"There Was Fire in His Eyes": A Father and Son's Ironman Journey of Resilience

Emily McCarthy: Roger, tell us a little about Oz—his personality, his passions, and what inspired this Ironman goal.

Roger Sparks: Oz is my son. He’s 21, a young man coming of age. When he was four months old, I had to perform CPR on him for 30 minutes. He suffered an anoxic brain injury, which led to cerebral palsy. People often don’t understand that CP is a wide spectrum—from severe physical limitations to more subtle neurological effects. In Oz’s case, he’s nonverbal, and that’s what people notice first.

It’s been a long, challenging road. At the same time I was helping Oz through those early years, I was recovering from a paralysis injury from a HALO parachuting accident as a pararescueman. My recovery and his were intertwined from the beginning. We’ve always been a pair. My wife’s long since accepted that. I have another son, Orion, whom I love dearly, but Oz and I have this very deep bond. It’s like we were healing together.

Oz connects with the world through physical movement. Since he can’t articulate his inner world with words, he expresses it physically—through swimming, mountain biking, running. That’s how he says, “I’m here. I belong. I’m just like you.” And he does it with joy.

What’s incredible about the Ironman journey is that it started with him. This was his idea.

Emily McCarthy: You’re kidding. He initiated it?

Roger Sparks: Yeah. I’d done triathlons back in my Marine Corps days, raced competitively on the Marine Corps Triathlon Team. But that was decades ago. I’m in my 50s now. When Oz said he wanted to do an Ironman, I asked, “Are you serious?” And he said yes. So I said, “Alright—let’s train a little and see.”

And we trained hard. I mean four to five-hour bike rides followed by runs. Every other day. In Alaska. In the winter. It’s 10 below with snow on the ground nine months of the year. But Oz grew up around this stuff. He was never deterred.

He can’t complain. Literally. So he just endures. I’ve done GORUCK events where it’s 2:00 a.m., freezing, starving, and he’s right there, smiling. He’s unbelievably durable.

Oz was always a strong swimmer—he competed in high school on the swim team. Despite having CP, type 1 diabetes, and other diagnoses, he held his own. So I took on the role of coach, and we trained together.

Roger Sparks: I reached out to Ironman to explain our situation—nonverbal, cerebral palsy, diabetes. I wasn’t looking for sympathy, just advice. They put us in touch with their special needs team, and Oz and I quickly became their representatives. Their champions, really.

They rolled out the red carpet. At the start of the race, they let Oz lead the swim—ahead of 1,500 anxious triathletes. That was huge. But they didn’t modify the course. No fins. No shortcuts. He had to do it all himself.

The hardest part? Managing his diabetes. You can’t wear an insulin pump in the water, so he goes without it during the swim. On the bike, he can’t ride and eat or drink at the same time. So we had to stop, check blood sugar, administer insulin. It was a whole system. I’ve spent 25 years in special operations with dozens of deployments, and this might’ve been the most complex mission of my life. I kept calling it a SpaceX launch. So many ways it could go wrong.

Roger Sparks: And sure enough, coming off the bike, he cramped. Hard. His body was seizing, and he couldn’t walk. Tears were streaming down his face. I said, “You signed up for this, Oz. This is what an Ironman feels like.” He literally crawled for the first 10 minutes of the run.

But he didn’t quit. After 30 minutes, he stood up, hit his chest, and locked eyes with me. There was fire in his eyes. He brought himself back from full detonation.

Roger Sparks: We still had 13 miles to go. You can’t fake your way through that.

At one point during the run, we passed the site of a GORUCK event I’d led years ago—Bulldog Bite in Des Moines. That event re-enacted parts of a combat mission I was on. Some of the pilots and survivors from that mission were even there. And suddenly I realized—we’re running past that hill, and we’re five miles from finishing the Ironman. And I just lost it. I looked at my watch, did the math, and knew: “We’re going to pull this off.”

I hugged him. I cried. He looked at me like, “Whoa, Dad’s losing it.” But it lit a fire in both of us.

We ran hard to the finish. He was hurting, but I said, “I don’t care, man—we’re going.” And he did it.

Roger Sparks: We talk a lot about “contrived adversity.” These aren’t just tests of grit—they’re rites of passage. We take ourselves beyond what we’re capable of, we train, we sharpen ourselves, and we show up for one moment in time to find out: “Who am I?”

I saw hundreds of other people struggling that day too. There’s something beautiful in that shared suffering. In that shared pursuit.

Emily McCarthy: How long did you train for it?

Roger Sparks: Seven or eight months. Through the Alaskan winter. But that just proved there are no excuses.

People say, “I don’t have the right shoes” or “It’s too cold” or “I’ve got kids to care for.” I get it. But Oz is nonverbal, has CP and diabetes, and trained in 20-below-zero weather. And he showed up with a smile.

When we lean into discomfort with courage, the universe leans back.

Roger Sparks: He did it. And now he’s more empowered. He knows, “I can go after what I want—even if it’s hard.” That’s the whole point. As Marcus Aurelius said: The obstacle is the way. The difficulty is why we show up.

I’m so proud of him. And proud of us for experiencing it together.

Emily McCarthy: So what’s next?

Roger Sparks: Right now, we’re recovering. Ironman becomes your identity when you’re training 40–50 hours a week. Then it’s over and you have to ask: “Who am I now?”

We’re spending time together. Enjoying Alaska. Oz works at a powerlifting gym and wants more independence. That’s his why now.

Oh, and he wants a full dragon back tattoo—from knees to neck. We’ll see.

Sometimes life isn’t about balance. Sometimes you go way out of balance to find your center. Ironman was that for us.

Roger Sparks: People don’t talk enough about the post-event depression. That emotional processing is just as real as physical recovery. The journaling, the reflection, the quiet. It’s critical.

I was talking to Corey from 515, and we kept coming back to this: Don’t be good at something. Be good for something.

Triathlon can be pretentious—gear, tech, numbers. But the beauty is in the struggle. In the humanity. In what it teaches you about yourself.

My why is my love of family. Oz’s why is independence.

That’s what matters. We’re all on different fulcrums, but we’re all trying to grow in the same direction.

I’m grateful to the GORUCK tribe for letting us share our story.

None of us are alone.