I am thoroughly exhausted after eight hours of walking,
but I have it in my head to do ten hours, and by gosh,
nothing is going to stop me from hitting that target.
I should stop, I know, but no, I must keep going.
After a while, I begin to stagger occasionally along the highway,
try to stay balanced and focused, but things are becoming hazy.
I am nearly finished my ten hours when I see a passing driver
slow down. I can’t see his face in the fading light,
but I imagine he is concerned, so I slip into the forest.
I can barely stand, lean heavily on the stroller.
It takes me twenty minutes to put up my tent,
normally a four-minute job. I put the fly on upside down,
and then it keeps getting twisted. I just can’t focus on the task.
When the tent is finally up, I throw my kit inside and collapse on it.
I can feel the heat emanating from my face.
I still have enough brain power left to realize I need to
eat and drink as much as I can. I struggle to concentrate;
even the simple task of putting food and water bottle
to mouth is a struggle, but afterward, I have the energy
to prepare my air mattress and sleeping bag.
A fever? I do not know.
But in the morning when I awaken, my sleeping bag
is saturated from sweat. I am better now, but still
light-headed with a bit of a headache.
I do neck stretches as I walk throughout the morning.
Yes, I must pay attention to my body. It’s ok to push it,
but I know that this time, I crossed the line. I mean,
I knew I was crossing the line, even while I was crossing it.
I made a mistake, and had it been fifteen degrees colder,
I would have paid dearly for it.
Would I have made the same mistake
if I were hiking in the backcountry?
Have I become cocky walking along the highway,
often close to civilization, with a reliable phone?
I make a promise to have more humility towards my body,
but my promise doesn’t last long.
