Boston at the sand dune. They talk about how hard the hike was. As they climb, some crafty editor shoehorns in a shot of Alex -- slo-mo, windblown, side-lit, and rippling with buffness. This shot could not be more perfectly packaged for me if it had a tag hanging from it that said, "To Alli. Love, The Editors." I am utterly unmoved. Perhaps I'm becoming less shallow. Shut up, it could happen.
Jeebus lets their driver take over as the sun drops in the sky. Cyndi explains that the rules say you have to give the wheel over to your driver at 7:00 PM. Chris, in the Boston SUV, says that apparently it's dangerous because you could hit a big animal in the road and be "a caah-cass yourself."
Xerox still can't find the damn sand dune. Eek. One guy offers to tell them -- tomorrow. Wha? They note that the dune Detour closes at 7:45 PM. The time? 7:37. Sniff. I have to say that what happens to Xerox here is really sad, but their conversation with that guy is really funny. Doyin's got this barely-restrained-frustration thing going, with his "Please help me. No, please. Really. Help me." And the guy gives them the old, "Come back tomorrow." The guys are like, "TOMORROW?" It's funny.
Why hello, Cha-Cha-Cha! They're driving up to the pit stop, and Oswald is explaining that they had no choice but to take the FF, considering how Danny's foot is faring. Danny good-naturedly points out that he even has his shoe off, which strikes me as a bad sign, because it sounds like swelling. Swelling sounds like more than a strain from attempted yoga. When they reach the pit stop, it turns out there's a bit of a haul on foot from the car to the actual mat. Danny takes off limping, and Oswald says, "I guess I'll carry your backpack." Danny's foot looks like it's really hurting him as he runs up to the mat. Oswald drags behind, carrying both packs. Go, you fabulous beast of burden, you! They hit the mat, and Phil says they're team number one. They hug. Oswald interviews that they're feeling good, but he hopes his "fine feathered friend" is able to compete on that foot the next day. I share his concern. That foot looks like it's bothering Danny a lot, and I'm not convinced he'll be well tomorrow. I suppose we'll see.
In the dark of early evening, Blake is at the marketplace. "I need the bushman," he says, although he pronounces it "bush-man," like he's referring to a delegate at the 2000 Republican convention. He turns in his little animals and takes the big giraffe. And no, that is not a euphemism.