The Stage 3 marathon had done a number on us. By the time Day 4 rolled around, the drop out rate had already equaled the total drop out rate in past years’ races. And the distance was finally taking its toll – either you couldn’t keep any food down or you simply burned a lot of calories; whichever path you took you would have acquired a frighteningly gaunt look (Edward Matts, I’m looking at you). The men were also sprouting cavemen beards. So in some ways we just looked like a bunch of refugees stuck in a really badly planned weight loss camp.
A star attraction had also blossomed in our neighbor’s tent as the abomination that are Emma’s feet (if they can be still called that) was rapidly becoming the gold standard for injuries amongst competitors. Honestly, the woman deserves a medal just for her speedwork in developing blisters. By Day 2 the blisters at her heels had grown so big that she looked like she had four heels instead of two. You can only imagine the condition the feet was in by Day 4.
It was always a battle of balance. Against the backdrop of such cold, logical deliberations, we witnessed the most romantic start to the race we had yet to glean.
Go to Stage 4: Part 2