I had been preparing for months for the half marathon in the city where I lived for reasons that are not worth mentioning today. The prize was urgent, a respite that would help me to get out of the financial predicament in which I had put myself by imprudence and impulsive, not to say, compulsive. That day, everything was joy, the party atmosphere everywhere, the morning with a radiant sun and clear sky, and many people crowded side by side at the starting line. I assumed they were family and friends of the other competitors, the line judges, and the organizers of the sporting event. I, on the other hand, was there, with no one to cheer me on. Only with the hope and firm conviction of reaching the finish line before the others, recalling past successes in my hometown.

I estimated more than a thousand runners in different categories, but I dismissed it, I visualized myself alone and focused on lengthening the stride and maintaining the pace based on breathing according to the plan and previous training. I was displaying the number 693 on my chest and back when I heard the whistle in anticipation of the starting gun. Bang! The human swarm left cohesively, as the minutes passed the dispersion appeared. Willing, I joined the vanguard platoon. In front of me, 337, a young man like me, who set a similar pace to mine.

My heartbeat, in rhythm with my increasingly long strides, made me level with 337. We both looked at each other fleetingly, without interrupting the cadence of the step. We moved forward, leaving the others behind. It was obvious that the competition in the end would be between us, the one who had more steam, energy, before the finish line.

The third aspirant to the triumph, had long since been relegated. Insurmountable minutes, but that would still be enough for him to climb the podium unless he collapsed from the effort.

I could already see the crowd around the finish banner when a strong cramp caused me to fall flat on my face on the road. The world had come to a standstill for me, and I put my forehead to the ground: everything I had fought for was slipping away in pain. Suddenly, I felt the hand of 337, who helped me up, and with effort, we both trudged the short distance to the line. The camera clicks and applause celebrated the act of sporting solidarity. I felt small and unworthy of the prize. He smiled at me and said: "you would have done the same for me".

I don't know, but now I am sure.

Thanks for reading me. I hope this fiction is to your liking. I would very much like to read your comments in this regard to enrich myself with your criticism.

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