In the movies, Reeve had the jaw line and biceps not only to play the comic book hero Superman, but indeed, for all practical purposes, to become him.

He embodied all that creators Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster could have hoped their 1938 crusader would be: towering, enigmatic, fearless, an awe-inspiring but ultimately lonely figure who kept us guessing what lay deep in his heart and what manner of creature a superhero might be.

Then in a split second, in May 1995, Christopher Reeve was robbed of his physical prowess. He was thrown from a horse during an equestrian competition. And the man who seemed able, in that wonderful phrase, to leap tall buildings in a single bound could no longer stride across a stage, sign an autograph, hug his children.

Our imaginations could not be stretched that far.

This was no casting call, and Reeve was not given the choice of whether or not to go on. He was only given the choice of how.

When he chose to find hope in the face of such utter despair, to battle a foe that had the odds on its side, he showed us what greatness lay in the human heart and what noble manner of creature a man might be.

Superman moved mountains. Christopher Reeve moved medical science forward, if only by inches. Superman beat the odds. Christopher Reeve changed the odds for trauma victims.

Superman won every battle he endured. Christopher Reeve battled to endure, and won the only prize worth having - the chance to help save people, not from make-believe dangers, but from the simple, ordinary mishaps that limit life on this planet.

Reeve lobbied for stem cell research, which he hoped might result in the repair of spinal cord injuries. He traveled the country advocating for better insurance benefits for people with catastrophic injuries. And with the halting wiggle of an index finger, he gave hope to millions of dis-abled Americans that they might move again.

In the difficult, too-short life of Christopher Reeve lies this promise: Nothing can still a spirit that is determined to soar.