Bald-Headed Men - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 154

I ignored it, refusing in my petulant state to respond. With
my sledges packed and ski bindings fastened securely in place
I squared up to the unseen horizon like a sprinter at the start
line of a race. I felt my face set beneath my mask and my mind
fall into neutral to block out the seductive voices of inertia
that lurked endlessly in my headspace. I pushed forward and
registered the familiar stretch of muscle, clocking in each ache
and pain as it made itself felt in turn: a smarting from my toe
where it had become sore under the crease of my ski boot;
the incessant jab of my trapezoid with each movement of my
ski pole; the quiet, continuous discomfort of the strain in my
elbow; the urgent complaint from each of my knees (today
louder from my left than my right); the soft burn of my fist
clenched within my mitt; the abrasive friction of my harness
against the tender bruising on my hips; the sting of cold air
being drawn through lips already raw with exposure; the
heat of the spiralling pressure along my shin caused by my
misaligned ski binding. A dozen minor discomforts harmonised
into a singular note of annoyance.
As a child I was always fascinated by the fact that
focusing intently on a single word, repeating it over and
over, eventually renders it meaningless. Now, I concentrated
intently on each discomfort in turn, breaking it down until it
became nothing more than a sensation. The aches and pains
didn't go away but I found that with concentrated mental
effort I could at least relegate them to a kind of general
background noise of irritation.
There was just enough light to be able to navigate by sight
using the merest hints of shadow on the snow as markers. In
the shifting light I had to focus intently on each marker then
pause when I reached it, squinting into the blanched gloom