#life

TREACHERY AND TRIUMPH

So...while the rest of all of you were running around like demented jackrabbits, circumnavigating mudpits, careening off of trampolines and being slammed by foam gauntlets...yours truly was....stuffed ignominiously in the backside of van RedA.

Yes, I did make it to Racedate after all.  On backup.  In case of DIRE, APOCALYPTIC EMERGENCY, aka code 10-17.  (That was the message to relay over walkie talkie, in case of said cataclysm.)

Don't suppose you managed to catch sight, early in the day, of Derek and Igor struggling to heft a rather large, suspiciously shaped black duffel into the rear entry of said vehicle. With a GREAT DEAL of unneccessary huffing and puffing, not to mention GROANS and muttered expletives (so most of it was in Russian, but THE TONE IGOR WAS USING totally gave him away) as they swung in said luggage.

Then they tossed several very heavy cases of waterbottles on top. You might have heard the duffel grunting in protest as they carelessly continued to follow this with a whole shoal of discarded clothing from the matches who had already changed into their team uniforms, had you been listening closely.

Because the contents of said mysterious black duffel consisted of...yours truly.

When the van's sliders had slammed open and shut innumerable times, reverberating mercilessly in the metal shell interior, and the all the matches inside had gabbled and gossipped and compared impressions of how the other teams looked in their uniforms (females) or speculated on who would win the events, scheming up strategies to come in first (males) the van finally lurched forward onto the gravel road....

I waited for a good ten minutes before switching on my walkie talkie as per discussion with Derek and Igor, to make sure Simone and I were hooked up. The two of us had been FIRMLY INSTRUCTED to not call either Derek or Igor UNLESS THERE WAS AN SOS EMERGENCY, because they were DIRECTLY WATCHING Lila and didn't want to arouse unnecessary suspicion.

I flipped on my device as per Derek's stern, multiply repeated directions. "Simone, Simone, come in," I intoned, from the depths of my black shroud. "Simone, copy if you read me. Nothing heard. 10-1. I repeat, 10-1. Simone--"

"Elise?" There was static in the background, but I could still hear exasperation in her tone.

"Roger that! 10-4!" I replied smartly.

"Yeah what do you want?? I swear this whole setup is stupidly obvious. Everybody is looking at me crazy right now, talking on this antiquated junk like its supposed to be a phone. First Derek checks in, then Igor ANOTHER SIX TIMES trying to rustle me up for our team's supposed GRAND PLAN to win the obstacle course."

"Yes, yes, just checking in." I murmured. "10-10, then?"

"Elise, forget it. You want a partner for your trucking jargon, call somebody else. Otherwise, why don't we all wait for the next update until something has ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO UPDATE ABOUT????" She clicked off.

"Okay, Simone, will do." I gingerly clicked off myself.

I managed, eventually, to partially unzip my duffel and catch swatches of light between the sliding clothes and water bottle boxes, but after the first couple obstacles I kind of wished I had kept my self zipped in as the PILES OF MUDDY/SWEATY SOCKS HURTLED BACK OVER YOURS TRULY.

Let me just say...

Someone should make Igor aware that he is possibly harboring the next agent of biological terror in his feet.

As I choked and gagged in the REDOLENT ATMOSPHERE of the back of the van the seats in front of me filled up with loud conversation, all the matches discussing their performances on the obstacle course...or not. My ears settled on the noise closest to me, separated by a mere few inches of car seat foam....and at first I couldn't believe what they heard.