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.  The rear of the bike swaps three times, one time too many according to Alfie Cox, and I consider his advice just to get off.  There are too many rocks, so I stay with the bike.  I gas it and low side, and as I go down, my right foot catches some of the rocks and spins it sharply.  I swear at myself as I limp over to the bike and right it. 

The numbness that comes with the adrenaline rush of crashing is starting to wear off, and as I fire up the bike, ride off, and try to stand on the pegs, I realize that this is not just a little twist.  I’m in a lot of pain, and I try my best to sit, or stand with most of my weight on the left peg.  Getting hurt like this is exactly the thing I didn’t want to do.  I know I’m an inferior rider to most out here, handicapped with little sand riding experience.  I was counting on standing for most of the race, riding a bit off-trial to save energy and just gut it out in the rough.  Not being able to stand without serious pain is a significant threat to my completing this rally.

Dunes in the mid-day are no fun, and I fall several times.  Dabbing on the right is out of the question.  I remember how Charlie lost gas after a fall last year, and make every effort to right the bike quickly after each fall.  I try to use only my left leg to lift, but this thing’s a monster.  Painful as it is, right leg’s got to help too.  I welcome the late day chott, which is nearly flat and fast.  I pull into Atar, and give the news to Mikey and Zoli.  Mikey helps get my boot off, comments on my increased foot size, and I hobble to the medical tent. 

Here’s a place I don’t want to be for long.  A quick survey around: a guy is reclining outside near the doorway with a full leg cast on the right and another smaller one on the left.  Another rider with a sling tells me he opened a six inch gash in his arm on the rocks and although it had only been several hours, the doctors identified an infection brewing from the sand, and told him he could not continue.  Inside, several riders with IV’s are attended to by nurses and doctors.  This looks like the end of the road for all of these guys, and I only hope I’m not joining them.  I get an X-ray from an association doctor, who says I have severe ligament damage, but no break.  “Do I want to continue?”  Emphatically yes!  He wraps it up with a cold pack, gives me another one, and says if I can get my foot in my boot in the morning, don’t take it off until I reach Dakar. 

Stage 11: Atar to Kiffa

I didn’t sleep much last night.  I tried to pack up all of my gear at the end of the tent and elevate my foot, but the pain and swelling haven’t really abated.  After breakfast, I struggle to get my gear on, gingerly snaking a sock over my right foot.  Now the business.  Thankfully the BMW GS-1 boots are more flexible than most, and I am able to cram in my foot with much pain and only a little swearing.  I sit for a minute on my airplane box to recover, pop a few more Aleve pills, and go for the bike.  Today’s ride is a short liason, a 285 mile special, and a 200km liason to Kiffa.  Organization folks shortened the ride 200km due to sandstorms, terrorists, or some other reason…I’m happy. 

To put it bluntly, this was the most harrowing and painful day of my life.  I do my best to be smart in the dunes, riding and crossing where others haven’t yet traveled.  My biggest challenge is riding in the truck ruts.  The camions have been moving up the ranks of the four wheeled vehicles, and the front runners pass me earlier than any other day.  I fall and pick up the bike about thirty five times today.  Each fall has its own challenges.  Sometimes it’s just a tip over in the two foot deep ruts.  Other times it’s the soft sand that sucks up the front end, and I go over the bars.  I have to dig it out, tip the bike on its side, kick sand in the wheel holes, right the bike, fire up in first gear, and push the bike to harder ground.   Besides hobbling around, my foot doesn’t like the pushing part.  The worst is a right side fall when I should have dabbed, but just can’t.  My right leg is a little numb from the pain, and I can’t get it off the peg in time.  A little screaming and tugging is necessary to get my leg out from under the bike, and I often need a minute or so to recover.   

For similar reasons, I have some trouble controlling the rear brake (right side foot).  So I don’t cartwheel down the steep backside of a dune, I’m conservative and come up short on many of the dune crossings.  Depending on how close I am, I either pull the front end around backwards, head down, and make another run at the slope; or try to pull the bike over the crest of the dune and head down the opposite side.  Pulling the heavy bike around on its side is exhausting, and I find the need to stop on the backside of one dune after righting the bike.  I’m near the top, holding the bike upright, when the wind and weight of the bike overcomes my weak condition and sends it down on top of me.  I fall out of the way, and it slides sideways by me and down the steep slope, bars and seat first, upside down.  I gather up all of my energy to chase it to the bottom as I know the precious “essence” is leaking out, and I don’t really know how much I need to complete the day. 

The falls in the sand take their toll on my start switch, which is a momentary kill switch from some other bike.  It’s definitely not sand proof, and often temperamental.  During the afternoon, it stops working altogether.  With no backup kickstarter, I know this is a potential show stopper.  So I cut and strip the wires, and pray that I can tape them up to connect the wires and get the bike running again.  I’m happy it works, but a little afraid that I can’t reach the throttle now to crank and clear the bike if it happens to flood when I crash.  I haven’t got three hands, so I’ll have to do with what I have and hope for no more upside-down tipovers.   

The last 80km to CP2 are in the dark.  Mikey did a great job of installing an HID light, but I still can’t get it adjusted to show anything but thirty feet in front of me.  I take my time and find the checkpoint in the 50 to 60 mph wind.  I roll over to the gas stop, where I lean against the heavy but still swaying in the wind, six wheel support truck and set my alarm for one hour’s rest.  The gas guys wrap a carpet around me to shield me from the wind.  After an hour of sleep, I wake to the sound of Ennio Cucurachi’s bike, an Italian rider who timed out of the event last year with Charlie.  I try not to consider this an omen, and after he gasses up and rests for 10 minutes, we decide to follow a race car in the gusty wind for the 260km liason to Kiffa.   The wind is so strong, for two hours I watch Ennio’s taillight being pushed across the centerline from edge of pavement on each side of the potholed road.  I’m struggling in the same way.  This is a fitting ending to the worst day of my life, and I’m glad its over. 

Stage 12: Kiffa to Bamako

Yesterday we were informed of Fabrizio Meoni’s (#4) death.  Today’s stage was cancelled, as many of the top riders and teammates were just not up to competing.  I’m surprised, but not shocked at the news.  This is dangerous business, and it’s more surprising to me that there aren’t more casualties, considering the quantity of near-death situations I’ve experienced over the past week, and the higher speeds at which the professionals ride in these conditions.  

On a lighter note, human side, Pedro Uriarte (#91), a fellow RRUK rider, recalls a story from his ride yesterday.  Apparently, at about 60mph, a donkey stepped out in his path.  Riding too fast to avoid it, Pedro just stepped off the bike and tumbled, no damage.  He walks back to his bike and sees absolute carnage.  The donkey was sectioned in two by the bike, which is now suffering from a broken fairing and a good plastering of donkey innards.  He rode it back and pulled out his credit card:  $1,400 later he has a new fairing and an African donkey covered souvenir. 

Today, I tried my best to keep my foot elevated, per direction of ASO doctors.  We get an airplane ride which is hell, as the foot swells big when not in a boot or above my body.  Bamako is a relatively quiet bivouac next to the airport, and I rest well following a spin by the medical tent for some cold packs. 

Stage 13: Bamako to Kayes

Today’s ride is a 130 mile liason, a 230 mile special, and a short, 58 mile liason.  The special is on more firm ground, for which I am thankful.  There are lots more villages, and I’m confused about when to slow to the required 50 km per hour.  I slow for all villages, and often get passed by cars or bikes who aren’t bothered by this regulation.  No matter, I’m in a lot of pain, and welcome a reason to sit on the seat and get off my leg. 

On the final liaison, I meet up with Charlie.  There are several four to six foot deep dips in the road, like the vados in Baja.  One of these catches me by surprise, and I slide on my bad side.  After the fall, I realize that I tagged Charlie’s rear wheel, and he went down too.  I’m only a little road rashed on my elbow and hip, but I feel horrible that I took out my brother.  He didn’t fare as well, and his bike did worse.  After a photo and a few minutes of recovery, we see that his wiring harness is damaged, and I tow him back to the bivouac.  Mikey is pleased to see us, and apparently unphased about Charlie’s bike damage.  He gets right to work, as Charlie and I go for another visit with the ASO doctors.  Luckily, its just a sprinkling of iodine this time. 

Stage 14: Kayes to Tambacounda

This ride is a relatively short liaison and a 330 mile special.   The terrain is mostly silty sandy with lots of traps.  Holes in the trail are difficult to see and dangerous.  In the silt, talented Irish rider Gary Ennis was passed by a race car without Sentinel alarm or any other warning.  He was blinded by the dust, and fell into a three foot deep hole at speed.  Gary’s leg was broken, and he was soon airlifted out, so close to the finish.  I met up with Simon Pavey at the incident, who with Charlie, helped stabilize Gary for his helicopter ride.  

Stage 15: Tambacounda to Dakar

A 67 mile liason, 140 mile special, and a 150 mile liason to Dakar!  The special of the day was silty, sandy and loose trail that didn’t suit my bad leg.  I rode off-trail for most of the day, suffering only minor getting lost time.  The terrain was gently rolling and sometimes grassy, a “golf course ride”, compared to what we had been through.  The second liason was long and hot, and I stopped to give a fellow rider some of my energy bars at a gas stop.  It was entertaining riding, as we happened on what must be Senegalese Goat Day.  At most open roadside areas there were markets showing off thousands of goats (actually short haired ram sheep, but what do I know?).  Cars and vans had sheep stashed everywhere, trunks, roofs, hoods, even in back seats.  Knowing how poorly my wife receives a new snowmobile or motorcycle in the barn, I can only imagine the ribbing those Senegalese men got upon arriving at the doorstep with yet another six or eight sheep.  “But honey…they were a bargain!”  “What, are you crazy? We have so many already!”  “Sure, but these are newer and much better! Just look at them, they’re beautiful!”  I honestly don’t know how they use those animals.  But if they eat them, I’m sure the Senegalese have the heartiest appetite for sheep of any nation. 

As you can expect, we’re elated to be in Dakar.

Last  Day:

This morning was an early one.  I awake at around 3am to mosquitoes biting me.  I’m groggy, but remember Simon taking his malaria pills during the last half of the ride.  I try my best to smack these little buggers before they give me a souvenir that may act now or lay dormant in my bloodstream for several years eventually producing a “fever and flu-like illness, kidney failure, seizures, mental confusion, coma, and death.”  At dawn, Charlie comments on his bites, we discuss the incubation period, and conclude that it’s at least long enough to permit completion of the ride today, and that’s all we really care about. 

Charlie, Mikey and I stumble into the posh Meridian hotel in search of breakfast.  We follow “Dakar Breakfast” signs to the lower floor only to find that this one’s a closed event, and we’re not invited.  Such is the life of a privateer.   We head back upstairs to the main restaurant and have a breakfast in more than civilized surroundings.  I try to resist grabbing armfuls of food and pounding down consecutive glasses of juice, a shameful but necessary habit I’ve developed over the past two weeks.  We pay the bill and head out to the parking lot. 

The bikes have been stripped of GPS and one odometer, and I feel a little vulnerable without them.  I head to the start of the liason, and joke with a nearby rider who has had his riding gear drycleaned and pressed, and his bike washed and waxed.  He strikes a superhero pose for me, and we head off into the crowded city streets to the last special.  On the way, the superhero misjudges traction on an oily roundabout, and goes down at about 30 mph.  He slides on the pavement and his bike spins on its newly polished side to the gravel shoulder.  I pull in behind him to prevent any further damage from the bustling traffic.  He gets up, not too hurt, and shakes off the gravel now imbedded in his not so superhero uniform.  As Charlie says, “the ground was jealous.” 

The end of the liason is a 1 mile run on a small trail through small dunes to the beach.  The sand has become soft and deeply rutted due to the throngs of fans and big tired truck traffic on this narrow stretch.  Many bikes and even association and press crew trucks are stuck here, only several hundred yards from the start of the special.  I pad through to the start on a soft beach.  We’re instructed to line up the bikes in rows of 24, starting with the backmarkers like me.  I pick a spot about six bikes up from the water, with the idea of getting a holeshot in the harder sand.  We’ve got about an hour to wait, and Charlie and I head to the shade of a Broom Wagon, with hopes that we won’t be needing its services today.  We watch as more fan-packed jeeps and big tired trucks head down the beach, and wonder how much more rutted this sand can become. 

As Charlie and I wait, the ocean now becomes jealous, and the tide quietly advances.  Ten minutes before the start, a wave hits the lower bikes, and about ten go down.  Mine falls only on the next uphill bike, but goggles and gloves are washed into the water.  I dig out my extra set of each from my backpack.  There’s a comical panic of bikers, running to right bikes down in the water, and local kids diving into the surf to retrieve floating gear.  I find it hard to control myself, laughing as I limp down to the bike, find my soggy goggles and gloves, and move the bike to higher ground (sand).  There’s no room on the line for me, and I run the bike up to the back wheels of two other riders.  I ask in broken French if they will move aside when we finally approach the start line.  They don’t understand me, and when the flare comes out to advance us to the line before the start, I realize that we’re already racing. 

The 10km run down the beach is a joy, and I toy with the waves near the water to avoid the deep truck ruts.  The right hander into the dunes is ominous, as crowds of tourists and photographers sit on the “dunettes” beside the established but well-rutted trail.  They’re after photos of bikes crashing, and I’m not giving today.  I can’t ride in the deep sand ruts in my condition, so instead I blast up the dunettes alongside the trail in search of firmer ground.  It’s like chasing pigeons on Boston Common.  Photographers and tourists scatter to avoid getting railroaded by the big KTM, sweet justice for all those times the photographers have camped out at the worst dune crossings or rocky oueds (sand washes).  Although my hands are completely numb from deathgrip on the bars by 16km, I confess to myself that I’m having fun.  The last 10km is flat and fast around Lake Rose, and then I see the beacon that is the finish. 

Handshakes and hugs abound, and I wait for Charlie to accompany me to the podium.  Its hot, and Millie from Rally Raid donates her hat to the cause.  After a Zaniroli handshake, and a photo shoot or two, Charlie and I have a snack and a few beers with the boys and catch up with fellow riders.  We wait until all race vehicles have crossed the finish and the podium festivities complete before the “Parade” ride back to the Meridian Hotel.  We bikers fall in behind two organization vehicles, who get stuck in traffic one too many times.  A race car blasts by us on the wrong side of the road, and the parade disintegrates into lane splitting madness back to the Meridian.  On the way, I’m treated to wheelies, stoppies, and even some backwards facing wheelies by some of the more skilled nuts I’ve come to be associated with during this event. 

Ride Home:

After the “parade”, Charlie, Mikey, Zoli, and I pack up, steal a shower from Kellon Walch’s Red Bull-KTM financed top floor hotel room, check boxes into the airport and head for the final Rally Raid UK dinner in town.  On the first leg of the flight, I reflect on the relationships gained with riders; PAi, Top Oil and other sponsors; and Charlie’s persistent efforts to assemble all the parts to make this happen.  In Paris, we say our goodbyes and I settle down for a four hour layover before my trip to Boston.  I notice a few massage chairs on my slow walk, and remember how RRUK’s Mick Extance (#53) raved about how good he felt following a treatment in the medical tent by a Swedish masseuse at around Day 9.  So, I pony up 15 euros for ten minutes of elbows in my back and more pain and suffering that I soon regret. 

At the final security check, two attractive French girls (are there any other kind after a sixteen day race in the desert?) manning the X-ray machine pull me aside and point to the screen showing a round dark spot in my back pack.  “Que-c’est que ce, monsieur?”  It’s a medal.  “Je ne comprend pas, monsieur.”  My numb fingers dig out the brass paperweight that Patrick Zaniroli gave me and all other finishers of the 2005 Dakar.   Their eyes grow wide, then many apologies and congratulations follow.  I thank them quietly, and hobble to my gate, starting to realize the how good I feel about completing this effort, and wondering how I can ever top this.  Charlie, I know 2006 is my turn.  Please be patient, its going to take me some time to come up with something.