Well... 18th, apparently, since that's the one where I fell asleep and didn't wake up.

I literally couldn't put Beowulf down.  While that kept me engaged I'm not sure if it would keep anyone engaged...

Y'all did a wonderful job.  If I had to come up with something, maybe I'd put a big-ol readathon status widget on the homepage, like "xx xx xx time left, ongoing mini-challenges" etc right in the header, since I think that'd be useful.

Everything!  I didn't detect any hiccups or anything.  The timing of everything was really well planned out; mini-challenges were fun, etc.

3 and parts of 2 others.

While I DID enjoy it... eXistenZ

I wasn't!

I'm 100% likely to be a Reader!  I might be a cheerleader if I can't commit to 24 hours.

With a clattering of chairs, upended shell cases, benches, and ottomans, Pirate's mob gather at the shores of the great refectory table, a southern island well across a tropic or two from chill Corydon Throsp's mediaeval fantasies, crowded now over the swirling dark grain of its walnut uplands with banana omelets, banana sandwiches, banana casseroles, mashed bananas molded in the shape of a British lion rampahnt, blended with eggs into butter for French toast, squeezed out a pastry nozzle across the quivering creamy reaches of a banana blancmange to spell out the words C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre (attributed to a French observer during the charge of the Light Brigade) which Pirate has appropriated as his motto . . . tall cruets of pale banana syrup to pour oozing over waffles, a giant glazed crock where diced bananas have been fermenting since the summer with wild honey and muscat raisins, up out of which, this winter morning, one now dips foam mugsfull of banana mead . . . croissants and banana kreplach, and banana oatmeal and banana jam and bread, and bananas flamed in ancient brandy Pirate brought back last year from a celler in the Pyrenees also containing a clandestine radio transmitter . . .