Run.. For what?

He shuffled his feet on the spot. As he looked around, everyone was doing the same.

Everyone.

Familiar faces, and complete strangers, all had a look of intensity. He shrugged and kept shuffling. A few cycles later, he started stretching. He felt a little self-concious in his shorts but he didn't want to show it. There would be no signs of weakness from him.

The air horn went off. It was time. He got down onto the ground and went into position. His fingers were firmly planted on the ground, his legs pushing and straining, willing to be released. The pistol went off, and he ran.

He kicked the ground hard, willing his legs to carry him faster. His breath came in short, ragged breaths, his body producing more lactic acid as time passed. But he ran on. And on.

Then he noticed something. Nobody else was running. Even if they were, they were not running against him. They weren't running against anyone. They ran alone, oblivious to their surroundings. The rest were just ambling along, quite unfazed by the sight of their opponents rapidly reaching the finish line. He looked harder. There was no finish line. The white tape that he saw had disappeared. The red gravel that paved the floor was gone too. And so was the field.

He slapped himself. This couldn't be happening. All his life, he had been running this race. Or rather, he thought he had. But there was no race. There is no competition. There was no one to beat, and there certainly was no champion or gold medal.

He was confused, so he did what he always did. He sat down to think. As hard as it was to accept, he finally came to realize that the race really had been a figment of his imagination.

Now all he had to do was to stop the urge to run. Especially when he saw someone else start.