On my morning commute, you've always lightened my mood a bit as I saw you fly by, pure panic on your face. I've watched you hustling for buses just as the doors close in your face, pushing through crowded hallways and bursting into classrooms, eyes wild and chest heaving. I've chuckled a little, feeling pity for the person who was pushed to the point of desperation that made a hectic jog seem like the best mode of transportation. I strolled comfortably at my 15-minutes-early pace, thanking myself for waking up at the right time.

At no point did I ever envy you on your dash across campus. I'd never be that girl, I thought reasonably.

Then last Friday happened.

I woke up in a panic, the time "8:10 a.m." sitting on my phone screen, mocking me. My exam had begun ten minutes ago. Thanks to what I like to call an "educational hangover" (the health effects of studying past your limit late into the night), I now had to do a mad dash of my own. Walking was out of the question.

The tables turned that morning as my backpack bounced along with my stride, people jumping out of my way on the Oval. I knew that I was exactly the person I'd have poked fun at a week ago, wondering why they were so desperate to be on time. But as I felt my grade slip lower with each chime of the bells ringing at Orton Hall, I grimly understood.

Turns out that my absurd sprint paid off, because I walked away with the exam finished and I earned a rather decent grade on it. In that moment, my grade was higher than my pride, and I was totally fine with it.

Last Friday, I learned why you dedicated, speedy individuals do what you do. Honestly, one could even consider you the ultimate student-athlete with a real commitment to getting a workout on the way to your 8 a.m. Though I'd never like to join your ranks again, I salute you with a newfound respect. Keep running, my friends, and I'll keep stepping out of your way.