Читать книгу Gobi Runner - Stefan Danis - Страница 8

With a bit of time on my hands, I was antsy, unable to be in the moment. I was tired and unsettled. I was unhappy. I wandered to a stream nearby – it was the one of the first times that there was any water close to camp. Desperate to bathe, I started cleaning my gear and de-taping my mummified upper body: shoulders, hairy chest, back, and abdomen, then my shins, heels, the bottoms of my feet, and my toes. Like an oversized duck splashing in a tiny puddle, I waded into seven centimeters of water. I had the whole stream to myself. Heaven, I thought. It was my first true moment of privacy during the race.

I filled my lungs with air, counted to eight, then pushed the air out, counting to sixteen, trying to put myself in a meditative state, trying to slow time down so I could capture a beautiful moment in the middle of the desert. The only expectation I had before starting the race was at least to complete it, and now I could almost smell the finish line.

Thirty minutes later, implosion. The universe conspired to give me what I had essentially asked for. I had checked out of the race physically by de-taping my body prematurely. And I had checked out emotionally by patting myself on the back. I had surrendered to the pristine moment. My body was happy to concur and proceeded to shut down. I became feverish and started vomiting into the river. My nose started bleeding. Of the eight toenails I had lost, two quickly became infected. My blisters started leaking again, and my chafing areas worsened as I scratched them compulsively. Each of my legs swelled to the size of a football; my calves, ankles, and feet merged into one big blob.

I realized what I had done; I had subconsciously decided I was unworthy of feeling good about the day. I had let my guard down, sabotaging my chances. Déjà vu. Why? I wondered.

I hobbled to the medical tent.

“Hi, Mr. Cankles!” said Rob, the medic on call.

I lay on the gurney, my head shaking. My daily cocktail of anti-inflammatories were twinned with a dose of antibiotics, causing unbearable stomach pain and more vomiting. After this procedure, instead of playing Euchre or wandering around to spend time with my new friends, I angrily entered my tent. Thanks to my carelessness, I now had to put my feet up to drain the blood down to my mid-section and bring my fever down.

In the tent, my feet became permanent nesting trees for local flies, with a dozen feeding on each discharging foot. I laughed, thinking about the number of times I had pursued a fly at the cottage – one annoying, buzzing insect that had the power to ruin the moment. Now I was looking at a colony of them.

“Feed away, guys,” I said.

We all have our limits and I had found mine. The tables had turned: My positive attitude was gone, small tears were flowing down my cheeks, and now I was now the one being comforted by my tent mates.