With the windows down and the radio blasting, the fresh scents of spring fill the air, a refreshing change from the winter chill. As I turn the corner, I spot a familiar scene — the middle school track team gathering for their first practice of the season.
It’s been years since I last participated in a track team, but some things remain the same. Up front, a serious pack of runners is focused and quiet, each one absorbed in their own thoughts, calculating their times in their heads while clad in vibrant athletic gear. The middle group, a mix of athletes dabbling in various sports, is animated, filled with banter and laughter, even engaging in playful shoving. Then, there’s the last group, where the chatter is minimal, and the shoes lack the latest style. Occasionally, someone cracks a joke, but it’s hard to find humor when every breath feels like a challenge. Their talk centers around water breaks and a possible stop at the Dairy Queen just down the street. This group embodies a supportive spirit, far removed from the competitive edge of their peers.
As I drive past, I spot one last runner far behind the rest. A big kid in worn sneakers and baggy clothes, he struggles to keep up, sweat dripping from his brow. It takes every ounce of determination for him to continue, yet he’s still moving forward, albeit at a snail’s pace. I wonder how he’ll be received when he finally returns to the gym. Will there be mockery that discourages him from coming back or will he receive a simple “good job” and a water bottle, a nod of camaraderie?
I can’t help but think about how he might recall this moment years later — either as a painful memory or with a chuckle, sharing it with his own son as they prepare for a fun 5K together. But what’s important is that he perhaps doesn’t realize he’s not truly last. There are two hundred kids from his school who chose to stay home rather than show up. Every kid who opted for the comfort of their couch instead of lacing up their shoes is behind him. Simply showing up is a victory in itself.
In many ways, he’s already achieved success.
If he were my child, I’d ruffle his hair and remind him that he won simply by participating. “You were out there, buddy,” I’d say with genuine pride. Yet, I find myself grappling with hypocrisy in my own life.
In my neighborhood, dozens of adults train for marathons, their sleek, athletic appearances a stark contrast to mine. They proudly display “26.2” stickers on their cars, while I can barely muster the courage for a couple of miles. Running in this environment can feel daunting.
One evening, as I jogged, an older man shouted encouragement, “Go get ’em, Sister!” At first, I smiled, appreciating the kindness, until it hit me that this was probably not meant for someone who looks like a seasoned athlete. No, it was more likely directed at a tired mom in outdated workout gear, red-faced and struggling.
Unconsciously, I began to shift my runs to later in the evening, telling myself it was cooler or that I needed to tend to my kids first. The truth was, I didn’t want to be seen or compared to the “real” runners around me.
But tomorrow, I’ll channel the spirit of that kid at the back of the track team and run proudly in the sunlight. Our pace may be slow, our faces flushed, and our outfits mismatched, but at least we’ll be ahead of those still lounging on their couches scrolling through social media. We’ll be out there, and that’s an undeniable victory.
As they say, “Go get ’em!” And that’s exactly what we will do.
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In summary, being the last to finish doesn’t equate to losing; it’s about showing up and participating. Everyone who chooses to engage in their journey, no matter how slow, is ahead of those who choose to remain inactive.