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Retreads & Me by ProQuest


Spending their lives buried in the bowels of my airplane thrashing away at rudder and brakes means the boots are slowly being worn away, giving of themselves to protect my feet: the rudder cables at the ends of the pedals have practically worn through the leather, and the screws in the foot trays have sliced them open above the heels like gutted carp. Like fuel in the tank, the passage of time is logarithmic: the first portion seems to go slowly, but the last literally races past, rendering us incapable of accurately judging its passage.

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