In the camp each evening, racers tend to their feet with the dedication of Mother Theresa. Screams can be heard from the medical tent where blisters are torn off and raw flesh exposed. Some have taken to walking with poles to keep the weight off their tortured feet. “This place is like a death camp” says Glen.
Below left, Nod is holding up his running shorts stiffened by salt and dust. Talk about crotch burn! After a week or wearing these, I’m amazed he had a crotch left. Below right, I do my best to ignore the death and destruction around me and focus on making dinner with freeze dried mountaineering food.
In the evenings, I battle the dust and the wind with a painter’s suit in what looks like an Afghan terrorist training camp. “So this is what it must feel like to be Bin Laden.” I say to myself. At 6am each morning, the “Tent Bandits” give us a one minute notice before collapsing the tent around us, whether we’re ready or not. Now it’s time to bake until the 10am start.
