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In 1986, an international marathon was held in New York, joined by thousands of runners from all over the world. The race covered a distance of 42 kilometers, winding through the streets of New York City. Millions of people around the globe watched the event as dozens of television networks broadcast it live.
But there was one man who stole the spotlight that day: Bob Wieland. Bob was an American war veteran who had lost both of his legs after stepping on a landmine during the Vietnam War. To run the marathon, Bob used his arms to launch his body forward, inch by inch, hand over hand.
And so the race began.
Thousands surged forward, sprinting with full force toward the finish line. Their faces were filled with fierce determination. The spectators clapped endlessly, cheering and urging them on with enthusiasm and admiration.
After 5 kilometers, signs of exhaustion began to show. Some runners slowed down to a walk. At the 10-kilometer mark, the difference between the well-prepared and the casual participants became clear. A few runners gave up altogether and boarded the support buses provided by the organizers.
While nearly all runners were already between the 5th and 10th kilometer, Bob Wieland, at the very back of the pack, had just completed his first kilometer. He paused for a moment, peeled off his torn gloves, replaced them with a new pair, and launched his body forward again using only his powerful arms.
The sun shifted gently in the sky, casting golden light on Bob’s sweat-soaked cap. Every push of his arms scraped against the asphalt, but he didn’t complain — not even once. He wasn’t there to impress. He wasn’t chasing a medal. He was chasing a promise.
A promise to himself.
A promise made not in comfort, but in the dirt and blood of a battlefield.
Bob moved, one throw at a time. His body, broken in war, rose with dignity in peace. The crowd began to notice — slowly, at first, like a whisper that grows into a roar. People pointed. Some teared up. Others dropped their phones and clapped. A man with no legs was conquering what thousands with two couldn’t even finish.
Night fell. The streets emptied. The confetti had long been swept. But somewhere along a dimly lit avenue of New York City, the sound of friction — glove against pavement — still echoed.
Day 2. Bob was still running.
And so was hope.
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