June 6 | Appolo 10K Run, Bangalore
Some Sundays humble you more than others.
For months, my son and I had been looking forward to the Appolo 10K run. A father-son race day, booked well in advance. He’d do the 5K. I’d huff and puff through the 10K. Maybe both of us would come home with medals, but even without them, we were in this together. That was the real win.
Except, of course, plans rarely respect sentiment.
Velokofi, the cycling club I hold dear, was celebrating their 5th anniversary with a ride up Nandi Hills. June 6th. Same day. I was torn. Like a man choosing between two lovers. One, a 10K run on NICE. The other, Nandi, the hill that gives and takes in equal measure.
Honestly, I was leaning ride-ward. Velokofi has given me too much to ignore. The 10K run, more a personal milestone. But not for kid. For him, this was the race. He had form, he had past glory. Podium at Kaveri Trail, even when underage. And more importantly, he had something I couldn’t shake: belief.
Thankfully, the CM’s entourage came to my rescue. Nandi got shut down for the week. (Cyclists and secret lovers grumbled, but I quietly thanked political unpredictability for this rare gift of clarity.) So, back to the run it was.
We woke up at a time most would mistake for last night. Long drive to the venue. Halfway there, the boy went quiet. Then, a whimper of guilt: "I forgot my Garmin."
The grief was real. A runner without a Garmin is like a singer without a mic.
You can still perform, but who will believe you did?
“Let it go,” I said. “We’ll Insta it. NEB’s got photographers. Pro pics, no pixel missed.”
His run was after mine, so he waited. No complaints, no fidgeting. Just quietly rooting for me. And me? I felt worse for it. He deserved better. But this, too, is a runner’s rite. Waiting, stretching, watching others first. It's how we grow, not just strong but patient.
We warmed up together. He corrected my stretches, explained muscle intent with more clarity than YouTube ever managed. I was half-impressed, half-humbled. This boy had grown into a coach while I blinked.
Then came my race. Not my best. I wanted a sub-50. I got 50:31. Close, but not story-worthy.
His turn. I cheered across the barricade. He didn’t hear. MC, drums, crowd.
His eyes were laser-focused. I’ve seen that look before. He was already running, even before the horn.
I waited at the finish line. He came through, 8th overall. The youngest in the top ten by far. Surely podium for his category.
But the announcements dragged. 10K awards, age brackets, drummers, sponsors. The sun climbed. Our hope simmered. And then it happened...
They skipped his name.
It stung. But we took it well. That’s racing. Sometimes the clock loves you. Sometimes it ignores you. There’s always a next time.
We drove back quietly. Rehydrated, refueled. Sunday slipped into lazy TV and snacks. Until late evening, when I remembered, MySamay.
Time to harvest our race-day pictures for Insta glory.
I looked up his bib number. Typed it in.
No result.
Odd.
“Da, what’s your bib number?” I called out.
He rustled through his files. (Yes, we file bibs. Athletic CV, if you will.)
Still nothing.
DNS.
Did Not Start.
Wait, what?
No photos. No timing. No record. Just... nothing.
And then... Clarity, cruel and clean...
He had worn the wrong bib.
A bib from an old race. One he didn’t even attend. NEB Police Run, months ago. The kit had been lying around. He must’ve picked it up in the early-morning daze. I had woken him up too soon. Too eager. Too proud.
And now, this brilliant 5K run, swift, sharp, podium-worthy remains unrecorded.
Not on Garmin. Not on NEB. Not on Strava. Not even on their cameras. Like it never happened.
And yes, in my knee-jerk despair, I had already submitted a scathing NEB feedback form. One-star fury, dripping with misplaced blame. I was halfway through a longer email, ready with photo evidence and righteous rage, when it all unraveled.
I wanted to throw the laptop.
What do you do with a race that didn’t happen?
You grieve.
You rage.
You laugh. (Eventually, hopefully)
Mostly, you ache.
He had run his heart out. And now that memory was ours alone. No medal. No time. Just that moment,... Him, crossing the finish line, breathing hard, looking up, scanning for my face.
I am proud of him. More than words will ever do justice. But how do you express pride in something the world will never see?
You write it.
You remember it.
You hope he remembers the lesson harder than the loss. Attention matters. Discipline matters. Even in the small things. Especially in the small things.
This wasn’t a tragedy. But it was a heartbreak. A small one, with a long echo.
And somewhere, deep in the quiet after, I whispered what I couldn’t shout at the starting line:
You ran well, my boy. You made it count. Even if the world never clapped, I saw you. And I’ll never forget.
And just like that, a good run vanished...
not lost to speed, but to a slip of a bib.
No medal. No time.
Just memory.
Heavy with pride.
And a little too much ache to carry lightly.
Shanku
(a father still clapping, long after the applause has faded)
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