I bend into my stance, preparing psychologically and physically in the process, for my run. As the whistle goes, I start running. Camaufloging into the crowd running and just run my own race. I find it hard to compete, to fight neck to neck with my fellow comrades. I look down at my watch, I am running three seconds too slow. I up my pace by a bit. I glance around me, the day is a beautiful one. The green trees bring a smile to my face. The birds chirp as the sun shines brightly making it a gorgeous day for the run. I continue to run and soon I notice stares directed at me. My run is still two seconds behind. I huff as I pick up my speed. I take deep breaths and I slowly inch forward making my way through others fighting, struggling to move ahead. I fight my very own battle with stamina and endurance as I make my way around the track.
I love to run. I love even more to run on a beautiful day. I enjoy running 400 to 800 m. I am suitable for the longer sessions cause I can withstand time better. On the other hand, pace doesnt come very naturally to me.
As the run continues on and soon enough the finish line comes in my line of vision. Then, I notice two others along side of me. Glancing nervously between each other and the now faster approaching red ribbon they run on. I calm myself and run my best 100m run. As the ribbon falls and the crowd applauds, I forget the taste of victory and bask in the sweetness of the run. I look around at the other atheletes all bending over catching their breath. Looking dismal at their own remarkable performance. Pleading me to ask the question if life is all about the final destination? If yes, then the beauty of the journey was never truly experienced.