The 61-Second Lesson

Years ago, I ran the 400 metres in my school division and then a mixed relay thanks to that 400 Mtr heat. But before I get to that race there is a back story that needs to be told. I joined 1st Standard when the school went from following a calendar year as the academic calendar to a June to April of the following year as the academic calendar. It so transpired that because of this change I was able to join a class where most of the kids were born the year before my birth year. By the time we all reached senior school the age difference between the eldest kid in the batch and the youngest was almost 4 years. No other batch had this quirk. There were batches with 2 year differences but not 4. This meant that my batch would compete in 3 divisions in athletics while we were in senior school. Now back to the 400 meters. It wasn’t something I had trained for, nor was I the most athletic kid around.(not sprints in any case - I was part of the School XI for cricket and in other sports for the class and house) I just happened to be the youngest in my class, which meant I ended up competing with kids who were technically a year junior than me but closer to my age. Back then, an academic year felt like a huge gap, it was a difference between boys and young men. But that didn’t matter much. What mattered was that I was in the race. I remember the day vividly. Sub-Area grounds , the white chalk lines on the mud track, the sun pressing down just enough to make us sweat before the first whistle even blew. There were eight of us in my heat. As we waited near the starting line, someone mentioned that the top finishers had been clocking around 60 seconds. That number suddenly became a goal. A target. A magical threshold we all wanted to cross. Sixty seconds felt achievable if we just pushed hard enough. It’s funny how, at that age, you don’t think about pacing or breathing or form. You just run. You run because the whistle blows, because everyone else is running, because there’s a lane to follow and a finish line to chase. The first hundred metres felt smooth, the second demanded effort, and by the time I hit the 300 mark, my lungs were on fire. But that 60-second mark kept playing in my head. I pushed. Hard. When I crossed the finish line, I could barely feel my legs. The world was spinning, my chest heaving, my throat burning. I heard a teacher call out our lanes and give use our times on pieces of paper to be entered in a record book. One boy had done it; 60 flat. I was right behind him, at 61-point-something. One second.That was the difference between making it to the finals and sitting on the sidelines. It’s strange how much a single second can matter when you’re young. That one second decided who moved forward and who didn’t. I remember the mix of pride and disappointment, proud that I had run well, disappointed that it wasn’t enough. That boy went on to the finals, and won them for our division; and I became the reserve runner for the relay. The “just-in-case” guy.

The relay was a 100–200–200–100 format, and I was to run the second 200 if needed for my house. As luck would have it, I did end up running that day. We finished fourth,  no certificates , no podium, no cheering house waiting for us at the finish line. I remember wanting to disappear into the ground after the race. Fourth isn’t remembered. It’s just the first spot outside glory.For years, that memory sat somewhere at the back of my mind. Not because of the loss, but because of how deeply I felt it back then. That small moment, the 61 seconds, the reserve spot, the fourth-place finish, it all stayed with me far longer than I expected. Looking back now, I realise why. No one ever told me then what I understand so clearly today.

Winning isn’t about crossing a finish line ahead of others. It’s about making a difference every day, it’s about bettering yourself, even by a fraction, every single time you show up. If I had run that second 200 metres even 0.01 seconds faster than what I had done earlier and even if the team result had stayed exactly the same; I would still have been a winner. Because I would have been better than the version of me that ran before. That’s the part we don’t realise early enough. As kids, we are wired to measure our worth in comparison to others. Who ran faster. Who scored higher. Who got picked. Who didn’t. Somehow we are never taught that the real competition is internal. The real race is against yesterday’s version of ourselves. If you think about it, this same pattern continues into adulthood. We compare endlessly. Someone’s startup scaled faster. Someone got funded. Someone else posted a “win” on LinkedIn while we are still stuck in the trenches, trying to make things work. The scoreboard is everywhere in metrics, followers, revenue, job titles; and it’s so easy to start running someone else’s race.But here’s the truth: you can’t outrun someone who’s on a completely different track. The only race that truly matters is the one between who you were and who you’re becoming.

That 400-metre day taught me something that life has since confirmed repeatedly; progress is the real prize. Every time I’ve felt “behind” in life, it’s been because I was looking sideways instead of forward. Every time I’ve compared my chapter two to someone else’s chapter ten, I’ve robbed myself of the joy of growth. And every time I’ve looked back, just to see how far I’ve come, even if it’s just a small step, I’ve found contentment. Because here’s the quiet truth: getting better by 0.01 seconds is still progress. That tiny margin may not change the outcome for the world, but it changes something far more important; it changes you. It changes your mindset from “I need to win” to “I need to improve.” It shifts your focus from external validation to internal mastery. It replaces anxiety with purpose. And over time, those micro-improvements, those 0.01-second gains; compound into something incredible.

When you think of it that way, every effort counts. The day you get up when you didn’t feel like it. The extra line of code you debug. The difficult conversation you have with yourself. The workout you almost skipped. The decision to show up, again and again, despite the results. That’s what separates those who keep evolving from those who stop trying. If I could go back and talk to that younger version of me; the kid who finished 61 seconds, who missed the finals, who felt crushed after the relay, I’d tell him something simple: “You didn’t lose. You just found your starting line.”

Because that’s what every setback really is; the beginning of a new race, one where the finish line keeps moving just far enough to keep you growing. Today, when I look at how I measure progress in my work, my relationships, my startup; I try to hold on to that same perspective. The goal is no longer to “win” against others. The goal is to move forward, however slightly, against myself. There are days I still fall into the comparison trap. Days I look at someone doing better, faster, bigger things. But I try to remind myself, they’re on their own track. My lane is mine to run. My pace is mine to set. And my measure of success is whether I ran my 400 metres better than I did yesterday. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s why this particular memory refuses to fade. Maybe it’s life’s way of reminding me of what truly matters. The 61 seconds aren’t about the time on the stopwatch, they’re about learning the meaning of progress. And perhaps, in a way, that’s what we’re all running toward.

Not perfection. Not applause.
Just progress; one fraction of a second at a time.

C