Sorting the men from the boys

6 JANUARY 2005 – SORTING THE MEN FROM THE BOYS

Zouerat to Tichit (669 kms)

Liaison 9 kms
Special 660 kms

Note – Click here for the CMG Dakar Glossary (just in case you don’t understand some of the terminology used).

From the moment I saw the route when it was first published in November, I knew this was going to be the day. Traditionally the organizers plan a few very difficult days, just before the rest day, to separate the men from the boys. By tonight, I would know whether I was a man or a boy!

The first 70 kms of the stage was the end of yesterday’s stage, run in reverse. As a result, it was very rutted from the trucks and far more difficult than it was the day before.

I soon passed one of the section’s previous casualties – an Aprilia sidecar outfit, which had been abandoned yesterday and was already becoming a sand dune itself.

This stage had the same trick as the day before: a hidden waypoint on the far side of a difficult dune crossing. I’m a quick learner and now knew not to simply follow the GPS arrow. I stopped and rolled the road book forward to the notes for the waypoint. Based on the compass bearings it showed, the correct path to the waypoint was going to take a huge semi circular path to the right.

I let the other riders go straight into the dunes while I hung a sharp right, heading away from the waypoint. After only a minute or two later the dunes to my left shrunk in size to the point where you could ride between them – on firm ground. Using the correct compass bearings instead of just simply following the GPS, I quickly found my way to the other side of the dunes and to the waypoint we were all searching for. Success.

The leader does all the work!Photo: Maindru Photo

I followed a stony piste for a short while before taking a sharp right into no-man’s land. The next 500 kms were “Hors piste” (off road). After a taste of camel grass and a few small dune crossings, the terrain changed to very fast, hard packed sand. I began to see riders in the distance, and I gradually caught and passed them.

Now I had become the leader of a small freight train, and I was doing all the work! Another lesson learned: it was easy to go fast when you had a rabbit to show you where – and more importantly where not – to go. It didn’t take long for me to figure this out and I rolled off the throttle and pretended to fiddle with something on the bike – allowing the peloton to pass me by.

Once by, I sped up again and tucked in at the back, “Tour du France” style.

CALLING FOR ENCOURAGEMENT

It was midday by the time we reached the “passé de Gallaouiya” – a narrow pass that was the only way up onto a plateau where the first CP and refuelling station was located. This little valley was full of rocks of all sizes that lay in a bed of very soft sand and was proving extremely difficult to ride in. Even the smallest mistake could mean the end of your rally.

A sidecar outfit heads for the refueling station.Photo: Maindru Photo

By the time I finally reached the CP – only a few kilometres away – the bike was badly beaten. All it took was one bobble (a small rock had kicked out the front wheel from under me), pitching the bike into the rocks and ripping out its soft underbelly. The side of the fairing was smashed to pieces and both front and rear tanks were badly gouged up. That’s not going to help when it comes to selling the bike back home!

The riding proved to be progressively difficult, with the finish of the stage being the hardest. It alternated between camel grass and dune crossings – both very soft. While in the dunes I prayed for the camel grass to return, in the camel grass I couldn’t wait for the dunes.

At the second CP and refuelling station, the sand was so soft that when we stopped to have our time cards stamped, everyone would get stuck up to the axles. We still had 263 kms of sand to go until the end, but for some reason the fuel attendants were rationing fuel and didn’t want to let us completely top up.

I had filled my bike to the brim at the last fuel stop, and had a fair bit left, so it wasn’t a big issue for me. But it turned out to be a big problem for others and I later learned that there were punches thrown by the competitors when told of the rationing.

There was only a half an hour of light left when I departed the CP and I was now completely exhausted. I was falling more and more frequently and growing so fatigued that I began having trouble picking up the bike … and when I did, I was seeing stars. There was still about 200 kms to go and it was becoming apparent that I might not make it. I knew that they were going to try to get rid of riders like me today and it appeared that their plan was coming together, right on schedule.

Falling off is exhausting.Photo: Maindru Photo

After yet another tumble, I left my bike lying on its side, sat down on a little tuft of camel grass, and as the tears rolled down my cheeks, called my wife on the satellite phone. She had been following along on the Internet and told me that only 9 bikes had made it so far and that there was talk of cancelling the stage and to … just keep going.

That was all fine and dandy but I could barely function, how would I ride 200 kms of camel grass? To put it in perspective, she told me about the Tsunami that had recently devastated south-east Asia and how they had just found a survivor in the middle of the ocean who had been clinging to a tree for the last week. She told me that if he could do that, then I could do this.

She was right, I was starting to feel a little pathetic and my self-inflicted problems seemed kind of pointless compared to the mammoth scale of suffering that was occurring in south-east Asia.

Then I heard the sound of another 660 Rallye coming over the dune behind me, and as l turned around to look, the bike plopped down in the sand beside mine. I quickly said goodbye to Sharon and, as the moto pilot dusted himself off, I helped him pick up his bike.

He then looked at me, and in a heavy accent said, “I’m so tired.” He was an Estonian and looked about as bad as I felt. We commiserated for a few minutes and made a pact that we would help each other get through this. He helped me pick up my bike and we set off to tackle the dunes ahead – together.

INTO THE DARKNESS

“I’m so tired” – Bob’s Estonian friend.Photo: Maindru Photo

It wasn’t long before it was completely dark and the HID lights that shone so bright at home now seemed completely useless. You couldn’t see the tops of the ubiquitous dunes or where the good lines were anymore. The only saving grace was that by now the cars were starting to catch us, allowing us to observe their lines before we would make our own attempt at the 60 to 70-foot high monsters.

But by now I was starting to feel like I had more energy, I had eaten while I was talking on the phone and realized that I must have started to hit the wall, which was why I was so tired and confused. I was starting to think maybe I would make it after all.

Good things never last long on the Dakar though. I had only covered about 10 kms in the last hour of darkness and I had already lost my Estonian friend. I soldiered on, meeting up with different riders and stopping to help them if they needed it. The race had now turned into a test of survival and we were all fighting this together.

I rode for a while with a French man, Etienne, whose battery was dead and needed a jump-start anytime he stalled it. He was very grateful that I would stop to jump him when he needed it, and affectionately called me “Bobbie”, even though my bike and helmet said ”Bob”. We too were eventually separated. I next met up and rode with Simon Pavey – a Brit on a BMW 650 – but it wasn’t long before I lost him as well.

Companions seemed to emerge and then disappear again into the darkness. Then, as I crested a dune, I saw what looked to be an easier route. It turned out to be exactly the opposite – a trap – and I fell into a 50-foot hole of fine dust. That was it – no-one knew where I was, and now my bike was refusing to start. How would I ever get out of this by myself?

Another “Look, Bob’s really, really tired” shot.Photo: Sharon McCrindle

I turned on my headlamp and wandered around to assess my predicament. I discovered that I wasn’t completely at the bottom of the hole, just on the side. If I could get the bike to start, I could point it downhill, build up some momentum and get out.

It turned out the starter button had sand in it – getting in the way of the contacts. After I unclogged it, I dragged the bike around so it pointed downhill, and fired it up. I revved the motor to blow out all the sand that had filled up the exhaust pipes, and then stuck it in gear. Down, deeper into the hole I went, before turning to run around the sides, all the while building up speed. It felt like I was being flushed down a giant toilet, but I was gaining height with each circle until I finally popped over the top – to freedom!

The Dakar hadn’t beaten me yet.

I crossed a few more dunes, before stopping on the crest of a large one to scout the way down. Off in the distance I could see some strange metallic flickering that I thought warranted some investigation. At the bottom of the dune was one of the Shlesser buggies – completely buried – the occupants with shovels in hand. I opted to ride down the side of the dune, steering clear of the buggy … and the hole it was in.

The flickering turned out to be emergency blankets, encircled by about 15 bikes, all parked like wagons. There was the Estonian, Etienne, Simon Pavey and a whole bunch more. Someone had been in contact with the organizers who had told them to stay put and come in the following morning.

There were obviously some Dakar vets in this group who knew more than me and I was happy to be with them, as well as some new friends. Etienne, grateful for my help earlier, dug me a little hole on the leeward side of him and I crawled in – helmet, boots and all. Sleep came instantly.

Next day …