The Race switched hemispheres last night, and the trip south turned the game upside-down. In the middle of the Indian Ocean, the last would become first. Black would turn into white. Pigs would fly.

Perspiration is pouring off me like a one-woman monsoon, as I've been mowing that grass with a 1920s mechanical mower, thinking of carbon credits gained and kilojoules lost and a brace of G&Ts to come ...