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By Vanessa Garcia
His roommate Mark found him—pedaled past his barely conscious “puddle of a body” minutes after midnight and called 911. His good friend Russell, a local paramedic, checked his vital signs and lifted his mangled limbs from the side of the road onto a stretcher. But neither of them recognized their friend until they fished his license out of his wallet and read his name.
Von Ruder, 23 years old.
Von remembers the night of July 15, 1983 in disoriented scenes. Arguing with a girlfriend whose name he can’t remember. Heading home down Federal Highway in Boca Raton on his 1946 Indian Chief motorcycle without a jacket or helmet. Waiting for the traffic light to turn.
The rest of the night he pieced together from police reports, night nurses’ accounts and jumbled memories. Von was hit from behind by a green 1976 Chevy Impala, knocked off his motorcycle, hooked to the undercarriage of the car and dragged for more than two city blocks before he detached himself.
“I remember trying to keep my face out of the fan blade,” he says, rubbing the shoulder he used as shield. He scoots up the cuff of his khaki shorts to reveal a patch of scar tissue where skin was removed to replace what was dug out off his right shoulder.
He never lost consciousness, and the driver never stopped. Police discovered the make, color and model of the car from shattered pieces left behind after they collided. Von’s body was eventually flung to the side of the road-- skin peeled, limbs twisted, leg snapped, still clenching the detached motorcycle seat with his thighs.
“They told me I kept wanting to stand up, even though my left leg was severed, dangling from a tendon,” he says. “I could only focus on the gravel and dirt in my eyes.” Pumped with adrenaline and blinded from the debris, Von couldn’t feel or see his injuries.
“I kept pushing the exposed bone into the concrete, trying to stand, trying to walk away,” he says.
The night nurse on duty at the hospital told him the case seemed hopeless. Doctors assumed he had too many internal injuries.
“I was rolled away on a gurney, left to die in that hallway,” he says. “But I found a way to keep bitching and complaining until they realized that I could make it.”
Six months, two broken arms, ten broken fingers, two broken legs, 22 of 24 broken ribs and two clavicle fractures later, Von wanted to return to the home he shared with 11 of his best friends just a block away from the beach.
“We called it the zoo,” he laughs. “Those guys were my family.”
But a bone infection in his left leg had worsened and months of painful debriements-- the carving of diseased bone and flesh-- failed to help. He lay, confined to a hospital bed for more than half a year, watching as every bruise, scrape and broken bone gradually healed.
Still his leg seemed dead.
“I thought, damn I’m lucky to be alive. Each week I was thankful,” he says. “But I wanted to get out of there.”
He made the ultimate decision to amputate the lower half of his left leg, rather than continue on with painful, uncertain treatments, with little hesitation.
“After nine months, it wasn’t such a stretch,” he explains. “I would think, what type of quality of life I would have if I stayed here?”
A rounded stump now replaces the veins, tendons, muscles and bones that once formed his strong left calf and foot. After his leg was removed-- cut open just below his knee, flesh tied into a square knot, muscle sewed into itself, skin and nerves tucked up haphazardly- he was warned that his life from now on would be limited. For weeks, faceless white lab coats spit off lists of bleak predictions. He would never run again, never work a job on his feet and never walk without a cane or dragging limp.
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But they never said he couldn’t float.
After his first night home from the hospital, Von woke up and decided to conquer the Ichetucknee River-- a six-mile run through Florida’s wetlands. Desperate to be outdoors, he wrapped his freshly stitched stump tightly in a garbage bag and took off, tubing down the run four times in a row.
“If you knock me down, I get up fast as I can,” he says. “I get up running.”
That day, he realized that everything he tried and accomplished from that point forward would feel different, and it’s that novelty that motivated him to prove his doctors wrong. Von would live every second of the life nobody could believe was salvaged.
“It gave me firsts,” he says, a smile warming the strong features of his tan, round face. “I had floated down the ‘Itch’ many times before, but doing it the day after I got back was by far the coolest.”
He didn’t sleep much during the first three weeks after the amputation surgery. Phantom pains (a common physical response to nerve trauma) were worst when he tried to relax.
“Initially they were excruciating, lightning bolt, knife stabbing, sharp, intense,” he explains. “There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”
His residual limb needed the pressure and weight of a prosthesis to relieve the pain. His first temporary prosthetic leg weighed 12 pounds, but it cured the phantom pains, and for the first time in months, life began to feel normal.
Two weeks after doctors fit him into a temporary prosthetic leg, Von returned to work as a car mechanic part time. After four weeks, he took on full time shifts, hiding the prosthesis under long pants. He kept the amputation a secret from his bosses for about a month before they found out and fired him.
“I could’ve sued but I didn’t think that way. That’s no way to make a living,” he says, still smiling. “The way I think of it is that they lost a hard worker willing to get up every morning and work.”
Von refused to act or feel like a victim, always keeping a positive, casual attitude throughout the ordeal.
“Sometimes I joke that I lost it jumping out of a plane….or a shark attack while I was surfing,” he chuckles, adjusting his round-framed glasses. “I’ve never surfed a day in my life.”
Less than two years after the accident, Von’s brother Bob asked him to be his best man. The ceremony would take place atop the picnic table top-sized summit of Mt. Crested Bute in Colorado, 14,000 feet above the ground. Von hadn’t hiked since he lost his leg.
“My brother knew I was tough as nails,” he says.
At 4 a.m., the day of the wedding, the bridal party (Von, Bob and his fiancé, her bridesmaid and a friend) began their trek to the top. By noon they made it to the tree line By 4 p.m. they stood at the summit.
With the support of an endoskeleton prosthesis (a 2-pound carbon fiber socket and pole with a sash foot) Von hiked for 12 grueling hours.
“More than half the climb I was on my hands and knees,” he says. “But at no point did I need to ask for help. That’s when I knew everything they told me was screwed.”
Before Von left Colorado he climbed to the top of three other mountains above 13,000 feet. Reaching those peaks revived his lifelong passion for conquering the outdoors.
“It’s the most exciting thing you can do with your day,” he says, squinting his eyes and pointing into the distance. “Just wake up, pick a destination and get there.”
He took up extreme scrambling (a combination of hiking and climbing off trail) and vowed to ignore the “limitations” of his new way of moving. He wanted no special treatment or sympathy.
“It’s just another adventure,” he states casually, explaining the mindset that kept him from depression- one of the most common psychological reactions among recent amputees according to the Amputee Coalition of America.
“If you fall off a ship, what are you going to do? SWIM!” he says, seeming confused when he’s told that his efforts to stay active are inspiring. “I’m just missing one lousy foot.”
Von emphasizes that he never dwelled on the accident and events that followed with feelings of malice or hostility. He didn’t pay much attention to the details of the police report or rumors that it was his angry girlfriend who rammed into him. He never looked back. Life’s too short, he says.
“A lot of people haven’t accepted their situation or forgiven fate,” he says. “But one of life’s greatest secrets is letting go of grudges.”
Today, 23 years after the accident, he says losing his leg was one of life’s most rewarding surprises.
“In some sick, demented way, it was one of the best things that ever happened to me,” he states earnestly, starring down at his prosthesis. “It saved me from my bad habits and forced me to slow down when I needed to slow down.”
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“I just thought he had the cutest step, like a slight hop. It was adorable,” Von’s wife of ten years, Sky Beyars, gushes, remembering the afternoons when she would stop to share a soda with him and chat at the auto shop where he worked. She knew the moment she shook his hand that he was right for her. Von always wore long pants to work, so for the first several months of their friendship, she didn’t know about his amputated leg. When she eventually saw him in short pants, she was shocked and intrigued.
“At first I was all a flutter about it. He briefly explained what had happened and that was that…We returned to whatever we were talking about before,” she recalls. “It was that casual and that beautiful.”
Growing up in a military family, Sky became accustomed to meeting veterans with missing eyes, arms and legs. In fact, one of her greatest childhood role models was her aunt Joyce, who lost both her legs, above the knee, in a car accident.
“Amputees are one of the most underrated groups on this planet,” she states passionately. “Our world is so much about beauty and perfection. Amputees-- if they can find the spark inside themselves-- can rise above all the frivolous worldly things.”
She affectionately refers to Von as “Aspen”, a name given to him by the head of a commune they visit for three months of every summer while camping on the East Rim of the Grand Canyon.
“The gentleman told us that he sensed a vibe of sweetness, kindness, innocence and beauty rarely seen in men,” she explains, speaking softly and slowly. The man told them that Von reminded him of an Aspen tree--strong, flexible and beautiful-- and they agreed.
“The tree is a masculine entity, but it’s also maternal,” Von says, explaining his “earth name.” Von considers Sky’s son, Trey, from her previous 20-year marriage, his own child.
“Everything he touches just seems to bloom,” Sky says of Von’s generosity and love for his family. “Here I am with all my legs, all my arms and both good eyes, and I find myself complaining. But he’s always positive and upbeat. It’s always ‘oh yes we can’ and ‘oh yes we will.’”
Nowhere is Von’s physical and emotional strength more apparent than in the Gainesville Rock Gym, where he climbs, mostly among sculpted 20-somethings, at least three nights per week for three or four hours at a time.
“Ninety-five percent of amputees who climb lost the limb while climbing,” he says, frustrated that more don’t give the sport a shot. He brings fellow amputees to the climbing gym as often as he can convince them, but most never return with him. “There’s always an excuse why they can’t come back.”
Von was initially drawn to indoor climbing when choosing what event to participate in for the O&P Extremity Games, an annual extreme sports competition for individuals living with a limb loss or limb difference. This year’s competition, which expects more than 500 athletes, includes BMX and mountain biking, in-line skating, kayaking, motor-cross, rock climbing, skateboarding, surfing and wakeboarding.
“It’s like a circus side show. There are people with missing limbs, homemade legs and arms, fancy prosthetics,” he explains. For some competitors, winning is reaching the top of the wall. For others, the victory is trying. Regardless, the level of competency demonstrated at last year’s inaugural competition shocked Von, who didn’t know what to expect when he signed up
“I watched a dude pull himself out of a wheel chair onto the rock wall with only his arms. I saw a 17-year-old buck bolt up a wall without a leg in 13 seconds,” he says. “Those people are the heroes.”
Von’s experience at the Extremity Games last year struck a competition trigger in his brain. Rock climbing, specifically bouldering (climbing without a harness closer to the ground), instantly felt natural to him. Spending hours at the rock gym, surrounded by competent athletes who are constantly pushing themselves physically, motivates him to push through his own difficulties.
“I like to surround myself with people who are putting in effort and focus to get better at something,” he says. “It’s about being part of that kind of energy level.”
As Von’s 5’3” frame stretches over the rock wall, his reaches are smooth and precise. Perched under the roof of one of the gym’s tunnels, swooping his defined forearms and biceps as he places the toe of his shoe over the slight ridge of a hold, he looks no different than the other climbers hanging from the walls around him.
“You can feel pressure on certain parts of your thigh,” he explains how he uses his residual limb and vision of parameters to coordinate his movements. “Climbing is very cerebral. It’s a physical problem but your mind picks the movements.”
As Von climbs, dozens of “regulars” stop to say hello and offer encouraging words.
“I can’t say that Von’s prosthetic leg hurts his climbing in anyway,” says Marc Brotherson, one of Von’s many friends at the rock gym. “His prosthetic leg does not function like a human limb, so there are obvious differences. But these differences are no match for mind, body, and spirit.”
As a technician at O&P Prosthetics in Gainesville, Von builds 100 percent custom-made orthotics (braces) and prosthetics. He also works to offer new amputees hope and inspiration. He often wears long pants during his patients’ first few consultations so they believe he has both his legs.
“I make it a point to mention my hobbies like climbing or hiking and then I’ll come in with shorts, and they’re blown away,” he says. “I want to give them a visualization of what’s possible in their life.”
Von tries to keep his work as intertwined with rock climbing as he can. This year, he dedicated a lot of time and energy toward convincing organizers of the Extremity Games to include bouldering as one of the competitive events. Beyond the physical benefits, he says he loves rock climbing because it’s unassuming and understated.
“Climbing is a perfect allegory for being an amputee,” he explains. “You must learn to let go of one hold before you reach for the other. You have to trust yourself and know that you can do it. You learn to move on. You learn that there’s a choice.”
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