Half of Ron Muir’s story is told by the canoe trailer parked in his Trenton driveway. It cradles four boats that have been banged around in white water and battle-scarred by races.

The cobwebs growing on them and the new wheelchair ramp that leads from the garage to the house tell the other half.

Muir, 55, is a passionate paddler who was diagnosed a year ago with lung cancer, which has proved resistant to chemotherapy and has spread to his brain.

The outlook is bleak.

But a few weeks ago, in a case of willpower, friendship and faith trumping physical weakness, Muir had the chance to paddle in what may be his last race.

“I’m tired,” the longtime Marine Patrol officer said recently from his wheelchair in a sunny, plant-filled kitchen. “I don’t feel like paddling. But I’m alive, and all that classic hogwash you hear is true. One day at a time. You do what you can.”

The race he ran was something special.

Muir headed to upstate New York over Memorial Day weekend to participate in the 70-mile General Clinton Canoe Regatta on the Susquehanna River, the world’s longest one-day race. He had run the event nine times before, and his desire to join the prestigious “700 Club” – open only to those who have paddled it at least 10 times – was something that helped him to survive the struggles of the past year.

But when Muir eased into Big Al, the trusty aluminum canoe that had carried him over this river for seven of the previous races, he didn’t sit in his usual spot in the stern. Instead, he perched in the middle of the boat, ready to be propelled forward by his good friends Bob Hessler and Chip Loring. He dipped his own paddle into the water just for short stretches at the race’s beginning and end.

It wasn’t exactly what Muir, the tireless paddler in the past, wanted.

But it was enough.

“It makes me cry,” he said. “To me, it’s like Mount Everest and I didn’t even do it. I just sat there.”

For the 101/2 hours of the race, though, that’s not what the bystanders gathered along the riverside thought.

“It was an honor,” Muir said. “People clapped when I came in. People I didn’t know.”

Muir thought that the attention came because of a letter he had written to the race committee, to thank its members for bending the rules to allow three men in his canoe so that he could complete his run.

“The desire to finish 700 miles goes beyond the concept of distance,” he wrote. “Rather it is a desire that speaks of passion, friendships (both built and renewed) the joy of paddling and the melding of heart and desire to complete an endurance race and still be on speaking terms with your teammate at the finish.”

Muir knows all about that. After he and his wife, Cindy, learned the rudiments of white-water paddling in 1992, they began competing together in local races and then branched out.

They’ve founded their own races, such as the Mussel Man and Woman on the Union River, and have paddled in faraway places. They’re a team, just as much on the water as in their 32 years of marriage.

Cindy Muir is a nurse at Mount Desert Island Hospital. It was thanks in part to her care that Muir was able to participate safely in the General Clinton regatta. In addition to offering the usual water and snacks, his pit crew was ready with a stretcher, a carry chair and oxygen.

“This was the goal,” Cindy Muir said. “This was what pretty much sustained him for the whole year, knowing this race was going to come up. At first he refused to do the race if he couldn’t paddle it. We convinced him that it was worthwhile.”

Completing the race was one goal held by the former pack-a-day smoker. There isn’t another one, aside from beating the cancer or, barring that, seeing his family again for the Fourth of July.

Unabashed tears clouded his blue eyes. His voice grew rougher, quieter. He rolled restlessly in the chair. Back and forth, pacing.

“They say, are you scared of death?” he said. “Well, gee, I guess so, but none of us are going to live forever. I guess the unknown is scary. But it may be OK, too.”

He said that the diagnosis has changed him, and not just because of the pain and weakness that have slowed his once-strong body. It has affected his outlook, too, and his relationships with friends and family.

“It’s amazing how much people mean to you,” he said, vehemently. “You make sure you tell them.”

As Muir faces death, it’s something to see how much his own life means to the people around him.

“I have a lot of admiration for the way that he’s handled this tremendously difficult situation,” Hessler said. “I can’t think of a person I’ve run into who hasn’t said that he’s an inspiration in how he’s handled this since his illness.”

Hessler said that his friend has changed lives – such as the woman at the cancer clinic he cajoled into participating in her own treatment and the many Mainers who have followed Muir over the years to various canoe races. And his own.

“I can’t imagine that I could be as strong a person, and as optimistic a person,” Hessler said, emotion crackling over the telephone wires. “He just brings people in. They get involved in whatever event it is because of his energy, and enthusiasm, and strength of will.”

Cindy Muir, who is fighting for her husband’s life, too, spoke with fierceness and compassion about the traits that are needed to run rivers – or to hang on for another day.

“You always have to be willing to punt, because nature is going to have her way, regardless,” she said. “We obviously feel comfortable in very dire situations, that we’re going to be able to gather our resources and pull together. … You use your skills to the extent you can. And sometimes, you just go with the flow.”

She paused. Smiled.

“No pun intended.”