the side of our truck's toolbox and bounce up and down the hot asphalt of the roadway for 324 feet. When the pickup finally stopped, what was left of my right leg was trapped under a trailer carrying three tons of lawn-mowing equipment, and my back was a mass of third-degree burns from scraping along the pavement.
I was just a kid at the time-eighteen years old, fresh out of high school and working a summer landscaping job with a couple of my best friends. It was a great way to work on my tan and my muscles while making some spending money-and I liked the work. We had a boss we called "Unc," an African-American in his late sixties with a grandfatherly manner, who looked out for us. The housing authority of Camilla, Georgia, had hired us to mow lawns in the city's housing projects and some smaller surrounding communities.
When we drove to the smaller towns, three guys would ride in the cab of the truck, and three guys would hop into the back and sit on the toolbox with their backs resting against the cab. Once we were all aboard, we would drive to our location for that day. On July 23, 1986, we headed to Norman Park, a small, unincorporated town near Moultrie, Georgia. I drove the truck that morning-way too fast for Unc's taste, as usual. Having grown up watching movies such as Smokey and the Bandit and Cannonball Run and television shows such as The Dukes of Hazzard, whenever I went somewhere, I always wanted to see how fast I could get there.
My friends and I liked working in Norman Park because it was a bit of a distance from Camilla-by the time we finished the job and made it back to the housing authority office, it would be about time to break for lunch. We always drove at or just under the speed limit on the way back because we were kids and were getting paid by the hour. Plus, you can't hit a road sign with a bottle at high speeds. Yes, we were mischievous, but not malicious.
Whenever we rode in the back of the truck, we played games to see how many road signs we could hit. My competitive nature would take over, and soon we would be throwing cinder blocks, and then larger objects, until Mike McClain-always the voice of reason on our crew-would suggest that maybe throwing a table at a sign might be a little over the top.
Once we arrived back at the Camilla Housing Authority, we'd partake of our favorite event of the day: eating. With the metabolism of eighteen-year-olds, we ate anything and everything in sight. We would head to Guy Watson's house, which was within walking distance, and we'd scarf down soft drinks, pizza, and any other food that had not been properly hidden.
We'd also watch television, but not just any television. It had to be Bodies in Motion, a half-hour fitness and aerobics workout show on ESPN. The star of the show was an Olympic athlete named Gilad Janklowicz, but that's not what kept us glued to the television. No, we tuned in to see Gilad's assistants-the most amazingly beautiful women-exercising in skimpy spandex outfits. These women put Olivia Newton-John and her Physical video to shame.
But even though Bodies in Motion was an intellectually and culturally stimulating program, it could sustain our knowledge-seeking minds only so long before our food coma kicked in. Then we'd fade peacefully into a thirty-minute nap, and I'd dream about blades of grass gently swaying in the breeze until it was time to head back to work. All in all, it was a glorious summer experience.
That particular day, we finished our morning work and went to the store to get some cold drinks and snacks. After we loaded up on enough junk food to put a dent in our $3.35-per-hour paychecks, it was time to head to Guy's house for lunch. I hopped back into the driver's seat, and my right hand had a firm grip on the steering wheel when Unc said, "Why don't you let someone else drive?"
It didn't bother me. I loved and respected Unc-he loved us and we were his boys. He was a great manager because he was tough but fair. I'm not sure if Unc knew how to read or write very well, but that wouldn't have changed my opinion of him. I was proud that he had a managerial role. Growing up in the South could not have been easy for him, yet he showed no bitterness or prejudice against white folks.
Often, he was thinking ahead about what he wanted to tell us, and he would get so caught up in his words that he would mix up our names. He'd say, "Now, Tommy, ... I mean Mike, ... I mean Guy," and then he would pause and collect his thoughts. "Now, Scott, I wantcha ta go over there, and cut the grass on dat part of dat dem buildings." That was our Unc.
We shared the driving duties all the time, and I knew that Unc wanted a slow pace on the way home.
"Tommy, you drive us on home," he said. Tommy Hilliard was a couple of years younger than Mike, Guy, and I were-a good farm kid from a great family. His mom ran the Camilla Housing Authority. Although he was the youngest, Tommy was probably the best driver of us all.
I often replay in my mind that moment of getting out of the driver's seat. It was such a small event, but it changed the course of many lives. I have to believe that Unc and Tommy must have reflected on that decision as well. Unc was right to let Tommy drive. I always drove way too fast because patience was not one of my virtues.
Being behind the wheel was a circus act for me. I was an early practitioner of multitasking. My mouth would run double the speed of the vehicle while I stuffed my face full of chips and washed them down with a cold drink and somehow reached to turn the channel on the radio. My talking or deejaying didn't annoy anyone-the others were too gripped with fear by my haphazard attention to the road. Tommy, on the other hand, was patient and careful when driving.
Who knows how different things might have been if I had stayed at the wheel?
Tommy slid into the cab for the leisurely drive back to Camilla. I hopped in the back of the truck and slammed my dirty, grass-covered shoulders right next to my best friends, Guy Watson and Mike McClain. I sat on the left side of the truck behind the driver's seat, Mike was in the middle, and Guy was on the right. Tommy, Unc, and Demetrius-the other member of our crew-rode in the cab. Jacked up from the sugar of a Snickers bar and the caffeine of a Mountain Dew I had inhaled, I proceeded to give my friends an earful of my philosophies of life.
Guy was one of the best and funniest storytellers I had ever met, with a particular aptitude for impressions. His parents, "Mr. Bill" and "Miss Janie," were like a second set of parents to me. I had known Mike since eighth grade, when he and his family moved to Pelham, a town near Camilla. He was a great athlete because what he lacked in size and strength, he made up for in intelligence. His thinking was calculated and methodical. Okay, there were a few times when...
