Oh man. Oh man. How much can one person’s rump hurt? I now know. I was unfortunately and unexpectedly forced into actually *running* today because my glutes were on some sort of civil disobedience action and wouldn’t work.

It hit 122 around noon. This may very well be the only occasion on which you’ll hear folks say “cracking good job out there today!” for running an 8 hour marathon. Obviously, these people are Australian, as no one else says “crackin’ good job” of their own free will.

The Paris Opera is performing for us tonight. A tradition every year where non-running tourists can spend the night out here and see the opera al fresco. Unlike us, they get chairs.

Last stage is tomorrow - 11 miles. No more dispatches until I can find an internet cafe.

Let’s see if I get all emotional when the race director puts the “Finisher” medal around my neck, or if I backhand the bastard across the face before he even sees it coming. Place your bets on the latter.

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