I run. But wouldn't call myself a runner. Not much of one, anyway. I'm no good past a 5K. And there’s no fast in my pace.
I only started after a doctor confirmed my wife's urgings that I needed to exercise more. My kids, however, are different. They're runners. It used to be confined to moving around on baseball and football fields, then hardwood gym floors, and then a soccer pitch. That branched out to trails and tracks.
I always thought of running being related to a punishment in other sports or a means of survival if an alligator is chasing you (moving in a zig-zag manner is supposedly recommended). Cross country has changed my perspective. The chute toward the finish line is just as exciting as match-deciding penalty kicks, last-second buzzer-beaters, tied 9th innings or late 4th quarter drives. Especially when a few are trying to out-kick each other to the end, even if it’s for 99th place.
In their first seasons, aside from being a very proud father watching hard work pay off, I witnessed many amazing things involving other kids. Like covering 3.1 miles in 15 minutes (a feat I couldn't achieve if I was being chased by a crazy, exceptionally fit, circus clown with a chainsaw). But the most remarkable performance I saw was different.
It involved a single runner, repeating the same thing at every race. She was a middle school girl who didn't have the "look" of a your typical XCer—the top finishers all have that same build of long legs and a thinly stretched frame. Her pacing differed, too—as the pack stampeded away from the starting gun, she always lulled more than launched, placing herself far behind the rest. And remained there each mile of the race. You'd see her pass by at various parts of the courses, slowly, steadily, plodding along with the same measured pace, sometimes getting lapped, never accelerating much, but never walking either, always just ahead of the sweeper, the official who ensures no runners get left on the trail.
Usually well after the next-to-last runner crossed the finish, she would enter the chute. You never saw shame on her face, only determination to press on toward the goal. And the applause for her was just as loud as those first few winning medalists—legitimate cheers with no sarcasm. Every race was like this.
In a world where second place is often considered the first loser, it was a reminder that we should not just encourage, but actually celebrate everyone who makes an effort and ultimately finishes. This isn't a participation ideology. It's that there is nothing disparaging about someone chasing their goals.
Watching her each week was also a reminder that in life, we're really only racing against ourselves. Sure, competition is great for pushing toward betterment. But how often do we fall into the comparison trap? More times than I'd care to admit...
I don't know her personally. Or even remember her name. But I'll never forget her and her racing attributes: Determined, not caught up in a rat race, eyes set on crossing the finish line, achieving it on her own clock as best she could, every single time. Always cheered for it. As she should be.
Maybe we should chase after her example in our own races, whatever they might be.
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