A mile and a half to go. Each step feeling increasingly heavier than the last. By now, my breathing was so dense I felt like my lungs would never forgive me.
Squish. Thud. Squish. Thud. Each time the shoe on my right foot hit the cool pavement it sounded like wet sponge being squeezed. As much as I hated myself for running through that puddle, I could not help but find some calmness in the rhythm.
Derrick Smalls was still ahead, but not by far. Images of the race last year surged through my head. We had been neck-in-neck throughout the entire race, and as we neared the final half mile we both dedicated our last drops of adrenaline to accelerating to the finish. He was taller than I was, and more lean. His leg span exceeded mine, and although I was quick, I could not cover the same distance in the same amount of time. He won by two seconds.
This was my chance to redeem myself.
I ran the back of my hand across my forehead. The sweat dripping down my face was starting to trickle onto my eyelids. I could hardly distinguish the colorful blurs of people standing on either side of the path. They might have been cheering, but I heard no sound coming from them.
Squish. Thud. Squish. Thud.
The checkered banner in the distance was growing larger. With less than half a mile to go, I gave one last push. I was not sure if I was running or flying. My feet were moving so rapidly I could barely feel the ground below. Derrick Smalls was directly to my left now and I could hear his panting. I needed to beat him. I needed to prove myself.
And then it happened.
I heard a rippling thump and saw a flash of color fall to the ground next to me. Derrick was down. Derrick was down. He was done. The finish line was just a couple yards away. If I kept going, I would not only take first, but I would beat Derrick’s record time. I would be the ultimate victor.
At last, the cheers from the crowd rushed into my ears. They knew what I knew.
I bent down and reached out my hand.