February 5th, 2005

Rally 2005: Dave's Foggy Recollection

by Dave Rauseo

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 (eighth 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 liaison 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 tench 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.   

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 liaison, a 230 mile special, and a short, 58 mile liaison.  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, it's 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.