Thousands of runners gather for the annual Marathon. The largest holiday race in California1 folks of all ages, sizes, shapes, and 2. The gun goes off and runners push for position. I just3 at the new day and feel righteous for having gotten up and down to the event.
Before long, my 4 turns to depression as the seven-year-old passes me by. Elvis has already5the turn way before me and I fall behind a woman. The sense of6heats up and so does my 7. I forget that I already run many miles and have 4. 2 miles left to8. The runners around me set my pace.
Suddenly, as I make the turn, I am9by an overwhelming sight. A young man with one leg10in the sun is going at a lazy pace. The metal leg is 11 to his thigh. He is unaware of anyone who passes him. He is running his own 12 at his own pace.
I slow down and take his lesson. I finish despite the13in my knee. Far behind the 7-year-old. It doesn't matter. It is my race, at my pace.
How many times do we let others14the pace, 15our own goals, our abilities? How many times do we judge our success or our failure by what others have done?
