The Sock Of Shame

You are feeling strong. You get to the top of the hill. You look out across the vast expanse of teals, blues, and greens of the Caribbean waters. You can see the sun peaking out across the horizon kissing the early morning silence with a reflective glitter.

You prepared last night, packed water, energy gels, electrolyte chews, picked out your best technical socks, applied your body glide.

And then it hits you.

Like a freight train racing down a hill at top speed, a roller coaster just before it reaches the first loop-de-loop.

You stop.
You breath deep.
You try to walk.
You stop.
You try to run.
You stop.

You start talking to yourself, hoping some motivational or inspirational thoughts will take your mind off the inevitable.

Perhaps you are hallucinating…you pass by a woman on the side of the road zipping up in a neon pink and black leopard skin suit.

You turn down a trail…there is no time…you pinch…waddle…and jump off the trail in desperate search of an acceptable spot to dig a hole.

Relief.

Sounds in the distance, chatter, people walking down the trail towards you. Do you cower hoping you look enough like the rock you have been holding on to for balance that they won’t see you. Or do you alert your pants-down presence, so they are not alarmed if you are actually spotted. Something draws their attention, hide, hide, you’re a tree, a rock, a leaf. They pass by.

You realized you failed, you lost your boy scout merit badge of preparedness. Now it is decision time, do you commit your new technical sock to the abyss of nature or hope to find a soft-looking fern leaf?

…I opted for the ferns.