Episode #2: The Pioneer's Mountain

The sun hadn't yet crested the ridgeline when Hara gently shook Zaidi’s shoulder.

“Rise, little warrior,” he whispered.

Still groggy, Zaidi stirred. Her legs were sore from yesterday’s kicks and squats, but something in her father’s tone told her today would be different. Outside, the mountain waited—cloaked in indigo shadows and alive with birdsong.

They hiked deeper into the forest today, beyond their usual training grounds, to a ridge lined with wildflowers and overlooking a yawning valley below. As the first rays of sunlight spilled across the land, Hara spoke.

“Today’s lesson,” he said, “is about a woman who outran fate itself. Her name was Wilma Rudolph.”

Zaidi blinked. “Who was she?”

Hara smiled, looking out over the valley. “She was born in Tennessee. Twentieth of twenty-two children. Sick as a child—polio twisted her leg. Doctors told her she might never walk again.”

Zaidi’s eyes widened.

“But her spirit,” Hara continued, “was stronger than any illness. She taught herself to walk again. And then—she ran.”

He looked at Zaidi, voice soft but fierce. “And not just any kind of running. She ran like the wind remembers its purpose. In 1960, she won three gold medals at the Olympics—first American woman to do so in track and field.”

Zaidi’s jaw dropped. “Three golds?”

“Indeed. She ran with speed, but also with fire—for every girl told she wasn’t strong enough, fast enough, good enough. Wilma turned every ‘no’ into a finish line.”

Hara stepped into a wide stance, grounding himself in the earth.

“So today, we run for her.”

He handed Zaidi a folded paper titled The Pioneer Workout.

Zaidi read aloud:

• 1 Mile Run
• 25 Air Squats
• 25 Push-Ups
• 25 Sit-Ups
• Repeat for 4 Total Rounds

Her eyes shot up. “Four miles?! And all this in between?”

Hara simply nodded. “Wilma didn’t have shortcuts. Neither do pioneers.”

They warmed up in silence, then together they took off—feet pounding against pine needles, each breath carving a new rhythm.

The first mile was crisp and clean. Zaidi’s legs found their groove, her lungs adjusting to the cool morning air. But by the second round, the squats turned her quads to jelly and her push-ups felt like moving mountains.

“Daddy,” she gasped, mid-push-up, “this is brutal.”

Hara grunted beside her. “So was walking with a brace for eight years. Keep going.”

She did. And in the rhythm of her breathing, somewhere between fatigue and will, Zaidi imagined Wilma—braces clicking down a dusty Tennessee road, refusing to quit, refusing to be labeled, until one day she ran with gold around her neck.

By the final round, Zaidi’s arms trembled. Her breath came in sharp gasps. She dropped to her knees after the last sit-up, face flushed and eyes wet.

Hara knelt beside her. “You did it.”

“She did it,” Zaidi whispered.

He nodded. “Yes. And she passed it forward. To girls like you. To us.”

They sat in silence, letting the wind sweep away the heat of effort.

Then Hara added, “She once said, ‘The triumph can’t be had without the struggle.’”

Zaidi smiled through the sweat. “Then today was a triumph.”

As they descended the mountain, the sun was now full and golden, following their trail like a quiet witness. Birds soared above them. Wilma’s story, her courage, ran beside them with every step.

That night, Zaidi polished off her second helping of dinner, sore but proud. After hugging her mom and dad, she paused at her bedroom door.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for telling me about Wilma.”

Hara smiled. “You carry her now. Just like she carried every girl who came after.”

Zaidi nodded, eyes wide with understanding, and disappeared into her room.

Kia turned to Hara with a smirk. “You gonna tell her about tomorrow’s lesson?”

He chuckled. “Not yet.”

Kia laughed. “You and your secrets.”

“Anticipation,” Hara said, tapping his temple, “sharpens the blade.”

That night, as the moon hung like a silver medallion over the sleeping trees, Hara scribbled in his notebook: tomorrow’s workout… themed around Jim Kelly.