I am now preparing to depart from Seorak, and it's raining with strong winds blowing
While imagining various things, I created this story with the help of Gemini AI.
Including myself tomorrow, I wish for safe driving and safe completion.
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Our team's bib numbers were from 445 to 453.
When the race started and we encountered a quite long uphill,
the teammates began to run ahead one by one, saying let's meet at the summit.
The bib numbers 446, 447, 448, and 449 on the backs of teammates who were aggressively charging ahead gradually moved away.
Some were going up with elegant dancing motions, while other riders were passing by with light pedaling.
Thus the teammates completely disappeared into the fog in the distance,
and only I, the slowest 445, was struggling up the uphill.
How far had I climbed? From a certain point, the fog gradually became denser, and soon I couldn't even see what was right ahead.
My thighs felt like they would burst and my breath was catching in my throat, and to make matters worse, my speedometer suddenly stopped working.
In a panicked state where I couldn't see GPS or gradient, a fork in the road gradually appeared ahead.
Since my speedometer wasn't working, I couldn't tell if I should go up the right incline,
or up the left incline, which was a hopeless situation.
Then I saw a rider in the fog ahead.
A rider in an all-black jersey with black bib and riding an all-black bicycle was quietly,
pedaling very hard and going up one of the inclines.
Through the thick fog, I could see the bib number on his back.
[444]
444. It was the number right ahead of mine.
Even though not on our team, since it was the number right ahead of mine,
I started following him without any doubt.
As the endless uphill continued and my mind became completely confused,
I squeezed out my last strength and clung closely to the back of the 444.
And panting, I asked.
"Excuse me... does your speedometer work?"
But he didn't even look back, let alone turn his head,
and spoke in a low, mechanical voice, almost throwing the words.
"We're almost there."
Taking that answer as a landmark, I continued climbing the endless uphill for more than 10 more minutes.
But the summit showed no signs of appearing,
and I, exhausted beyond measure, felt my strength draining and I was falling behind.
As we were about to drift apart again,
the 444 ahead, just like before, didn't look back and spoke in the same voice.
"We're almost there."
At that moment, the fog that had been enclosing everything began to lift like a lie.
The moment my vision opened and the landscape revealed itself, I couldn't help but scream.
What appeared before my eyes was not a summit sign but a sheer cliff.
"Ahhhhh!"
Shocked, I screamed and grabbed the brakes with all my might,
and together with the bike fell completely to the side, barely,
really just barely stopping right before the cliff.
Catching my breath and regaining my senses, I looked around.
But there was no one on the road. Everything was silent.
Where on earth is this? What happened to the 444 who was right ahead of me? Could he have fallen?
Clutching my pounding heart, I crawled close to the cliff and looked down.
But below, there was nothing but dense grass - no bike fragments, not a trace of a person.
As I stood there dazed,
the Garmin speedometer screen on the handlebars beeped and suddenly started turning back on.
Then my wrist watch vibrated and a ringtone sounded in my ear.
It was a call from our teammate.
With trembling hands from the relief of being alive, I pressed the call button
and was just about to say hello when,
from somewhere quietly,
very quietly, a voice full of regret pierced my ear.
..
..
..
..
"......We're almost there."
