Senior year of high school, my coach decided to take the team to a trail we hadn't trained on. We went to White Rock Lake and ran an out-and-back along the perimeter. The newbies, of course, ran less than the more experienced runners, and since I was the only senior, I had the farthest to run.
A general goal for this type of workout is to run a negative split. This means the second half of the run, after the turn-around, is faster. But I had even more motivation on this particular run. As I was headed back to the bus, picking up the pace, a couple of (attractive) guys fell in line behind me, apparently just starting their work out at a relaxed pace through which they could carry on a conversation. Even at this "relaxed" pace, I was hammering out the back half of my run.
I was tired, sweat dripping from the ear lobes, arms swinging, knees leading the way. In just a few minutes, I would be done for the day. To feed my pride, I made it goal not to let these guys pass (not that it mattered, but I was working my ass off, and they were just talking away, keeping up like it was nothing). They had no idea how much they were pushing me, helping me.
I could finally see the bus (I think my coach nicknamed it the Yellow Dog). I opened my strides and swung my arms a little wider, chest out, head up.
I accomplished two goals that day: a negative split and ahead of those guys. As I walked toward my team, who patiently awaited my return, one of the guys shouted out to me as he and his buddy ran by, "Hey, good run!" Before I could gather enough breath to respond, Molly, an indescribable teammate, with a big smile and a wave, yelled back, "Thanks!"
...
I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bitter about Molly stealing my compliment, but the pride washed off as I drenched myself in water.
But still, that was my compliment, not hers.
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