An inevitable part of life is unfortunately loss and the pain that comes from loss. Especially over the last few years many of us have grieved losing a loved one. One of my good friends and personal heroes is Erik Weihenmayer. He has been a great inspiration to me personally and I have Ben blessed to share several great adventures with him thru the years. He wrote this beautiful tribute to one of his personal heroes, his dad, Ed. It truly touched me and I wanted to share this message of pain, mourning, inspiration, and ultimately gratitude with our extended Venture Sports family.
– Mike Brumbaugh
Two months ago, my father, Ed Weihenmayer III, passed away. He’d been in terrible pain with an artificial hip that kept popping out and a back with degrading vertebrae. On top of it all, he slipped and broke his hip and was in the rehabilitation hospital awaiting revision hip surgery when his beautiful heart gave out. In his final hours, my brother, Eddi, and Ed’s wife, Mariann, were there to comfort him. Although Ed’s accomplishments were amazing and could fill a book: president of his class, captain of his Princeton football team, USMC-honor Man of his officers training school out of 600 graduating Marines, and 118 missions over Vietnam in his A4 Skyhawk: there was so much more to him – a softer side that spoke to faith, love, and family.
Today, there’s a hole in my heart; my dad influenced me in every way and encouraged, inspired, and cajoled me into the man I am. He believed more strongly than anyone I’ve ever met; he believed in me, and in the potential of his loved ones, never giving up on them.
As a young kid, I loved to do tricks on my bike. at the top of my driveway, wearing an Evel Knievel T-shirt and black leather gloves, I’d fly down the driveway, hit a steep wooden ramp that I’d built, soar through the air, and land on a plywood landing ramp. As my vision waned, I could no longer see the ramp; it blended in with the pavement below, and I kept hitting it crooked. Mired in frustration, I threw my bike down and escaped into my room. I was so wrapped up with my failure, I didn’t notice my father spray painting an old chest in the garage. Ed looked at the dull wooden ramp and at the can of spray paint in his hand.The next morning when I peddled down the driveway for another reluctant try, to my surprise, the ramps were totally recognizable. They’d been painted a bright orange. I hit the ramp dead-on and quickly regained my confidence, even convincing my two brothers to lie down on their stomachs between the ramps, so I could jump over them. They somehow agreed, but both flattened their bodies tensely against the pavement, their flesh quivering and their arms squeezed tightly over their heads. I soared over them in true Evel Knievel style and rode around the cul-de-sac waving my hand in victory. I felt like my dad in his a4 Skyhawk as I pronounced, “mission accomplished.”
My father could have easily said, no more bike jumping, but instead, he painted the ramps orange and illuminated the runway. Since then, undoubtedly based on the example of his mindset, I founded an organization called, No Barriers, but my father was “No Barriers” from the start.In 1996, I called my dad to share a wild dream of making a life in the mountains. “Blind adventurer” wasn’t an idea any venture capitalist was going to bank on, and besides, I was an English teacher, with zero business acumen, so very ill equipped to run a small business. However, Ed jumped right in with his typical gusto to lend his expertise and support. Ultimately, he became my manager, and we spoke almost every day for the next 25 years; business was just the excuse though to get some advice on the family, to soak in his perspective, or to listen to his mile-long tick-list of stretch goals that even to my standards, often seemed like outlandish reaches. As I began climbing tall mountains, my dad would constantly tell me, I don’t care whether you break records; I just want you to live a fulfilling life, never on the sidelines.”
He was also a part of my climbs. Ed joined me on Kilimanjaro; he lay in El Cap Meadows with a telescope watching us creep up the face of El Capitan for three days; he limped to Everest base camp with a bad hip, and he and my brothers flew in a Twin Otter plane over Denali watching my team and me take our last steps.
His sense of adventure began much earlier when I was in second grade and my dad accepted a new position in Hong Kong running human resources for Pfizer in Asia. One weekend, my mother was away on a special tour of China; back then, it took piles of paperwork and permissions to enter the People’s Republic of China. My dad, two brothers and I were hiking in the New Territories of Hong Kong. Swept away by a sense of exploration, we climbed over a series of barbed wire fences. I could barely see, but it was impossible not to notice the large red signs warning, “Turn back now… Entering The People’s Republic of China… Restricted area… Violators will be prosecuted…”We strolled straight past the signs and found ourselves in a remote village and a traditional Saturday market before being surrounded by the Red Communist police, with machine guns waving. We were dumped back over the border with a fine. Afterwards, Ed said, “that was the best $40 I ever spent. What an adventure. Now, let’s not upstage your mom and tell her… our little secret!”
His sense of adventure began much earlier when I was in second grade and my dad accepted a new position in Hong Kong running human resources for Pfizer in Asia. One weekend, my mother was away on a special tour of China; back then, it took piles of paperwork and permissions to enter the People’s Republic of China. My dad, two brothers and I were hiking in the New Territories of Hong Kong. Swept away by a sense of exploration, we climbed over a series of barbed wire fences. I could barely see, but it was impossible not to notice the large red signs warning, “Turn back now… Entering The People’s Republic of China… Restricted area… Violators will be prosecuted…”We strolled straight past the signs and found ourselves in a remote village and a traditional Saturday market before being surrounded by the Red Communist police, with machine guns waving. We were dumped back over the border with a fine. Afterwards, Ed said, “that was the best $40 I ever spent. What an adventure. Now, let’s not upstage your mom and tell her… our little secret!”
When we moved back to the States, my dad took a demanding job on Wall Street with a two-hour commute each way. Yet, he never missed one of my high school wrestling matches. You could hear him from outside the gym shouting in his deep Marine baritone that shook the walls of the gym. “Come on, Erik. You got this.”
It was his idea for me to join a recreational program for blind high school students like me who missed out on the ball sports offered in P.E. classes. So once a month, my dad would drive me three hours up to the Carroll Center for the Blind where we’d embark on adventures like tandem biking, skiing, and yes, rock climbing. And it was that first rock climb in North Conway, New Hampshire that affected the rest of my life.
Ed’s devotion extended to his grand kids. In later years, he loved traveling around the country following his grandchildren playing volleyball and baseball. On annual family reunions, he’d organize minute-to-minute agendas, from early-morning gym sessions and beach hikes to tennis and golf ball collecting, to tours of the nearby nature center and formal recitals of his favorite poem, “Don’t Quit!” Each kid who could recite the poem from start to finish would get 20 bucks.
Here’s an excerpt:
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when your hardest hit
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.”
In my daughter’s first year of college, she got a D in chemistry. Emma was intimidated to approach “ol’ Sport Ed,” who was the over-achiever of the family. In tears, she told him about the bad grade and was expecting a harsh lecture. Instead, my dad softly replied, “Emma, as long as you keep trying, keep reaching, you’ll never be a failure. Don’t quit.”When I was 16, my mom died in a car accident, and my dad became Mr. Mom, shopping, cleaning house, and flipping burgers on the grill – all while holding down his Wall Street job. As a teenager, I was often awakened in irritation at 6:00 AM to my dad trailing a dust buster around my room, or revving a chain saw outside my window, or the worst – he’d make a bugle shape with his fingers and perform revelry over my bedside. To keep the family close, Ed began a tradition of taking us on yearly adventures, trekking through the Andes, over the Baltoro Glacier in Pakistan, and through the highlands of New Guinea where the locals had practiced cannibalism through the 60’s. My dad would make quite a sight with his old floppy hat, his treadless Converse sneakers and white socks pulled up high, and his USA flag bandana around his neck.
After Ed fractured his hip and was in the rehab hospital, my brother, Eddi, decided to take a hiatus from running his two World gym businesses to be at Ed’s bedside and try to nurse him back to health. Nobody was better suited to rehab Ed than Eddi who’d been a personal trainer throughout his career. Eddi slept on a camp cot in the room, and every morning, Ed would wake at 3:45am with no alarm and wake Eddi up by being noisy, restless, and ready to start the 4am scheduled workout.After one terrible night enduring pain, Ed woke up and told us he’d met Jesus in a dream and that Jesus had a room prepared for him, and the room was waiting. He said, it was his time, that he’d lived a good full life, with no regrets.”
As Ed lost his strength, workouts were done in his bed. They would go through different exercises for a total 30 minutes then move on to the next agenda item. Yes, Eddi made dad an agenda, just like Ed made us as we were growing up. Ed needed a schedule. Being immobile in a hospital room was enough to drive him nuts. At 6am, they would begin workout #2 which went until 6:30am. Then it was time to shave, wash his face, eat breakfast, change into a fresh Princeton shirt, and then three more workouts – all which Eddi oversaw as my dad’s health declined. After each task, Eddi would say “mission accomplished, Dad.” After a few days of this, Ed who was losing his voice, would mumble, “mission accomplished.”
As time went on, Ed’s heart began to fail but he refused to stop his routine workouts. On his last day, when he couldn’t move anymore, he asked Eddi to move his legs in a bicycle motion and then rotate his arms like he was on an elliptical. Eddi thought, “this is ridiculous. I’m getting the workout, not him!“
But this gave Ed satisfaction. He needed to complete his goal. He lived the “Don’t Quit” attitude that he taught all his sons and grandchildren. As Eddi finished Ed’s last workout, Ed whispered “Mission Accomplished.”
Later that day, Ed was scheduled for hip surgery. Eddi had their bags in hand and told dad he was bringing the bags to the car. Ed murmured, “there won’t be a surgery.” After arriving at Mayo, he was unresponsive. He knew he had done his last workout.
My father taught us to be disciplined through his Marine training. He taught us to be adventurous and tenacious. He taught us to never quit. He taught us that family was important. He didn’t express his love through flowery sentiments, but he showed it every day. He was the glue that tied all our loose knit family together. Ed was constant. It’s hard to believe that he is not here with us anymore. But he will always be my hero.
Rest in peace, Dad. Your mission is complete.
In Ed’s Honor
To make a donation to No Barriers in Ed’s honor, click here. All gifts benefit programming for youth, adults, and veterans with seen and unseen challenges, as well as supporting caregivers, educators, and others from under-served or under-represented communities. Thank you.
Keep reaching,
Erik