Rajju’s Marathon: A Stitch in Time Saves a Sprinter’s Rhyme

At the tender age of 6, in the grand spectacle of my uncle’s wedding, a family gathering turned into a chaotic sprint saga. Picture this: my start was so swift, it rivaled the initial thrust of a Yamaha roadrunner on turbo mode.

But hold onto your laughter, for here comes the plot twist. A cunning cousin, armed with a sparkling idea, decided to catch my shirt mid-race. Using every ounce of muscle and strength, he pulled with such force that, in my attempt to escape, I jerked my shoulders. In the blink of an eye, I found myself crashing down, landing on the sharp fringe of a bench with a sound that echoed louder than my initial sprint.

Ouch! The pain and dizziness hit me like a punchline, leaving me as stiff as a log – or perhaps a plank of wood. All I could feel was a hot, wet, sticky substance flowing down the side of my face. Silence fell upon us, my face painted with blood, a gruesome exhibit showcasing a portion of my skull.

Fast forward to the aftermath – I was whisked away to the clinic in the same metallic beast I had attempted to maneuver. Seven stitches later, my open gash was patched up, resembling a Frankenstein experiment gone wrong.

Now, in the post-stitch era, the mere thought of running sent shivers down my spine for years. It took a whopping 22 years for me to summon the courage to overcome my running fear. And when I did, it was a comeback story that would make Forrest Gump proud. Alongside a brave colleague, we entered a mini marathon, fully expecting to trot, saunter, amble, and perhaps crawl – but surprise, we ended up in the top 20, leaving both of us astonished and the bench long forgotten in my rearview mirror. 🏃‍♂️🎉😄