They might appreciate it. But, then again, they might not.
I was a little more than two miles into a 5K race and I was hurting. As I crested a small hill, I fought to maintain my pace, hoping to PR, and I was failing miserably. While doing my best to fight off the pain, the urge to quit, and the urge to throw up, I had my soul crushed in six words:I looked around first for my father because I still can't believe anyone would call me sir. Then I looked for the person who made the comment as they went blazing by me.
If you are a spectator or a runner who has finished the race, feel free to cheer all you want. If you are still racing and make me look fat and slow don't make it worse by verbally bringing it to my attention that you are passing me. And if you do, not be surprised if I mutter something ugly in your direction as I gasp for breath.
I'll admit this wasn't always the case. I was once a competitive little jerk. When I toed the line, everybody was the enemy. I once elbowed a guy in a cross-country race. I whacked another runner with the baton in a 4x800 relay on the track. But those bad-boy antics are long behind me.
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