Running a charity race wasn’t something I had on my bingo card this year.
I’m a schoolteacher, a mom of two, and a perpetual member of the “How is there never enough time?” club.
But when my daughter’s after-school sports program announced they needed funds to keep going, I laced up my sneakers and signed up.
I didn’t care about winning—this was about showing up, finishing, and supporting a good cause.
What I didn’t expect was Brad.
Every race has that one guy: loud, arrogant, convinced he’s God’s gift to running. Brad’s the type who makes everything about himself, even at a charity event.
From the moment he showed up at the starting line, I could tell he wasn’t here for the cause. He was here to win—by any means necessary.
I didn’t know it yet, but Brad’s “winning” streak was about to meet its mud-soaked match.
The Starting Line
The starting line buzzed with energy. Families with strollers, seasoned runners warming up, even a few kids in oversized T-shirts.
I loved the mix—it felt like the whole community had come together for something bigger than ourselves.
I wasn’t nervous about the race; I just wanted to finish. I’d been training for weeks, squeezing in early morning jogs before breakfast chaos, and my only goal was to prove to my daughter, Sophie, that her mom could do hard things.
That’s when I heard him.
“You call this a race?” Brad’s voice boomed over the crowd.
He stood a few feet away, hands on his hips, scanning the course map like he was preparing for the Olympics.
“This is a joke. Whoever planned this has clearly never run a serious event.”
The other runners exchanged glances, some rolling their eyes. Brad had that air about him—the kind of guy who assumes he’s better, faster, and smarter than everyone else.
I caught a snarky comment about how “people should stick to fun runs if they can’t handle real competition” and clenched my fists.
It was a charity race. Who did he think he was?
He strutted over to the race official, pointing at the map.
“Are there any checks on the course? Timing mats? Marshals? Or is it just, ‘Run wherever you feel like and call it a day?’”
The official, a tired-looking man in a reflective vest, gave a polite but firm answer. “It’s a community event, sir. We’re here to have fun and raise money.”
Brad smirked. “Right. Fun.”
Fun for him, apparently, meant crushing the spirits of anyone else trying to enjoy the day.
I made a mental note to avoid him on the course.
Spoiler alert: I failed.
Mid-Race Madness
The first mile was exactly what I’d hoped: a steady rhythm, supportive cheers from the sidelines, and the kind of camaraderie that made me remember why I signed up.
A woman in a pink headband matched my pace, and we shared a quick smile.
“Good luck,” she said, her breath even and calm. I nodded, grateful for the encouragement.
Then Brad blew past us.
“Move it, people!” he barked, weaving through the runners like we were obstacles in his personal victory lap.
I nearly tripped trying to avoid him. Pink Headband muttered something I wouldn’t repeat in front of Sophie.
As the miles ticked by, Brad’s antics grew worse.
He cut across a flowerbed, crushing the daisies someone had painstakingly planted.
At the water station, he grabbed two cups, chugging one and tossing the other aside without a glance. Volunteers scrambled to clean up after him.
And the smug grin on his face? It made my legs ache just looking at it.
By mile three, I was convinced he didn’t care about the charity or the other runners.
He cared about one thing: being the first across the finish line. Even if it meant cheating.
“Shortcut coming up,” he muttered to himself as we approached a sharp turn.
I didn’t think much of it at the time—just Brad being obnoxious. But when I rounded the corner, he was gone.
For a moment, I panicked. Had he tripped? Gotten hurt?
Then I saw it—a side alley cutting straight through the course.
He must have scouted it earlier, a sneaky way to shave off half a mile.
My stomach twisted. Cheating at a charity race? Who did that? Still, I reminded myself why I was here.
I wasn’t running to beat Brad. I was running for Sophie. Let him have his shortcut.
The thing about shortcuts, though? They don’t always lead where you expect.
The Shortcut Backfires
As I rounded the next bend, the path opened into a wide clearing with a slight downhill slope—a welcome relief after the uphill grind.
The final water station stood ahead, volunteers cheering and holding out cups of water. My body screamed for a break, but my mind stayed focused: one step at a time.
That’s when I saw him.
At first, I didn’t recognize the muddy, disheveled figure stumbling toward the course from a side trail.
His neon-yellow shirt, now streaked with brown, and his lopsided gait made him look like a cartoon character who’d just survived a mudslide.
Then it clicked. It was Brad.
My jaw dropped. The king of shortcuts was crawling—literally crawling—out of what looked like a trench, dripping mud and fury with every movement.
His shoes squelched with each step, and his face was a mask of humiliation.
A curious runner near me called out, “What happened to him?”
A volunteer at the water station, stifling a grin, leaned in and whispered, “Apparently, his ‘shortcut’ took him right through an unmarked construction site. He stepped on some loose boards, slipped into a trench, and got soaked when he landed in a muddy puddle. Took him five minutes to claw his way out.”
The runner laughed, shaking his head. “Serves him right.”
I couldn’t help but smile. The universe had done what none of us could—put Brad exactly where he belonged.
And the best part? His shortcut had cost him more time than if he’d just run the course properly.
Brad caught me looking and scowled, muttering something about “bad signage” and “not my fault.”
But the damage was done. His shortcut wasn’t a shortcut at all—it was poetic justice, wrapped in mud and served cold.
I picked up my pace, leaving him behind as the crowd at the water station erupted in murmurs and laughter.
I didn’t need to gloat. The scene spoke for itself.
Crossing the Finish Line
The finish line came into view, a bright banner stretched across the path with a cheering crowd lining both sides.
My legs felt like they were made of lead, but seeing Sophie waving her homemade “Go Mom!” sign gave me the final push I needed.
I crossed, a mix of exhaustion and elation washing over me. The announcer called my name and number, and the crowd clapped politely. It wasn’t a grand victory, but it was my victory. I’d finished the race the way I’d intended—fair and square.
“Mom! You did it!” Sophie ran up, her face glowing with pride. She threw her arms around me, and I hugged her back, feeling every bit of the effort I’d poured into this moment.
But the crowd’s attention shifted. A wave of laughter rippled through the spectators, and I turned to see Brad approaching the finish line.
If possible, he looked even worse than he had at the water station. His mud-caked shoes left sticky brown streaks on the pavement, and his neon shirt clung to him like a second skin.
As Brad crossed, the race officials stepped forward. One of them held a clipboard, shaking his head as Brad tried to explain himself.
The snippets I caught were priceless: “There was no sign… It’s not fair… I didn’t know about the construction!”
The official’s response was loud enough for the crowd to hear: “You went off course. That’s an automatic disqualification. This is a community race, not a free-for-all.”
The crowd roared with laughter, some people even clapping. A group of runners I’d passed earlier whispered to each other, then started chanting, “Shortcut Brad! Shortcut Brad!”
His face turned crimson, and he slunk away toward the refreshment tables, dripping mud as he went.
I couldn’t stop myself from grinning.
He might’ve started the race thinking he was better than everyone else, but he’d ended it as a walking punchline.