Of course, I think it was that the first 1000 yards were up a very steep hill. My friend, who was in the Olympic tryouts, ran with me and coached me along the way. “You can beat this fat guy in front of you!” She yelled, and embarrassed for him, I ran past him. She pushed me and I ran faster, thinking the whole time “I hate you, I hate you.” Of course I don’t hate her, but at the moment, I would have preferred peace and quiet, listening to the rhythmic patter of my feet on the ground, over her “encouragement.” I wasn’t last, but it took me a while to do it. Everyone’s photo was taken as we crossed the finish line, and mine looks painful. I’m not a competitor. I might do it again, without my coaching friend.