What happened? I was pooped. I was exhausted. My brief and glorious burst of energy wore me out. I was like a shooting star with no shoot left. My excellent jogging form transformed into what now looked more like an old, overweight, galloping elephant. I thought to myself, “Where did my mojo go-go?” But I determined not to let Ashley see that I was spent. So I smiled through the pain and pretended that I still had some gas in the tank, but I knew the tank was running on empty. The most embarrassing point for us both was when a father and his daughter (who was probably about 6 years old) passed us by. That was more than Ashley’s pride would allow for and I heard her loudly mumble, “No way am I going to let a little girl beat me in this race.” So she picked up the pace, I followed, and passed them we went with the finish line in sight. You could hear the crowd cheering in the distance. Ashley’s side was aching. She had placed her hand on her side trying to massage out the pain. She was laboring along. She was giving it all she had and I was proud of her effort. I on the other hand, had gotten my second wind and was just waiting to make my big move for the final sprint. I edged up, we were now even, and I was easily matching her step for step. I envisioned crossing the finish line ahead of her, arms raised high in victory, winning all the bragging rights for the ride back home. As we approached the last 25 yards to the finish line, this feeling came over me, “Let her win. Don’t pass her. Just let her win.” So, I dropped back, and watched as she crossed the finish line ahead of me. The race was over and together we headed back home, in a warm car to the greatly anticipated Thanksgiving meal. Although my body was tired from the run, I felt good. Good that I finished the race. Good that I spent the morning with the daughter I love. Good that I made a memory that I will always hold dear. Good that I let her win. But the following morning brought nothing good for me.
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