As I look at my bedroom wall, I see a tangled collection of metals that hang from dusty hooks.

The sea of silver and bronze adorn at the end of ribbons in all colors.

A physical representation of a lifetime achievement that would make anyone happy, but not me.

It's a reminder that I've never finished first. but not me.

It's a reminder that I've never finished first once in my life.

I should be content with the numerous times I've finished on the podium, but being as competitive

as I am, I won't allow myself to be happy until I have something gold to outshine the rest.

I've been running for as long as I can remember. My parents used to call me speedy jack,

as I was always racing around the house as a kid.

When I got to high school, I was always out on the track, competing.

My bones start to creak, crack, and pop as I move

around. Start getting ready for the day. A 36-year-old man passed his running prime,

stares back at me in the foggy bathroom mirror. My competitive days are quickly slipping away,

and I thought of finally winning something gold is outpacing me.

Images of X-rays flood my mind and the life-altering echo of my physiotherapist explaining to me that my knees are done for,

and that I should start slowing down or risk damaging them even further still

rings in my ears.

My attention is diverted when my phone vibrates and the screen lights up.

I see a message for my old friend and running rival Michael.

Hey, Jack.

Don't forget about the race this week, and I can't wait to beat you like always.

The text preview reads.

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