Conduct *This*

The first 30 km went according to plan; some pains and discomfort, but no real gnashing of teeth. It was shortly after exit from the second and final honey-pot stop that all hell broke loose.

Went through the gamut of mental tricks as the nausea took hold, grey white hand flurrying my gi tract when I started running, then letting go as I walked. But there were new terrors and furies waiting in store when I stopped as well. The grey white hand - the left of the tormentor - would release and his yellow garbed right hand would reach up inside me like a sock puppet and start the thoughts

pp

...feet are sore, there's a lot of bumpy asphalt below, man that hurts and looksee! you've got some blood between two of your toes..

crescendo

...check out the Garmin laddie. You had 15 seconds in the bank and all that hard work all that training everything is going to shit and you're going to lose it all, no way to break your 4 hours now

p

I'm running again now but the conductor has pulled back and fully released himself from me. Can's see his whole shape - not sure that I want to, but I can peripherally watch his conducting - left hand right hand 1 2 3 4 and

Fore

I'm running besides the golf-course and the maestro had constructed a podium on wheels behind me, letting me do the pulling of course, he's just queuing the note-less music around me

queue traffic

being held at the intersection to my left,

queue police

making funny comments to my right

queue nausea

Fuck, just when I thought I was getting into the rhythm and would be able to leave the conductor behind for a bit, this starts up again

queue introspection

and he's allowing me to go inside again, to try and step inside the zen counting of the feet, 1 to 10, 1 to 10, up to one hundred then losing my place and

queue nausea and sore hips

And it's starting to get rough now. I swing my hips to the right and the podium is pulled out in front of me so I can see the conductor in all his glory

a patchwork quilt of travel stickers each one handwritten with memories, the most recent towards the top the oldest fading into clown shoes towards the ground

his eyes, dark fire; his pupils - clock faces with hands that extend into chains and as soon as I make eye contact

I'm truly fucked

Because the chains extend from their oracular home and grab me by the wrist, wrapping around like a living vine and pulling me in so close to the clock hands that I can see them moving - but in micro pauses

And then the nausea, my friend now, breaks the grip and I'm back running. Can't excommunicate the conductor, so I give him a piggyback instead and just settle in

settle in and try to witness

but I can't

try to just be

and I can't, even though I AM

And somehow, somehow I am birthed through times dilating canal into the last 400 meters and my tears spawned by the final funnel are enough to wash and refresh the conductor and let him take off for the hills for now.

I know he'll be back, wonder how he'll feel when I have fresh legs in the office.

hsah