Until recently, I never thought much about Jell-O. Now, I think about it all the time. It's kind of a silly food, don't you think?

I've spent a lot of time this shift prone on a back seat in the van, my head mashed into a corner of the bench seat and my heels against the opposite window. Sometimes I'm joggling around on the seat, vibrating gently like a bowl of orange (I like orange) Jell-O. Other times, I'm slung back and forth, like a guy in a bad cowboy hat on a mechanical bull. The road is packed dirt and so deeply corrugated, I could completely conceal myself inside a single rut. Cars and trucks skate back and forth like drunken water bugs, avoiding the deepest of the holes and diving nose-first through everything else. A thick brown curtain of dust hangs in the air. I can't believe this is an actual road. I can't imagine what happens when it rains.

I'm bruised. All over. Even parts of me that aren't actively participating in the run – the top of my head (barrette accident), my left ear (headphone accident), the bridge of my nose (sunglasses accident) – have weird bruises. Starting a run is almost a relief. When I get out of the car, the world stops bobbing, swaying, jerking, jumping, and pitching and generally follows established laws of physics (of course, I never studied the law).

The terrain has changed and changed again and again this shift: an unfinished dirt road through a birch forest near Kansk, flat, fast, and freshly paved outside of Irkutsk, hilly with hairpin turns near Lake Baikal. I've ceased to worry about what the route is going to look like or where it is or when I'm going to run. Someone points at a stretch of road and swings open the car door; I tighten my shoelaces and start running. Relinquishing control has been surprisingly easy. I have only one thing to accomplish every day and it doesn't require much brain power; I am therefore free to think about other things. Small things. Simple things. Truly inconsequential things. I puzzle out Russian road signs. I study the intricately carved window shutters on the weathered houses we pass and am pained by the fact that every single one of them is painted Carolina blue. I wonder why all my artistic shots end up looking like building corners. I hope it doesn't rain, and then I hope it does. And I think about Jell-O, of course (primarily the orange kind).

Apparently, my brain, too, is sliding toward a Jell-O-like (orange) state.

With the conclusion of this shift, I take my last steps in Russia. In a moment, I will bounce over my last Russian rut, eat my last Russian cucumber, listen to my last Russian pop song. I plan, though, to continue to embrace my state of Jell-O-ness (orange, please – I'm liking the orange). Being loose and flexible, and letting go of unnecessary complexity, has enabled me to survive the constantly changing schedule, the terrible roads, the strange places and stranger food. I have bent, but not broken, in the face of the relentless Russian roads. Like Jell-O. A big bowl of orange Jell-O. Not so silly after all.