To El (Borma) and back
By Steve Eversfield paula.eversfield@virgin.net
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At last, here I was, on the dockside in Nice, sitting on my bike, waiting for my turn to start this year's Tunisia Rally. I reflected on what an awful lot of time and effort it had taken to get me to this point since I had signed up some 5 months previously. Changing bikes, acquiring licences, obtaining medical certificates, getting authorities to do this that and the other, fitting up the bike with navigation and safety equipment, and naturally all this involved the handing over of money, lots of it. Towards the end of the preparations I gave up being concerned about it, I felt it would be a lot easier if I filled up a supermarket trolley with ten pound notes and just asked people to grab a handful.
It was probably best that I put that behind me now, I had 3510 kilometres to get through over the next 10 days, not including the 28km Prologue which I was about to start. The Prologue in all these type of events is held to give the general public a chance to look at the vehicles taking part, and to give a starting order when the rally proper began.
A drive through the crowded streets of Nice took me to a patch of waste ground where a 2km track had been bulldozed. Giant floodlights lit up the course and about 4000 spectators jostled for position to get a good view of the proceedings. Competitors were sent off in pairs at two minute intervals, I arrived to find that I had about a 2 hour wait before it was my turn. Feeling decidedly apprehensive I walked to the edge of the track to see what it looked like. After a couple of minutes I realised that there was a tall blond man standing next to me talking animatedly into a mobile phone in English. "Fred, where are you….on the bus! OK, yes, I see it…on my way out….see you there." I recognised that voice from somewhere, so I turned to look at his face, ah yes, of course I recognised the voice, it was Ari Vaatanan, former World Rally Champion and winner of the Paris-Dakar on countless occasions. Ari and I dodged a couple of bikes and dashed over to the infield; me to see what the course looked like, Ari to find Fred on the bus, which was also serving as the grandstand.
When my turn came I found myself up lined up against Trudi, the only British lady that was taking part in the event. Trudi is a good rider, she beat me very easily in the previous year's Welsh two day, but that was on a 125, this time she was on a KTM 400. More powerful than my Kawasaki KLX 300 for sure, but having spent two days in a van driving down to Nice with her I knew that she was not confident about handling the larger bike. Anyway, for the pair of us speed was not an issue, keeping it upright and getting it round was, neither of us wanted to entertain the 4000 onlookers by picking our bikes up out of the dirt.
The starter dropped his flag and off we went, carefully. The course wasn't difficult, a few left and right turns, a jump for those going fast enough, a couple of puddles, then the chequered flag. I crossed the line looking for Trudi, was she ahead or behind me? I turned round to see her finish some 10 seconds after me. Whatever else happened I knew that I wasn't last.
After the prologue was over a group of six of us rode back through Nice, along the seafront, then straight on to the waiting car ferry that was to take us to Sardinia. With the bikes secured we made our way up to our cabins into which we had put our personal equipment earlier in the day, then it was off to the restaurant for a buffet lunch. Very civilised this off-road Rallying I thought, very civilised indeed.
Next morning we disembarked in the Sardinian port of Puerto Torres. The results of the previous nights Prologue showed that I had indeed not come last, in fact 21 riders separated me from the bottom of the pile. It was also true that a further 168 separated me from the top, but so far I was having fun, so frankly I couldn't give a damn.
Day one proper started with an 154km on road liaison stage, followed by a 68km special and ending up with another 162km liaison to get us to Alghero on the other side of the island, where we would stay in a hotel for the night. This first day would give us new boys a chance to get to get to grips with the nuances of rally navigation. The two primary tools used are the road book and the ICO tripmeter. Every day we were issued with a road book; for the bikers this came in the form of roll of paper. This roll of paper was loaded into the bike mounted road book reader and rolled on as you came to and passed each landmark or change in direction. Each landmark was given its distance from the start, a diagrammatical indication of which direction to go in, and finally, further written information, in French of course.
An easy one could read "102.5, show a crossroads with an arrow pointing to the right, AD". This meant that at 102.5kms turn right at the crossroads, AD as all you French will scholars know, is an abbreviation for "a droit", go right.
A more difficult one could have multiple symbols and shorthand instructions like: E3 "etroit" narrow, MVS "mauvais" bad, TDSPP "tout droit sur piste principale" go straight on main track.
In combination with the road book reader, you had to make sure that the ICO tripmeter was synchronised with the distances being shown. The ICO is nothing more than an expensive cycle computer, except for its ability to be adjusted on the move. When you came to an unmistakable landmark, like a bridge, or a crossroads, if the road book said 20.6km and your ICO said 20.1, you bumped the ICO up to the road book number using the handlebar mounted up/down switch.
As starter number 169 I set off on the liaison knowing that I had two and a half hours to travel 154km (just under 100 miles), I also knew that I had to find fuel pretty soon. In all the excitement of the previous day I had overlooked the fact that Sardinia is Italian territory and would therefore deal in the currency of Italy, which, as we all know is Lira. I had plenty of French Francs, a decent collection of plastic, but no Lira. The road book indicated that there were 3 fuel stations in the first 40kms, fuel from any of these would do me fine. I stopped at the first, no credit cards accepted, likewise at the second, it all depended on the third. A lovely large BP sign appeared at the distance shown in the road book, together with an array of self-service pumps and an impressive list of acceptable credit cards. I filled up and mentally made note of the fact that I had to get some Lira soon, cash was the only way to get round this island.
Fiscal salvation came in the form of another petrol station some 80kms further on. Seeing a large group of fellow competitors stopped there I pulled in to see what was happening. Plenty of fuel was being distributed, and it was being paid for in Francs! The attendant pointed to my tank, I nodded, and he filled it up. "Francs?" I said to him, he nodded agreeably and to my surprise he produced a copy of the days newspaper. Turning to the back page he pointed to the exchange rates. I gave him 200 Francs, he pulled a calculator out, worked out the how much it was worth, subtracted the cost of the fuel and gave me the change in Lira, enough to allow me to buy the remainder of fuel that I needed in Sardinia. With a pocketful of the local currency I completed the remaining distance to get me to the start of the first special stage.
Refuelling twice, and changing the money, had left me with little spare time when I arrived at the first special. There was a definite increase in tension and frenetic activity as I checked in to join the line of riders waiting for their start time to arrive. We would leave in pairs every 30 seconds; noise and dust hung in the air as each pair of bikes set off on the 68km hillside dirt road journey that was to be the first timed special.
The pair in front departed and the countdown began for me and the 620 KTM on my right. Five fingers, four fingers, three, two one, GO! We both roared off towards the first corner, neck a neck, elbows out jostling for position, it was the same round the second and third bends. Come the fourth the KTM dropped half a bike length and I was ahead. But before I could congratulate myself too much the pair who had started 30 seconds after tore past me. I hung on to their tails for a few corners then I came to my senses. This was stupid, I would never last another 66kms at this pace, I would either be absolutely exhausted or I'd miss a corner, slide off the road, down a hill and impale myself into an olive tree.
I slowed down, contemplating the fact that I had not ridden any substantial distance off road for some five month's, and this effectively was the first off-road ride that I'd made on the KLX.
Now that I was not riding on the raggedy edge of control I could concentrate on my (lack of) technique and respond to the local inhabitants who seemed to be on every corner. Most would cheer and wave as you approached, and would cheer even more if you waved back. The younger element would hold both their arms out in front of them as if they were holding onto handlebars, and then jerk them upwards. They wanted you to do wheelies. Most of the wheelies that I've ever done have been unintentional so I was unable to oblige, but so many kids did this that I came to the conclusion that what they really wanted to see was an off-road unicycle race.
Apart from one excursion off the track I made it to the end without major incident, I passed a few, a few passed me, but I was in one piece. After resetting the ICO I set off on the days final 162km liaison stage taking me to Alghero.
The two hour journey before the end of the days riding began to highlight how damned uncomfortable off-road bike seats are to sit on for any length of time. After a very short while of using the symmetrical two cheek position you find yourself looking for some form of relief. Standing up is one option, as is moving forward or back in the saddle. Moving to the asymmetric one cheek position also gives some brief respite, and of course you have a choice of cheeks, but by and large you have to accept that long distances on the road will not be made in the height of comfort. For the last 50kms to Alghero I took my mind off of the pain in my arse by riding road-racer style, that is hanging off the bike at each corner.
At long last the destination hove into view and, after a drive through a moped infested town, I found myself at another dockside. After checking in and collecting my roadbook for the next day, I eventually came to a relieved halt at my assistance truck.
Nick and Steve were providing assistance to eight of us. For £800 per person they would transport a bike and rider from England to the start in Nice, perform routine maintenance on each bike at the finish of each day's stage, and transport the bikes and riders back home from Marseilles when the rally finished.
My bike needed no attention so I sat down and talked to Mike, a fast talking second hand car dealer from Cornwall. Mike was an extremely competent rider but I had my doubts about his stamina. A large beer belly hung over his moto-cross jeans and he seemed to have a funny idea about what this event was all about. He complained bitterly that there was no refreshments available at the end of the special stage and was somewhat taken aback when I suggested that he ought carry some fluid on him, like the rest of us did, in a camelback or water bottle.
After everybody had checked in we headed off for the hotel, which was on the other side of Alghero. By now it was getting dark, I switched my lights on and followed the throng across town. It was only when I arrived at the hotel that I realised that my bike did need some attention after all. Both of my rear lights were out. The rules of the rally stated that as well as the standard rear light you had to have an additional 21Watt dust light, this was to help cars and bikes coming from behind to see you. I had my additional light fitted by the same shop that had fitted my navigation equipment, the shop was run by the most experienced and successful rally rider in Britain. Four of the five bulbs in the tail light assembly had vibrated themselves to destruction. Luckily my assistance van had some spares; as well as replacing the bulbs they secured them against vibration with a squirt of silicon sealant. I'll have to pass this tip onto the shop (ha!).
After a meal of pasta we trooped off to our rooms to get an early night, Mike the car dealer was horrified when he heard that breakfast was at 04:00 and the first bike would be away at six. This was not the trail biking holiday he had hoped for.
Now in a heady 156th position, some 13 places higher than when I started, I left the start line just as it started to get light. The liaison to the start of the special was 268kms and we had five and a half hours to get there. The road hugged the coastline for the first 50kms and was pleasantly warm, but as soon as it turned inland it got cold. I stopped at a garage to get some spare bulbs. The garage attendant was most helpful and enthusiastically tried to engage me in conversation about the rally, but if my French is basic, my Italian is non-existent. Thanking him for sorting out some bulbs for me with my one word Italian vocabulary I set off after the other bikes that had been streaming by.
After a fairly mundane journey of 150kms, highlighted only by the adrenaline injecting high of going into a unlit 2km long road tunnel without lights and wearing dark tinted goggles (scary!), the road moved into the hills. Well, the road went into the hills, but a lot of riders didn't. It is most off putting to look at your road book, see that it says go right, then see a bunch of riders go straight past the turn. I stopped and checked the details; road sign on right, check, followed by a turn to the right, check, go a further 200 metres then you come to a level crossing, check. OK, I'm convinced, they're wrong, I'm right. I spoke to the errant bikers some time later, they went a further 10kms before realising that they had gone wrong.
The final 100kms to the special gave us our first look at the cars as they started to catch us up. Going round a corner I heard some brakes squealing just behind me, I looked back to see 300hp of snarling Mitsubishi Pajero driven by top Japanese Rally driver Kenjiro Shinozouka. At the earliest opportunity I let him pass, along with Schlesser in his buggy. A short while later I caught them up again when we stopped for about 10 minutes at a level crossing. The bikers, happy for a break milled around chatting, the car drivers opened their doors to let a bit of fresh air in. Shinozouka, as the only really successful driver in global terms that Japan has ever had is worshipped like a god at home, here he was just one of the guys.
At long last I reached the start of the special. A fire engine in front of me on a narrow track heading towards the start blew a tyre in an explosion of dust that blotted out visibility for about a minute. When I got through the dust cloud I found bikes precariously parked everywhere on the sloping track, all waiting for their start time to arrive.
The first kilometre was a long narrow uphill track, I knew that I was definitely not racing, but nevertheless I still got the jump on my starting partner. Today's special stage was 102kms, all rocky tracks going up and down the hills and valleys of a Sardinian National Park. Overshooting a downhill corner early on and clipping a fence did my confidence no good at all, it was further dented a few kilometres later when I dropped it on another corner. Mike the car dealer had caught me up by now and was riding behind me, I felt that I was slowing him down so I waved him through as I continued at my "keep it upright and don't kiss the dirt again" pace.
Some 10kms later the route criss-crossed a wide stream, I came across Mike standing in the middle of one of these streams. He waved me through indicating that he was alright. Later on he told me that he stopped there to have a drink, he was also so hot that he laid in the stream for a minute to cool down! Apparently he was fine after that.
Further along the route I saw the unmistakable skid mark in the dirt where someone had missed the corner and had gone straight over the side of the hill. I stopped and saw a rider trying to muscle his XR400 back onto the road. The way I saw it was that in his position I'd be glad if someone stopped to give me a hand. The stop cost me about 10 minutes but it wasn't likely to ruin my chances of winning.
After 2 hours 31minutes and 44 seconds I reached the end of the special stage, another short 35kms would take us to the finish in Cagliari, the capital of Sardinia. Suprisingly the road book did not direct us straight to Cagliari, instead I found myself pulling into a wine bottling plant where tables were laid out with jugs of wine, water and plates of bread, cheese and pate. For the bikes hose pipes were made available to clean off the accumulated dust and crud. Mike pulled in shortly after me; on being handed the hose by a German rider, who had just finished cleaning his KTM, he immediately stuck it down the back of his neck, he was getting warm again. After he had finished hosing himself down he grabbed a glass of wine and a chunk of cheese and joined a few others of us sitting in the shade of a tree. "This is good" he said "…finish a stage, glass of wine, food…..you don't think they've organised a shag for us as well do you?"
I was still chuckling to myself when I joined the busy Cagliari traffic to check into the finish, another dockside, and collect the roadbook for tomorrow. The traffic was the downfall of one of the bikers who had an accident with a car, breaking his leg. The police also took it upon themselves to stop a pair of riders and attempt to ticket them for not having indicators. They pointed out that there were another 18O motor cycles in town without indicators at that moment, perhaps they would like to give them a ticket as well. The police eventually let it pass.
I rode to that night's hotel where I met up with the assistance truck and straightened those parts that I had managed to bend during the course of the day. We had more pasta that evening, followed by another 5 o'clock start the next morning. Mike was getting seriously pissed off, these early starts were ruining his holiday.
Sometimes you experience things in your life that you could not hope to buy. Driving through Cagliari at five thirty in the morning with group of about 60 other riders, all on marginally silenced thumpers is one of them. The exquisite sound rebounded off of the tall buildings as we ran every red light on our way to the dockside where we boarded the ferry, this time bound for Tunisia.
After 8 hours of eyelid inspection and general feet up activities we arrived in Tunis. It was 4pm, and we had a further 200kms to ride before we reached the bivouac. All of us had filled in our entry cards and customs forms anticipating a quick exit, but we were to be disappointed, Tunisia is a bureaucratic hell hole. The riders and drivers of four hundred bikes, trucks and cars met the full resistance of Tunisian obduracy and down right bloody mindedness. We needed to fill-in an additional form for the vehicle, we did it. It needed to be stamped by a particular official at a particular table, we did that too. We needed to have the registration number of the vehicle entered into our pasports, yes yes yes… got that, can I go? Non! We all needed one final document called "permission du circulation" and that was available at a booth manned by just one person. This booth was beseiged by 400 very disgruntled competitors, every 10 minutes or so every car, truck and bike would launch into a cacophony of horn blowing, making the place sound like a Parisian traffic jam. After an hour and a half in this queue I had advanced no more than a metre. This lack of progress was not aided by the loathsome French tactic of pushing in from the side of the line.
The stress got too much for the official issuing the permissions, all of a sudden he got up and left his office. Everyone at the front of the line hammered on the windows and the vehicles started up with their deafening chorus again. Then the dam broke, somebody within the Rally organisation had a word with an immigration official, and miraculously we no longer needed this permission. Word of this change in policy had not reached the officials on the gates who attempted to prevent us going through, but the momentum had built up too high, bikes and cars poured out of the port without stopping for anyone in uniform. Round one to the competitors, unfortunately we'd pay for it on the way out of the country.
By the time I got out of the port it was getting dark. Following the road book instructions through the busy streets my rally almost came to an end when I looked up to see a car stopped on the inside lane of a three lane highway! No hazard lights on, just stopped. After narrowly avoiding this obstruction I found myself being pelted with bricks. From out of the gloom I saw a wickedly accurate missile bounce off the front of the bike. Riders following me mounted the pavements and chased the miscreants away from the side of the road. This only provided a temporary lull, later riders received more of the same, plus the additional hazard of over ripe oranges.
Shortly after I'd escaped the biblical stoning the traffic slowed to a crawl as it went through a busy market area. Sheep and goats milled everywhere, cajoled and poked by their owners. I saw a pickup truck full to bursting point with sheep, it had rope tied over the top of them to stop them from moving or getting out. Donkeys the size of large dogs pulled impossibly large carts or carried men whose only form of control was to beat them with a large stick.
Out of the city at last I peered into the pathetic pool of light being projected by my weedy headlight. I soon decided that that the best course of action was to follow someone, at least then I could be prepared for the corners. By now it was getting cold, I had started the left cheek right cheek shuffle on the saddle and I was breathing pure 2 stroke fumes from the bike I had tagged onto.
With 10kms to go we left the main road and started heading uphill. A stream of red tail-lights meandered up the hill ahead of me until at last they stopped at the bivouac. Bikes, cars and assistance vehicles were chaotically parked everywhere, I found a space, put the bike on its side stand and set off to find my assistance truck.
Nick and Steve had sequestered a couple of Bedouin style tents for their customers to sleep in, and had laid out the "ever so comfy" half inch thick foam camping mattresses for us to sleep on. Who needs a posture sprung horse hair mattress when you have one on these to sink into. Mike looked at them in horror, apparently he had never slept outdoors before, ever since day one of this event he knew that he should have gone back to Phuket in Thailand. He had already given me some pointers on what were the best massage parlours to go to and how one of his friends had sampled 53 different examples of oriental hospitality in 14 days. The hairy rug tent and paper thin mattress did not even begin to meet Mike's fun time holiday requirements.
I joined the queue for the evening meal of steak and pasta. I pointed to piece of lean well done steak that I fancied, but the cook insisted on giving me the rare fat encrusted piece he wanted me to have. We argued for a while, him in French, me in English, both no doubt calling each other names our mothers would prefer not to hear, before we compromised on another piece altogether. I grabbed myself a couple of chunks of hard bread and a can of coke before finding a space at a table under the tent.
The focal point of the bivouac is a tent about the size of a circus big top, but without sides. In the middle of the tent there is a stage where a group strum out a few songs each night. There is also a bar that dispenses warm or cold drinks, depending on the outside temperature. It was chilly tonight so cold beer was available.
After eating I went to the notice board to check my starting time and made a note of the road book amendments. There wasn't very many, most were very minor changes. Some "!"s (attention) had been upgraded to "!!" (danger), and there were some minor GPS way point corrections. I hadn't used my GPS in Sardinia, but now I was in Africa, and away from signposts and other such handy indicators, I thought it was time that I started using it properly. I keyed in all the data and loaded up the road book holder, a tedious job that involved winding the entire roll both ways before you got it positioned correctly. All the experienced riders used electric road book holder, a toggle switch enabled the reel of paper to be wound forward or backwards with ease. Us cheapskates who used manual road book holders had to keep turning a knurled knob which moved the paper about 2 inches each time. As you can imagine, winding on by hand compromises bike control a little.
Eventually I crashed out in my sleeping bag on the sliver of foam that was to be my bed for the next week and slept to the background hum of diesel generators.
First thing in the morning I got Nick and Steve to fit a new rear tyre and mousse. A mousse is a foam filled inner tube that is puncture proof, this also obviates the requirement to carry spare tubes, tyre levers, etc on the bike. Desert mousses are particularly hard wearing and should last an event like this without any problem, but they're expensive and difficult to fit. If you are squeamish about your rims, never watch anyone fitting a mousse. Nick has done hundreds, but he still requires about eight tyre levers, half a dozen pairs of mole grips and liberal dosing of washing up liquid to fit one. I watched him sweat for about three-quarters of an hour putting one on my front wheel before we started in Nice.
Now completely moussed up I had a bite of breakfast, topped up my water bottles and headed off to the start of today's 278km special stage.
I had a very short wait before I received the five finger countdown and was sent on my way. The weather was fine, the going was open and I could see plenty of people in front of me so I didn't have to worry too much about the navigation. We soon started to traverse oueds (wadis) of varying widths, one of which seemed to have claimed a KTM rider who sat forlornly alongside his rather bent looking machine. A little further on I tagged on to three other riders who were going at what I considered to be a comfortable and sustainable pace. We had been dropped by the faster guys up ahead, but we ourselves had pulled away from the slower riders, so unspokenly we became a self contained group, each confirming each others navigation decisions by either following the leader, or stopping to check when a mistake was suspected.
As we got to 100km I was congratulating myself on the fact that I had had no mishaps, was riding well within myself, and that both I and the bike were so far looking good for a finish. Soon after those comforting thoughts I was sharply awoken by a car horn about six feet behind me. Shinozouka driving the lead car was right up my backside looking for me to get off the track. You want to oblige, but you also don't want to end up crashing yourself whilst attempting to find somewhere safe to pull off onto. Invariably you end up rushing it, go somewhere totally inappropriate, and end up taking a couple a minutes getting back onto the road after waiting for the blinding dust cloud to settle, by which time the next car is waiting to do the same.
After the first two cars had passed me I picked up the pace to rejoin the other three. I rounded a gradual curve at about 80kph when the front wheel suddenly went from under me and I slammed into the ground. The crash drove the air from my lungs and left me gasping for breath. I lay there for a few moments before remembering that I was in the middle of a track along which another car was likely to arrive at any moment. A biker stopped and asked me if I was OK before carrying on. I picked the bike up and painfully pushed it to the side of the track where I made an assessment of the damage. One of the hand guards had become detached and the throttle grip was shredded, but everything else appeared to be OK. I knew that my hip had taken most of the impact and was very sore, but there was no blood so I decided to look at it at the fuelling stop in about 40kms time.
The bike was a bit reluctant to start, it took about a dozen kicks to fire back up before I gingerly pulled away. After a couple of seconds I realised that there was indeed another problem with the bike, the crash impact had bent my handlebars into the 4:50 position, right hand at 4 o'clock the left at 50 minutes. I took it carefully for the next 10kms before realising that it was no great problem and rode that way for the remaining 400kms.
I was grateful to get to the next checkpoint and fuel stop where we had a compulsory 10 minute break. I downed some shattered ration pack biscuits and stick of gooey green confectionery. I have no idea what flavour it was trying to emulate, but whatever it was, it failed miserably.
The terrain in second half of the special became much wilder as the route followed the course of the many wadis in its path; after fighting the bike for control I realised that I'd forgotten how to ride sand. I was struggling badly in the soft silt of these dried up river beds and I knew that I was tiring quickly. At each wadi I headed towards the banks in an attempt to find harder packed sand, or to even ride on the banks themselves. By now I was mainly on my own, just occasionally being passed by a car. After a final 10km ride down yet another dried up river I made it to the finish. Whilst my time card was stamped I checked my watch, 5 hours and 40 minutes that had taken me, just another 214kms to go before the finish.
It was couple of kilometres on from the finish before my tyres touched tarmac again. Pretty soon I found myself descending through some spectacular rocky scenery to a dried up lake bed. I considered getting my camera out to take a picture, but I couldn't be bothered to stop and fish through my back pack to find it. A flat straight road across the lake stretched interminably ahead and my backside soon started to object again: left cheek, right cheek, both cheeks, move forward, move back, stand up, sit down, keep moving…
I refuelled with "super" at the only petrol station that I passed, there is none of that unleaded nonsense in these parts of the world, it's either super, diesel or sec. Sec is the 70 octane trash they put in the Peugeot mopeds that dominate the more inhabited towns. The more rural villages still rely on the donkey, horse or the occasional camel. Animals have a miserable existence here, it is quite distressing to see donkeys standing by a few blades of grass hobbled with a piece of hairy nylon string to stop them running off.
At long last I pulled into the bivouac, found my assistance truck and came to a grateful halt. I swung my leg off of the bike and hobbled away to find a drink. Walking was very uncomfortable, my hip had stiffened right up. I unzipped my jacket to have a look at the damage, my tee shirt was soaked through with sweat and clung to my body; I lifted it up and saw that I had skinned my hip in the crash. From the medical kit in my rucksack I took out a couple of large plasters and dressed the wound.
Steve had started working on my bike and was telling me off for bringing it back bent again. The hand guard was reattached and the handlebars straightened, followed by an oil change. I reckoned that after nearly 1500 hard kilometres on a sump capacity of 1.5 litres it needed replacing. Deciding to return it from where it came from Steve dug a hole and let the old oil drain out into the sand. The road book holder was also rattling about so a couple of zip ties were lashed round the bracket to hold it more firmly in place.
Satisfied that the bike was just about ready for tomorrow I set about finding where I was sleeping for the night. With all the scurrying around that I was doing I noticed that on the plus side, my hip was beginning to loosen, but on the minus side my whole body was starting to cramp up. It was now starting to get dark and I still had so many things to do: get my road book, check the updates, enter the GPS way points, fill up my water bottles, get some rations, eat…… ah yes, eat. I joined the line and picked up a tray.
Turkey and rice tonight, I also picked up a can of Perrier, a carton of chocolate dessert, and some bread and cheese. I sat down at the table and looked at the food in front of me. I didn't want to eat any of it. I picked at the turkey, took a few mouthfuls of the chocolate dessert, but the more I tried to eat the more it put me off. I went and got myself a packet of powdered soup, mixed it with hot water and forced my self to drink it. I was tired, felt sick and ached all over.
After an uncomfortable night spent trying to avoid cramp I woke to find that Mike the car dealer had managed to get himself a medical evacuation on the grounds of back problems. I also heard that 2kms from the end of the stage he came across an Italian rider who would go no further, he'd just had enough, despite being so close to the finish he was going to wait for the sweeper truck to pick him up. Mike finished, and made it to the bivouac, but that was as far as he wanted to go.
The start of the days special was 10kms away in a small village called El Faour, with today's trip a mere 298kms. After the previous days stage I was now in a heady 148th place, a mere 3hrs 34 minutes behind the leader. Watching the riders in front of me start did not fill me with confidence. The back ends of the bikes waved around like tails on rabbits as they struggle to find grip in the soft churned up sand. All too soon my turn to join them came up. Momentum, it was all about momentum, keep the bike moving it doesn't get a chance dig into the sand.
Predictably I lost momentum and the inevitable happened, sand up to the axles and bike stuck. For the first of many times I got off, lifted the rear wheel out of the sand, let the hole fill in, then got back on and kicked it over. Get it started again, eeease the clutch out very slowly, get it moving, now keep it moving, look for fresh sand, keep one eye on going in the right direction another on the terrain, over a dune, and again, over another steeper one, damn that was a big drop off, bike slows down, drop a gear, and there we are, back wheel up to the axles in sand again. Every time I stopped it took me longer to get started. I was taking two or three sucks of water from my camelback and laying curled up on the sand for about five minutes before I felt strong enough to get up and do it all over again.
After 2 hours I had got 10 kms. Around me there were four cars attempting to dig themselves out, a number of other bikes that were just out of sight and the organisers helicopter parked on top of one of the larger dunes. The organiser came over and asked me if I was continuing, I replied that with 288kms to go it would be sensible if I waited for the sweeper truck to pick me up. He advised me to go on a further couple of kilometres to the main track where I could be easily spotted and picked up. I got back on the bike and made it to the indicated track which was on a chott (dry salt lake). I stopped the bike, took my helmet off, draped my jacket over the handlebars to give me some shade and sat down to wait the trucks arrival.
I wasn't too pleased with myself. In the last 24 hours I'd gone from running well in a group of four, to having a stiff hip, suffering from cramp, feeling almost permanently nauseous, and out of the rally. The sun was almost directly overhead by now, I drank some water, nibbled unenthusiastically at some rations, and waited. A couple of cars, having at long last escaped the clutches of the dunes, went past, each giving me a thumbs up to check that I was OK. Every now and then I'd look towards the horizon to see if I could see a truck, but nothing appeared.
After three hours of waiting I decided that it was time to do something, I kitted myself up again and headed back to where I last saw the helicopter. Just as I got to the edge of the chott the helicopter took off , headed towards me and landed about 50 yards away. The organiser got out of the helicopter, ran over to me and in his best pidgin English told to me to return to the start, before I could ask what I would expect to find back at the start he had sprinted back to his seat.
Terrific I thought, I'd taken over 2 hours to get through the dunes to get here, now I've got to go all the way back. I rolled my road book back to get the position of the start and entered it into my GPS. At first I made an error, the direction arrow on the GPS pointed to a destination 7000kms away! I then realised that I'd entered the longitude as being west of the meridian, instead of east as it should have been. After correcting it I headed towards the sea of sand dunes that spread out in front of me.
The rest had done me good, I was coping better with the dunes this time; I realised that in order to keep moving you sometimes had to double back on yourself if you came across a particularly steep dune which you didn't think you'd get over. Even so I still ground to a halt a couple of times and had to dig myself out. The distance to go on the GPS crept down slowly until at long last I spotted some palm trees and an oil pipeline. Whilst looking for a way round the pipeline I managed to bury my rear wheel in the sand once more. I lay down on the sand and sucked on the water tube, I drank half a mouthful, then it stopped, it was empty, I was down to my final half litre which was in a pouch on my backpack.
I had two just kilometres to go. I lifted the bike out of the sand once more, kicked it over and ran parallel to the pipeline for a few hundred metres before finding a way through. Just as I reached the edge of the village I tried to lick my lips but realised that my tongue was dry and I could not produce saliva anymore. Now in the village I followed the GPS pointer until I recognised where I was, then found my way to where the start had been. When I'd left it earlier this morning it had been a seething traffic jam of trucks, bikes and cars; all that was there now was some kids kicking a can around. I turned round and headed back towards the main road where I saw a palm tree extending some welcome shade from the sun. I parked the bike at the roadside, got off and spread myself out on the pavement. Whilst I lay on the ground I reached behind me and got the last half litre of water out of my pack.
The water I had been drinking during the day had been getting progressively warmer but this was ridiculous, I could have had a decent shave in this stuff! I was aware of a gathering group of boys, all interested in the bike and the helmeted foreigner spreadeagled on the ground in their village. One of them was chatting away to me in French, as I lay there I mustered up the phrase "jai fatigue, en dix minutes jai departe". This didn't get rid of them. Worried that they might start fiddling with the bike I got up and told them that I was going to leave for the next town, a place called Douz. The eldest lad seemed quite concerned about me and was pointing down the road and gesturing me to come with him. I got on the bike, he got on the back and I followed his directions. After about 400 metres I pulled up outside this dingy café. I got off the bike and walked inside to the welcoming shade and sat down, a few seconds later the lad put a cold bottle of coke in front of me. After I had downed that he went and got a litre bottle of cold mineral water and put that in front of me as well.
After I had drunk half the water I indicated to him that I was going to go; here I was on my own, the rest of the rally was 300kms away by now, I needed to start finding a way to back to them. Haji, I'd found out his name by now, hopped on the back of the bike and indicated me to go somewhere else with him. Following his directions I pulled into a small infirmary. When I got inside I found him chatting to a medical orderly in Arabic, obviously telling him that this daft biker he had found looked a bit worse for wear so could he check me over. The orderly came over and felt my forehead, I was starting to sweat again so things were improving on that front, using some universal sign language he enquired whether I had been to the toilet that day, I replied no. He then went and got a thermometer, opened my jacket and stuck it under my armpit.
Suprisingly the thermometer read slightly low, but I was feeling a little better now so I indicated that I was going to leave. I thanked them for their concern and gave Haji a lift to the edge of the village. I was most touched with his concern for a fellow human being, he had cajoled me to come with him to re-hydrate myself, and just to make sure I was OK he'd got me checked over by some medical staff. I gave him 5 Dinars to pay for the drinks and asked him to contact the Rally emergency line to let them know that I was OK, then I left.
It was early in the evening when I arrived in Douz. There was no way that I was going to leave tonight in search of the rally, so after refuelling I set about finding somewhere to stay for the night. The garage attendant pointed towards the "zone touristic", it was just past the roundabout with the bronze camel in the middle of it. I found it easily enough, then I saw a sign pointing to the left saying "Hotel 20 du Mars". I have no idea as to the significance of this date, all I did was follow the sign post until I found myself peering from the road into an open doorway. From the other side of the doorway a black Moor face beckoned me in. I rode the bike up over the pavement, through the lobby and into courtyard beyond.
In the middle of the courtyard there were some small bushes and trees, amongst which a group of brightly coloured birds fluttered about. I cut the engine, dropped the bike onto its sidestand and slumped forward over the handlebars. After a short while an old white haired man, dressed all in white and using a walking stick, walked over to me. I looked up at him at said, "You don't happen to speak English do you?" He smiled and replied "Speak English, I am English!"
I couldn't believe my luck. Apparently he was on holiday with his daughter who had lived here for 20 years after marrying a Tunisian. The marriage was long since over but she had continued living in the country, buying crafts from the desert tribes and selling them to tourists.
I pushed my bike into the corner of the courtyard and then sat down in the shade. I was still feeling ill, sitting down on the floor seemed to be the only position of comfort that I could find. My new friend brought me over a whiskey glass full of warm coke and pointed out the communal shower block. I hadn't washed, shaved or brushed my teeth since getting off the boat so a shower was in order, although I would have to put my filthy clothes back on.
I borrowed some shampoo from a Frenchwoman and a towel from the hotel before peeling by clothes off. My shirt was stuck to the sticky mess on my skinned hip, removing it pulled off the healing scab that was beginning to form. I showered, redressed and sat back down again in the courtyard.
By now I had asked for a room, only to be told that rooms were expensive when perhaps all I really wanted was a bed. That seemed OK to me so I dumped my stuff onto a bed in a room with three French backpackers. I also agreed to the evening meal that night, which was to be cous cous. Everyone else seemed to coo with delight at the prospect, but I had a sneaky suspicion that if I had the choice I would rather have a cheese sandwich.
I joined the diners at their table in the courtyard where I was told that I had been very fortunate in choosing this hotel, apparently it is in every guide book as the place to stay in Douz. I looked around and thought how badly this remark reflected on the other four hotels in the town. Comment was also made about how hot it had been that day, 38c, way above the normal for this time of year.
The cous cous eventually came and I looked down warily at the yellow mound on my plate, together with chunks of lamb resting on top of it. Tonight I had twice the reason not to eat it; firstly there was my current dislike of food in general, and secondly my dislike of this food in particular. I ate a couple of mouthfuls, moved it around a bit, and tried to make it look like I had eaten more than I really had.
At the earliest opportunity I excused myself and headed for bed, where I slept the sleep of a person constantly disturbed by three snoring French backpackers. I got up at five next morning, gathered my things and went into the courtyard to load up the bike. I managed to get a coffee off of the cook who arrived at about six; I paid him for my nights stay and the meal, then I left.
So, here I was, on my own, a tank full of petrol, a map and three hundred kilometres as the crow flies away from where the Rally was in El Borma. I looked at the map and realised that the lack of fuel stations precluded the attempt to go via the direct route, I would have to detour by going almost directly east for over a 100kms, before heading south towards El Borma. The detour would add almost 200 kms to the trip.
The drive east was largely uneventful for the first 50 kms, every now and then the road would detour through a wadi which had washed away the road the last time it had filled up with water. At the site of all these detours there were bulldozers, steamrollers and all the necessary road building paraphernalia, except people. I never saw a single person so much as lift a rock up.
The tarmac road eventually petered out and became a rocky track again; it wound its way onwards through hillside villages and across barren valley floors. After a couple of hours I arrived at a town called Matmata. At a crossroads I noticed a café with plenty of tables and chairs outside it. I stopped, got off the bike, took my helmet off and walked over to the café. I caught the eye of the proprietor, "Monsier, s'il vous plait, essence dans la ville? He gestured me to sit down. "Non Monsieur, pas essence dans la ville, essence en Matmata Nouvelle". I sat down and spread the map out on the table looking for towns big enough to have petrol stations. "Coca?" he enquired. I agreed, and he scurried off to fetch it for me. When he came back I asked "Quelle distance est Matmata Nouvelle? "Quinze kilometres" he replied. I looked again at the map and saw that it was indeed around 15 kilometres away, 15 kilometres in the wrong direction that is. He went into his café and returned with another map, a much better map than I had. I still had my eye on Ksar Ghillane as a short cut to El Borma. "Ksar Ghillane" I said "essence en Ksar Ghillane?" He shook his head. "Mange?" he asked. I was miles away studying the maps and juggling the permutations of getting to El Borma without running out of fuel. "Thon bagette?" Thon? Ah yes, Tuna, yes, thank you, I'll have one of those.
I was coming to the conclusion that I would have to complete the full detour in order to get enough fuel to reach El Borma. My tuna bagette arrived wrapped in a piece of paper that rapidly became soaked in fish oil. I took a couple of bites then stuffed it into my backpack. My friendly café proprietor come salesman stuffed four oranges and a litre and a half of water into my backpack, then charged me an outrageous price for the food, drink and the map. It didn't bother me though, I appreciated the fact that whilst I was dealing with the trip he was dealing with keeping my body together.
Soon after leaving Matmata signs started appearing with the words "Zone Militaire" on them in big black letters, underneath was a picture of a camera with a red diagonal line through it. This zone lasted for about 50kms. If I was in Nevada or New Mexico, I could understand it, but why here I asked myself, what are they developing, a stealth sheep or something?
Eventually I made the next big town and started heading south. The sun was really hammering down by now, I opened my jacket to get some cool air passing over my body and took regular drafts of water from my camelback. Remada was the last town with fuel before El Borma, which was a further 180kms on. I pulled into the fuel station and filled my camelback with the water I had got at the café. I refuelled the bike, then filled the now empty water bottle with petrol and stuffed it into my jacket. Over 300kms done, just the last leg to do now I thought to myself.
El Borma only exists because of oil, the road to it is wide and superficially flat, it is used by large trucks everyday. These very same trucks have turned this road into a 180km long corrugated washboard. It is the best vehicle test ground I have ever ridden on, if a vehicle can get from one end of this road to the other in one piece, then believe you me, you have a well built vehicle.
My vehicle failed this test after about 40kms when there was a dramatic increase in engine noise. I stopped and looked down to see a space where the exhaust pipe ought to be; all four bolts that had been holding it on to the bike had vibrated out. I turned around and drove back 400 metres to find it lying in the dirt. I stopped, turned the bike off and went to get the tool kit from its position on the front fender. I looked down disappointedly at the space where it had formerly been located.
With no tools, spare bolts or handy zip ties, what did I have left to effect a repair? String, I had some string. My meal ticket was hung around my neck in classic dog tag style on a piece of nylon cord. I still had my Gerber multi-tool which I used to cut the cord off. I then tied the pipe back on and gave it a shake. It wobbled precariously from side to side, as repairs go this was about as sorry an example as you were likely to get. I got back on the bike, kicked it over and pulled gently away. The noise had been muted, but the clank of the silencer from side to side did not bode well for its longevity. One kilometre further on the pipe dislodged itself again. I cut the string , balanced the exhaust pipe between my lap and the handlebars and drove away accompanied by the ear splitting din of an unsilenced thumper.
A hot wind had sprung up filling the air with sand. A short time later my brain failed to register an assistance truck going in the other direction towing a broken down car. It was only after it had gone past me that I wondered if they had any spare bolts, or tools. After a further noisy 40kms I came across a Toyota pick-up parked at the side of the road. The driver, a moustachioed Italian, got out from the cab as I pulled to a halt alongside. I waved my exhaust pipe at him and pointed to the bike. Without further ado he went and got his tool kit from the truck and started to sort through his spare bolt collection. Pretty soon he produced two suitable examples with which he bolted back on my exhaust pipe, they were a bit long, but who was I to complain. He offered me some water and fuel, I offered him an orange. Neither of us needed anything. We shook hands and I thanked him profusely, then I left to complete the final 100kms of today's ride.
With my spine feeling several inches shorter I eventually reached the post apocalyptic landscape of El Borma. Gouts of flame were belching from the ground, surrounded by the maze of pipes and containers that make the oil industry the aesthetic carbuncle that it is. I spotted some bikes coming in from the days stage and followed them through some deep sand to the bivouac. Nick and Steve greeted me with an ironic cheer when I pulled up at the van.
They asked me if I had seen the others, apparently Trudi and Gerald were both missing as well. Both had been accounted for by the rally organisers as being safe, it was just that they thought they were with me. I briefly recounted my adventures to them before returning to the rally routine of obtaining water, fuel, a place to sleep, etc. The magic assistance truck repopulated my bikes collection of silencer bolts and made it ready for the morning.
When I eventually found my kit bag, I took out a tub of powdered electrolyte drink granules and mixed myself up a litre of this warm pink liquid. The temperature had hit 42c today, seeing as I was barely eating I knew that I had to gets some fluid and minerals inside me; it tasted foul, but I still drank it.
As I queued up for my evening meal I sensed a little excitement amongst my fellow diners. Tonight's meal was going to be a special one, it was to be that well known local delicacy (my spirits dropped) cous cous. It was a good job that I still felt ill otherwise I may have been disappointed. I mixed up a packet of tomato and vegetable soup with some hot water and continued with my invalid's diet. I was still wearing the exact same clothes I had been wearing four days earlier, opposite me sat a woman in matching shorts and crop top looking like she had just spent a day on the beach at St Tropez.
That evening we received the first indication that there may have been a fatality. A rumour was circulating the bivouac that a bike rider was seriously ill following a crash on the day's stage. We awoke the next morning to find that this rumour was wrong, in reality three had died the day before, two from heat exhaustion and one from a heart attack. At a sombre riders briefing the organiser announced that the day's stage had been cancelled in honour of those who had died: big deal.
The riders split into groups and discussed the implications of this news. Headlines in the papers, government enquiries, friends and family worried at home; we all accepted that rally raids were dangerous, but three dead in one day! It was however easy to see how it could happen, exhausted riders dressed in nylon protective clothing, manhandling bikes through 300kms a day in temperatures of 40c plus. Sure, we all carried emergency satellite beacons, but they don't set themselves off. They have to be removed from wherever they are strapped onto the bike, then assembled and switched on; if you were going down with heat exhaustion it was highly unlikely that you were going to be able to do that before collapsing in heap.
But what the heck, it was all conjecture, three were dead and there was nothing anyone could do about it. It would have been interesting to have asked the organiser how many people needed to get killed before he called it off, but that would have been emotive claptrap. Anyone could stop at anytime they wished, this wasn't a death march or a group of refugees fleeing an oppressor, it was an adventure which we had joined of our own free will. It merely emphasised the importance recognising when you'd had enough.
The Rally retraced my route down the corrugated highway for 80kms before turning left onto smaller tracks. I had still barely eaten and was absolutely desperate for a cold drink. When I reached the turn off point I had a choice, follow the rally, or complete the remaining 100kms of butt hell to reach the town of Remada where there lurked the outside chance of a drink below body temperature. I chose the latter.
With my arse now numb to the pain caused by "that road" I pulled in alongside the fuel pump, filled the bike and flopped onto the ground where I sat leaning on the pump itself. The attendant came to collect his money, "boisson" I asked "avez vous un boisson froid?" The attendant nodded. Not believing this answer I asked again, "Avez vous un boisson tres froid?" . He nodded again, and disappeared into the building. He came out a few moments later clutching a bottle of fully sugared, caffeine loaded, eye popping, teeth rotting, ice cold coke. I don't drink the stuff at home, but there are times when it really hits the spot. I asked for another, but that was it, they were all out, rampant commercialism and low calorie drinks are still a few years off I think.
Today's stage was going to the Oasis at Ksar Ghillane. About 40kms north of Remada I came across a signpost pointing to my destination and turned left. After going through a village the track got progressively narrower and rockier until I decided to check my map; the scale was too large for it to show all the tracks so I estimated the lat' and long' of my destination and entered it into the GPS. After following the arrow on the navigation page for about 40kms I found myself in the company of other bikes again, quite by chance I had found my way back onto the rally route. All I had to do now was to go with the flow until the finishing banner appeared.
As the terrain changed from exclamation inducing rocks to soft deep sand the classic desert Oasis appeared; a ring of palm trees surrounding a pool of water. Except that once I got within the ring of trees I found the pool of water to be very small indeed, in fact it was more like a warm cloudy puddle. No complaints though, kit off, boots off, in I got along with most of the rest of the rally, better a warm cloudy puddle than no puddle at all.
That evening after again picking at my food with no enthusiasm I eventually went to the medical tent and described the symptoms. The doctor gave me two huge vitamin C tablets and told me not to take them until morning otherwise I wouldn't sleep. As I walked away I saw that he had written the word "fatigue" alongside my name in the diagnosis chart.
It was at Ksar Ghillane that we caught up with Trudi and Gerald who had dropped out of the rally on the same day that I had. Trudi had found the KTM 400 too much to handle in the sand and was picked up by the sweeper truck, Gerald had had a much tougher time of it. He had gone off course and eventually ran out of fuel totally surrounded by sand dunes. He set off his beacon but had to wait 18 hours before getting picked up! With his water supplies dwindling , and seeing no sign of rescue, he ripped a piece of paper from his road book and wrote a goodbye note to his wife. When it got light the next morning he signalled to a four wheel drive vehicle that he saw making its way through the dunes, it turned out not to be his rescuers but a German family on holiday. They left him with 8 litres of water, which he had started to consume, when at long last an eight wheel truck arrived to pick him up. He looked severely spooked by the whole experience.
The last two days of the rally were fairly uneventful. I teamed up with Tony another British guy now on the raid who was riding a very battered Honda XR400. During the course of the event he had managed to smash his rear hub, put a huge ding in his front rim and survive somersaulting his bike after hitting a sand spit which had jutted out into the track just over the crest of a hill. A German rider, who was following close behind, stopped to see if he was alright and to say that he thought he was crazy, he had come over the same crest and was immediately met with the sight of an Englishman and his motorcycle cartwheeling through the air.
Everyone now just seemed to want to get the whole thing over. There were rumours that more people had died; the rally organisers denied this but didn't seem to be very forthcoming on the circumstances of those deaths that had been confirmed. Only half of all the starters managed to reach the finish, with predictably the works KTMs filling the top 5 places.
My Kawasaki had proved to be a very solid performer throughout. Concerns that I had over the range of the bike with only a 14 litre tank proved to be unfounded, it easily made 200 kms without going on to reserve. The alleged hot starting problems were also largely exaggerated, after stopping it with the kill switch it usually restarted on first or second kick, getting it going again after throwing it down the road would take about seven or eight kicks. Apart from straightening out the things that I had carelessly bent, or bolting things back on that had vibrated off, the bike proved to be almost maintenance free. Sand stop, a sort of muslin, fitted on the air-box venturi did such a good job of protecting the air filter that it rarely needed any attention; and as for fluids it didn't use a drop of oil or coolant.
The trip back to France involved an eight hour wait in customs before getting onto the ferry, it was during this time that one of our group had the film ripped out of his camera for merely looking like he was taking a photograph. He hadn't, but the officious arsehole in uniform decided to be judge and jury and the deed was done. There are times in your life when you really want to chin someone, this was one of them, but the thought of spending a couple of years in a stinking jail eating cous cous every day was enough to put any of us off of pursuing this cause of action. Thank you Tunisia and goodbye.
So, here I am sitting at my PC writing this account some 4 weeks after it happened, what are my thoughts about the experience? Well mainly I'm disappointed that I didn't finish, but I think I made the correct decision to withdraw when I did, as subsequent events seemed to prove. My mistake was in not looking after myself well enough, the event is very physically demanding so you need to keep yourself fully hydrated and fuelled at all times. I was drinking water on the stages, not electrolyte so my body salt and mineral content was way down, as a consequence of this I began to get cramp, feel nauseous and lose my appetite. Would I do it again? I'm sorry Mum, I'm afraid the answer is yes, it's still unfinished business. Despite not finishing I had a pretty good adventure, met some like minded souls and lived life a little closer to edge than normal, so that can't be bad.
Steve Eversfield paula.eversfield@virgin.net