Why I Sprint First (and What My First 10K Taught Me About Life, Regret, and Bananas)

Let me set the scene: it’s a rainy Saturday evening in Ottawa, May 24th, at exactly 6:45 p.m. Not the sunrise, coffee-in-hand run I’m used to. Nope. This was different. This was race day. My first official 10K race. I’d trained enough to feel confident but not enough to fool myself into thinking I was some kind of speed demon.

Spoiler alert: I’m not.

When race day rolled around, I had to choose my starting corral. I went with the “75-minute 10K” group because, well, that’s what I figured I’d do. Rookie mistake. Why? The starting line was like a slow-moving conga line of runners shuffling their way forward. And my brain? It was itching to go faster. Faster than a kid chasing an ice cream truck, faster.

The moment the pack opened up a bit, I sprinted.

And I don’t mean a casual jog. I mean full-throttle, heart-thumping, “Did I just rob a bank?” sprint.

This was dumb. Like, textbook “don’t do this” dumb.

For the first four kilometers, I felt like a rockstar. I was passing people left and right, feeling invincible. But then kilometer five hit. My stomach staged a rebellion. Probably because I had lunch that could best be described as “questionable”, let’s say I forgot that digestion is a thing and that your body might object if you combine too many carbs with anxiety.

Thank goodness for water stations. I made a beeline for each one, pausing for a full two minutes to hydrate, mentally reset, and plead with my insides to calm the heck down. I’m pretty sure the volunteers thought I was auditioning for a dramatic role in “Runner’s Rehab.”

But here’s where this race transcended any solo run I’d done before.

Usually, when I do a 10K by myself, it’s quiet, lonely even. No one’s cheering me on. I cross the finish line, grab a bottle of water, and head home to collapse on the couch.

Not this time.

This time, strangers shouted, “YOU GOT THIS, GIRL!” Kids high-fived me mid-run. One amazing man handed me a banana like it was the most precious prize in the world—because when you’ve just burned through 6 miles and your stomach is a war zone, that banana? It is the prize.

And the signs along the course? Pure comedy gold.

One read, “YOU THOUGHT IT SAID RUM?”—because apparently, a lot of runners were dreaming of cocktails instead of calories burned. Another cracked me up: “THIS IS YOUR IDEA OF FUN?” Absolutely. Pain, sweat, and all.

I didn’t train like I was going for a medal. Between working full-time at the bakery, side gigs doing bookkeeping, and the never-ending mom hustle, my training was scrappy. I managed about three runs a week for a month, squeezing in treadmill runs during coffee breaks or early mornings before starting my day. The longest run I managed was 8K, so 10K race day was slightly intimidating—but doable.

This experience reminded me of something I’ve learned time and time again in parenting, work, and life:

Showing up is the victory.

Not perfect training. Not flawless execution. Just showing up, even if your legs are tired, your brain is fuzzy, and your stomach is staging a coup.

And I owe a huge chunk of my motivation to my cousin Sarah. She’s a superhero in yoga pants—someone who kept me active through the lockdowns with virtual workouts and pep talks. Her daughters ran the 2K, and my daughter ran it too. There’s something powerful about seeing the next generation lace up their shoes and push themselves, no matter their pace.

So here I am, back home with sore legs, a heart bursting with pride, and an itch for more. More races. More sweat. More moments that remind me I’m alive and capable, no matter how slow or fast I go.

Because here’s the thing: whether you sprint like a maniac from the start or take your time and walk parts of the course, it all counts. Every step forward is a win.

And me? I’m already eyeing my next race, probably this September. Maybe next time, I’ll pace myself better, but who knows? Maybe I’ll sprint first again and pay for it later. That’s life, after all—messy, unpredictable, and worth it.

Oh, and if you ever get a banana handed to you mid-race? Take it. That banana is a badge of honor.

-Fabi