People say running is a race against yourself, that the only person you have to beat is the one staring back at you in the mirror.
I used to believe that—until I started dating Brian.
Brian was the kind of guy who turned everything into a competition.
It didn’t matter if it was running, grocery shopping, or splitting the bill—he always had to win.
At first, I thought it was confidence, maybe even charm.
But there’s a thin line between playful teasing and toxic behavior.
It was on the day of the marathon—our first race together—that I finally saw that line for what it was.
And I realized some people are so desperate to be first, they’ll take every shortcut they can.
The Race To Impress
I used to run for myself.
Just me, my sneakers pounding against the pavement, and the quiet that came from leaving everything else behind.
Then Brian showed up.
We’d only been dating a couple of months, and on paper, he seemed perfect.
Tall, confident, the kind of guy who never skipped leg day and looked like he belonged on the cover of a protein shake ad.
He noticed me stretching at the gym one day and struck up a conversation. Before I knew it, we were training “together”—if you could call it that.
For Brian, running wasn’t about peace or escape. It was about being the best.
“Can’t slow down, Jess,” he’d call over his shoulder, jogging backward just to prove a point. “You’ll never get faster if you don’t push harder.”
And so I pushed. Not because I wanted to beat him—I knew I never would—but because it felt like the only way to earn his respect.
When he signed us up for the local marathon, I said yes before I really thought it through.
“It’ll be fun,” Brian had said, grinning as he handed me the entry form. “But don’t feel bad when I leave you in the dust.”
I laughed it off at the time.
But standing there at the starting line, surrounded by thousands of other runners stretching and bouncing on their toes, the weight of his words settled in my chest like a rock.
Brian was next to me, all swagger and energy, pulling tight the neon laces on his brand-new running shoes.
“Ready to lose?” he said, grinning like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.
I forced a smile. “I’m ready to run my race, Brian. That’s what matters.”
He smirked, straightening up and rolling his shoulders. “We’ll see.”
A voice crackled through the loudspeaker, announcing the countdown.
I took a deep breath, feeling the familiar rush of nerves.
Around me, the energy was electric—runners of all kinds, from wiry pros to parents with jogging strollers, stood shoulder to shoulder.
This was what I loved about running: it didn’t matter where you started or how fast you finished. The only goal was to keep moving forward.
But when the horn blared and the crowd surged across the starting line, Brian shot ahead like a bullet.
“See you at the finish line!” he called over his shoulder.
I shook my head and focused on my own pace.
I’d been running long enough to know the truth: a race isn’t won in the first mile.
Small Detours
The marathon was a sprawling course that wound through the entire town—city streets, parks, shaded trails, and a long, brutal hill somewhere around the halfway point.
The weather was perfect for running: crisp and clear, the early morning sun stretching across the pavement.
I settled into a rhythm, my feet tapping out a steady beat.
Around me, runners found their paces, falling into patterns like schools of fish.
A man in a banana costume jogged past me, waving to the crowd. Kids lined the sidewalks holding signs that read “Go, Mom!” and “You got this!”
It was impossible not to smile.
Brian was nowhere in sight, and for the first few miles, I was grateful for that.
Without him there to compare myself to, I could just… run.
Around mile six, the course split into a shaded trail through the park.
I glanced around and caught a flash of neon—Brian’s shoes—far ahead.
He looked… closer than he should have been.
I frowned, but before I could think much of it, I let it go. Maybe I was just imagining things.
The real turning point came near mile nine.
I was approaching the aid station when I spotted a man sitting on the side of the trail, grimacing as he held his ankle. Runners streamed past him, eyes focused straight ahead.
My feet hesitated. I glanced at the station ahead. A volunteer would find him eventually, right?
But something tugged at me—something my mom used to say when I was a kid: “Do the right thing even when no one’s watching. Especially then.”
I slowed to a stop.
“Hey,” I said, kneeling down next to him. “You okay?”
He looked up, surprised.
“Twisted it on that last turn,” he said through clenched teeth. “I think I can make it to the aid station. Just… need a hand.”
I offered him my water bottle. “Here. Let me help you up.”
He stared at me for a second, like he couldn’t believe someone had stopped, then smiled faintly. “Thanks. Most people just keep running.”
I grinned as I slipped an arm under his. “I’m not most people.”
It took a few minutes to hobble him to the aid station, where a volunteer ran over with ice and a wheelchair.
“You sure you want to stop for this?” the runner asked, looking guilty.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s just a race.”
I didn’t add that Brian would probably never let me hear the end of it.
Once he was settled, I slipped back onto the course, slower now but feeling lighter somehow.
The finish line was still miles away, but for the first time all day, I wasn’t running to prove anything.
I was running because I wanted to.
I caught glimpses of Brian again a couple of times—further ahead than seemed possible. At one point, I thought I saw him duck through a gap in the trees, but I blinked, and he was gone.
I shook it off, focused on the ground ahead, and kept moving forward.
Shortcuts and Smugness
The final stretch of the marathon twisted through the city, its streets lined with cheering crowds and banners flapping in the breeze.
My legs ached, my breath came in ragged gasps, but I felt a quiet pride settle deep in my chest.
I wasn’t fast, and I certainly wasn’t first, but I was still moving forward.
The energy of the crowd pulled me toward the finish line. I glanced up as I rounded the final corner, and there he was—Brian.
He was standing near the finish line, neon shoes planted like he was staking his claim. A medal hung around his neck, and he was surrounded by a small group of runners and volunteers.
Even from a distance, I could hear him: loud, triumphant, and far too pleased with himself.
“Crushed it!” he was saying, chest puffed out like he’d just won the Olympics. “Honestly, I wasn’t even that tired at the end. It’s all about mental strength, you know? Pacing is key.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes and focused on my steps. One foot, then the other. Just get to the finish line.
As I approached, Brian caught sight of me and grinned like a kid who’d just won a carnival prize.
“Hey, Jess!” he shouted, arms wide in mock celebration. “You made it!”
He said it loudly—too loudly—just to make sure everyone heard.
I crossed the line, letting my breathing slow, and smiled faintly at the volunteer who handed me a medal.
I didn’t look at Brian. I didn’t need to.
“Guess you didn’t take any shortcuts, huh?” he teased, falling in step beside me. “No shame in losing to the best, though. You’ll get there someday.”
Before I could answer, an announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, pulling everyone’s attention toward the stage set up by the finish line.
“Attention, runners! Before we wrap up today’s race, we have a quick announcement.”
The crowd quieted, people craning their necks to see. Brian turned toward the stage, still grinning, and I followed his gaze.
One of the race officials stepped up to the microphone, clearing his throat. Behind him, a large screen lit up with photos—snapshots from throughout the marathon, captured by course photographers stationed along the route.
“We’d like to thank everyone for their hard work today,” the official said, his voice warm but pointed. “Running a marathon is no small feat. It takes dedication, honesty, and grit.”
I don’t know why, but the word honesty made my stomach flip.
Brian didn’t seem to notice. He stood tall, probably waiting to see himself plastered on the screen as one of the race’s shining stars.
But when the next image appeared, I froze.
It was him.
Brian.
Bright as day, captured mid-stride as he ducked under a low fence, cutting through a quiet section of the park.
The angle was perfect—his neon running shoes glowing like beacons of guilt, his face twisted in a half-smirk as he glanced back over his shoulder.
A ripple of laughter and murmurs swept through the crowd.
“Wait… isn’t that—”
“Did he cheat?”
“That’s not the course!”
The announcer cleared his throat again, though this time his expression looked less amused and more stern.
“We’ve reviewed the photos and course results, and unfortunately, it seems one of our runners took… creative liberties with the route today.”
Brian’s face went pale.
“That’s a mistake,” he muttered, his voice low but desperate. “That’s not—”
The crowd wasn’t listening. More photos flashed onto the screen—Brian slipping through side trails, cutting corners on tight turns, his shortcuts unmistakable.
Gasps turned to laughter, and I heard a kid in the back yell, “Cheater!”
I bit my lip to stop from smiling.
Brian spun toward me, his eyes wide and wild, like I could somehow fix this.
“Jess, I didn’t—this is ridiculous! Who even looks at these stupid photos?”
“Apparently everyone,” I said calmly, watching as people started pointing.
Brian’s shoulders slumped, the smugness finally draining out of him like air from a balloon.
The Spirit of the Race
After the crowd’s laughter died down, the announcer’s voice returned, this time softer.
“Now, we’d like to recognize a runner who showed true sportsmanship today—someone who reminded us that a marathon isn’t just about finishing fast, but about how we run the race.”
The crowd quieted as the announcer held up a folded note.
“One of our aid stations reported seeing this runner stop to help someone injured on the course, and the runner who was helped wanted to pass along his thanks.”
My heart jumped when I heard my bib number: “Runner 237, please step forward.”
For a second, I didn’t move. I glanced down at my bib just to make sure—237. That was me.
A volunteer gently nudged me toward the stage. My cheeks flushed as I walked up, feeling hundreds of eyes turn my way.
The announcer smiled as he handed me a small, shiny medal engraved with the words Spirit of the Race.
“The runner who sent this in said it best,” he added, reading aloud. “‘To the kind runner with bib 237—thank you for proving that sometimes the best victories aren’t measured in time.’”
I clutched the medal tightly, my chest swelling with something I hadn’t felt in a long time: pride.
The announcer’s words still echoed in my ears as I stepped down from the stage, the Spirit of the Race medal clutched in my hand.
Around me, the crowd buzzed—some still whispering about the photos of Brian’s shortcuts, others offering me quiet smiles or pats on the back.
I spotted him near the sidelines, red-faced and fuming as he argued with one of the race officials. He caught sight of me, his face tightening as he limped over.
“Jess,” he snapped, his voice low but sharp. “This is ridiculous. That wasn’t cheating—I just took a smarter route. I finished first. That’s all that matters.”
I stared at him, feeling a calm I hadn’t expected.
“Smarter route?” I repeated, almost laughing. “You mean cutting through the park?”
His eyes darted around like he was searching for an audience, someone who’d back him up. “It’s not like I stole anything. I—”
“Brian, stop.”
The words came out steady, almost gentle, but they made him freeze.
I shook my head, holding the medal tighter.
“This was supposed to be fun. You turned it into a competition I never agreed to, and you cheated to win. I don’t even know what you were trying to prove, but it doesn’t matter. I’m done.”
His face twisted into disbelief. “What? You’re breaking up with me because of this?”
“Because of this,” I said, meeting his eyes, “and everything else.”
I let the words hang in the air: the constant jabs, the backhanded comments, the way he always had to be first—even if he had to lie to get there.
For the first time, Brian had no comeback. No smug grin. Just silence.
I didn’t wait for him to find one. I turned on my heel, slipping the medal over my head and walking toward the parking lot.
The medal swayed gently against my chest, and with every step, I felt lighter.
As I passed the injured runner sitting on a bench, he smiled and gave me a small wave. “You made the right call,” he said simply.
I smiled back. “Yeah. I think I did.”