Visiting Ryan White's Memorial

I want to take a moment to bring some light and awareness to the anniversary of the death of a very special person — Ryan White.

When Ryan White first appeared on TV, I had never known anyone with hemophilia other than my two uncles. I did not meet another hemophiliac in person until I was 45 years old. So seeing Ryan on television meant something to me that is hard to explain.

He wasn’t just a kid in the news. To me, he was the only other person I had ever seen with hemophilia besides my two uncles.

Ryan contracted AIDS from contaminated blood products used to treat hemophilia before the blood supply was properly screened. He and his family were treated horribly. He was pushed out of school, judged, feared, and mistreated in ways that still hurt to think about.

And yet, through all of it, Ryan showed courage, class, and strength beyond his years.

On Wednesday, April 8, we mark the anniversary of Ryan’s death in 1990. His story has stayed with me my whole life.

A few years ago, I was traveling with Chase Randall’s team when we were headed to Kokomo, Indiana, for a race. Just being there made me think of Ryan White. That trip led to a moment I will never forget, and I wrote about it as a tribute to him.

I hope you will read it.

Ryan White’s story mattered then, and it still matters now. And for some of us, it always will The Rainout That Led Us to Ryan White

March was Bleeding Disorders Awareness Month, and April 8 marks the day the world lost Ryan White (— a young man whose courage forever changed how people understood hemophilia.

Two years ago, when rain washed out a race weekend near Kokomo Speedway a small group from a sprint car team made an unexpected stop in nearby Cicero, Indiana.

Instead of sitting around waiting on weather, we drove to Ryan White’s gravesite.

There were no cameras.

No social media posts.

Just four racers standing quietly in a cemetery on what should have been race day. This is the Story

The Rainout That Led Me to Ryan White

As a young boy, Ryan White was forced to grow up fast. What happened to him in Kokomo, Indiana — the fear, the ignorance, the way the town treated him — stuck with me. As a kid with hemophilia, it hit close to home. Other than my two older uncles, Ryan White was the only other person I knew who lived in my world.

Fast forward years later.

I’m on the road with the Chase Randall racing team. We were in Indiana planning to race at Kokomo Speedway but the event got rained out. Like most rainouts, the day didn’t suddenly become free — it just shifted.

Jon Randall still had things to do. We needed parts, had maintenance planned, stops around Indianapolis, and work to do at CSI Shocks. It was already the middle of the day, not the beginning.

Somewhere in the middle of that busy schedule, I asked Jon for a favor.

I asked him if he could take me to Ryan White’s cemetery in Cicero, Indiana. It probably sounded a little strange in the middle of a racing day — asking a team owner to drive me to a cemetery — but it was something I had always wanted to do.

There wasn’t a big discussion. No speech. But it wasn’t convenient either. We didn’t even really know where it was. Phones came out. We started searching. Turns out it was about an hour farther than we thought — an hour there, an hour back, plus time to actually be there.

That meant tightening the rest of the day. Complicating logistics. Racing time is valuable, and I knew I was asking for something that wasn’t part of the plan.

Before we left, Jon unhooked the trailer in Brownsburg at CSI Shocks. Then we headed north toward Cicero and the cemetery.

Jon didn’t hesitate.

He just drove — and he drove faster, like Jon does when he’s trying to make up time — because now he understood what it meant to me.

Standing there at the cemetery was heavier than I expected. If I’d been alone, I probably would’ve fallen to my knees. But I wasn’t alone, and that mattered more than anything. Chase took a photo of me there. At the time, none of them probably fully understood what that moment meant.

And that’s okay.

What mattered was that they showed up.

For years, I had this idea in my head about racing at Kokomo. About winning there. And if I’m being honest, if I’d ever gotten that trophy, I probably would’ve slammed it down in that town — not out of anger, but out of unfinished business.

Out of respect for a kid who never got a fair chance.

But standing there that day, I realized something.

Some races don’t need to be run.

Some victories don’t come with trophies.

That moment reminded me that racing isn’t just about what happens under the lights. It’s about the people in the truck when the schedule gets tight. It’s about teams understanding that sometimes the most important thing you’ll do all day has nothing to do with lap times.

When we left the cemetery in Cicero, we climbed back into the truck and headed toward Brownsburg.

Four of us rode in silence — Jon Randall, Chase Randall, Danny Dennis, and me.

Miles of Indiana road passed under the tires, and nobody felt the need to say much.

The only word spoken on the drive back was:

“Thank you.”

And everyone in that truck understood exactly who it was for.

Moments like that are part of why I believe in what we’re building with Bleeders Have Dreams Too — reminding people that even when life deals you a tough hand, your dreams don’t have to stop.

Racers have hearts too.

And sometimes the most meaningful lap you’ll ever make happens far away from the racetrack