In American in-line races, I've run across the "win at all costs" attitude with alarming regularity. Most skaters are completely unwilling to do any work whatsoever in the paceline or in a breakaway situation, and it's become a regular occurrence to be tripped, blocked or squeezed off during races. I pity these poor, misguided souls. It's of no use to become indignant when none of the perpetrators have any shame. Rather than fault the racers, I believe the real blame rests on the backs of their sponsors, who tend to place more importance on results than representation.

Although unsportsmanlike conduct is a serious issue in America, and the miscreants are seldom punished, I can't help but think that it's all just child's play compared to places where athletes race with a true sense of honor. I used to think that the only real place to race was in Europe, but now I have to add Japan to my list.

I raced against 349 Japanese in Gifu, a city with 600,000 inhabitants southeast of Tokyo. I had no idea what to expect. I suspected that they'd be tough, because at the '94 Olympics in Lillehammer I saw what technicians they were on the ice.

I was right: Racing against the Japanese in-line skaters was no piece of cake.

I was most impressed by their willingness to work. The Japanese will race past the point of exhaustion, something I've rarely seen in American skaters, who prefer to give up and try again when they feel like it. In Gifu, racing was serious business, almost a matter of life or death. The racers stayed with me until they were cross-eyed and foaming at the mouth. I had to resort to fading to the back of the pack and catapulting by to win the race. At the finish, my competitors were so tired they couldn't keep their feet anymore, and a massive pileup ensued, with racers turning cartwheels in spectacular fashion.

There's a saying in sports that second place is the first loser. I've seen racers I've beaten go sulking off into a corner. In Japan, the second place finisher actually broke down in tears, sobbing uncontrollably for so long I was scared that when he regained his composure he was going to go off somewhere with a samurai sword and disembowel himself. I knew this man wasn't crying because he was a poor sport or because he had been beaten for the first time in his life. He was crying because he had so much honor...honor for his sport and his country.

I remember learning in school how American Indian athletes, no matter how much stronger than their competition, always won by no more than necessary, so as not to humiliate the second finisher. I asked my Japanese guide if I had violated some unwritten code of athletic conduct by winning by too much. Had I been Japanese, he said, yes, I had committed an egregious wrong. But since I was an American guest, it was expected that I would show as much strength as I had. Still, I have never felt more responsible for someone else's unhappiness as I did on this day. Sometimes winning can be a burden.

It shouldn't be about winning, anyway. It should all be about competing with honor. American skaters and sponsors need to learn a lesson from the Japanese. Pre- and post-race, they all bowed to one another, and to me as well. It gave me an indescribably good feeling to know that there was so much mutual respect going around, reminding me of the good ol' days of in-line racing in America, where competitors used to come to races to say they saw their friends and finished the race.

The Japanese are serious about their skating all right, but in a good way. If you thought that Americans take their sports seriously - think again.