Every distance runner secretly dreams of winning a race. However, for most of us, such wishes are tempered with the reality that we will forever base our performance on how much of the refreshments remain when we cross the finish line or how many cars are still left in the parking lot.

I, too, was resigned to never hearing the frenzied cheering and rhythmic applause of the crowd as I sprinted toward the outstretched tape at the finish line. That was until this past Fourth of July. That's the day my dreams became my reality. Well, sort of. "Reality" is a relative term. The old adage that "timing is everything" couldn't have been more appropriate.

On the Fourth of July, I decided to go for an easy 8 miler. Looking for a little diversion on my run, I plotted a course that would take me by a neighboring town's holiday parade.

When I arrived, the sides of the streets were lined with spectators. I didn't see any floats, bands etc. coming up the street and figured they were behind schedule getting started.

As I ran along the parade route at a nice speed, I became aware of some light clapping. I assumed impatient spectators were trying to signal that the parade should begin. Before long, the few clapping sounds increased into mild applause and I thought the crowd must really be getting restless.

Someone then yelled "Way to go!"--obviously a sarcastic reference to the city's inability to start a parade on time. I couldn't so easily explain why someone then shouted, "Keep it up!", as nothing appeared to be falling down. I began to sense that eyes were focused on me and I tried to nonchalantly check to make sure my running shorts were still in place.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. Someone had erroneously concluded that there was a running race associated with the parade, that I was the leader and the parade would begin as soon as the race ended. Once one person started clapping, it became contagious with the applause spreading down the street like falling dominoes.

Not ever wishing to discourage any admiration (earned or not) and not wishing to disappoint the fans, I continued to run down the parade route.

As I savored the moment, I gave my best interpretation of an elite runner. My pace quickened, my shoulders reared back, and my chest thrust out as I displayed an enviable look of sheer grit and determination. I glanced over my shoulder pretending to see whether another runner was gaining on me. My stride lengthened, and I sprinted toward what apparently only I knew was a nonexistent finish line. Such trivial details didn't concern me. The crowd believed there was a race, the crowd believed I was winning, and I had a new motto. Live for the moment or, in other words, who cares if there isn't a race when you're winning it. I pressed onward giving a thumbs up signal to no one in particular and pretending to check my watch with a look that said "Yes, I have just confirmed I am on world record pace".

I knew I was approaching the area where the parade was to begin as I saw the floats and cheerleaders lining up. I kicked into another gear and thrust my fist in the air as my chest lunged toward the imaginary finish line tape. The crowd behind me was ecstatic. Several parade organizers stared at me with a look of bewilderment, some with a look of concern for my mental status and others with an embarrassed look that they had not been informed of a race associated with the parade. I stopped short of demanding post-race refreshments and a trophy. I figured it was best at this point to jog home without granting interviews.

That day I learned that the race doesn't always go to the swift but can go to the less fleet of foot (when they are the only one running). Now I'm looking to the next holiday parade. I'm thinking that maybe, if I time it right, I can plant my wife in the crowd to clap a few times, have a friend yell "You're looking good!" and see what happens. Just a thought.