I’ve never been a great runner. My high school has a storied cross country program, but I spent most of my high school career as the seventh (and final) runner on our varsity team. Even though seven runners compete in a varsity race, only the top five factor into the team’s score. So every race, I ran my 3.1 miles knowing that unless two people got hurt – or horribly lost in the woods – my time wouldn’t really matter.
My former teammates, however, were exceptional runners. After high school, six of them went on to run in college. One of my former teammates recently competed in the Portland Marathon, and he finished sixth in a field of more than 9,000 runners. His time (a little over two and a half hours) qualified him for the Boston Marathon. And he’s not even the fastest marathoner from my old team. Another former teammate competed in the 2008 U.S. Olympic marathon trials in New York. His personal best is 2 hours and 21 minutes.
I ran a marathon a couple of years ago. Perhaps “trudged” is a better word, because it took me 4 hours and 43 minutes to find the finish line. (Yes, for those of you doing the math, that does mean my former teammate could run two marathons in the time it takes me to run one.) At the time, I had just been happy to finish – glad I was able to run/trudge every step of the race. But when I compare my time with my former teammates’ results, it is easy to feel inferior.
This feeling of inferiority reminds me of 1 Corinthians 9:24, a verse oft-quoted by runners: “Don’t you realize that in a race everyone runs, but only one person gets the prize? So run to win!”
I understand why gifted runners like my former teammates might be inspired by this verse. But what about runners like me who never came close (and never will come close) to winning an important race? What about those of us who aren’t capable of being “the one” who wins the prize?
To answer that question, let me go back to my high school cross country team. During my sophomore season, I was our seventh runner for most of the year – until the final race of the regular season. In that race, I was beaten out by one of my best friends. So I lost my varsity spot just before we competed in the District, Regional, and State meets – the three biggest races of the year.
For those three meets, every cross country team has an “alternate” who will compete if a varsity runner gets injured or sick prior to the race. Even though I lost my varsity spot, I became our alternate, and I continued to practice for those final three weeks. But at the State Championships, the only running I did was to and from places where I could cheer for my teammates. Our team finished second, and as the alternate, I stood on the medal stand and received the same silver, Ohio-shaped medal as my seven teammates (even though I was the only one who didn’t actually compete in the race.)
At the awards ceremony later that year, our coach reserved some of his kindest words for me – praising my work ethic, my willingness to practice hard even after being demoted, and my team spirit. And among all those compliments, he called me a leader – me, the guy from the back of the pack who didn’t even race in the most important meets of the year.
Remembering that season reminds me that it doesn’t matter if I’m not the frontrunner – and it certainly doesn’t matter that I can’t qualify for the Boston Marathon – because I can still lead. I just need to keep running the race, and if I’m willing to do that, then I will have opportunities to inspire and encourage others.
And when I run now, instead of meditating on 1 Corinthians 9:24, I think I’ll concentrate on Matthew 20:16 – and I’ll just keep longing for that day when the last truly shall be first.
