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days to reach the Pole and I now had only thirty-eight days
left to attempt almost twice the distance. It was impossible.
That evening, during my regular call to Union Glacier to
report my position, I asked to speak to Steve. He knew my
question before I'd had a chance to ask it.
'Don't even think about giving up because of time,' he
ordered. 'You'll be surprised how much difference it makes to
have the wind at your back.'
It was reassurance I'd received repeatedly at the Pole. Now
that I was heading for the coast my route had reached its
highest altitude and should, theoretically, start descending
all the way to sea level. Even better, the winds that blow out
from the centre of the continent would now be pushing me
forward rather than gusting straight into my face as they had
been. Still, I remained sceptical. How much faster could I
realistically expect to ski? So far, the furthest I had skied on
a single day was sixteen nautical miles and that was with a
near-empty sledge in great conditions and perfect weather. I
would need to equal this every single day for the next month
to stand a chance of getting anywhere near the coast in time.
By this reckoning, having completed only eleven nautical miles
that day, I was already five nautical miles behind schedule. The
numbers simply didn't work out.
'It's likely that we might be able to squeeze a few extra
days out of the season,' Steve had said when I asked about
the date of the deadline but he wouldn't be drawn into a
specific promise.
For extra time to be of any use, I calculated, I would need at
least ten days. I doubted this was what Steve had in mind.
Inside my tent the heat of the sun was so strong that I sat
in only my thermals and opened the door wide to let in some
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