Hitting the Wall
Rich Sprenkel, Jr.
Chico, California
Rich Sprenkel, Jr.
Chico, California
It was April 17, 1989, near the end of the twenty-six and one-half mile Boston Marathon; my body
had “hit the wall.” But somehow, the combination of cheers from the million and a half plus crowd
and the atmosphere of energy that knifed the air made my spirits soar with the glitter of holiday
balloons, buoying me over the agony. Usually about two miles from the finish, muscles and mind
refuse to cooperate and many athletes simply keel over.
But I was flying! I had fulfilled the unreachable, had experienced the impossible dream.
For a brief flash I thought of the “carbo party” held the previous evening at the Black Falcon
Terminal, overlooking shimmering lights on the Bay. Munching on tasty dishes of rice and
spaghetti, in awe of mingling with professional and Olympic runners, I chatted with a distinguished
gentleman sitting in front of me.
“Say, Rich, tell me about your accident.”
I stared at him! How could he know? "The scars! I couldn't help but notice the little scars on your
forehead. You have been in a halo. You see, I am a surgeon.
Of course, a doctor would notice. "Yes, that's right. It happened five years ago."
He handed me his card. Dr. Bradley C. Borlase, M.D., Harvard Medical School. Memories surfaced
as I told him my story.
It happened on April 4, 1984, while I was returning from a drinking party near Chico State
University, in Chico, California. I was nineteen years old and life was a party! I had rebelled
against the God of my parents and against the beliefs that had been instilled by a childhood of
studying the Bible. That stuff was for old fogies! Not for me! Dad had tried to reason with me
many times but I refused to listen.
I slammed on the brakes of my soft-top CJ5 to avoid hitting a dog. The jeep rolled two times then
landed on me and another passenger, a buddy. The back of my neck hit the curb, and a wrench
pierced my side, leaving a deep hole. My skull took quite a beating from the impact leaving a crack
from my ear to the top of my head. My pelvis was broken in four places. I had turned blue when a
bystander, who had heard the crash and rushed to the scene from his comfortable house, revived me
with artificial resuscitation.
The shrill ringing of the phone reached Mother and Dad at one-thirty in the morning. "There's been
an accident. Rich is in the hospital, in a coma and not expected to live." Fighting panic, they raced
to the hospital and inadvertently walked into the emergency room to see their son comatose, body
broken and bleeding. The wrench had left an ugly gaping hole, my head was bloodied and
misshapen, my ear hanging by a thread of skin.
My parents were asked to leave, but Dad insisted, "All we want to do is pray." He reached out his
hand toward me and said, "Rich, we're praying for you." Funny! Dad says my head swung over
when he said that. Anyway, after Dad prayed the nurses ushered my parents into the doctors' lounge
to wait
The attending neurosurgeon was gentle as he spoke to my parents, "The X-rays show no spinal
chord in the injured area, which indicates that it is severed there. His neck is broken in four places
and the vertebrae are separated. He could slip away at any moment. We are doing our best, but I
doubt if we can save him. I'm sorry. But if he does survive, he will never function as a normal
person."
Temporarily shaken, my father's strong faith would hold him steadfast throughout the ordeal. A
family friend arrived and began to pray. Pastor Gaylord Enns arrived. Members of my family came
and the group began a prayer vigil. Several churches had been alerted and a chain of prayer began.
With my life hanging in precarious balance, my condition was monitored but the doctors did not
begin treatment. Toward morning the neurosurgeon spoke to my parents, "These X-rays are
beginning to look better; whatever it is that you're doing, keep it Up.
Miraculously I survived the night. At about eight o'clock the next morning, I was moved to the
trauma unit for treatment. The night watch of prayer warriors, greatly encouraged, began to
leave. By that time churches throughout California and Washington State had been alerted and
prayer continued. Those prayers sustained my parents.
My life hung on a thread during the days that followed. Alarm lights flashed as doctors and nurses
battled for my survival. I had been placed on a breathing machine and developed pneumonia, a
major crisis for one in my condition. At one point a high fever developed and the doctors thought it
was the end. Time and time again God intervened.
The following Sunday morning Dad attended church where the congregation had been praying. An
elderly woman greeted him and quoted Psalm 117, "He shall live and not die." Greatly comforted
Dad accepted the words. Later that night he would need that scripture.
That evening the doctors informed my parents that a blood clot had formed on my brain and was
expanding. Without an operation I would surely die but I was not expected to survive an operation
in my condition. Again I surprised the doctors when I did live.
The doctors prepared my parents for my recovery and suggested they attend classes for parents of
the brain impaired. "He will be nothing more than a vegetable, unable to walk or talk." Mother and
Dad continued to pray.
Twenty-eight days after the injury I came out of the coma. "He's talking." The ne ws circled
throughout the hospital. My room quickly filled with doctors in white coats, curious, concerned,
questioning me.
"Say, Rich, how do you spell Cherry Street?”
They were amazed that I could talk! But spell correctly? That was unbelievable! Medical science
could not explain why I had such a recovery. Again, a time to celebrate.
When I entered the Therapeutic Treatment Center at Chico Community Hospital, the sincere
sympathy of the nurses incensed me: "Rich, you must accept what is. You must learn to adjust to
accept your condition, your limitations." What? Live like this? Oh, no! Not me! Not on your life!
Their words angered and challenged me, spurring me to activity. I worked diligently during
(countless hours of) therapy. Determined with the help of Almighty God to walk.
In the beginning, I could not stand without assistance. I tottered and hobbled, staggering around my
room without the nurses' knowledge. In three or four weeks I could walk alone.
Two months after the accident, the doctors wanted to remove the "halo" (a device screwed into the
head, with a circle that goes around the head to prevent movement of the vertebrae) but they were
concerned because one of the vertebrae was out of alignment. So they scheduled an operation on
my neck.
The night before the surgery I attended a prayer meeting and was anointed with oil and baptized in
the Holy Spirit. I actually felt a surge of power through my neck during prayer. I just knew God
touched me. The next morning when the doctors X-rayed, they discovered the vertebrae were in
position. I was elated to have that operation canceled and breathed a prayer of gratitude to God. I
did not deserve this mercy, this great love of a forgiving God. But He had bestowed it on me!
Who was this God? I wanted to know more about Him, to know Him for myself. Why had He
spared me? It would take time to come to a fuller understanding; time to give my life to Him. But
God was real! Real!
One year after the accident the doctors allowed me to run again. It was like setting fire to a furnace.
It seems like I haven't taken my running shoes off since that time.
I competed in a triathlon four months later while the nurses from the hospital cheered from the
sidelines. Since that time I have competed in triathlons, marathons, 1OKs and sometimes long
distance bike races. In the spring of 1989 I placed eleventh overall in the Chico Bidwell Classic
Marathon, and was first in my age division, with a time of 2.59 which qualified for the Boston
Marathon.
As I raced the last few yards down Boston's Boylston Street, beyond exhaustion, drenched, each
step a creation of agony, I barely heard the sounds that enveloped me. TV cameras hovered like
whining hummingbirds overhead; video and still cameras clicked from the sidelines.
I knew this was a time to remember.
I savored the moments, drinking in rays of the penetrating sun for which I had prayed. I wanted to
etch this moment into my mind forever. The 8,000 runners surrounded me like teeming molten lava
pouring through the streets of this historic New England city that claimed the ship Columbus sailed
in and the statue of Paul Revere. Each runner stretched beyond endurance trying to make the finish
line.
After I had nearly collapsed across the finish line I was amazed to discover that amid the
competition of Olympic and professional runner I had finished in the top twenty percent Receiving
that medal that was placed around my neck, I sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. Tears ran down
my face for quite awhile. Is there anything You can’t do, my Father in heaven?
What next? The Olympics? A big dream, yes. But because of the grace of Jesus Christ, Lord and
Master, I have hit the wall before and survived, reaching impossib le dreams.
