As I drive through the neighborhood, the refreshing scent of spring fills the air—warm mud and sunlight replace the stale chill of winter. Turning a corner, I spot a familiar sight: the local middle school track team gearing up for their first practice of the season.
It’s been years since I was on a track team, yet I notice that some aspects remain unchanged. The front runners are focused, their expressions serious as they pound the track in sleek athletic gear, each one calculating their times. The next group brings a lighter atmosphere, joking and laughing together, their camaraderie evident as they exchange playful shoves and spit on the grass.
Then there’s the final group, where conversation is sparse. Their footwear isn’t as trendy, and they’re clearly struggling to catch their breath. Occasionally, a joke breaks the silence, but the mood is more about supporting each other than competition. A sense of camaraderie prevails, emphasizing the idea of “no man left behind.”
As I drive by, I catch a glimpse of one last runner, a larger child in worn sneakers and a loose shirt. He lags behind, sweat glistening on his brow as he makes the effort to keep moving, albeit slowly. I wonder how he’ll be received when he returns to the gym as the last finisher. Will he face ridicule or receive an encouraging pat on the back, along with a water bottle?
This kid may not realize it, but he’s already ahead of countless others who chose to stay home rather than lace up their shoes. There are two hundred students at his school who opted for the couch over the track today. By simply showing up, he’s achieved a significant victory.
If he were my child, I would celebrate his efforts, tousling his hair and praising him for being out there. Yet, I find myself grappling with my own insecurities. In my neighborhood, it’s easy to feel out of place among the marathon trainers. The adults who run here look like they just stepped out of a fitness catalog, adorned with “26.2” stickers on their cars, making me feel self-conscious as I jog in my old t-shirt and mismatched sneakers.
I remember a moment when an older gentleman cheered me on, “Go get ’em, Sister!” Initially flattered, I soon realized that his encouragement was meant for someone who appeared less out of breath. This sparked an internal struggle; I began to avoid running in public and only went out after dark, convincing myself it was for comfort or convenience. But I know the real reason: I was afraid of being judged.
Tomorrow, I plan to channel the spirit of that last runner and hit the pavement in the sunlight, regardless of my pace or appearance. Even if we’re not the fastest, we’ll still be ahead of those glued to their screens at home, and that in itself is a win. So, let’s lace up and embrace the journey—because being out there matters.
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In summary, finishing last in a race doesn’t equate to failure. Each step taken towards the finish line is a small victory in itself, especially when compared to those who choose to stay inactive. So let’s celebrate the effort, regardless of where we place in the race.
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