The stranger who would entice me into unchartered waters did not make much of a first impression.

I did notice him, however.  He stuck out from the two hundred other runners gathered in the Rugged Heights neighborhood park, awaiting the starting gun, because I had not seen his face before and he seemed far more serious about the 5K race than any of the rest of us.  The strong turn-out was due in large part to the good reputations of the four local charities selected as the beneficiaries of the friendly competition, as well as the breezy and cool October weather which was ideal for outdoor activity. Almost everyone, like me, was there to have fun and support important nonprofit work.  But it only took one glance at the new stranger to realize the race meant something of more meaningfulness to him.

I would later learn the stranger's name.  Colton.  On this morning he had his burgundy ball cap pulled so far down on his head that it concealed his eyebrows.  He wore an expensive brand of running shoes, a black compression shirt so snug it outlined every muscle on his upper body, and red running shorts over slim hips. I guessed him to be in his mid to late twenties.  He had a golden skin tone and his dark features were enhanced by the outline of an early mustache and a two-day beard that outlined a square jaw.  Colton looked at no one.  His attention was on the stopwatch around his wrist and the event host who lifted the starting pistol high above her head preparing to fire the blank.

I had not intended on trying to be the winner that day.  Jogging had been replaced in my regular sporting activities with tennis and biking, in that order.  Still, having been a track and field athlete in high school and college, I knew my chances were pretty good if I had a strong desire to win.  The ridiculously oversized trophies, displayed on satin-covered tables near the park entrance, should not have meant a thing to me.  But I kind of wanted one.  In particular, the giant one in the middle, four feet high and shining with faux silver and gold metallic surfaces, the word "Champion" emblazoned on the plate at the base.

Before we go any further in this story I should tell you a bit more about myself.  My name is Mike.  On the day of the race I was thirty and living alone on the street corner flush against the edge of the park.  A successful entrepreneur, owner of five franchised movie theaters, it should have been the best of times for me in terms of travel, dining, and socializing.  But since my wife had perished, more than two years prior, I hadn't wanted to do anything more than just be alone, distracting myself with books, movies, and sports.  Dating had been out of the question—I had absolutely no interest—and even my scant friendships were suffering from some neglect and inattention.

When the starting pistol fired, I naturally found myself maneuvering toward the front of the mass of people jockeying for position.  I wasn't obnoxious about it.  I simply moved to the far left side of the block of people and it was easier there to find a place that suited the stride I wanted to achieve.  I was proud of myself for getting out of the house on that Sunday morning, participating in something local and with my neighbors, and the air felt great expanding my lungs and lifting my mood.  

By the end of the second kilometer, marked by a table staffed with volunteers handing out paper cups of cold water, I counted ten people ahead of me in the race.  Three were much further ahead, while the remaining seven were within a hundred yards or so.  Only the top three men and women finishers would be awarded the trophies.  I laughed to myself, thinking how dumb it would be for me to kill myself trying to get a trophy I had no intention of displaying in my home.  But something compelled me to pick up my pace.  I had the energy to push faster.  My strides were long, my breathing was easy, and an old tune with a rapid and steady beat was recirculating in my mind on endless repeat.  

I moved ahead of six more competitors by the time I reached the third table.  That was the point where three kilometers had been completed.  A volunteer held up a plastic sign with numbers that could be manually flipped.  She stuck the sign out toward me as I ran by.  It was turned to the number "6" in a bold sans serif font, as in sixth place.  But there were only four people visible ahead of me.  

"I'm fifth, right?" I called out to her, turning my head toward her without slowing.  

She vigorously shook her head and smiled.  "Sixth."

Damn.  That meant we had a real ringer in this competition.  This person was so far ahead of the rest of us he or she was not even in view. 

Despite realizing the winner's trophy was out of reach, I cranked up my gait yet again.  That is how I had excelled in my youth, churning up the effort while my competitors tired and slowed.  When I got to the fourth table, I accepted a cup of water from a volunteer and instantly gulped it down.  Another volunteer held up the number "2" and raised and lowered it with booming movements. 

"You're in second!" she said. "Final lap!"

Finally, I could see the leader and I immediately recognized his burgundy cap, black compression shirt, and red shorts.  Of course, it was Colton.  But he was slowing.  He was far ahead, but he had lost his spunk, and he knew it.  He glanced back over his shoulder several times as I drew ever closer.  

I was reaching my top speed when I caught up to Colton.  The finish line at the Rugged Heights Pavilion was in the near distance.  

"Are you okay?" I asked him.

"Fine," he answered.  His eyes had a sparkle of mischief.  

Colton suddenly increased his tempo, matching mine, and we ran in unison toward the ribbon a few hundred feet ahead.  I was perplexed.  How did he go from being lame and fading fast to equalling my inspired effort?  

With only fifty yards left, we were neck and neck.  Spectators on both sides of the road cheered us on.  That's when Colton broke away, rocketing ahead of me with ease, and broke the ribbon with two full body lengths to spare.  

I should have felt at least some level of glory coming in second.  But I was a bit humiliated.  I had given this race my all and in the end the winner had toyed with me at the finish line, perhaps adding drama to enhance his own accomplishment.  I posed for a picture or two and gave my name to the local newspaper reporter who had come to cover the race.  When asked for a comment, I only mentioned how important it was to support the charities that make our community better.  I was sincere.  That was how I perceived things, overall, and my personal achievement was relatively unimportant in the scheme of things.  

"Sorry, my man."

I heard the voice behind me as a hand patted me on the back.  Colton, still catching his breath, grinned and slightly lifted his cap so I could see his eyes better.  They were dark chocolate, almost black, with a very striking expression that was at once both genial and forlorn.  I turned around to face him and his arm slipped off me.

"Congratulations," I said, then stuck out my hand and introduced myself.  

Colton offered his name and shook my arm with a firm grip.  I squeezed quite a bit harder.  I don't like other men trying to one up me during handshakes.  It's a pet peeve of mine. 

"Easy tiger," Colton said.  "No hard feelings."

"Of course not."

Colton then seemed nervous and at a loss for words.  He nodded, backed up, held my glance a second too long, and then excused himself and moved on.  

"What an arrogant asshole," I said, under my breath. 

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