I used to see my finishing kick as a sign of toughness. Nobody passed me in the closing stages of a race, I’d tell myself, because nobody wanted it more than me.
But as time went on, I began to see it from a different perspective. No matter how a race played out, whether it was fast or slow and whether I was way ahead or way behind, I would always manage to sprint the last quarter-mile or so. Why did I always have energy left for a sprint, even if I’d been dropped by the leaders? Shouldn’t I have used that energy to avoid being dropped in the first place? Eventually, my kick became a source of frustration. I tried to race hard enough that I’d have nothing left for a kick, but I almost never managed it.