The Jersey

The rising sun cast a rosy hue across the wide sky. The winds were pretty chill but I had my jersey on. The tall and sturdy arch that greeted everyone who went inside once now had a peeling white-cream wall paint. The green climbers twined around the pillar giving it a picturesque view. It was around 6 AM on a Sunday morning and after an entire two decades, I stepped into the stadium where it all began...

The memory is so vivid and etched to my mind so well that I could hear it even from the now empty rows.

“Rana…Rana…clap, clap, clap…Rana…Rana…clap, clap, clap…Rana…Rana…clap, clap, clap”

I could see the finish line getting nearer; my legs seemed to be working almost involuntarily now, as a machine. They seemed to be competing with each other yet complementing each other, one after the other, faster-moving than ever. Cold air bit into my lungs and the warm breath formed tiny clouds. I felt surges of adrenaline levels as I neared the finish line and my heart was thumping so hard I could almost hear its perfectly timed beating with the pounding of my footsteps, in an attempt to give my all. I grit my teeth slanting my head at an angle that would give me the best timing to finishing a race and took one big leap. The final one.

This was by far the biggest of all races I’d taken part in and the crowds rose up in awe, screaming and cheering. Some in joy and some in dismay, and one of them was my coach. She sprinted towards the field and hugged me tighter than ever. In the blur of my eye, I noticed a tiny tear that rolled down her soft cheeks which she almost instantly wiped off so that I wouldn’t see it. What’s with tough, independent women who guard their soft side against the eye of an observer even more than the passwords on their phones?
*laughs

So, did I win? Or did I come second? Third?

Thinking of it now, I understand that the destination matters so less when you’ve already had the most beautiful journey. Well, I guess some important realizations dawn only with growing age and experience. And this one was the most beautiful one, to date.

Anyways, this is the part where I pause before the winner announcement of the race for a while and tell you about ‘the journey’. P.S This is no fairytale story and has the ups and downs of a normal human life. But well, imperfections are what make things and people beautiful. Don’t they?

I’m an athlete and this is the story of something I love the most apart from food, TV, and sleep. And you’ve guessed already what that is.

I don’t vividly remember the first time I run but I remember loving it every single time I did (Even the time where I was chased by a Doberman with its breath grazing my feet from just an inch away). I played a lot of sports right from childhood but Athletics had my heart. I remember switching places with the kids lined up before a race so that I could team up with my best friend in the ‘fetch your partner and run’ race. For as long as the race was held, I remember standing on top of the podium holding my best friend’s hand with my left and flaunting the shiny gold medal around my neck with my right. I’d literally wait the whole year for the ‘Annual sports day’. I used to enroll myself in the maximum possible races. I partly did it cause of my confidence about winning races, and mostly did it because I was the happiest when I was out on the tracks with the while lines and a shiny finish line.

I always felt that running came naturally to me, I’d never trained or inherited a bloodline but I did amazingly well for a novice and, winning more races enhanced my confidence further. I went to the same school that was only a couple of miles away right from age 3 until grade 10. Needless to say, everyone in my school was familiar with my name and whoever was familiar with my name also knew me as the girl who ‘runs’. But I’ve had my fair share of losses too. I remember one particular incident during a 4x100 Mts relay where my position was third. My role was to serve 2 purposes- One, to reduce the gap as much as possible before I pass on the baton to our last teammate. Second, run with such fierceness that our last runner would not want to let that effort and excitement go to waste. Soon, the whistle was blown and our first runner starts, within a matter of seconds we’d already lost the lead with the pass and I understood I had much to do. I received the baton and the next instant I went full throttle…

only to lose my grip during the bend. I slipped and fell hard on the field, it took me a couple of seconds to get back to reality and see all the other teams pass on their batons. It hurts every time we fail to succeed but it hurts even more when you have an entire team fail cause of your small mistake.

But the only best thing about failing is the lesson I get to learn from it. Something I don’t fully realize from mere words of wisdom hits harder when faced with the reality of failure.

All my races were intra-school and I’d never ventured out to compete with other people. But it all changed with this one opportunity I got when in grade 10. It was a state-level competition with runners coming from different schools. People, who trained hard, were enthusiastic and had given their all to ‘running’. Me, and a group of my teammates were lucky to get the opportunity to participate in it and especially to me as I still deem it as one of the best days of my life. Of the many reasons as to why it was one of the best days, the most indispensable one was the realization as to why I loved running in the first place.

We reached early in the morning and entered the big white stadium with freshly laid orange synthetic track. It was not just my first time seeing a synthetic track but a lot of other things. I could see runners being trained for a myriad of games. I saw people putting in total effort to give it their all. All of their efforts were reflected in the first few races that I watched from the stands when the games began. For someone witnessing so many people with such grit and passion for a shared, common love, I have to admit I was a tad panicked(and by tad I mean that I’d lost my thinking to an extent that I’d entered the men’s washroom instead of the women’s). But I tried to get my head back in the game realizing it was a one-time opportunity that I had. Soon we were divided into groups for the 200mts race. I stood there among a hundred more runners who were all alien to each other. Each of them looked at the other in their group trying to estimate their competitor’s strength, trying to measure and plot themselves against the one standing next to them.

The look in their eyes explained a lot about each one of them, they spoke more than their words did. They were filled with a sea of emotions, scared, gleeful, excited, puzzled, confident, reluctant, and many more.

The top three would be picked from each group and then the next top three and so on until the final batch is made. I strived hard to stay in the top three for a few initial races and somehow made it all. All until the last race before being picked for the finals. This was probably the toughest I’d ever competed with, each one just didn’t give up until their last sprint to the finish line and I was inches away from making it to the third but, I couldn’t.

I was disheartened yet proud of myself for making it this far in such a big race but the best was yet to happen. When they called out the names of the runner who’d take part in the final, all of them took their stands except one, except the runner with chest No.307.

With a heavy heart, I was casually taking a walk with my girls alongside the tracks discussing our plan for the 4x100mts relay. The final call was made, ‘Chest No.307 this is your final call for the 200mts race’. My junior just beside me pulls my hand, gasps, and with an intoxicated look in her eyes shouts-‘Gooo! You are 307’. Puzzled as I was I hadn’t noticed my number till then and I look down to read my number inverted.
I was the happiest 307 there ever was. I sprinted to the startling line still processing how it all happened. I later got to know that a runner had committed a foul in the previous race by starting early and hence I was moved up to third. I looked up, thanked my stars, and took a deep breath.

Thus began the count-down. On your marks, set, …

And off went the shot in the air starting the race. I did not set off with a great start but tried to pick it up gradually as I always do. I could feel runners passing by, some ahead of me and some behind me. Thoughts passed by too, but I brushed them away just like the strong wind brushed away the tiny hair strands on my wide forehead. I could feel the spikes in my shoes effortlessly pinching in the smooth synthetic track helping me push ahead with more thrust. I could faintly hear the crowds cheering for their favorite runners but it wasn’t in unison this time. Unlike the ones I used to hear at school, every runner here was probably a winner from her own school and had a big group supporting each one of them.

But as we all neared the finish line I could not hear, see or feel anything else apart from my view of the finishing line. It was just me, my shiny lane with white boundaries on each side, and ahead of me a finishing line, everything else was hazy and almost invisible.

It was inches away from my victory that I realized the best part, which was about my love for running.

I realized

that I didn’t just run for the trophies or medals or the popularity or the cheering but because of the joy of running itself and the freedom it gave. Running does not require an equipment, a well laid-out track, shoes, money, anyone, or anything. I could set out in the rain, under a scorching sun, out in the traffic with my best friend, walking a pup in the night on a road or running through fields grazing the soft grass or on the shore of a beautiful beach, running sets the soul free, sets it free from all the worries. Running doesn’t just fill the lungs with fresh air and an eye with the beauty meant to be soaked in, but also sets one free and breaks all shackles.

I passed the finish line and I was not first or second or third. I came fifth. But my entire team was overjoyed for I’d put my all into the race and reached so far.

For winning or losing did not matter more than the joy of running, the joy of freedom. And even today as I wear my favorite jersey and take a walk, I’m not reminded of the times I’ve failed but the warmth of happiness and hard-hit realizations.