After fight, local man set to roll in marathon
Marathon reinstates wheelchair division

By Bob Dyer Beacon Journal columnist
Published on Thursday, Feb 17, 2011

At times, it seems like yesterday. Other times, it seems like a whole
different life — which, in a sense, it was.

The year was 1987. John Squires was 15 years old and having a blast.

A wrestler and football player, he was stocked with confidence, fire
and boundless energy. The Barberton teen had started summer football
practice at his new school, St. Vincent-St. Mary, where he hoped to
make an impact as a fullback and linebacker.

Then, everything changed.

On a hot, humid, sun-drenched Monday in late July, John was cooling
off with two pals at Portage Lakes State Park.

They were swinging out over the water on a rope and diving in
head-first. As John grabbed the rope and swung out, he hesitated at
the end of the arc, swung back a bit and ended up diving short of his
target. His head landed squarely on a buddy's hip.

The buddy, Jason Friend, wasn't hurt, but Squires snapped his neck and
was instantly paralyzed. If not for Friend quickly diving down to pull
him out, he would have drowned.

His recovery was agonizingly slow — a year and a half at Edwin Shaw
Hospital, followed by another 31/2 years of outside rehab before he
could come close to functioning on his own.

Squires didn't spend much time feeling sorry for himself, though. He
was too stubborn.

Still is. And that's the main reason officials at the Cleveland
Marathon have changed their minds and will reinstate a wheelchair
division for this year's race, set for May 15.

But more on that in a minute. First, you need to know where Squires
has come from to appreciate where he's coming from.

After the accident, he left St. V-M and returned to the Barberton
system. Then it was off to Kent State, from which he graduated in 1996
with a degree in psychology.

He also returned to his athletic roots. At first, he was limited to
light hand-cycling as part of his rehab. After growing stronger, he
formed Kent State's first wheelchair rugby team. He added skiing to
his repertoire and helped organize a group called Three Trackers that
today regularly plies the slopes at Brandywine.

Then, just last year, he became a marathoner.

Wheelchair racers generally fall into two categories: ''rim-pushers,''
who ride relatively traditional chairs and thrust their hands downward
on the wheels, and ''hand-crankers,'' who ride low to the ground,
tilted backward at a 40-degree angle, and propel themselves by doing
the rough equivalent of lat pulls.

Squires, who is classified as a ''high-level quadriplegic'' because he
has only limited use of his hands and arms, is one of the latter. He
can't open his hands wide enough to shake, but he can wrap them around
the handlebars of his $6,000 chair and ride like the wind — tires
willing.

In last year's Columbus marathon, Squires blew his left rear tire
three times. After the first flat, he had to ride on the rim for seven
miles before he could hook up with someone able to fix it. But Squires
simply refused to quit. He finally rolled over the finish line after
four hours and 40 minutes.

Typically, he can cover the 26 miles in 21/2 or 3 hours. Some
wheelchair marathoners can finish in as little as 75 minutes, and on
downhill stretches can reach speeds as high as 40 mph — which, while a
thrill for the racer and spectators, can create safety issues.

Still, as Squires points out, wheelchair divisions are offered in the
nation's three biggest marathons — Boston, New York and the Ironman
competition in Hawaii — as well as smaller races such as Akron's,
Dayton's and Detroit's.

Declares war

But when he tried to sign up this year for Cleveland, he was told he
couldn't race because no wheelchair division was being offered.
Squires was livid. He embarked on a PR war, haranging the marathon's
top officials as well as contacting national organizations, fellow
wheelchair athletes and people like me.

He says there is simply no legitimate reason a well-oiled operation
like Cleveland's can't accommodate wheelchairs.

''Do race directors love it? Probably not, because it's one more
headache they have to deal with. But you know what? That's too bad. We
train our butts off to do this stuff and we should be able to do it.

''And, quite frankly, we're a big draw. People love to see the guys in
the chairs flying by. It's inspiring.''

Squires, now 38, is sitting in a regular wheelchair in the kitchen of
the attractive ranch home he shares with his primary training partner
and wife of three years, Annalisa, in a new housing development in
Coventry Township. He has a thick head of dark hair and a neatly
trimmed beard. As he talks about his latest sports passion, intensity
flies from his green eyes.

That intensity has been felt by Jack Staph, president of the Cleveland
Marathon. After initially telling Squires the wheelchair division
couldn't be reinstated because the division's sponsor had dropped out
and the resources were simply not available, Staph has changed his
tune.

''Our only concern is their safety,'' he told me this week. ''It's
difficult to keep them safe . . .

''Sometimes these wheelers go faster than the lead vehicles. You have
to close the course in front of them and sometimes it's hard to close
down the course so quickly.''

However, after another half-dozen wheelchair jocks said they wanted to
race (some of them encouraged to speak up by Squires), ''we said,
'Well, let's take a look at it.' ''

Good to go

Squires says Staph called him the day after our conversation and said
a wheelchair division definitely would be added but that it probably
would have to be capped at 10 to 12 participants. Squires, Staph and
Staph's son, Race Director Ralph Staph, will meet next week to hammer
out the logistics.

Each wheelchair rider needs a strong bicyclist riding with him, about
20 yards ahead and armed with a whistle to make sure the coast is
clear. (If you'd like to be among the volunteers, call Squires at
330-807-7977.)

Although Squires is reasonably satisfied with the outcome, he doesn't
think he should have been forced to jump through hoops.

''To me it's all about inclusion,'' he says. ''I work my butt off
year-around. I have to train three times as hard as an average
marathoner just because I'm using a quarter of the muscles they have
in their body. I do it all from the chest up. When somebody tells me I
can't compete, it's just not right.''

Squires' assertiveness has helped keep him financially
self-sufficient. He sells real estate, which he started doing right
out of college, and also works part-time underwriting contracts and
giving motivational speeches.

Biggest goal

Self-motivation drives him to work out six days a week, spending an
hour each day on weight training and another hour on cardiovascular
exercise.

Squires soon leads his visitor to a spare bedroom that he refers to as
his gym. It contains an array of fancy exercise equipment. On the
walls are newspaper clippings trumpeting past wheelchair sports
achievements, along with photos of legendary bodybuilder Arnold
Schwarzenegger.

In one corner of the room is a device called a ''standing frame.'' You
put your feet in the stirrups, wrap a strap across your butt and pump
yourself up to a standing position. Squires uses it every day to
stretch his back and legs.

''It's really good for your bones,'' he says. ''Gotta be ready for
when I get out of this chair some day.''

Gonna happen? ''I hope so. I never give up hope on that. So I stay in
the best shape I can. I do everything I can do.''

He certainly seems to.

And if he sometimes comes across as a little bit pushy, can you blame him?


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Bob Dyer can be reached at 330-996-3580 or bdyer@thebeaconjournal.com.





John Squires inspects his Top End Force Racing Hand cycle at his home
on Wednesday, Feb. 16, 2011, in Coventry, Ohio. Squires is a
wheelchair athlete who was told by the Cleveland Marathon that there
is no longer a wheelchair division. He complained and it appears that
the marathon will now allow a limited number of wheelchair entries.
(Ed Suba Jr./Akron Beacon Journal) At times, it seems like yesterday.
Other times, it seems like a whole different life — which, in a sense,
it was.