His bedroom isn’t that unusual. It is bound by ribbons and trophies, the worn carpet forming a path to his bed. A framed Michael Jordan jersey hangs on his wall. A book of race bibs sits on his nightstand, with several spots left to fill. But there is something different. In the corner, a canvas bag leans against his desk. Inside, his old braces. All 11 of them. Some for his ankles, others for his wrist. Gym shoe insoles, rubbed raw from overuse. These are proof. Proof of what he has fought through, and what he is still chasing.
Fighting Against the Odds
Luke Rowen has spent his whole life learning how to move. When he was three, the doctor’s office wasn’t for lollipops and Spider-Man stickers. It was for a diagnosis: quadriplegic dystonic cerebral palsy. A permanent brain disorder that can make everyday motions unpredictable. For Luke, this means involuntary muscle movements, locked joints, and tremors. All four limbs are affected, although not always equally. On a daily basis, even twisting the milk cap, squeezing toothpaste, and putting on his cross country shoes can be challenging. The number of times it takes for a normal developing child to learn a skill? Multiply that by 100 for someone with cerebral palsy and hope it sticks. Repetition and adaptation are key.
Doctors once said Luke might never walk or talk. His parents, Lisa and Jeff, prepared for that reality. His sister, Maddie, understood early on that life would look a little different. But Luke had other plans. His speech has steadily improved, and while the road hasn’t been easy, he continues to push forward.
“We help Luke by not helping him,” Lisa said. “If he needs it, he’ll advocate for himself.”
Stepping Forward
It’s Wednesday at the Center for Independence in Countryside, Illinois. Luke bursts through the doors of a place he’s visited since he was four. His energy arrives before he does. His discontinued no-tie Nike Pegasus shoes skip across the gray vinyl floor. Around him, stability ladders line the walls, alongside bright green “I Can” posters. Waiting inside is Jim Zwiefelhofer, a man who’s watched Luke defy expectations for over a decade.
“How’s it going, Luke?”
“Good!”
Luke is always good, even when he isn’t.
In Luke’s 7th-grade year, the Rowens approached Jim with the idea. He hesitated.
“Luke wants to run cross country?”
It didn’t matter. He was doing it.
“I always had more fear for him than he did,” Zwiefelhofer said. “He never complains. He’s gung-ho.”
The pair starts with an hour of ambulatory work, exercises focused on improving Luke’s walking ability. He grips a PVC pipe for stability, body swaying as he lunges forward. A black velcro and metal brace is strapped tight around his right calf. That same right ankle wobbles. He resets and lunges again. It isn’t effortless. It never is. He grins through the strain.
The second hour brings competition. Today, it’s balloon volleyball. What began as a cautious balance drill years ago is now a frenzy. Luke swings and twists. Instinct fires before muscle can. It’s chaos. It’s progress. It’s fun.
The session ends, but Luke lingers. He fist-bumps a staffer, and waves at the receptionist. He says goodbye to everyone. Someone jokes he’d make a great politician. Maybe he will.
“Most kids have trouble sticking with us,” Zwiefelhofer said, chuckling. “Luke’s problem is leaving. He wants to get better.”
Along for the Ride
The engine of Steven Driscoll’s 2015 Honda sputters to life. September sunlight flickers across the dashboard. The stereo still plays CDs. On this particular day, Driscoll pops in a Billy Strings album. Windows down, wind threading through the cabin, he watches a pack of long-legged boys jog ahead in Gurrie Middle School cross country gear.
Luke Rowen runs among them.
When the heat gets to him, Luke drops back and climbs into the passenger seat. They crank the volume knob. Luke flashes a rock-and-roll hand sign like he owns the moment. Driscoll teaches and coaches at Gurrie in La Grange, Illinois. He coached Luke for two years. Now 15, Luke is a freshman runner at Lyons Township. They’re still close.
Moments like these weren’t really about the music, they were about being seen. And Driscoll is the kind of man who notices. His voice, steady and slow, carries comfort. “It’s gon’ be alright,” he always says, with a crinkled smile that’s seen things and stayed kind. His head is shaved, stubble always a day late. And while his wife quietly fought breast cancer at home, Driscoll still showed up – coaching, teaching, and giving everything he had.
“That was arguably the single most difficult stretch of my life, by a lot,” he admitted. “I’m so grateful Luke is in my life.”
Purpose Over Pain
The heat alone could break any runner. It was 90 degrees in early October 2022 for one of Gurrie’s biggest middle school races: the Bengal Invite in Skokie, Illinois. That course offered no shelter. The air was swollen and suffocating. Two miles of past footprints lay ahead of the runners, five inches of stubborn sod demanding even more from each stride. Luke smiled anyway.
Life didn’t let up.
His aide missed the meet. Luke never ran without one. Leading up to this day’s race, his parents knew he’d be without an aide. They gave Luke the option to skip. He was nervous, but chose to push through.
The second crack cut deeper.
Jennifer Kristin, Luke’s physical therapist, had just passed away unexpectedly, six days before the race. From kindergarten through seventh grade, she’d been there. Through every small victory and every hard moment. She believed in Luke’s future. And now, she was gone. Luke didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. On race day, he picked up a black Sharpie and scrawled her initials on his arm.
“JK”
A tribute in ink. A permanence for someone who had been so faithfully present.
“She was excited about me doing cross country,” Luke said. “I had to do it for her.”
Minutes before the first step, his body shook more than usual. No aide. No hand on his shoulder. Just him, and the weight of a week. That’s when Steven Driscoll stepped forward to run with Luke.
Both of them were fighting through something. And for the next two miles, it wouldn’t get any easier.
The gun fired.
Driscoll isn’t a runner. A quarter mile in, his legs barked and lungs begged for air. He thought about stepping off. He wanted to. He could have. Then he looked to his left. Not at the brace. Not at the tremble. At Luke.
Just Luke.
The black ink on his arm caught the sun. His smile didn’t break. Driscoll felt it hit him like a wave.
“If he’s not stopping,” he muttered, “you’re not f*****g stopping.”
One mile became two. One cramp became ten. They weaved through tallgrass and weeds, sunburn inevitable. There has been no A to B in Luke’s life. He has pinballed through the entire alphabet. But in this moment, there was only forward. One last kick. One frustrated sprint. With less than 100 yards to go, the final chute came into view. Luke leaned into it. Legs quivering. Face set. He found another gear.
People often ask why he runs. Why he fights through braces, procedures, and pain.
“I can be free,” Luke said, legs twitching in the aftermath. “It gives my mind a break from things that happened that day.”
That day. That week. Everything he carried poured out over those final strides. Luke needed someone to stand beside him in a season of loss. Driscoll needed a reason to believe he still had purpose. Twenty yards remained. Driscoll peeled off, his chest heaving. He watched his student. He cheered on his friend as years of invisible battles finally won ground. The crowd swelled as Luke crossed the line. Some cried. Teammates swarmed him. Driscoll collapsed onto the grass, empty and full all at once.
“You have to look at why you’re doing what you’re doing,” Driscoll said, his voice breaking. “The world was crumbling around me. My wife was sick. My kids were babies. I was just scraping by. But Luke finished that race . . . and I knew. I still had purpose. I still had substance.”
Purpose outran pain that day.
Luke averaged less than 11 minutes per mile, and beat three able-bodied runners. Sweat poured from his forehead into the corners of his smile. After his races, Luke pauses before speaking. His silences aren’t delays. They’re space. He sifts through a language only he knows. Others like to fill in the blanks for him. Luke insists on filling his own.
He knows life would be different without cerebral palsy. But it doesn’t define him.
“I do think about it,” Rowen said. “But without it, I’m not me.”
Chasing More
Back in his bedroom, afternoon light spills over the canvas bag tucked in the corner. The braces inside don’t feel like burdens anymore. They’re a reminder of what he has already overcome. Beside them sits an unopened cardboard box, the label reading:
“Medal Awards Rack: Inspired By Excellence.”
It’s waiting. Just like everything else. Waiting for more races, for Luke to prove there’s more ahead. Waiting for the day when the words meant to define him feel a little smaller.
Because Luke isn’t done running. Not yet.
“I know I might not get first place,” he said. “I’m okay with that. I’m proud of how I keep going.”
