The windows are rolled down, the tunes are pumping, and the fragrant air carries the scents of fresh mud and sunshine—it’s the first time in months that the outside world doesn’t smell like a freezer. As I take a turn, I spot another sign of spring—the local middle school’s track team, out for their initial practice.
It’s been a long time since I’ve participated in any track events, but some things remain unchanged.
Leading the pack, the first group of runners is focused and silent—eyes straight ahead, feet pounding the pavement in their bright, trendy gear, too consumed by their thoughts to engage in conversation.
Next, there’s the lively bunch: the versatile athletes who dabble in multiple sports and don’t feel the weight of expectations on their track performance. They are chatting and joking, shoving each other playfully, and using the grass and pavement as their personal spitting grounds—pure entertainment.
And then there’s the final group. Here, conversations are sparse, and the footwear isn’t quite as flashy. Occasionally, a joke breaks the silence, but it’s hard to laugh when you’re gasping for air. They talk wistfully about water breaks and the Dairy Queen just a couple of blocks away. The atmosphere is far less competitive, leaning more toward “everybody helps each other finish.”
As I drive past with a knowing smile, I notice there’s one last kid trailing behind. You could understand if he chose to walk; he can’t even see the others. A larger boy in worn-out sneakers and saggy socks, sweat soaking through his oversized shirt, clearly pushing himself to keep going, even if it’s at a snail’s pace. He’s still running, albeit very slowly.
As I watch him fade from view in my rearview mirror, I ponder how he’ll be received back at the gym as the last one to finish. Will there be snickers and nudges, potentially deterring him from returning tomorrow? Or will someone give him a casual “good job” and a friendly nudge on the shoulder, offering him a water bottle and a spot on the weight mat?
I can’t help but wonder if he’ll someday recount this experience with a frown to his therapist or share it with a smile with his own son one day, as they warm up for their first father-son 5K together.
But I also wonder if he realizes he’s not really last. There are two hundred kids from his school he’s ahead of: every child who chose to stay home today rather than lace up their shoes. It would have been easier to skip practice, but he’s here.
In a sense, he’s already victorious.
If he were my son or yours, we’d ruffle his hair and toss his practice clothes in the wash, exclaiming, “You won, buddy, because you showed up!” And we’d truly mean it.
But here’s the irony: I find myself being a bit of a hypocrite.
In my neighborhood, I could use both hands to count the number of adults training for marathons. The local runners are fit, clad in stylish gear, and drive cars adorned with “26.2” stickers. Their idea of a “long run” is a distance I typically reserve for driving. It’s daunting to be out of breath after a casual two or three-mile jog here.
One evening, while running, a friendly older gentleman cheered me on with a “Go get ’em, Sister!” Initially, I was flattered, but then I realized that such encouragement is usually reserved for someone who looks fit and sprightly—not for a breathless mom in outdated workout clothes, her hair sprouting from her daughter’s headband, and her complexion turning a lovely shade of red.
Unbeknownst to me, I began to seek out later and later running times, eventually only jogging in the dark. I justified it by saying it was cooler outside or that I needed to put the kids to bed first. The truth? I didn’t want to be seen or compared to the “real” runners who looked effortlessly amazing.
But tomorrow, I’ll take a lesson from that slow kid at the back of the track team and hit the pavement in the sunshine, just like him. Our pace may be leisurely, our faces flushed, and our outfits mismatched—but at least we’ll be ahead of everyone stuck on their couches scrolling through social media. And being out there? That’s a win in itself. “Go get ’em,” they said. Alright, we will!
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Summary:
Coming in last doesn’t equate to losing; it signifies the courage to show up and try. Just as that determined boy running at his own pace is ahead of many who chose to stay home, we too can find victory in simply participating, regardless of how we compare to others.
Keyphrase: Why Coming in Last is Not Losing
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