This past weekend, I returned to the racecourse for the Atlanta 10 Miler.

I knew a PR wasn’t in the cards. How did I know? It’s a feeling we all recognize as runners. My training had been consistent, but not perfect. I felt good, but not my best.

The race starts just north of downtown Atlanta in Atlantic Station, a lively hub of shops, restaurants, and apartments. The course meanders along the iconic, winding Peachtree Road (one of many “Peachtree” streets in Atlanta, but this is the Peachtree). We ran the reverse route of the famous Peachtree 10K held every July 4th, which meant running down the notorious Cardiac Hill. But as the saying goes: what goes down, must come back up. The course served up a few short, steep climbs and one long, gradual ascent before entering Piedmont Park—Atlanta’s sprawling central greenspace. From there, the course offered its signature rolling hills, leading to a fast, downhill finish back in Atlantic Station.

It wasn’t a day for a PR. But one thing I’ve learned over time is that I can still find wins in a race without setting a personal best.

In my younger years, I might have skipped this race if I wasn’t in PR shape. But now, I just show up and race. I’ve made the podium in my age group in previous years, and while I finished just outside the Top 10 this year, there was still a significant victory waiting for me.

The last mile begins with a steep climb up one final hill. Halfway up, I was spent, having pushed hard over the last two miles. That’s when another runner pulled up alongside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn slightly in my direction. He didn’t look at me, but rather through me, as if searching for the finish line ahead. His beard, grizzled with patches of white like mine, made me think he could be in my age group. That subtle glance stirred something inside me.

For most of my racing career, I’ve focused on managing my pace against the clock, rarely competing head-to-head with other runners. But this time felt different. The bearded runner edged ahead, using his longer stride to power up the hill. As a younger runner, I might have let him go. “I’m not racing him,” I would’ve told myself. But today, a new thought entered my mind: “What if I didn’t let him go?”

I shortened my stride, pumped my arms, and pulled even with him. We climbed the hill together, our legs moving in sync. Once we crested the top, there were just 1,000 meters of flat road left. Suddenly, another runner darted between us, surging ahead. And I thought, “What if I caught him too?”

One kilometer is a long way, but I’ve trained for that distance more times than I can count. I shifted gears, leaned forward, and found a pace I had, but couldn’t sustain for long. I caught up to this new challenger, and we ran shoulder to shoulder. No graying beard this time, but we were racing all the same. My heart pounded, and I was gasping for air. He pulled ahead, but I stayed close. Around the next corner, one last straight stretch remained. My watch told me there were 200 meters to go.

I’ve run that interval on the track hundreds of times. I blocked out the screaming in my head and surged. I passed him and sprinted down the final stretch, the crowd’s cheers blending into a blur. Maybe they were cheering for me, or maybe they weren’t. It didn’t matter.

I wasn’t racing for a PR or even to cross the finish line first. But for once, I was truly racing. And I didn’t back down.

I won that race. But even if I hadn’t, I would have still won because, for once, I showed up and competed. I did something new—and in doing so, I set a personal record of a different kind.