The windows are rolled down, the radio is blasting, and the air smells of fresh earth and sunshine — a welcome change from those long winter months. As I make my way around the corner, I spot a familiar sign of spring: the local middle school’s track team is out for their first practice.
It’s been a couple of kids and many years since I’ve stepped foot on a track, yet some things remain constant. Up front, the fastest runners are serious and focused, their eyes fixed ahead as they pound the pavement in bright gear and expensive sneakers. They zip through their runs, mentally calculating their split times.
The next group is a lively bunch — athletes who dabble in multiple sports. They run in a clumsy pack, laughing and joking, shoving each other playfully, and spitting for fun as they keep the mood light.
Then there’s the last group. Their sneakers may not be the latest, and chatter is sparse. Occasionally, a joke breaks the silence, but it’s tough to laugh when you’re gasping for air. They chat wistfully about water breaks and stopping for ice cream, embodying a spirit of camaraderie that says, “We’re in this together.”
As I pass them with a smile, I suddenly realize there’s one more runner lagging behind. You could easily excuse him for walking — he’s so far back that the others are barely in sight. A big kid in oversized socks and worn-out sneakers, sweat trickling down his shirt, it’s clear he’s pushing himself to keep moving. But he’s still running, albeit at a snail’s pace.
I can’t help but wonder what awaits him when he returns to the gym as the last one to finish. Will there be snickers and eye rolls that make him hesitate to show up tomorrow? Or will he be greeted with a friendly “Good job!” and a water bottle, welcomed among his teammates? Perhaps he’ll one day recount this experience with a chuckle to his own son while they prepare for a father-son 5K.
And I ponder whether he realizes he’s actually ahead of two hundred other kids from his school — those who opted for the bus ride home instead of lacing up their sneakers. He could have easily chosen to stay home, glued to a screen, but instead, he showed up. In that sense, he’s already a winner.
If he were my son, or yours, we’d celebrate his effort, tousle his hair, and toss his sweaty clothes in the wash, saying, “You won, buddy, because you were OUT THERE.” And we would genuinely mean it.
But here’s the catch: I’m a bit of a hypocrite. In my neighborhood, I can count at least ten adults training for marathons. They’re the sleek runners, decked out in stylish gear, their cars adorned with “26.2” stickers. Their idea of a “long run” is something I’d only consider driving.
One evening, while jogging, an older man cheered, “Go get ’em, Sister!” At first, I smiled back, but then I realized he wasn’t talking to a fit young runner but to a breathless mama in a mismatched outfit, hair askew, turning the color of a ripe tomato.
Unintentionally, I started to delay my runs until it was dark outside, rationalizing it was cooler then or that I needed to put the kids to bed first. But the truth was, I just didn’t want to be seen or compared to the “real” runners.
Tomorrow, however, I’ll channel that kid at the back of the pack and jog in the sunshine, just like him. Our pace may be slow, our clothes mismatched, and our faces flushed, but at least we’ll be ahead of those lounging at home on their couches scrolling through social media. Being out there is a victory in itself.
Go get ’em, they said. Alright then: we will.
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In summary, whether you’re a slow runner or just starting your journey, remember that showing up is what truly matters. It’s not about where you finish, but that you’ve taken the first step.