Around mile seven of the NYRR Bronx 10-miler, this “back of the packer” is starting to feel the familiar burn when I notice an older gentleman ahead of me. His hat is pulled low over a weathered face, his arms and legs brown and leathery from years in the sun, and he’s slowed to a brisk walk. But what a walk, he’s moving with such purpose and rhythm that I find myself matching his tempo.

Perfect, I think. If this seasoned runner can maintain this pace, surely I can too. Maybe I can even pick it up a notch, inspired by his determination. I settle in behind him, our footsteps in sync as if tuned to the same click track. I imagine myself 25 or 30 years from now, still out here among the 12,000 runners threading through the Bronx, refusing to give up.

I’m feeling pretty smug about my walking mentor and my rosy future-older-self fantasy when he glances at his watch, takes a deep breath, and suddenly explodes into a sprint that leaves me in his dust.

As he disappears around the bend, I burst out laughing. Lessons always present themselves in these races, but today I was duly reminded that assumptions should never be made! So much for my theories about age, endurance, and speed. The only thing weathered about that guy was his hat.

Countdown to the NYC Marathon. Wherever you line up on November 1, run your own race. You never know who’s about to check his watch.