Forty-Six - Alone in Antarctica: The First Woman to Ski Solo Across the Southern Ice - page 78

Despite the fact that I felt complete inertia in every molecule
of my being it was clear that somehow I had to move forward,
I had no choice but to get myself out of the tent - but knowing
is only the first part of doing. Having reached the end of my
morning routine I sat in the vestibule of the tent, fully dressed
for a day in the open, my belongings properly packed in bags by
the still tightly zipped doorway. All that remained was to step
outside but still I hesitated, lingering over the last mouthfuls
of coffee in my heavily insulated mug, listening fearfully to the
wind. I glared at the words above the door until they lost all
meaning and became nothing but a series of uneven strokes
and scratches, empty hieroglyphics. My mind scrabbled for
a mental prop, a cerebral foothold that would enable me to
propel myself out of the door. I tried to coax myself the way
I would a child, with promises of an extra coffee at the end
of the day, an additional five minutes in the warmth of my
sleeping bag the next morning or a luxurious rest day of sleep
and comfort tomorrow (a promise I knew even then to be
improbable).
When that failed, I took a more prosaic approach, forcing
myself to think of all the sponsors I would be letting down if I
refused to move, of all those people who had written encouraging
emails before I left, people I knew would be following my
progress eagerly every day. How could I disappoint them? I
tried to shame myself into action by imagining that I was being
filmed and that my reluctance would be broadcast over the
Internet to all those who believed I was made of more resilient
stuff than this.
However, the greatest source of motivation turned out not to
be those who had supported me. It seems contrary, when I have
been very fortunate to receive generous encouragement from