Bob and Mark, our friends from Road Trippin’ with Bob and Mark, were there to document the experience. But as Sam and I leaned into the winding trail, laughter echoing off the canyon walls, they were left in the dust. The moment was pure joy: two friends racing through a place that, for decades, had been con- sidered off-limits. OBSTACLES ON THE TRAIL Of course, the trail wasn’t without challenges. At one point, the path narrowed and twisted into a sharp turn, eventually becoming a short flight of stone steps. The Motus couldn’t roll through on its own. We had to lift and angle the chair, carefully maneuvering until Sam was safely back on track. Farther down, the trail became so tight we were forced to turn back and look for an alternate route. What we found was no less daunting: a steep drop into a dry creek bed followed by a rocky climb out the other side. As I weighed the options, a group of hikers approached. Without hesitation, they offered to help. THE POWER OF STRANGERS This is something we’ve experienced often on our adventures: the kindness of strangers who want to be part of the journey. For these hikers, lending a hand wasn’t just about moving a wheel- chair—it was about sharing in the adventure, making sure Sam had the same chance to experience the canyon’s magic as any- one else. Together, we navigated the descent and the climb, each set of hands steadying the chair as we pushed forward. It wasn’t just a problem solved; it was a reminder of how community and acces- sibility go hand in hand. A MYSTICAL MOMENT Not every memory from that day was about struggle or prob- lem-solving. Some were simply magical. As we entered one of the narrowest parts of Wall Street, a man stood off to the side playing a pan flute. The notes echoed through the towering rock walls, creating an atmosphere that felt otherworldly. For a moment, the music and the canyon merged into something timeless, and Sam and I rolled forward in awe. WHY THIS DAY MATTERED For Sam, the day was more than an outdoor adventure—it was the fulfillment of a dream thought lost decades ago. For me, it was another reminder of why the Extreme Motus exists. We weren’t just checking off a trail; we were rewriting a family story, showing that Bryce Canyon wasn’t the “last time” after all. And for everyone who passed us on the trail—hikers who saw the Motus in action, who lent their hands, or who simply heard our laughter echoing through the canyon—it was proof that ac- cessibility doesn’t diminish an experience. If anything, it deepens it.
YouTube Video: Bryce Canyon Adventure https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3ZUnuFjnkI
WHO WANTS AN UNDERDOG? Not all of our Extreme Motus adventures take place on moun- tain trails or inside national parks. Adventures like the Bryce Canyon story can be an almost spiritual experience. Most of our adventures are about friends goofing around. Sometimes they happen in the most unexpected places—like under an aban- doned train bridge in the middle of the desert. That’s where we set out to attempt what might just be a world first: the underdog in an all-terrain wheelchair. Someone should probably call Guin- ness. WHAT EXACTLY IS AN UNDERDOG? If you’ve ever played on a swing set, you probably already know. An underdog is when you push someone so hard that in- stead of stopping at their back, you keep running and dive un- derneath as they swing up and over you. It’s the boldest move on any playground—statistically the one most likely to end in injury, and in some places, it’s even been banned. For kids, though, it’s a rite of passage. It’s the moment when swinging becomes flying, if only for a second. And somehow, de- spite all our years of adventures, Sam had never gotten one. LESSONS IN GRAVITY (AND CONSEQUENCES) Of course, the underdog carries risks. I knew that firsthand. Back in 4th grade, I gave my friend Peter Jay an underdog so powerful he nearly landed on the roof of Brookside School. Un- fortunately, he came down on the tetherball court instead. Mr. J had just finished teaching us about gravity that morning, and we thought we’d test the theory. Peter tested it a little too hard. The playground went silent as kids looked skyward, half-be- lieving Peter had learned to fly. He hadn’t. And broke both arms when he landed. Pete had to walk around for the rest of the school year with both arms in casts that held his arms at right angles from his body. To this day, I don’t know how he managed to eat lunch—or go to the bathroom—in that condition. Peter
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