It was my first running race on a wintery Sunday morning. My elder sister (9 years old) and I (7 years old) were never into sports. That’s why my Dad was pushing us to participate in such events. The perk for participating was our favourite sweet treats.
My sister managed to skip the race but I wanted to participate. After all, I was going to spend some time with Dad.
On our way to the venue, Dad explained the ‘running race’. I was not trained neither prepared for the 200m run but Dad said I should participate to know what it takes.
I was standing with close to 50 kids, waiting to start. The host signalled the flag and everyone started in full swing. I sprinted through as well and in a minute, I received a blow and fell flat on my face. One over-excited parent had run over me.
I took a minute to realise the situation and I could see that I was the last one in the race. I had bruised my knees and Dad was standing close to the race track, telling me to get up and start running.
Dad kept telling me that I had get up and finish the race. He was going to wait for me at the finish line. I should not quit just because I was the last one.
On one side I could hear some kids laughing at me and on the other side my Dad started running slowly to encourage me.
We both kept running and I met my Dad and the finishing line. I was the second last participant and received participation certificate. I could see how proud my Dad was to see me complete the lap. My Dad even told the shop keeper about my race completion, when we went to buy the sweet treats as promised.
Both Dad and I knew that I was not going to be the winner. Yet he pushed us to participate, to come out of our comfort zone. It was also a lesson for me to not quit, without trying.