My third and final run in Belarus through beautiful green countryside and I was miserable. Knees, shins, ankles all felt good but my rumbling stomach did not. As Heiko, Rudy and some others on Team Silver, I struggled to finish my 10 mile leg and got sick in the process. Perhaps it was the dinner salad we all ate at the hotel the night before? Luckily, our BPR baton that is traveling the globe conveniently doubles as a toilet paper dispenser. When your stomach has gone astray, this is a blessing.

Belarus cities are clean, the countryside is lush green and the people we have encountered along the road are friendly. The capital Minsk is adorned with WWII monuments. According to our young blond haired guide Valentina, 1 out of every 3 Belarusians died during the war.

Since crossing the border, we have had the luxury of a police escort. Today’s traffic policeman was particularly amusing. Even out on a country road with a nice shoulder on which to run where I was well out of traffic’s way, the policeman stationed himself in his vehicle in the middle of the road and enjoyed blaring his sirens at approaching traffic. I jumped at first—a shocking sound in the peaceful country setting. Trucks, cars and tractors (Belarus is known for its tractors) pulled off to the side of the road at least 50 meters ahead. This was particularly embarrassing today as I moved it seemed at a snail’s pace. I feigned a smile (despite my stomach pains) and waved at the curious onlookers, who were most likely thinking “what the heck is going on here?” and then practiced saying one of five words I’ve learned in Russian, dobrie dehn! During my two previous Belarus-runs, the traffic escort service, which joined BPR upon crossing the border, allowed me to cruise through intersections and red stoplights, never once having to worry about traffic or looking both ways. When you’re used to dodging cars, this is certainly a luxury.

Yesterday, the Scotsman, the German, the Dutchman and I gathered to finish the last mile together into Minsk, Belarus’s capital. We had not one, but two police escorts both in front and behind us, stopping traffic and turning heads’ of puzzled drivers (or perhaps they were just looking at the Scotsman in his kilt). The arrival of the entire Yellow Team at the central square shocked even some of the BPR crew. We certainly made an impression.

This evening, losing yet another hour as we move eastward, we breezed across the border into Russia, most likely because of the Russian license plate on our van (which is driven by our driver Alexander from Siberia). Given the three hours we spent waiting at the Belarusian border, we were quite pleased by this quick crossing. Maybe the escort-service officials have their eye out for us? Who knows, but in this land one thing’s for sure—we are now being watched.