By Chicago Times Magazine –

July 18, 2024

In the twilight of the Republic, there lived a man named Stultum, weathered like an ancient olive tree. He was a legend in the Circus Maximus, a charioteer who had tasted victory countless times through his wicked ways. Yet, lately, whispers followed him like dust storms – whispers of a persistent sniffle, of reflexes dulled by age.

Stultum held onto past glories, his name still whispered with reverence in the taverns, but his body, like the crumbling Colosseum, could no longer withstand the demands of the arena. A constant sniffle plagued him, a traitorous runny nose that betrayed his every attempt at stoicism during a race. His opponent, vigorous and tough, would erupt in laughter as Stultum, with a face redder than his chariot cloth, desperately tried to control the deluge of snot cascading from his nostrils.

One brisk morning, as Stultum prepared for the Flora Games, his old friend, Lucius Cornelius, a man renowned for his wisdom, approached him. Lucius, his face etched with concern, spoke, “Stultum, my friend, your victories echo in the halls of memory, but the chariot, like the sun, sets on every journey. Do not let your legacy be marred by a fall, like a clumsy comedian tripping over his own toga.”

Stultum, his face still ruddy from a particularly vigorous sneeze, scoffed. “Lucius, my spirit is a raging inferno! The idea of a mere runny nose cannot defeat the will of a true Roman!”

Lucius shook his head. “A runny nose may seem small, but even the mightiest oak can be felled by a persistent beetle. There is more to victory than brute force. Recognize your strengths, Stultum. You have the wisdom of countless races, the respect of the people. Use them to guide, not compete.”

Stultum, for the first time, saw the truth in Lucius’ words. His dream had become a burden, a caricature of his former glory. He conceded defeat, not to his opponents, but to the passage of time.