I came in last in every race. My dad's death taught me what it means to win

This First Person article is by Sophia Ersil who lives in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

It was midnight and I was biking through the darkness of the Swedish countryside. Through the raindrops, I saw red tail lights of other cyclists gliding up the hill ahead. I was cold and shivering and felt like giving up. As I somehow forced myself to pedal, I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew in signing up for the Vätternrundan, a 315-kilometre bike ride in Motala, Sweden.

What was I thinking? I wasn't an athlete. Growing up, I never felt like I was fast enough or co-ordinated enough in sports. During soccer games, I sat on the ground picking dandelions instead of chasing the ball. 

My younger sister was the athlete. She excelled in every sport, but gymnastics was where she shone. My dad built a special shelf to hang her medals and she quickly filled the entire wall. 

I skated, danced, swam and ran just like her, but I never scored a winning goal or won a race. I watched from the sidelines as my teammates crashed the net or made the podium.

My dad and my sister were alike. When she started playing competitive soccer, they bonded over her new love of the sport and his memories of his glory days.

My dad was a second-generation Canadian. His parents fled the Second World War and the Iron Curtain in Europe, and they met in Canada. They instilled a strong work ethic and an intense competitiveness in their five children. My Opa never let his sons —  or anyone else — win in table tennis. 

I see that same competitive streak in my dad. He was a striker, and in 1978, my dad scored the winning goal at the Canadian Championships for the Oshawa Turul Soccer Club.

Years of not