When you were a kid, did you ever run so fast and so far that it felt 
like you were flying? I did, all the time.
   Running, for me, was almost never about competing (at least, not 
until I was a teenager and realized running might be my "calling" 
through the rest of school). I embraced the joy of the fluidity of 
motion, arms and legs pumping in time as I flew across the field, 
around the track, or even up and down flights of steps. When I ran, 
I wasn't the "me" that I was the rest of the time -- I was both something 
more, and something less. I could devote my mind, body, and soul to the 
run and leave everything else behind, for a few short, breathtaking 
minutes of unchecked bliss.
   The first (but definitely not the last!) time I realized that you could 
actually keep this feeling AND compete while running will always stick 
with me, because of this epiphany, of course, but for another, more simple 
reason, as well. I will always remember the first time I felt this way, 
because it was the race where my opponent was "The Girl Who Beat Me 
By a Shoe."
   The Girl's name was Kathy, and we were both in the fourth grade. 
I can't recall if we were in the same classes most of the time that 
year, and I can't recall if we had ever participated in any kind of 
race against each other before that day in P.E. class. All I remember 
is that that day we were running "THE MILE", and that I knew that Kathy 
was fast -- fast enough, in fact, that there was talk of her being the 
fastest kid in the entire school -- even faster than any of the fifth 
graders.  
   Like any group of elementary school kids, the unguided pre-run 
"stretching period" quickly broke down into groups of kids gathering 
together to gossip and talk about anything and everything. This time, 
the class noticeably split into two groups: the boys and the girls, each 
quickly announcing to each other that their "representative" in the 
gender war would be the victor in the upcoming race.
   As I sat on the ground, stretching my legs, I started getting slaps on 
the back from various boys in the class -- all of whom made clear 
they were counting on me to keep that oh-so-important male honor 
from being tarnished by being "beaten by a girl."
   As we all lined up on the white chalk line marked on the grass by the start 
of the course, my only focus was on the butterflies in my stomach. Kids 
jostled here and there for position on the line, sure that any extra 
half-inch they could cut off the beginning of the race would make all the 
difference in their finish. Ironically, this was to be all too true for 
my own situation, seven minutes after the teacher blew his whistle and sent 
us all sprinting pall-mall across the field into the first of four laps 
around the quarter-mile course.
   None of us knew the first thing about pacing ourselves; we all took off like 
the Devil himself was on our heels. It was only after that first frenzied 
sprint that people slowed down and settled into their most comfortable 
ground-eating strides. And after that first madcap dash, I found myself 
at the head of the pack, Kathy right on my heels.
   She trailed me doggedly for the first two laps, only a step or two behind 
at all times. After that first turn, I wasted no time looking over my 
shoulder to see if she was still on my tail; I was flying across the grass 
as if the wind itself were carrying me along. I could sense Kathy's presence 
behind me, but rather than imposing on the elation of the moment, it added 
to it.
   When she passed me to take the lead at the beginning of the third lap, I 
hardly noticed the cheers of the other female runners, strewn by now all 
around the circumference of the race course. Instead I was focused on the 
bouncing blond bob of Kathy's hair and the small of her back, urging my 
tiring legs onward to new feats of strength and endurance. I began to chase 
her, pursuing just as I had been pursued.
   We began to run side-by-side as we entered the fourth lap. Both of us were 
lagging now, winded and tiring from our lightning-fast dashes better suited 
to a much shorter race.
   A crowd of kids had gathered by the finish line: other runners who had 
decided to delay their own last couple laps until after they saw how this 
epic struggle would end.  
   I started to sprint. 
   I pulled ahead of Kathy!
   The shouts and cheers of boys and girls alike filled my ears as I flew 
towards the race's end. Underneath the noise, I could hear my own harsh 
breathing, and that of one other. Kathy had caught up to me and was about 
to move past me.
   With less than ten feet to go, my attention was pulled away from the focus 
of the finish line to something bizarre, something white, something flying 
through the air -- a white Keds slip-on shoe -- one of the ones Kathy had 
been wearing!
   Kathy's shoe crossed the finish line a mere second before she did and a 
mere second and a half before I did.
   As we collapsed on the ground near each other, gasping for breath and 
clearing the euphoric fog of our run out of our brains through our open 
mouths, I remember telling Kathy, "Congratulations. I guess you won by a 
shoe." At this, we both broke up in an attack of giggles so strong that by 
the time we were able to overcome them, Kathy was upright and mobbed in 
congratulatory hugs by what seemed to be about half the girls at the school.
   As for me -- I took my time getting up and dusting myself off. I smiled 
ruefully at a handful of offered consolations of "You'll get her next time" 
and "Man, that was too close to call." Inside, however, I was wearing a 
grin larger than any that had ever made their way to my mouth for it was 
only then that I realized how much running really meant to me, and that 
I'd always be able to thank The Girl Who Beat Me By a Shoe for the amazing 
gift I received that day.

This story is by Ross Goldberg, my son-in-law. Ross is the spouse of
daughter Deanne. They reside in North Carolina with their two little
ones, Violet and Rosalie. Ross still runs!