The running wasn't the best part - but it was the part he did best. With pumping arms and striding legs, he moved gracefully around the track, passing others without a second thought or glance, as though there were mere statues standing still and in his way.
The best part was the winning. But he wasn't a very good winner. Oh, he smiled and shook hands and took his trophy or medal and posed for photos, but he was already thinking about the next race. And when fellow runners came to congratulate him, he didn't care. He was, if such a thing is possible, a bad winner. And the others came to dislike him because of it.
Not that it made a difference to him.
Not until the day he lost his first race. A dark day. Forever remembered.
He ran, as usual, speeding past his competitors and gliding ever closer to the finish line, legs moving of their own accord by that time, his mind already on the next thing, knowing he would win this one and the next, and the next... And then he heard pounding steps behind him, closing in, stamping the ground faster than he was. And the other boy passed him without a glance, and the boy who was now second just stared. He stopped moving, letting the others pass him by and he still stared.
He lost, of course. And he never ran again.