The lack of oxygen at this altitude shreds lungs; rips them as if they were construction paper. And if that weren't enough, Gilbert felt the ligaments in his knee pop like rubber bands lifting anvils during the race's early stages. Now he peddles furiously up the road that winds around the mountain like a noodle of spaghetti curled around a fork. Every breath strikes a match deep inside his chest, and his knee goes numb with the monotony of laying siege to this fort's summit.
Up in the distance, where the sun spills onto the asphalt, Gilbert can just make out the shapes of LeBron and Dwyane; both gilded in gold. Gilbert tells himself himself the distance between himself and his competitors is not as great as first estimated, grunting at his knee, "Now is not the time to fall apart." He peddles his way out of the shadows, dreaming of hyperbolic chambers.

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