There he is, in my sights, slowing down with every step. His form is deteriorating as lactic acid metabolizes in his legs, acting as lead weights chained to his ankles. He realizes I’m approaching and a dogfight ensues, with him performing frantic defensive maneuvers to no avail as I start to land shots on his tail. He has reached his limit, as our maroon and navy singlets clash for the lead. Unlike him, I overcome my pain and outpace him in the final 100 meters, with the surrounding sardine-packed crowd ecstatic at what’s happening. I’ve managed to win against expectations.