Shortly after beating my daughter in a match race around 2.8-mile Green Lake in Seattle not long ago, I was grinning and happy. I had outkicked her over the final 50 yards to finish a few seconds ahead.

Oh yeah, I thought, I can hold her off. I've still got it. We had dueled closely throughout, me tearing out fast and furious to claim a big lead in the first mile, she pulling even, then pulling ahead in the second mile, me pulling back, inching ahead, then launching into a mad dash to victory. It felt so good. Just enough to hold her off down the stretch. Nothing like proving the old man can still beat the kids. Seemed perfect.

Wait a minute. Hmmm. As we wandered away, a sneaking suspicion crept into my head. A question that had to be asked.

"Did you let me win?"

Oh no, Jennie insisted. She was tired in the end, she gave it her best, she said. I was faster that day.

Still, I wondered. As much as I have a soft spot for old dogs and giving them a home, my daughter might have a soft spot for her old man when it comes to running. ...

Last weekend, we met for another match race. This would be short, but painful, and again, in Seattle.

There, next to the beauty of Golden Gardens on the shores of Puget Sound, we lined up for a contest just over a quarter mile. Easy, you think. A quarter mile. Not so.

In this .28-mile course, the elevation climbs 300 feet. We must ascend 302 steps. In sections along the way, we will run over dirt and mud, short, narrow stairs, wide, long stairs. Lungs burn. Calves cry. Muscles ache. But here we are. We've run this before. This time, our goal is to break 4 minutes. My best is something in the 4:10 range, Jennie's, 4 flat. Those efforts, though, came in the middle of a hard 7-mile run. On this cold, windy day, we jogged easy, warming up, until we arrived and stood before the underpass that marked our starting line.

"Ready?" I asked.

Jennie nodded.

I pushed the button on my Garmin Forerunner 305.

I bolted away in my bright green Saucony Grid Speeds, determined to save nothing, to be absolutely gasping for every breath by the end. I leaped up the first flight of stairs, seizing the lead, turned right and charged up Seaview Avenue. Jennie followed in her light blue Saucony Grid Speeds (yep, the same shoes), her footsteps closing in. I pressed faster, harder, taking two stairs with each bound up the longest section that wound right through brush and trees. Don't let her pass, I thought.

At the halfway point, when we crested another set of cracked, uneven stairs and crossed Seaview, we were at the 2-minute mark. I was dying, but I still held the lead as we ran up the next flight of 53 (or was it 54?) short stairs. Don't look up. Don't look back. Keep the legs pumping. I could hear Jennie, right behind me. Too close.

At the top of those stairs, we turned right, ran up the dirt path, turned left and climbed 21 railroad ties that act as stairs. The final set of stairs, 83, looks endless. Feels endless. Hurts like hell. By now, I'm done. Can't breathe. Can't think about anything other than wanting to stop. Jennie's footsteps are quick and light, bouncing close behind. I'm certain she'll go by. She doesn't.

Finally, I reach the top and hit the stopwatch, 3:32. Jennie follows a few seconds later.

We both broke 4 minutes. High fives. And yes, I won.

A middle-aged man watched, amused, as we stood panting, hands on top of heads. He asked about our run, said he often walks the Golden Garden stairs. He seemed in good spirits, in good shape, and a pleasant fellow.

He must have wondered why this middle-aged man was running with this slender young woman, so I introduced myself.

"I'm Bill. This is my daughter, Jennie."

That's when he smiled. A big smile. A giant grin. His eyes opened wider. He nodded, as if he now he understood something that before he didn't.

"Oh. Your daughter. Sure. She let you win. Out of respect, she let you win. You're her father."

We laughed. But he had more to say.

"You're getting older, weaker, slower. She's younger and getting faster and stronger. She's getting mentally tougher, too," he said, pointing to his head. "She let you win out of respect."

Now, someone telling me I'm getting old and slow and weak would normally be annoying. But the manner he said it, with an easy smile, with friendly eyes, made it seem perfectly OK.

Jennie, of course, denied letting me win. That, she said, was as fast as she could go. Really.

A minute later, we jogged away, through a crosswalk and down a street, headed back to her home. It was then an icy gust of wind hit us. And it was right then, we both let out a whoop - the same scream at the same moment into the same blast of Pacific Northwest air. We looked at each other and laughed, and ran on, talking throughout the final mile.

God, it was wonderful - but for one thought that wouldn't go away.

Darn it.

She let me win.

Bill Buley is city editor of the Press. He can be reached at 664-8176, ext. 2016 or bbuley@cdapress.com