He doesn't look directly at me, but I know he's got me in his peripheral vision. I've got the lead, but he's gaining on me. I'm on my twenty-one speed and he's on his minus three speed, and I know I can take him. Then something starts to snap inside of me, and I realize I want to kick his butt.
I know it's in the bag. All I have to do is switch gears. I'm mid-shift and something washes over me... guilt...shame ...I don't know--maybe just the realization that he's ten and I'm...well...over thirty.
So I let up, ever so slightly, and he coasts by me--still only looking straight ahead ...but with a small victory smile on his face. Maybe I imagined it, but I think I heard, Sucker...
You let him win? You're a WAY nicer person than I am.
My 60-something dad kicked my butt in a bike ride yesterday. He was doing those loops around and around so I could catch up. Sigh.
My dad has been know to do that to me with running!
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