26 Jul

It would be no exaggeration to say that I come from the least sporty family in the world. We never watched the Super Bowl, generally avoided all things spandex, and failed miserably at obtaining the green slice of pie in Trivial Pursuit. One of my brothers and I played badminton in high school, but that’s about as athletic as we got.

Knowing all this, you might understand my surprise when not one but both of my brothers signed up for the Spartan Race late last year. At the time, I struggled to understand why someone would want to run 13 miles and go through 25 obstacles, let alone why they would pay upwards of $100 to do it. But I was eager to see how my youngest brother would fare. He has not been, how do I put this?, the most fit of young men. Henry once wondered if he would sweat potato chips once he started training. Lovely imagery, I know.

Six months later he was running through mud, throwing javelins, scaling walls, and ducking under barbed wire. I couldn’t have been more proud.

So while I still don’t really get sports, I do understand the power of setting a goal and following through. I’ve never seen my littlest brother so happy as when he crossed the finish line, you know, moments after fighting gladiators wielding those giant Q-tip things.


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