The Runner Who Never Won

By [Ziauddin]

I’ve never won a race. Not once. Not in school, not in local fun runs, and definitely not in the twelve marathons I’ve run in the last fifteen years.

And no, I’m not being modest — I’ve literally never even come close to placing. My pace is slow, my knees aren’t the best, and I take more water breaks than I care to admit. Yet, every year, I lace up my shoes, pin a bib to my chest, and show up to the starting line like it’s a sacred ritual.

Because for me, it is.

My sister, Anna, used to be the runner in our family. She was the fast one — full of life, energy, and this infectious love for movement. She ran her first 5K when she was ten, beat our high school track records by sophomore year, and had her eyes set on the Boston Marathon before she turned twenty-five.

She never got there.

Anna passed away just a few weeks before her 22nd birthday. A car accident — a regular Tuesday turned into the worst day of my life. The kind of grief that wraps around your lungs and makes it hard to breathe — that’s what I lived in for months.

In the months after her death, I found myself going through her things. Her room was like a time capsule: race medals, bib numbers, shoes, training logs with scribbled mile times. And at the bottom of one drawer, I found a note she’d written to herself:

“If I ever stop running, make sure someone keeps going for me.”

I didn’t even run back then. But that one sentence — it haunted me. It held me.

So the next year, I signed up for my first marathon. It was miserable. I trained poorly, got shin splints, and almost quit halfway. But I kept going. For her. I finished that first race in five hours and seventeen minutes, barely holding it together as I crossed the line.

Since then, I’ve run every year. Different cities. Different weather. Same reason.

People ask me all the time, “Why do you keep doing it if you never win?” And I get it. We live in a world obsessed with medals, rankings, and records. But I run to remember. I run to feel close to Anna. And in some strange way, I run for others who can’t anymore.

Over the years, a few people started recognizing me. I became “that guy who runs for his sister.” Runners would pat me on the back, spectators would cheer a little louder when they read the name “Anna” written across my shirt.

But something different happened last year.

About two miles from the finish line in Chicago, I was struggling. Really struggling. My legs were cramping, and I had serious doubts I’d make it across this time. Then out of nowhere, a young girl — maybe 10 or 11 — jogged up beside me.

“You’re the one who runs for your sister, right?” she asked.

I was too winded to say much, but I nodded.

She smiled. “I read about you. My big brother passed away too. I’m running my first half-marathon for him. Can I finish this with you?”

And we did.

We crossed the finish line side by side. She held my hand up in the air like we’d just won gold, and for the first time in fifteen years, I let the tears come.

Because maybe we did win something after all.

Not a trophy. Not a record.

But purpose. Connection. Legacy.

That moment — more than any medal — reminded me why I keep running. It's not about the time on the clock, or the place I finish. It’s about remembering someone I love. It's about showing up, year after year, and proving that some things are worth doing even if the world doesn’t clap for you.

I’ll run again next year. And the year after that.

Maybe I’ll still be “the runner who never won.”

But if just one person is inspired to run, to heal, or to remember someone they’ve lost — then I’ve already won more than I ever hoped for.