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rate, I will cross into Chile on
November 17.
The scenery now is differ-
ent from the flat, dull desert
expanses north of Lima. I
am running straight down
the coastal highway, and the
views in every direction are
spectacular: wide blue ocean
on my right and soaring
white cliffs on my left. The
closest Australian equiva-
lent would be Victoria's
Great Ocean Road. There
are seals by the water and
birds soaring everywhere.
The predominant sounds
are the crashing waves and
the crying seagulls. Vultures
perch on the rocks as I run
by, peering impassively, though ominously, at me. Today I sheltered
behind a sand dune to go to the toilet. As I was squatting there, two
vultures came right up to me. They must have thought I was about
to die. I was glad to disappoint them. I pulled my shorts back up and
took off.
I've bumped into some Scottish tourists who I met back at the
Nazca Lines—lovely people, keen to know why I am doing this crazy
event and happy to be photographed with the madman from Down
Under.
I was heartened to see that the
Sunday Telegraph
newspaper back
home ran a two-page feature on me and the run, written by their jour-
nalist Nick Walshaw. I no longer get a buzz seeing my name in print,
but I'm grateful to the paper and to Nick, because the feature, which
made a point of running my website address, has resulted in more
donations.
Tonight I feel optimistic about what lies ahead. I am determined
to give the South Pole a red hot go. I want people to see what I achieve
on that final 1100-kilometre leg and say 'Wow!' I am determined to
