Post, telling her only that he was flown to the hospital. But Post could hear the fear in his voice. She caught the first flight to San Diego. After a battery of tests, Post and Willoughby received the news together. Willoughby had sustained injuries to his C6 and C7 vertebrae, essentially breaking his neck and severely compressing his spinal cord. This caused paralysis in both arms, both legs, and his chest. His riding career was over. Doctors doubted whether he’d ever regain control of any of his extremities. In the presence of Post’s unyielding optimism, Willoughby simply aimed his ambition at a new goal. He would work every day, as hard as he had trained for any race. And he would, one day, walk down the aisle and stand beside Post as the two were married.
W
illoughby sits in his wheelchair under the canopy just behind the starting gate of a different track at the Elite Athlete Training Center. To escape the wind on the supercross track, Willoughby moved his crew to the other side of the Chula Vista hill, to this smaller track. It also happens to be the site where, mere feet away on the back straightaway, Willoughby had his fateful crash. If Willoughby is spooked by the memory, he isn’t showing it. He seems completely focused on the task at hand—or rather the timer in his hand. Post is on her bike, lined up between two other female riders, standing on their pedals, leaning forward at the gate. Willoughby is drilling his students on their starts, trying to make them clean and quick into the initial jumps and the first turn, where races are so often won and lost. But while the three women take off at the same time, Willoughby’s timer is only on Post. “She’s so much quicker than the other women,” Willoughby says. “We have to time her against herself.” The gate falls; the riders speed
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