Rally 2005: Dave’s Foggy Recollection

Well, its -14 degrees F. outside this morning.  The family is asleep, and I’m up early, just can’t seem to get back on New Hampshire time.  Sleeping is difficult, as I’m unaccustomed to a cast, and similarly out of the habit of sleeping on true bedding.  Although I’m itching for a quick blast across the pond out back, I’m not in the condition yet to fire up the snowmobiles and invite some friends over for a ride. 

I had another x-ray through my cast yesterday, and the doctor showed me where I broke my fibula (the smaller of the lower leg bone) here, here, here, and here; in four places.  I’ve got another two weeks in my miniature fiberglass prison, at least, and more in a soft cast.  It seems that keeping the riding boot on since Day 10 had helped keep the bone in line. 

The feeling is beginning to come back into my fingers, which allows me to clumsily pound out a few words about my recent Dakar adventure.  So, here goes:

Preparation:

Preparation?  It’s been snowing and well below 20 degrees F for the past two months here in the Northeast of USA.  On my last practice ride in early November, my riding buddy Angelo fell and broke three ribs as it began to snow.   Since Charlie planted the Dakar seed in my head last winter, I rode my first ever enduro in the spring, the Sandy Lane in southern New Jersey (8^th place C-Vet!).  Besides that, I’ve toured around the Baja Peninsula with Charlie for a few weeks almost every winter for the past 6 years, and I get out to ride in New Hampshire about six times every summer.  To shorten my learning curve on the anticipated Dakar Rally, I spent two-half days riding Charlie’s KTM 660 Rally bike in California (Dumont Dunes) in September. 

To say I’m not a seasoned competitor on a dirt bike is the truth.  I’m the average Joe, almost 40 year old part time rider, distracted by boating, waterskiing, hiking, canoeing, kayaking, skiing, snowmobiling, running my own business, raising two kids, and well deserved attention to my supportive and understanding wife.  I do enjoy a long ride, and two hour blasts on the elliptical trainer are helping.  My ace in the hole for this event is my brother Charlie, who ran the event last year, and I rely upon wholly to give me the skinny on the shortcuts and pitfalls of this Dakar Rally. 

Scrutineering:

My flight into Barcelona arrived December 28, a day before my brother Charlie, Zoli Csik (our self-financed volunteer driver), and Mike Krynock (our volunteer mechanic and coach).   After a walk around to check out the city with my family, I settled down for a poor night’s rest as my two New Hampshire kids were not coordinated to sleep at the same time, or in the evening at all.  Morning comes too soon, and I meet up with the boys and head out with my dad in a rental car to a small village outside of town to pick up spares and tools from Darren Skilton (#420), a fellow American car driver in this event.  We find the way back to scrutineering, meet RallyRaidUK folks and begin the bike preparation.   We take the bikes back to the hotel and work into the night installing odometers, chains, sprockets, air filters, tool bags, and sponsor’s stickers. 

After a quick ride back to Olympic Park in the morning, we experience scrutineering, which is a carnival.  Inside, we pick up lots of paperwork, and make our way to a variety of stations, each of which require a stamp after completing a specific task: documentation of registration, insurance, GPS course, survival gear inspection, even a Dakar ASO sponsored photo book sales pitch.  We mount the Balise, an emergency beacon box, and the Sentinel, another box that sounds an alarm when an approaching car or truck wants to overtake.  We’re out of there in about three hours, including having the bikes checked out and cases marked. 

Stage 1: Barcelona to Barcelona

Early next morning in Parc Ferme, I try to remember what Charlie showed me about how to load and advance the road book.  After a quick send off in the crowds, I fumble with the GPS, roadbook, and ICO with failing battery.   Although I’ve got little sleep for the past three days, I’m charged, and begin to learn the basics of navigation in the crowded streets of Barcelona.  Here in New Hampshire, we don’t get much lane splitting practice, and I think its kind of fun.  The big 660 is well balanced, and standing on the pegs of this monster gives a good view of passing alternatives, even over ¾ sized delivery vans that clog the local streets.   

We arrive at the start of the first special on the beach in Barcelona.  The crowds are huge, and the organizers try their best to maintain a path to the check point for race bikes.  I line up next to Charlie for a classic brother/brother showdown.  A short countdown, hand signal, and we’re off into the sand for a 6 km romp, my first feel for how this bike’s going to treat me for the next two weeks.  The sand is heavy and the bike feels heavier.  Charlie takes the lead.  Plenty of power sends me over the first jumps, and I struggle keeping the bike steady in the ruts.  I pass Charlie, and then fellow American (former South African) Kevin Heath (#118) near the second jump.  This northern boy has little experience in deep sand, and I know I’m in for a lesson.  I get “taught” early, as I fall trying to steer the beast.  The crowd cheers, and I wave and get back on the bike.  I remember what Kevin says about the purpose of this special, mostly a crowd pleasing display of flailing and falling riders, negotiating a motocross course on bikes 2 ½ times the weight of a proper 125.  The last 4 km of the special is pure hell.  I can’t seem to make a right turn, and when I try, the bike dumps me in the sand.  I need a break from fighting this thing after my fifth fall, so I get off and help another rider over the slope of the last jump, take a few deep breaths, hop on and blast for the finish.  I stop, completely exhausted, seriously questioning my abilities to ride this bike to Dakar.  Charlie is nowhere to be seen, finishing five minutes before me.  Amid the distractions of the crowds, and advancing my roadbook to the liaison notes, I notice my horn dangling from its wires.  A quick tug on the bars, and I find it jamming between the fork tubes and the fairing, severely limiting the steering action.   I quickly loop it into a spot where it shouldn’t do any more damage, and I’m off to on the 50 km liaison back to Parc Ferme.   

Stage 2: Barcelona to Granada

This is the longest ride of the rally, a 570 mile road ride through Spain.  As much of the trip is on highways, Charlie and I ride together.  I’m amazed at the turnout of waving fans on nearly every bridge and road crossing along the way.  Back home, I live 6 miles from the New Hampshire International Speedway, and I volunteer for the local Rotary Club there during several Nascar/Nextel events each summer.  I come to realize that fans of the Dakar Rally are distinct from American fans.  The Nascar fans might put out a chair or sit on a cooler of beer on the roadside to passively watch the long lines of other fans on their way to and from the event.  In the USA, the crowd itself becomes a spectacle.  Driving heroes are whisked to events on helicopters, and rarely interact directly with the fans.  In America, “fan-atics” show a display of loyalty to a driver through the purchase and wearing of hats, t-shirts, bumper stickers, and banners adhered to vehicles. 

Dakar Rally fans seem to celebrate the riders and drivers in a much more active way.  For the most part, they do not wear any labels which bear a particular driver or rider’s name or sponsor.  They stand, jump, and wave hands, scarves, ribbons and even flashlights in the dark to let riders and drivers know that they are pulling for us.  It’s a touching display of unselfishness and goodwill that is difficult to ignore.  By the end of the stage, Charlie and I have tired arms from waving back, a condition that reoccurs daily during this Rally, in every city and particularly small village on the route. 

In the evening, I have my first bivouac experience, and at first glance, its absolute chaos.   Over 2,100 people gather to eat, sleep, prepare food, work on race vehicles, assist competitors, write articles, take photos, and generally keep the rally moving forward.  Trucks, cars, and bikes are being propped up, torn down, and re-tired.  Hammers, compressors, and air tools sing.  Generators whir at every site, powering support teams and lighting via portable parking lot type lights on thirty foot high poles.  Although we have a hotel room reserved, Mike and Zoli have set up our tents, and we camp out here with earplugs in because of the distance to the hotel and the anticipated early start. 

Stage 3: Granada to Rabat

Real bivouac experience begins, as I awake before dawn to Mike and Zoli shouting at me to get my gear on and the tent comes down around me.  Someone misjudged the distance to the airplane, and the airplane boxes were picked up early.  Mike is trying to get a pile of things together to make a sprint for the plane and free up valuable space in the Nissan support truck.  Not really a seasoned rider, I’m new to most of my gear, and getting dressed is a challenge in itself.  Through the panic, Charlie mentions that most other bivouacs will be adjacent to airports, and getting to the airplane boxes will be much easier.  In my innocence, I agree that this is a good thing, and look forward to the next airport bivouac. 

Charlie’s battery is still not taking a charge, and the bikes have been stored away where we can’t get to them in a fenced “Parc Ferme”.  Last night we devised a plan to get him going in the morning.  Due to my less than stellar performance in Barcelona, and the reverse start order today, I am allowed to enter Parc Ferme 15 minutes before him.  His bike is parked next to mine, as he’s #116 and I’m #117.  In the morning, I’ll yank off the seats, get my bike running, jump start his, and then leave for my start while his is running for five minutes until he can enter Park Ferme and ride away, simple!  All works well, except the part about his bike running while I’m not babysitting his throttle.  His carburetor is not tuned very well, and although I try to bring up the idle speed, the best I can muster before leaving is three or four jumps.  I leave it stalled, only slightly warmed up with the jumper cables attached.  On the way out, I see several other riders pushing their bikes to a spot where a truck has its hood up and jumper cables threaded through the fencing.  Who knows whether this is permitted by ASO regulations, but it seems a reasonable alternative for Charlie. 

I hit the road for the 10km special in Grenada without him, because of my early start time.  The roadbook shows numerous turns and warnings of difficult sections, which worries me.  However, upon arrival at the start at the army base, I can see other riders negotiating a nearly flat gravel playground with several jumps and wide sweeping turns.  A big sigh of relief, and I set off to chase down a few of my fellow backmarker riders who were similarly affected by the sand in Barcelona.  At the finish, I find Kevin Heath trailside with a dead battery and his tow rope out.  I give him a tow to the far side of the army base, where a KTM support truck and mechanics chase down his electrical problems.  

The liaison from Grenada to the ferry at Algeciras is about one half of a 350 mile road ride for that day, complete with waving fans on the road and overpasses.  Charlie and I ride together, as his battery won’t fire up his starter, and he needs jumpstarts.  At the ferry, I learn the European way of queuing, which is to pack in as close as possible to await an organizer’s wave to proceed.  During the wait, it’s a good time to chat with other bikers, and I meet up with Kellon, Chris, and Scot, the other KTM Red Bull riders from the States, as well as Jay Karsmakers (#96), from the Netherlands, who said he was the son of a famous motocross rider.  I’m self-described as the world’s worst sports fan, and only later met and came to know his dad Pierre Karsmakers (#444), the winner of the ‘73 500cc AMA National Championship, and points leader of the 250cc Nationals in ’74.  Pierre competed in a car during this Dakar event, and acted as support for his son Jay.  Jay’s bike needs help, as his battery has also died.  Many of the riders suspect the Sentinel warning system, and quickly detach its power supply cable.  Its an agonizing wait as bikes begin to flow towards the ferry.  The head organizer blocks my line and points behind me to wave a rider to the front of the crowd.  He’s pointing to a green Euromaster bike with a blonde female rider (Ludivine Puy #35)…and I’m without a wig or a pair of personalities to even begin to compete with her in this venue. 

At last on the ferry, after roping up the bikes and another lineup for passport stamping, I scope out a rest spot with Kevin Heath.  On the couch, Kevin, Charlie, and I eagerly take in a twenty minute tutoring session on road book marking with Alfie Cox (#3), who also hails from South Africa.  I recognize this as a rare opportunity to take benefit from the experience of a master, and I continue to be in awe of the talent and qualifications of the riders and drivers at this Rally. 

A quick nap and we’re back at the bikes, untying and eventually negotiating around all the race car drivers that must hate us bikers for our ability to weave among them, cut to the front of every line, and hit the open road with little frustration.  It’s now dark in Tanger. Charlie and I find each other and hit the road to Rabat.  The liason ride in Morocco is mostly highway and cold.  We meet up with Mikey and Zoli in Rabat without much trouble.  Tents are set and after a dinner, we’re sleeping well, despite the cacophony of repairs surrounding us. 

Stage 4: Rabat to Agadir

I’m still not used to this.  I awake to the tent being taken down on me again, and Mike and Zoli are shouting at me again to get my gear on.  I get out in time, and notice Charlie’s all geared and ready to ride…how does he do that?  After successfully dodging the overflowing sewer pipe, Charlie and I pound down a good breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham, croissants, orange juice, fruit, and pasta!  The food is really good, and I find this is something I can count on during the remainder of the rally.  We pack up a bag lunch of other goodies, and head to the bikes.  A little hunting around the bivouac for the liaison start, and we’re on the road out of Rabat.  In the fog, we stop to find gas, a perplexing problem, as we thought all gas in Africa was to be supplied by the organization.  The rest of the liaison is a foggy mess on mountainous roads.  There’s ice on shady corners, and Charlie and I see where several earlier bikes have run off the road in a hurry.  By the time we get to the start, its late, and the fog has turned the special into another liaison.  Great, time to practice navigation and roadbook reading. 

The 260 mile liaison to Agadir is surreal, with narrow roads, mountain passes, and lots of cargo trucks to pass.  There’s a sense of urgency to cover miles quickly, because we know sleep is waiting at the end of the day.  Race cars take incredible risks, passing multiple trucks on blind corners, and we take their lead.  On the way, we find ourselves in Marrakech, a bustling third world city.  Charlie spys a vacationer on a silver KTM AdventureR, and we stop for a chat about his chances of riding away with his working battery.  After some gentle persuasion, Jurgen from Germany agrees to trade.  Charlie’s dead battery doesn’t exactly fit, but we get Jurgen’s seat bolted down and give him some directions on how to kick start his bike.  Charlie is one happy boy, with electric start and no more copper wire jumpers to tether him to his more conservative brother.  Jurgen rides with us for several miles in the city, but the pace we keep even in traffic is necessarily aggressive, and we soon loose him.  We find Mikey and Zoli at Agadir, throw down a dinner, and hit the hay. 

Stage 5: Agadir to Smara

Today’s a cold 150 mile liaison in the dark, where several bikers go down hard, a 236 mile special in the rocks, and a short liaison to finish.  My roadbook takes a pounding today, as the sentinel and odometers are cob-mounted to its topside.  It seems that Dakar organizers have been adding safety equipment like the Sentinel, while KTM hadn’t designed the roadbook to accommodate the weight in older bikes like my 2002.  The skimpy rubber bushings fail, and require trailside repair: a spider’s web of zip ties does the trick. 

Otherwise, the rocks are similar to riding in parts of New Hampshire, the Granite State, and I feel comfortable with the pace.  Towards the middle of the special, I’m passed by a few cars, first a Nissan, then a Mitsubishi.   I hear my Sentinel alarm go off first, and look back to see the Nissan, alerting a bike about 100 yards behind me.  I look ahead, and see five bikes pulling to the side of the trail.  I’ve been eating their dust for a few miles now, so I gas it and pass a few, then pull over when the Nissan comes directly behind.  When the Mitsubishi signals, I do the same and make another pass or two.  At the end of the day, I place 99^th, which is better than I had expected racing in such a field of talented riders.  Later I learn that Charlie had gained 92 places that day and I gained 93!  I’m starting to feel better about our abilities and chances of keeping up with the others, but not yet convinced that I can finish this thing. 

Stage 6: Smara to Zouerat

Here’s a 75 mile liaison, a 305 mile special on mostly sandy trail, and a short liaison to the bivouac.   Besides multiple schoolings in sand riding, this was just a long hard day.  The real excitement came just before dinner, when the kitchen and dining tents burst into flames in the wind.  Picture lots of people running for their lives and flaming cloth blowing around and landing on bikes and cars, it was great!   The real shame is that Charlie and I were ready to receive our bowls of pasta with our hands out when the fire started on a halogen light about ten feet away.  The kitchen staff dropped our food and ran.  We also decided to get out of there in a hurry, but not so much to leave behind our dinner.

Stage 7: Zouerat to Tichit

Today’s a short liason and a 410 mile special in the sand and camel grass.  This is definitively a day for riding off-track, easy on the gas, the bike and my body.  I don’t make great time, but actually not much less than those guys fighting in the soft ruts of the established trail.  On the way, I see a Mitsubishi on its roof and witness a VW Toureg rolling over on the back side of a dune.  This is the best way to see the Rally, up close and personal.  A fellow KTM rider to the left misjudges a dune jump, and lands doing about 50mph on the front wheel.  I watch as he rides it for nearly 40 yards and slows quickly to give his heart a rest when the rear wheel finally sets down. 

Charlie has his share of problems, and I stop to help troubleshoot his non-running bike.  His heavy tools broke his subframe yesterday in the rocks, so he ditched most of them and he’s a bit stranded.  We swap ignition coils and spark plugs, but that has no effect.  He seems to have a fuel pump issue.  We reroute the gas lines and get it running.  As night falls, Charlie goes on ahead at a more aggressive pace than I’m willing to follow. 

At CP1 they give out only a limited amount of gas, 20 liters.  This seems fine to me, 404 KM to go on nearly a full tank.  Several of the other guys have burnt much more, and complain that it’s not enough.  It’s getting dark already, and several bikers are sleeping at the checkpoint. 

The organization folks at the check point tell me “don’t travel alone.”  I wonder if they fear for my life if I crash and can’t get to my Balise, are they concerned about kidnapping, or they just don’t like having us bikers scattered all about the desert.  Just then a rider approaches me and asks if I would like to ride with him.  “Sure, what’s your name?”  “Alone”  “I know you’re alone, what’s your name?”  “Yehezkel Alon is my name, I’m from Israel.”  I recognize him and bike as the front wheel wonder from earlier in the day (#209).  He comments that he recognizes me as the one who rides differently, off-trail.  I tell him I’m just lazy, and saving my strength.  After I strap on a helmet flashlight and my Mechanix Light Gloves, we’re off into the darkness. 

We travel another 50 km or so, and I show Alon the efficient way to climb and cross dunes.  We stop before one particularly big one, scattered with lights from several bikes and cars.  They are busy climbing, getting stuck, throwing sand, turning around, backing up, and generally having a miserable time.  I spot a seam over towards the left side of the dune, swing wide across the ruts, and head up diagonally on a virgin line.  Up and over, easy as that.  Alon follows, and then another two riders do the same. 

On the flat near back side of the dune, there’s a mini-bivouac: about twenty bikes and a quad.   Several strobe lights are blinking, and a few of the riders are huddled in their tattered space blankets, trying to sleep in the 50 mph wind and sand.  I chat it up with Simon Pavey (#102), a Brit who says he’s still recovering from his 10^th run at the previous soft hillside, and thanks me for showing him the easy line over the dune.  Simon attempts to connect with the ASO organization folks to get the story on this ride obviously gone bad.  We hear from several French riders that the stage for tomorrow is cancelled, and they have decided to camp out at this godforsaken place.  Simon confirms the ASO’s decision. 

Alon and I disagree about the camping spot, and head out to cover a little more ground and look for a more sheltered rest area.  Twenty or so km later, I spot a nice clump of camel grass with a cozy mini-dune to hide behind.  It’s a good shelter from the wind, and I dig into my tool kit to free my space blanket.  The lightweight silvery stuff immediately shreds in the wind, and I find it nearly impossible to unfold into something more useful than a cover for one leg.  That’s fine by me, and I almost don’t notice the rain falling on us in the high wind as I drift off to sleep. 

Before dawn, Alon and I are up.  After a shaking off the shivers, a quick snack and a drink, we’re off.  Dune crossing in the daylight is much better, and we make fairly good time.  I leave Alon alone, as he prefers the soft track to my sometimes rough off-track approach in the harder sand.  On the trail, I see the red car of Paul Round and son.  They are out of gas and tired from a full night of showing a “Need Gasoil” sign to any passing diesel race truck.  Fellow RallyRaidUK biker Mick Hughes is with them, nearly out of gas due to a rich running problem.  Paul is a car guy, and with all Mick’s tanks off, he asks me if I know anything about bikes.  I’ve never had these bikes apart either, but I spot a jammed choke cable and enrichener, largely because of Charlie’s earlier carb tuning issues.  We get the choke freed, and I head off to cover some distance. 

Soon after, I see other bikers out of gas on the trail.  I give a half liter to three guys, not really sure if they can go any distance with it.  A Belgian guy waves me down for a second time and says he just called ASO, and they have gas at CP3, which is only 5km away.  I make sure I understand him, and he cracks my quick disconnect dry-break for my left rear tank with his pliers after taking some gas.  Apologies abound, and I quickly leave him for CP3.  On the trail, without notice, my GPS signals that I have arrived at CP3, and advances to the next waypoint.  Another rider comes by and I ask him where’s the checkpoint?  “At the rider’s meeting, it’s been eliminated” he says, which is how I feel about my trust in fellow bikers on this rally.  I vow to keep all of my own gas, and stop to see how my broken dry-break is keeping the gas in.  It’s not, and I must stop to remove the left rear tank and drain it into the front before I loose it all.  It’s getting into the afternoon, and I’ve got to cover 260 more km before the end of this ride.  I see fellow RRUK riders Mick Hughes (#165) and Francisco Arredondo (#163) out of gas together, and we all agree that what gas I have just won’t get us all in.  Mick agrees to knock out the Belgian rider if he happens by. 

After more dunes, I do my best to find several waypoints deep in the rocks.  Near CP3, I approach a canyon with a narrow but obvious downhill sandy trail to the right, bound by steep rock walls.  I head down in that direction for about 50 yards, and notice very deep ruts and lots of water bottles on the steep sloped trail ahead.  Stop.  This is not an ideal place for a picnic.  Deep ruts like these are only made going up a slope, and water bottles means lots of shoveling and pushing of cars and trucks.  Then I remember what Charlie said about Zaniroli’s mean streak, and sending us down this steep, impossible to climb back up wrong turn looks like his signature.  I struggle to get the bike turned around, and head up the trail, noticing a riderless blue Yamaha bike in the rocks.  As I round a bend, I meet up with a few soldiers at what was the last checkpoint, who offer me a Coke and a water.  I take both, and try to understand the pleas of a very Italian rider without a bike.  He’s scribbling on the sand, and going on about an airport.  I say in English and French that I will help him, and he walks off down the slope, apparently satisfied.   Pierre Karsmaker also stops, but he has no room for the Italian in his car.  Most of the way down the mountain, I meet up with the Italian, and I offer to take him the last 10km to the airport in Tichit.  I’m tired, and sitting down on the sandy trail with this Italian riding on the back is no fun, but we make it.  Later, I hear later that he got an organization truck to go back up the mountain within an half hour, but his bike had already disappeared. 

Tichit is just a dusty airport in the desert.  I head for the gas stop, ask the guys to fill only three tanks, not the one with the leak, and then go for the food.  Its been 30 hours since my last real meal, and some OLN folks interview me as I try to find dinner and the roadbook to Tidjikja.  Soon they see my bike filled with gas, including the leaking tank, and wonder if I will burn to cinders before they finish the interview.  I discover that Charlie made it in early this morning, which is a Herculean effort.  Joe Barker, KTM USA manager, says there are probably only fifty people in the world who could have completed that ride in a day.  I’m glad my brother’s one of them, and not at all offended that he left me to ride the liaison in the daylight. 

As I wolf down some food and load my roadbook, Joe Barker (KTM USA manager), and Jordi Acarons (KTM Spain manager) offer to work on stopping my leaking tank, and suggest that I take it off and drain it into the others on the 180 mile “road” to Tidjikja.  Its getting dark, but I feel confident that I can do this road ride, what was Charlie thinking?  Joe Barker asks me if I feel ok, and also if I’m ok with riding in soft sand.  I thank him and Jordi for stopping the leak and tell him I’m good to go, wondering why the comment about me riding in the sand? 

Stage 8: Tichit to Tidjikja

I’ve got all night to catch up to the Rally, which is now in Tidjikja.  Ten minutes into the ride, I discover the reason for Joe’s question.  The “road” to Tidjikja is nothing more than a deep sandy trail with three foot high painted red and white poles every 2km or so.  Fellow RRUK rider Francisco got lost, stalled, and his bike failed to start near this place later that evening.  He pushed it 1km in the sand, and exhausted, stashed the bike in the bushes and walked only several km back to the airport.  Although he got a truck and rode back in minutes, he never saw his bike again, and his Dakar ride was over. 

I get off track, turned around, and lost several times in the night.  On the trail, I meet up with Toshio Higashi (#137), a Japanese rider that I have seen several times.  Hi signals that he’s ok, and I start to suggest that we ride together.  As I’m getting the words out, I see lights from two camions approaching fast behind us.  I wave, kick it into gear, and blast down the sandy road for all I’m worth.  I don’t want to fall behind these trucks in the night, because they’ll raise choking dust and rut the trail to make my life even more miserable.  I turn the dial to 11, gassing hard on straights and glance back every minute or so to gauge the trucks’ progress.  My light is still only great to about 30 feet in front of me, so I stand much to improve my chances of living.  I find myself laughing at several steep off camber drop off turns that I’m sure will have the truck drivers’ and navigators hearts’ in their mouths.  Meanwhile, I’m also terrified that if I fall in a soft corner, my feeble taillight will go out and the trucks will just mow over me without a blink.  Eventually, they catch me and stop for a break.  Several of the drivers get out to stretch and ask if I’m doing alright.  It’s comforting to know there are humans behind all the light, weight, and commotion, and we confer on the 100km or so distance to the bivouac.  I do my best to keep in sight of them for the remainder of the run.  After some minor confusion and backtracking, I arrive at Tidjikja after midnight to a happy and somewhat surprised Mikey and Zoli.  Charlie has since gone to sleep, and after a quick dinner, I do the same. 

Stage 9: Tidjikja to Atar

I’m up a little late this morning, a function of my late arrival last night.  Mikey has worked on the roadbook mounts some, and I choke down a quick breakfast.  I gas up the KTM and head over to the WC for a bathroom break before the 3km liason.  My aim is getting better with the hole in the ground, despite wearing knee braces and full battle gear.  However, the bathroom slide bolt doesn’t have a latch to retract, and I find myself trapped in the WC.  My bike is waiting just outside, and there’s only a few minutes to get to the start, 3km away.  I consider my options, helmet on and fully geared as I am, I punch and kick out the door ala the Hulk (or Underdog).  The ¼” plywood door comes apart in splinters, and the nice Arabian woman WC attendant cowers in fear at my forceful exit from the bathroom.  In a rush, I apologize at once to the scared woman, but I really have no time to do anything but get the bike started and ride away. 

I get a little lost on the 3km ride to the start, but I get checked in and stamped.  This 225 mile special is bumpy and rocky at first, and the repaired roadbook holder mounts begin to disintegrate early on.  I stop, get out some zip ties, and do my best to keep it together.  Alon stops to see that I’m ok, and heads off.  I get back on the trail, pass Alon, and ride behind Toshio for a while, until he just disappears?  I slow down slightly, my front wheel suddenly buries in the deep sand and I go over the bars.  I stand, and see my bike also standing, stalled in the soft sand.  Toshio’s tracks go over a blind drop off, and he’s at the bottom of a 15 foot cliff.  He waves, ok, but a little banged up, pushing his bike off of him.  I get my bike going again and think about the fragility of our presence here.  At any moment, the sand can drop away and punish a rider or driver to end his ride, or his life. 

Multiple dune crossings follow, and I notice Ludivine, the Green Euromaster girl stuck on a nearby dune.  She gets off, and another rider from a red bike hops on and rides her bike through a tough section.  I’m busy digging out my bike, and miss the opportunity to take a photo of this decidedly rare and possibly illegal event.  Near the end of the day, I get stuck in the soft sand after following two tracks of a car.  I spend about 15 minutes digging and pushing, and eventually make it back to the truck rutted main trail.  It’s getting late, so I force myself to gut it out, dabbing in the ruts for the remainder of the ride. 

Atar Rest Day

Not much to report here, except sleeping late and catching up with fellow riders.  I’m glad to see so many have made it, and concerned that 51 riders dropped out in the mess that was Stage 8 and 9.   The three Broomwagon trucks are filled with bikes, and many riders are still out in the desert.  I catch up with Canadian Bob Bergman (#76), who is a privateer maintaining his own bike.  I’m amazed at the effort required to get even the little things done, like tire changes and setting up tents.  I’m so thankful that Mikey and Zoli are supporting us, and I don’t think I would have made it this far without them. 

Stage 10: Atar to Atar

This one’s a quick liason, a 300 mile loop, and another liason back to the airport in Atar.  I feel good that Mikey and Zoli don’t have to break camp.  They need a rest.  The terrain is a mix of sandy, rocky, and fast sections.  At 113km, the trail opens up wide, with rolling sandy terrain.  The wind is blowing hard, exposing four to six inch wide sharp rocks in a sandy bed.  Visibility is not too good, and at 115km, I take my first fall at speed.  I am on the pegs, carrying the front wheel over the rocky whoops, and I mistime one. 

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