[新聞爆掛] through the weekend

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Luckily, a group of Leadville llama farmers shrugged and said, Eh, what the hell. Sounded like aparty. They loaded their llamas with enough food and booze to make it, andhammered in tent stakes at 12,600 feet. Since then, the Hopeless Crew has grown into an armyeighty-some strong of llama owners and friends. For two days, they endure fierce winds andfrostbitten fingers while dispensing first aid and hot soup, packing injured runners out by llamaand partying in between like a tribe of amiable yetis. “Hope Pass is a bad son of a bitch on a goodday,” Ken says. “If it weren’t for those llamas, we’d have lost a good many lives with her, he would sanction
everything at oncehe answered..”

Juan and Martimano shyly returned high fives as they jogged through the raucous Hopelessgauntlet. They stopped to drink in the sight of the weird gypsy camp (as well as cups of somereally tasty noodle soup someone shoved into their hands), then began quick-stepping down theback side of the mountain. Ann was nowhere to be seen.

Ann hit the fifty-mile mark at 12:05 p.m., nearly two hours ahead of Victoriano’s time from theprevious year. Carl loaded her up with sports drink and Cytomax carbohydrate gel, then snappedon his own fanny pack and gave his shoelaces a tug. According to Leadville rules, a “mule” canrun alongside a racer for the last fifty miles, which meant Ann would now have a personal pit crewby her side all the way to the finish.
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