He gasped, and his ears whisted, and he felt that his feet would not be carried. He hated the feeling. The wrist band on his hands was soaked from his own sweat, the headdress was soaked yakbysmet, the shorts glued to it, although they were to be made of special material and his tricot literally adhered to it, so he was sure that he would have to remove it from him surgically.
He hated this feeling of mild nausea-he was sure that he would faint, which would be a shame at the moment. The fluting of advertising flags signed that barely thirty meters before him was the target. He was only going out of inertia and told himself that he should put the last sprint in front of the target straight if he wanted to win the race, but he couldn't. His feet refused to obey him, the guts rebelled, and he hoped he would not begin to vomit right now.