Fatigue Limit #166

Smoking at a young age.

We had begun the tussle of tit for tat, a losing proposition. Each time the response would be more serious, the risk of injury more certain.

After the race, fans poured out of the stadium to spend a relaxing evening, and breathe clean air. We were confined to the pavilion, our smoke-filled sarcophagus for five more days. Destiny steered us around the narrow track like spinning tops, and for what?

Even one thousand dollars for the winner seemed like inadequate compensation for putting one’s life at risk. The crowd noise had already taken its toll. My ears rang non-stop, and I coughed like a barking seal from all the smoke. Although the rules confined me to the immediate vicinity of the pavilion, at least I could step outside and inhale San Francisco’s intoxicating air.

I began writing at a furious clip, unable to sleep. The thoughts poured out like water from a bucket, dousing the paper with ink scratchings that would be interpreted as words conveying meaning. My composition would be open to interpretation. Did I really mean what I said, or was it an embellishment? Allegorical? Euphemistic? Symbolic? Metaphorical?

The race mirrored life. We would struggle through, stumbling from one danger to the next, crisis to crisis. Would I finish the next lap, the next day? I had no idea. Like life itself, only the here and now had meaning. The past had no relation to the future. What would happen could not be known, no matter how much I understood the past, or how obvious it might seem. There were no guarantees in life.

I tried to come to terms with Carl’s shenanigans. Did his conduct break the rules? Or did the conditions call for retribution against an adversary who disobeyed rules? Was rule-breaking acceptable, if your opponent broke rules? Did Napp have a conscience?