A mile into my four-mile run, another runner turned onto the road, a few hundred feet in front of me.

It was a gorgeous summer day, I’d finished my chores, and I was ready to enjoy a leisurely run through the pastoral landscape of our new hometown. When we lived in the District, my runs generally consisted of six half-mile circles through our townhouse development. It was monotonous, but safe and predictable. Since our move to a lovely, rural exurb, I’ve enjoyed more rambling runs through small neighborhoods, along country roads, and around the small downtown haunts. While running has always been a chore I’ve only half-heartedly embraced, I’ve recently found myself actually enjoying it. I’m still slow as Christmas, but at least I have a smile on my face. Or at least a smiling grimace.

I don’t know why it all changed on this day. It could have been the fast tempo of the music playing on my iPod. It could have been the great night’s sleep I’d had. Or it could have been the natural competitive juices that have made me a slightly above average Clue and Battleship board game player. Whatever the reason, as the other runner entered my field of vision, it was obvious to me that the alternating flash of the runner’s heels was a not-so-subtle rebuke of my running style and speed. The gauntlet had been thrown down, and I accepted the challenge. I would overtake this new-found adversary, and my Saucony running shoes would leave nothing but a trail of tears and a cloud of dust in my victorious wake.

I picked up the pace, the cadence of my footfalls perfectly in synch with the pop song currently blasting in my ears. I turned up the volume. Shoulders back, foot kick crisp, breathing controlled. I was picking up speed, and the other runner was looming larger in my vision with every step. It was one of those steps, as my foot kicked perfectly in advance of a balanced heel strike, that I realized I was actually wearing my old running shoes. The realization of inferior equipment — worn soles, diminished heel support — would have affected a lesser runner. Not me. Not this day. The challenge had been accepted, and, as I had recently reminded myself, I believed in the mantra that there are no shortcuts to excellence. This day wasn’t about the equipment, it was about the man. And, with that, I persisted.

It wasn’t long — perhaps a few more pop songs, a dash past the local Subway and McDonalds — before my adversary nemesis was right in front of me. It wasn’t difficult to pick up my speed, and smoothly pass on the left. I didn’t glance over, I didn’t acknowledge. Rather, I just let my running do the talking. I left it all on the sidewalk, so to speak. Had my manhood been tested? My mettle? Yes. The point wasn’t the fact that I succeeded in overtaking and leaving my nemesis in the dust; rather, it was that I accepted the challenge to do so in the first place.

Now, Negative Nancys out there would point out that my nemesis was a heavily pregnant woman in her early 30s wearing knee braces on both legs. But I’m not a Negative Nancy. I’m also a firm believer in gender equality, and I’m not about to insinuate that, somehow, someway, I had any advantage. I’m not going to disrespect her like that. Besides, winners don’t make excuses. And I’m a winner.