Running Diary of a (Sometimes) Narcissist

Runners. You probably know someone like me. Usually, but not always, a man who’s always telling you what they “are training for,” how many miles they ran that week, what workouts they are doing. If they are competing in a marathon, a triathlon, or some newfangled contest like a Spartan or Hyrox Race, you will definitely be informed about it. Probably every time you meet them.

I’m one of them. And for a brief period in the 2010s, I ranked amongst the top runners in my city. I need to let you know, because beneath my overtly polite mannerisms and performative agreeability, I am a narcissist.

Back then, my girlfriend was tired of hearing about my running but still tolerating me. One steamy Saturday morning in Hong Kong, after having done countless training runs with me, she agreed to give it a go, and stood next to me at the starting line of the Pok Fu Lam 10km trail race.

“Sorry, but I need to move to the front,” I told her, pushing through the crowd of waiting runners to be close to the starting line, leaving her with the slow crowd. I slipped and slided through the mass of humanity until I was within inches of the yellow starting tape. On my left and right were the city’s best runners, faces I recognized from media coverage of races. Jeff Schoenfeldt, whom I had said hi to a few years ago, was there – he won most races. He glanced over and gave me a tiny smirk, one that made me unsure if he even acknowledged my presence.

I would make Jeff notice me on the course! It would be sweet, sweet revenge. My training had been improving (I won’t bore you with details), and if I was fortunate, James had a hangover, or even better, a running injury. I watched him for any sign of a limp.

I wished my dad could see me now. As the middle son, one who was never good at sports, getting his attention in childhood had been a struggle. Lego sets and computer games weren’t in his wheelhouse of what was “manly”.

Still lost in thought, the horn blasted. The waiting mass of humanity at the starting line leaned forward and slowly gained momentum. In seconds, I surged forward, wind in my hair, and was with the front 20 runners. Jeff, and Ivan Brown, were right ahead. I had a chance!

1 km done, 9 km to go.

I was keeping Jeff and Ivan in sight, so I dialed my pace back a notch to conserve energy for later. From behind I heard footsteps, and gradually a dozen tall, fit runners shuffled past me one by one. If I could finish strong, I still had a chance at passing them later and making it to a podium finish.

I settled into a sustainable rhythm. After a while, no one else passed me. I was in the front with only a dozen people who had disappeared out in front. I glanced back — only two or three runners were behind me.

The terrain undulated up and down through a series of short hills — a minute of climbing, then a lightning fast descent. Being light on my feet, I flew down the downhills, taking staircases three steps at a time. Downhill was my forte. I passed two or three people. Catching up with Jeff was possible!

A fork in the road appeared. I headed down the obvious route, a flat catchwater that I recognized from previous runs in the area. A surge of energy came. I sped up, my running watch hitting 16 km/h.

I fixed my eyes ahead on the long straightaway looking forward to passing another person soon. Around each bend, I looked ahead, but saw no one. Where were they? I looked behind me. A string of runners, with race numbers on, were trailing me, so I shouldn’t slow down.

We ran and ran, and I kept my eyes open for the next “Pok Fu Lam 10km Race” sign.

I realized it had a long time since I’ve seen one. Too long.

I slowed down.

The other behind caught up.

“Are we going the right way?” I asked.

“Not sure,” someone said.

I slowed to an easy jog. They did the same. Ten more runners piled in from behind forming a pack of now quiet, uncertain competitors.

“This is definitely the wrong way!” someone said, checking the race map on his mobile.

Reluctantly, we turned around and all jogged back to the fork in the road where I turned off, collecting more runners on the way back.

I heard someone say, “I heard someone in the front went the wrong way and everyone followed him.” I stayed quiet.

We reached the fork in the road, and there was now a race attendant there pointing people in the correct direction, up a staircase.

I let the crowd I came back with race ahead. There was no hope of a good finish, so I relaxed.

After a while, I was alone. As I jogged and passed a few people in the back of the race, I really noticed people. An older local couple walked hand-in-hand, and gave me a friendly wave. A heavy man climbed a staircase, deliberately, one step at a time. A mother walked with her 10-year-old son. At intervals, they’d break into a determined jog before slowing to a walk again. Completing the course would become a memory they would hold for a lifetime. Suddenly, I saw how small my ego was.

Why did I work so hard to prove I ranked a step or two above a few other people? And in a skill that has been useless since the invention of the bicycle and combustion engine.

I am just a speck in a vast sea of humanity, a humanity I should be a part of, and not trying to separate myself from.

I crossed the finish line; placing 734 out of 800.

At the finish, a crowd milled around eating the free bananas being passed out, holding water bottles and energy drinks. The awards presentations had already begun. James was on the podium receiving a ribbon. I felt happy for him.

My girlfriend spotted me and walked over with a grin. “I got in third place in my category!” she exclaimed, showing me a ribbon. “I was on the podium, can you believe it?!”

“Seriously?” She looked so ecstatic. It made me proud.

“And I haven’t seen you for thirty minutes. Where were you?”

I smiled back. “I was having the best race of my life.”