There is nothing like a rush of adrenaline to wake you up in the morning.
The heart is pounding, brow is wet, shoe laces undone but vision narrowed.
As you duck, sway and swerve around obstacles on your trusted two-wheeler, each second registers in your focused temporal lobe. Red lights, swearing motorists and mortified pedestrians don’t mean a thing.
You land at your destination, not a moment too soon. Familiar faces greet you in word or kind. But no time to go lax, you need to launch for the final stretch. By instantaneous depth perception, you autonomically decide which staircase will take you to your finish line.
You sense too many fellow humans crowding goal post 1 through your peripheral vision. It’s not over yet. You make a further dash for goal post 2, 1 flight of stairs higher. Your seldom-streched feet say no more. It cannot be lactic acid accumalation, that takes minutes. You ignore it as your target finally comes within striking distance. You make a final ungraceful but effective swipe…
‘Finger Print Not Matched’ declares the unfeeling machine.
With only 10 seconds left you know etiquette requires you to allow the lady fretting behind you to have a go. But such niceties are strangers to adrenaline. You selfishly swipe once again.
Your Pan Card name flashes on the display. You collapse on the bench besides the punching machine, eyes closed, panting, with a satisfied but detached smile on. Your saying to yourself, ‘Success, you’re my bitch!’
There is nothing like a rush of adrenaline to wake you up in the morning. Punching in not a second too early is just the kind of vain and juvenile exercise needed to keep you interested. The aforementioned satisfaction is often all you have to help you through the 9 ensuing hours of earning your daily bread. It is all downhill from here.