A race. The fastest creature against the slowest. Everyone agreed on the outcome. The hare was already composing his victory speech before the start.
Within minutes the hare was so far ahead he couldn't see the tortoise. The result felt certain. There was, he decided, absolutely no rush.
Not quickly. Not dramatically. One steady step at a time, past the sleeping hare, through the dappled shade, and onward. Consistency doesn't look impressive in the middle.
He ran faster than he ever had. Every ounce of natural talent thrown at the problem. But momentum is not easily borrowed. It must be built steadily, and he had squandered his.
Not because the tortoise was faster. Because one of them kept going — without drama, without shortcuts, all the way to the end.