So yesterday, I complained about being passed by 80 year-old men with pot bellies--generally in shorts shorter than what I would wear, and I consider myself to have some pretty damn fine thirty-two year old legs--passing me in races. To be honest, it doesn't just bother me. It infuriates me. Not that I would denigrate the accomplishments of these octogenarian athletes or the similarly able, yet seemingly unfit people twice my size that cruise on by me, cellulite a-flapping and Oprah arms a-waving, but damn, it bruises the ego.
I'm a competitive person by nature, with a reputation for crying and storming away from a "friendly" family game of Trivial Pursuit rather than admit defeat. I hate losing. And when I do something, I do it to win. I wasn't just a straight-A student, I was valedictorian. I didn't just play the piano, I got "excellent" ratings for every competition I entered. And if I didn't get the lead in that musical theatre production, you could be damn sure I was the scene-stealing chorus girl.
But running, well, that's something I'll never win. No matter how much I train, how well I eat or how fit I think I am, some shirtless senior citizen with more fat on his belly than I have in my entire body is going to kick my ass. So, all I can hope for is to kick my own. To beat my own PR's, to train better and smarter and maybe, one day, I'll leave some 80 year-old in the dust.
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