As I drove through the neighborhood with the windows down and the warm breeze flowing in, I was reminded of spring’s arrival by the sight of the local middle school track team practicing. It’s been years since I participated in track and field, but some things remain constant.
At the front of the pack, a group of serious runners focused intently on their performance, calculating split times in their minds, clad in expensive gear. The middle group was more relaxed, conversing and joking as they ran, embodying a camaraderie that made the experience enjoyable. However, it was the last group that caught my attention. Their sneakers were less flashy, and their breathless laughter was sparse. They shared a sense of solidarity, often reminiscing about the Dairy Queen two streets away, their mood echoing a “no man left behind” philosophy.
Then there was one particular runner, trailing significantly behind the others. A larger kid in worn sneakers, he pushed through with visible effort, sweating profusely in an oversized t-shirt. While he lagged far behind the group, I couldn’t help but admire his determination. As I drove past, I wondered what awaited him upon his return to the gym as the last finisher. Would he face mockery or receive a supportive “good job” and a water bottle? Would he reflect on this experience with regret or share a chuckle about it with his own son years later as they prepared for a family race?
In reality, he isn’t truly last. Ahead of him are hundreds of kids who chose to stay home, glued to their screens instead of lacing up their shoes. The effort he exerted by simply showing up is a victory in itself. If he were my son or yours, we’d celebrate his participation: “You did it, buddy! You were OUT THERE!”
Yet, I find myself grappling with my own insecurities. In my neighborhood, it seems everyone is training for marathons, looking fit and athletic in their sleek gear. Their cars display “26.2” stickers, and their idea of a long run is what I’d consider a drive. I find myself avoiding the public eye, running only under the cover of night to escape judgment and comparisons to these “real” runners.
Tomorrow, however, I will embrace the spirit of that last runner, choosing to jog in the sunlight with pride. Our pace may be slow, our attire mismatched, but at least we’ll be ahead of those still at home, missing out on the experience. As they say, “Go get ’em!” And yes, we will.
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In summary, being the last to finish doesn’t equate to failure; it signifies participation, courage, and the willingness to engage in life’s challenges. Embracing this mindset can redefine our understanding of success.