Bothell bodybuilder undaunted by genetic challenges

Some might say it can't be done, that a little guy with a puppy-dog smile cannot walk into a gym and empower everyone else around him. But Bothell's Jordan Rannfeldt is a shining example of what a guy can do when he puts his mind to it and nobody tells him any different.

Since spring of last year, when his father died, this winsome 23-year-old has bulked up like one of those World Wrestling Federation fighters he likes to watch, embracing a regimen of curls, low rows and shoulder shrugs.

"He's really a testament to what willpower can do," says Talon Vazquez, an aerospace quality-control employee who met Jordan at the Northshore YMCA two years ago. "There's so many things that he overcomes every day."

What makes his feat remarkable is that Rannfeldt, like his younger sister, Ashley, has a genetic neurological disorder similar to cerebral palsy that has left him developmentally delayed and physically disabled. He also has scoliosis, with a 60-degree curve in his spine. The muscles in his lower trunk are underdeveloped, his movement unsteady and his motor skills hampered. He reads at a third-grade level.

His balance is poor; every so often he falls. It's hard for him to write or use silverware.

Not that he lets any of this stop him.

"I've seen him change from this scrawny little guy to this young man," says fellow gym member Heather Stark. "One day he came around the corner with his walker and was wearing one of those tight shirts, and I told him, 'Geez, Jordan, you look like one of those guys who should be on the cover of a magazine.' "

More significantly, he's now occasionally able to ditch the walker he's been using since junior high.

"He would have to take it to each lifting station," says Vazquez, 24. "Now he leaves it at the door and picks it up on his way out... . If he goes nowhere with this bodybuilding thing and the only thing that comes out is that he can walk without that walker, he's already won."

"He's probably put on 30 pounds of muscle," says Dr. Howard King, a pediatric orthopedic surgeon who worked with Rannfeldt for about a decade. "His ability to get around, and his confidence, has just exploded. He's an inspiration to us all."

Rannfeldt takes it all in stride. When he talks, his voice is staccato and slightly high-pitched, in that didja-ever-notice kind of way. His head tilts and his eyes drift dreamily upward, with a smile on the verge of mischief.

"I just keep going," he says. "Like the energy bunny."

SOME MIGHT SAY it can't be done, that special-needs students can't be effectively grouped with those in regular classes. But when Rannfeldt was a kid, he went to Bothell's Woodmoor Elementary, which made a point of trying to do just that. Back then, he used a wheelchair, and after that, his parents, Debbie and Rob, worked hard to ensure that their kids continued to be mainstreamed, making goals, learning independence.

When he was 8, Rannfeldt got up out of his wheelchair and started using a walker. At Woodinville High, volunteer kids in the school's peer-tutor program took him into social circles he might not have reached otherwise. Today, he's outgoing and confident.

After graduation, via the Northshore District's special-needs transition program, he got a volunteer job as a greeter at the Northshore YMCA. Debbie got him a membership there, so he started exercising.

Then, in February 2007, Rannfeldt's father was diagnosed with lung cancer — surprising for a healthy, 6-foot-4 carpenter who didn't smoke. The cancer had already spread to Rob's brain; soon after, he began suffering strokes, and by April, it was over.

As Debbie prepared for Rob's memorial, she showed her son a faded color photo: It showed Rob as a brash Army recruit in 1971, hoisting a set of barbells — more street tough than Schwarzenegger.

Something inside Rannfeldt ignited. Ever since, he's been on a mission, hitting the gym four to six times a week. He started asking other YMCA members for advice, taking protein supplements and focusing on specific muscle groups. At home, he became a constant flurry of push-ups, sit-ups and lifts.

Debbie discourages the weights at home; her son has put holes in the wall or chipped his bed frame after losing his balance. "Besides," she says, "I think he works out enough at the Y."

His scoliosis places him asymmetrically against gravity. Late last year, Rannfeldt picked up a couple of weight plates at the Y and was moving to another station when he tripped on a mat.

He took a nasty spill and tumbled over a couple of benches, bruising his hip and lower back. Such challenges fail to kill his spirit.

Says Woodinville's Dr. Stephen Glass, Rannfeldt's childhood neurologist: "His mom would tell me: 'Jordan is having a hard time accepting his disability.' "

SOME MIGHT SAY it can't be done. "So many individuals with disabilities face constant messages that they are different and unable, and therefore they cannot take advantage of things that able-bodied people are able to enjoy," Glass says. At the same time, he says, there's no reason they can't.

So here is Jordan Rannfeldt in the weight room at the Northshore YMCA, doing 35-pound curls and 600-pound shoulder shrugs. "Where's the beach?" says Jack "Rob" Robinson, another member who spots Jordan.

Rannfeldt grins and curls his arm into an "S," fist at eye level, finger pointing. The real point: To show off his bulging bicep. He knows all the girls' names at the gym, and he's not shy.

"You can imagine, being a 23-year-old boy in his situation — he doesn't draw in a lot of women he wants to," Vazquez says. "Between wanting to do something monumental, he's as much driven by the fact that he wants to look good so he can attract a good-looking chick."

After joining the club early last year, it wasn't long before Vazquez wondered who the kid with the walker was, the one who struggled to move the weights around. "He's kind of a hard guy to miss," Vazquez says. "... I was heavier at the time, a little out of shape, and he was inspirational — like, if he was working as hard as he was, there's no reason I couldn't get in there and work out as well."

Vazquez, who is 6-foot-3 and nearly 200 pounds, works out with Rannfeldt three times a week, spotting him and sharing ideas. The two have become friends, joking and giving each other a hard time. "He lifts big, and I gotta lift bigger," Vazquez says. "I can't be shown up by a kid in a walker."

Some days Rannfeldt works his upper-body muscles; on others, his lower ones. "Look at his legs," Robinson says. "That's where a lot of his weakness is — his legs." Rannfeldt hovers and flexes his arms, craving attention.

Robinson laughs. "Vanity is another of his weaknesses," he says. "OK, Jordan, let's see those guns again." Rannfeldt grins, two muscleman arms in unison this time. King of the world.

Last year, when he saw that photo of his dad, he says, "I thought, I want to challenge myself, to do something with my life."

One day, at home, he looks at it again. "He could probably show me up," Rannfeldt says, smiling. Debbie shakes her head. "No, I think you would show him up," she says.

In learning what he can do, Jordan has taught those around him what they're capable of, too. Says Vazquez: "You gotta be a go-getter. That's what I learned from Jordan. You just gotta get up and do it."

Some might say it can't be done, but here is what Jordan Rannfeldt says:

It can.

Marc Ramirez: 206-464-8102 or mramirez@seattletimes.com

He spots Jordan Rannfeldt at the Northshore YMCA