| Author | Message | ||
     Peter |
Thanks Jim  ------------ I don’t remember much of the trip as I fell asleep, but Malaga itself is a hive of activity. People everywhere to watch the Dakar caravan arrive. We get into the Port and unload the bike. I sort out the last of my gear into two piles. One going with me and the other going home. I try to make the going home pile bigger. I say my goodbyes to Marcel, Frans and Vivian as from here on in, I’m on my own. They wave goodbye and I ride to the checkpoint and hand in my time card. I’m given the first route sheet for Africa and ride through the crowd about a km to the ferry. That’s an adventure on it’s own. Children have their hands out for a “high-five” and some are pretty enthusiastic. I wonder if I’ll arrive at the boat with a broken wrist, but am high on the atmosphere. Into the boat, tie the bike down go upstairs. I do my passport control and find my room. They have put me in with two of the Dutch competitors and I hope they don’t mind snoring. Drop my gear and go back upstairs to the lounge area to get a drink and get my road book ready for the next day. I end up sitting at a table next to the KTM Red Bull guys, so I sneak a peek or three at their road books to see what they are highlighting. I’m not sure who I’m watching, but he’s got marks all over the place. I go back to making mine as simple as possible, but vow to make a route sheet holder like Andy Caldecott’s. It’s looks like a small version of the thing town criers used to announce the news each day. Trick. Dinner is announced and I end up at a table listening to Alfie Cox talking about the difference this year driving a car instead of his KTM. He makes the comment that the car is easier. Maybe he’s just being nice to us, but I choose to believe him anyway. Bedtime. I wake up at 3:00 as the boat is due to dock at 4:00. My room-mates sleep on like babies. They’ve done this before. Breakfast consists of croissants and coffee, and I’m glad I took some extra fruit last night from dinner. The boat docks and the professionals wander down for breakfast. I wonder what I’ve missed. Normally everyone is in a rush to get off a ferry. Not this morning. Everyone is more concerned with getting as much sleep as possible as we don’t start riding until 6:00. I learn the hard way. Outside we group up and wait for our number to be called. I see Patricia and park nearby. She asks if I’m ready for the real riding to start. I smile and say sure, but I have no idea if I’m ready or not. We go the start and head off. We have a 237km liaison we have to ride to get to the start of the special. It’s cold. I’m glad I had some brains and packed winter gloves, a face mask and an inner liner from my street jacket. These fit in my camelback-pack. Others haven’t and I see some blue faces under their helmets. Guess I’m not the only one learning. We ride close to the start and find a fuel stop to fill up together. Patricia pays. I’ll get the next one, and we ride up to the start of the special. The ground is small loose rocks, dry and fast. This time I let Patricia start first and I watch my navigation against hers. There’s a few times where she goes a different way to where I would have, and I realize it’s harder than it looks. I thank whoever is watching over me for pairing us up. Eventually we end up riding with two other Dutchies. Mirium Pol and Dirk jan Franken. Dirk starts to pass us, when Patricia makes a surprise left turn. I’d missed it in my road book and I think he had too. He settles in behind us. Things are running well. We are passing a few people and getting passed by others. I’m happy though as Patricia is a whole lot smarter rider than I am in this race. 5th time vs. 1st time is a wealth of difference in experience. Suddenly there is a howl and the first Mitsubishi flies past about 50m to our right. Damn. I thought we were going pretty fast, but he makes us look silly. The dust storm behind him makes us slow right down until it clears. I start to understand the warnings I’ve been given about the cars…. A bit further on my Sentinel system screams loudly it’s urgent; Beep, Beep, Beeeeeeep! Beep, Beep, Beeeeeeep! Beep, Beep, Beeeeeeep! I learn quickly to respect that noise with all my attention. That means a car/truck is behind me and to get out of the way now! The professional drivers are good. If they can, they will get off the track to pass. If not they will give time and room to the bikers. Some of the drivers further back are not so thoughtful. Some forget they have a Sentinel system. I wish I had time to read their numbers because I’d go hunting for them in the bivouac. I move over and another car goes past. The dust is getting thicker so I move off the track and ride in the clear. The only problem is the roadbook warnings apply to the track, but being able to see clearly is better than the roadbook. We continue for some time like this. Riding through the dust, passing people and getting passed. Somewhere around the 180km mark we are in dust again. I’m riding beside Patricia to stay out of her dust when I see her suddenly slow down out of the corner of my eye, I turn to see if she has noticed a change of direction, then spot the washed out track in front of her. DAMN! I turn and see it in front of me. There is no bump in front of it to try and jump, so I gas it to lift the front wheel and cross my fingers. The rear wheel hits the ledge and I start flying. Thankfully the bike lands on its side without tumbling and spares my navigation equipment. I get up and find I still work. So does the bike. The others are looking amazed that we are ok. So am I. Later I find that fellow Aussie, Christophe (205) hit the same washout. He wiped out his nav gear, broke three ribs, popped his shoulder and was pissing blood. He continued for the rest of the day, but the doctors sent him home after that. I was lucky. We continue riding. Over the next kms I take stock of the bike. My GPS has stopped working, but I notice the power cable has come out. The bars/forks are twisted and my route sheet control doesn’t work anymore, so I pull over out of the dust to see what I can do. In the dust the others haven’t noticed and continue on. I plug the GPS back in and reset my waypoint counter. I have opted for the ODO option in the GPS and adjust it to match the ICO. Normally I do it the other way around for accuracy, but it should be close enough. From there to the refuelling checkpoint I wind the route sheet on by hand. When I pull in Patricia has just had her 15min break and is ready to ride off. She is nice and asks if I’d like her to wait until I’m ready to go, but I don’t want her losing time when I feel ok, so she heads off. I have a huge amount of respect for this lady. I find that my route sheet holder works in reverse after moving the switch around. I have another switch spare so try it. It works both ways so I replace it. Apart from the slightly twisted forks and bruised bodywork, the bike is fine. I notice a twinge of pain in my back, so take longer than my 15mins for a rest, and eat some lunch before heading out again. On the road I’m getting passed by lots of cars. The track becomes narrower and I respect the Sentinel with all my heart. Suddenly a 4wd passes me literally by inches without warning. I’m doing about 80km/h in semi-control and nearly **** myself. It’s not the closeness of the car that’s scary, it’s my total blindness from the dust when he passes. For those that ski and have experienced a whiteout, or driven in really dense fog, imagine doing 80km/h on a bucking motorcycle, on a dirt track littered with rocks, potholes and washaways, and suddenly having no idea what’s in front of you. It sucks. It is seriously scary and seriously dangerous. I abuse that 4wd with everything I have and wish I’d been able to see who they are. I continue riding. The Sentinel keeps beeping and I keep stopping. It slows me down but is better than going down. Another 4wd passes without his Sentinel on. I see a sponsors name in big letters on the back and remember it for later. Some kms further on I see he’s missed a turn and plowed into an embankment. I laugh and scream at him to use his Sentinel as I pass, figuring justice has been served. The rest of the ride passes like that and I finish the special intact. On the liason I go through a town that has a pressure wash, so give the bike a clean before I start work on it that evening. While I wait in line, the 4wd pulls up so I walk over to have a shot at him. I ask if he has a problem with his Sentinel. He says yes. It’s not working and they will get the Sentinel people to fix it when they get back to the bivouac. He explains that he has been using his horn whenever he comes up behind a bike, but we can’t hear him. Somewhat mollified I understand his situation. He also understands mine. We part on good terms. I ride into the bivouac and look for the ELF plane to work on my bike. The pain in my back is getting worse. I ignore it. The ELF area is full of people working on their bikes, so I find a spot to do an oil change. One thing that’s not so easy on a KTM Rallye is an oil change. 3 oil filters. 5 drain plugs. 2 places to put oil in…… but a small price to pay. After knocking the oil drain pan with my foot and spilling oil everywhere, I replace the air filter, adjust the chain and give the bike a once over. It’s already getting late and I haven’t eaten or found out which truck has my tent in it, so I leave the twisted forks for tomorrow. They’re not that bad. While I’m packing up an Aussie bloke comes over for a chat. He’s rented a 125 and is following the Dakar for a couple of days. He is very enthusiastic, but I am feeling knackered. The pain in my back is getting bad and I just want to eat and lie down. Mate, if you read this, I’ve forgotten your name, but thank you very much for helping me to bring my gear down to the truck, and I apologise for my lack of enthusiasm when I met you. I was pretty knackered. If we meet again, the beer is on me. I find my tent and put my bedroll and sleeping bag inside, then ride up to the food tents. There’s not much left as I’m pretty late to eat and vow next time to look after me before I look after the bike. I eat and go to bed, the first day in Africa completed. If my back is still sore in the morning, I’ll go and see the medics. | ||
| Rocketman |
Pete, one thing that all of us know that have met you is that you have the right attitude to succeed in such endeavours. Reading your Dakar tale says exactly that. I know it's early days yet, and family must always come first, but it would be a crying shame for you not to do it again next year. With more input from the BadWeB / Team Elves community I'm sure you could put another effort together at less cost to yourself if there is a next time. Just food for thought. Well done mate. Rocket | ||
| Peter |
Rocket. I was already planning for next year. Now I'm typing this with tears in my eyes. ----------- 15:03 - bike Death of Andy Caldecott The organisers of the 28th edition of the Dakar have learnt today, Monday the 9th of January 2006, the death of KTM rider n°10 Andy Caldecott. At km 250 of stage 9 between Nouakchott and Kiffa, on a fast portion, the Australian biker suffered a bad crash. and died. Aware of the accident at 11:31AM, the rally headquarters immediately sent a medical helicopter that landed at 11:55 AM on the scene of the accident. The doctors unfortunately could only note the death of the biker that according to them struck immediately. Andy Caldecott, 41 years of age, was competing in his third Dakar. He had finished 6th of the 2005 edition and was currently 10th overall of this edition after having won stage 5 between Nador and Er-Rachidia in Morocco. To his family that was immediately contacted, the Dakar wishes to express its sincere condolences. | ||
| Tripper |
I think you've lived this one out Peter. Please stay home next year and repay the loving wife with more attention. jmho, DaveT | ||
| Bomber |
Peter -- while I was massively saddened when I read of the rider's passing, my absolute next thought was of you I'm sure I'm not alone in this I'm very, very glad your OK -- get lotsa hugs when you return home, sir! | ||
| Blake |
You know Pete, being the envious type, I'd been contemplating about kicking your lass the next time I see you, but since your back is causing you pain, I've quit contemplating kicking your lass, on account of I've decided to just do it.  Clarification: No bats! | ||
| Jerry_haughton |
congrats Pete on your mighty effort. we're glad you're ok, and sure admire your courage, determination and passion for adventure. ride to lean, FB&D | ||
| Ebear |
Supreme effort Peter....jealous and extremely proud of your accomplishment.Hope to meet you in the US one day to toast you with a frothy Beer. Rest in Peace Andy......All of our thoughts are with your Family and Friends....... | ||
| Rocketman |
I saw that in an earlier thread Pete. Very sad news. I presume you knew, or had met him? Either way it's very painful for you to bare, I'm sure. My sympathy Pete. Rocket | ||
| Peter |
Thanks guys. I didn't meet Andy, although I had plenty of chances to on the boat. I felt it would be a bit of hero worship as he is my hero. I was so happy when I heard he'd got the factory ride one week before the start. When I heard the news this afternoon, I just sat and cried in front of the computer for about an hour. I'm getting blurry again writing this. Such a shame. Blake, My head is a bit screwy at the moment over Andy's death. Do you mean you are going to do the Dakar next year? If you are serious, email me. -------------- (On with the tale.) I awake after 4-1/2 hrs of restless sleep. I had forgotten to take the earplugs off the bike and the noise in the bivouac has made sleeping difficult. It was cold last night and the bike is covered in frost. This is the first time I’ve slept in the tent so I’m slow to pack it up with the gear. The other guys are up, packed and finishing breakfast before I get mine stowed away. I still have to do my roadbook as I was too tired last night. By the time that’s done I have to go to the start line. I haven’t eaten anything, and I didn’t pick up a lunch pack, but I’ve still got the main part of one stashed in my back pack from the boat trip. I’ll be ok…. It’s a short liaison today, only 56km so we don’t get too cold. I get called up for the start and head off. At first it’s good. The breeze is coming across us and taking the dust away, making passing easy and I am able to make up a few places. Eventually though we have to turn into the wind and riding gets a whole lot more difficult. Ahead are three quads riding in a line a few hundred metres apart. I sigh and try to work out how it’s going to be possible to get past them and decide to hang back out of their dust and wait until we change direction. I get passed by a bike, so have to drop back further. Then another, and another. I realise that waiting isn’t going to work. I need to get around these guys or I’m going to get stuck, so I wait until the dust is minimal and bite the bullet. Powering on I need to ride blind for a few seconds. Somewhere in the dust is a rock about the size of a football. It’s got my number and attacks my front wheel. We go down again pretty hard. The KTM is a tank and takes the fall with no more than a few bruises. I, however, now have a sore left hand where the bars smacked into that soft bit between finger and thumb. I get back on and curse the dust. A couple of kms further we change direction and passing the quads becomes easy. I’m still learning the hard way. Things are ok for a while until I start to smell hot oil. I look down and see it pretty much where it was on the first day, and figure I’ve put too much in again, so I don’t worry about it. There’s enough dust in the air to soak up any excess on the bike and I keep riding. I’m starting to really watch my navigation now as I have the room and time to do so. It’s interesting and not as difficult as I’d thought, although the track is pretty clear from the bikes that have already gone past. I wonder what it’s like to do in the dunes. I arrive at the refuelling checkpoint and eat my lunch remains. It’s not very good, but now it tastes great. 15mins break and I’m on the way again, loaded with fuel. I’m sure I don’t need it all, but I’m playing safe and fill everything in case I get lost somewhere. Soon it becomes sandy and loose. It’s fun to ride in and I pass some guys that are struggling. So far it’s no problem. I’m just following tracks now and see it split. There are people pointing to one so I head up there. There are photographers in this bit, so I start to wonder if they’ve sent me another way to get ‘better’ pictures. I look at my roadbook. They have, so I head in a direction that will cross where I should have been. I hope that I eventually learn. The sand is getting deeper and harder to ride in and soon becomes lots of tracks. I stop to try and work out where I should be going. There are lots of spectators and four point out different routes to follow. I work out the one I want and head that way. It’s wrong. I come back and try another one that turns out ok. My navigation obviously still sucks. I’ll have to work on it when I get out of the sand. The sand is getting deeper and I start to ride the ridges. It’s fun, but at some point I need to go through one. I fall when the front digs in and stops. Nothing serious but the bum bag I’ve got wrapped around the front of the seat breaks it’s strap. I hold it between my knees. A few falls later I realise the bag is getting caught between the forks and tank whenever I try to turn right. Some tourists come and help me pick up the bike and I’m sweating badly. After strapping the bag back on, the bike works again and I continue into some bigger dunes. There are spectators everywhere and my bike is heavy from the fuel. I go down. It’s at a funny angle and I can’t pick the bike up on my own. Spectators run over and help. I get going again and fall again. More help. Repeat and repeat again. I stop and turn the bike off amongst all these people panting like a dog that’s been running all day. I drink and wonder what it’s going to be like in the really bike ones. I think I should have ‘Total Amateur’ written on my helmet. Or tattooed on my forehead…. And I feel sorry for the guys that were struggling earlier. One of the organisers comes over on a quad. Follow me, he says. I do and he shows me how to ride around the edges of the dunes like a surfer. It’s easy and I feel like a twit for trying to just ride through them. I understand now why some people love riding in them, and some people hate it. It’s all about technique. I’m glad I stopped and ended up with the free lesson. Out of the sand and into the open stuff. I stop near a small village for a rest as my back is getting really sore from fighting with the bike in the sand. A Moroccan teenager comes over very curious about the bike. He only speaks French. I only speak English. Sign language suffices. More come over and I get itchy to move, so put my gear on and ride away. No idea what was wrong, but I’ve learnt to listen to that feeling over the years. There is lots of space now and I am able to practice my navigation. I also notice that my clutch is getting jerky when I let it out and wonder why. I ride on and come across one of the competitors from Senegal. He’s not sure which track to take and I guess he has been just following the tracks. I show him where we are in the roadbook and we start riding. He goes on ahead when I notice that my GPS has activated for a hidden way point, but it’s in the opposite direction. I turn around and go back, avoiding a 4wd that was behind me. I notice other vehicles all heading towards that point from different directions and wonder how many variations of the roadbook we’ve been able to make. As each GPS picks up the WPM, the vehicles spin around and head back up the track. It’s funny to see. After a while my oil light starts to come on at low revs. I wonder if the oil is actually a leak somewhere and not just an over fill, and keep an eye on it. Over the next 20kms it gets worse and I’m wondering what to do. The light is coming on more often now as I keep the revs higher to keep oil pressure up, then I see some 4wd tourists watching the race. They are from Spain and more than happy to give me some oil, as long as I wait a bit for their photos to be taken with the bike. I don’t mind one little bit. The rest of the day passes without incident, except for the pain in my back getting worse. I spend most of it sitting down as it’s worse when I stand, and it’s easier to control the bike with my left hand resting over the bars like that. The hand is getting pretty sore when I hold the bars normally, but if I leave my thumb over the clutch master cylinder, it’s not too bad. It’s slowing me down though and I get passed by a lot of vehicles. I arrive at the checkpoint and do the liaison to the bivouac. On the way I stop at a town to wash the oil off the bike. The fill plug in the frame is leaking, even though it is tight. I tighten it even more and hope I’ve fixed the problem. It starts to get dark. I’m glad I have replaced one of the headlights with a xenon lamp and wired it into the high beam circuit, but if I did it again, I’d replace both. The single lamp on low beam is useless. Partway back the oil light starts to flicker again. Damn. I should have squeezed a bit more in at that town as I’ve still got about 100km to go. It begins to stay on 70km later, so I pull over and shut the bike down, and try to flag down a car. A Dakar enthusiast stops, but he only has special diesel oil that can’t be mixed with anything else. We try to stop more cars. Eventually he decides to drive the 30kms, buy some more oil and bring it back to me. I try to talk him out of it because I figure someone will stop soon. He wants to help and goes on. A bit later a car competitor stops. They have oil so I fill up and ride off. I look for the bloke that’s helping me and think I see him returning. Flashing my lights, then my brake lights as he passes, but he continues on. I thank him in my helmet and hope he understands. Hand the time sheet in at the bivouac and get clapped by the organisers. This is something I’m not sure people are aware of. Every time I get into a final CP, they clap and shake my hand. It really makes a huge difference to my psyche, feeling that people appreciate the effort I’ve gone through to get there. Probably they are told to, but it feels really good none the less, and it works. This time I park the bike near the truck where my tent is, and hear that Maurice Selling has gone out with a broken collar bone. He has a bike shop near where I used to live, so I’ve seen him quite a few times before. I feel sad that he’s had to stop. My back is really getting on my nerves so I go to the food tent to eat and rest it by the fire. I’m feeling like I’ve done 15 rounds with Tyson and a bit depressed with how my back is going. I ring my wife to let her know. After eating I go back to my bike. Joris, the mechanic from Maurice, offers to help me with the maintenance of my bike now that Maurice is out. The effect that has on me is huge. From feeling down and discouraged, I feel like it’s doable again. I start to work on the bike when he says I shouldn’t make to much noise. I ask why. He looks surprised and says that the other competitors are already asleep in the tents beside me. I understand now why I am the only idiot from Holland trying to do it by myself….. Next time I’ll have a mechanic. I hunt down the oil leak and find that the oil cooler drain plug is loose. I’m sure I tightened it yesterday, but it’s showing me I’m wrong. I can’t find any more loose things, so replace the air filter and adjust the chain. It’s 1:00 and I need to be up again at 4:00 to start at 5:00. This time I want some breakfast. My back is the worst it’s been, so I promise myself I’ll get to the medics in the morning if it’s no better, and go to sleep. This time I took my earplugs. | ||
| Phillyblast |
Peter, Congrats, leavened with both sadness at Andy's passing and relief you are alive and in relatively one piece. Next year? Hell yeah go for it. I'm in for another 40 Euros or so, if that counts for anything. I mean, you already have a great "scare tactic" story about the time you rode Paris-Dakar to tell the biker punk your daughter brings home to meet you when she's a teenager. He finds out you finished or hit the podium he'll know for sure you're a tough guy. 'Course I guess if he messes with your daughter he'll find that out the hard way,  p.s. I'm already starting to stockpile scary stories from my youth just in case I have a daughter - Jenn and I are expecting this summer. If it's a girl it's divine retribution, I'm sure.  | ||
| Blake |
Pete, This is WAY better than anything Cycle World has to offer this month! Except its so real that, darnit, my back is starting to ache! | ||
| Blake |
Pete, Condolences on your friend and fellow racer Andy. I had missed that bit of extremely bad news.  | ||
| Firemanjim |
Pete,congrats and condolences all at once.Tried to call you today but one phone was busy and I left a message on what Court said was your cell.Unbelievable effort my friend,makes me proud.I was bragging at work as we watched to OLN wrapups daily.Hope you are feeling better. What are your plans now? wanna visit your home country and taste some salt??) | ||
| Captpete |
Pete, I see lots of folks offering their advice here, so I guess I’ll jump on the bandwagon. You need to start hanging some copyright tags on these reports. Your writing style is mesmerizing. You can’t believe the vividness of the images that flash across my mind as I read them. If I were a fat cat publisher I’d be pushing a book contract into your face that included a full sponsorship for next year, which would allow you to only eat, sleep, and record the day’s notes on tape at every evening’s stop. But, alas, it wouldn’t be the same story of struggle and will, now, would it? You’ve blown me away, not only with your well-told story, but especially the magnitude of what you have accomplished. Now, I think I have some notion of what “Dakar” means. Never, even years ago at the top of my game, could I have come close to the bar that you have set. You have my unfailing admiration. And my thanks, as well. Pete And there’s still more to come, right? I hope, I hope, I hope… I want to see it now! I can’t wait!  | ||
| Mr_grumpy |
Congratulations on a sterling effort Pete. Terrific writing too. All the best to you & your family. If you can make it, I'll see you at "Buell Days" in France in May. | ||
| Peter |
Thanks all. Capt Pete, I wouldn't even know how to copyright it. It's just written how I think. Nothing special there. -------------------- I wake at 4:00 to another cold morning with more frost on the bike. I remind myself to buy a cover for it next time I come. Cold wet seats suck. I pack up the tent. My back feels good again. Just needed a rest I guess. Today is going to be long. 817km in total, including a liaison of 187km to the start line. Most of that will be in the dark and cold, so I head over to the food tent for breakfast. Warm eggs hit the spot, along with the mandatory croissants and coffee, and I pick up another lunch bag. A lunch bag consists of a fruit juice drink, a bag of peanuts, a container of rice/beans mix, another container with some sort of pate, a nougat bar, a rice crisp bar and a bag of chips. If there’s more, I don’t remember what it was. All the packs are small. I load them into my backpack, finish eating, and head down to the start to wait for my beginning. It’s cold and I try to keep it out of my back. Next time I’m going to put a zipper between my pants and jacket like they do on road gear, to keep the cold out. The rest of me feels fine, but it’s freezing just there. Halfway or so to the start of the special and I’m struggling to stay awake. We are in mountains with switchback type corners and this isn’t the place to doze, but it’s a struggle. Further on we come across about twenty bikes stopped. It looks like a couple of riders are down and out, but there are plenty there to help and we ride on. Soon the sun comes up. This is always my favourite part of the day. A beautiful sunrise and some warmth. Life is good. I arrive about ½ hr before my start time and wander around warming up. My back is a bit sore already but I put it down to the cold. I’ve also got 5kg of water in my two camelbacks, along with all the extras I’ve squeezed into my jacket pockets, so that probably isn’t helping. Carlos Sainz arrives in his VW and walks over. He is apologising to us for starting so close and comments that he can only imagine what it is like for us in the dust when they go past. We remind him with a smile to always use his Sentinel, but he’s not one of the drivers we need to worry about. The professionals are fine, it’s the blokes further back that cause the problems. Finally I get my call to the line and head off with another bike. I’ve made a vow today not to fall off, so I let him go ahead and take it easy. This special is 350km long and my back is already iffy, so I’m going to try and approach it more like a long trail ride today, instead of a race. It’s quite rocky and after a while it gets bad. The track turns into total rocks and nothing else. The only way to ride it is to keep up some speed and let the gyroscopic effect from the wheels stop the bike from falling over. Lose that and it’s almost uncontrollable. I come up behind a French rider who is struggling and manage to pass him, although I have to slow right down to do it. Just a bit further there is a 90deg bend in the track. I’ve already lost too much speed passing him and I go down. He stops and helps me up and then continues. He falls further up the hill. I ride up and help him. We continue doing this until we are at the top. My back is hurting again. Over the hill it is more of the same, but downhill is much easier. Gravity helps keep the speed up and we reach the bottom without any more falls. He is taking it even slower than I want to, so I head off. The pain is pretty bad and I wonder how in the world I’m going to get through today. Cars start to pass but I haven’t heard the Sentinel at all. I curse them. The GPS has developed a new trick of switching off when it gets bumpy. I have to stop to switch it back on and reset the waypoint counter each time. It’s annoying and really slowing me down. I smell hot oil again. I realize I’m no longer riding standing up at all, but am actually slumped over the bars trying to take the weight off my back. That’s not a good sign. I stop to check the oil, but can’t find anything obvious. Maybe it is some excess from yesterday finding it’s way down onto the exhaust. I check the Sentinel. It’s off, and won’t switch back on. I trace it to a kink in the power wire, so strip at back and twist the ends together, covering it with a bit of tape. I apologise to the cars drivers that I cursed. Next time I’ll throw some connectors in with my spares. I put the fairing back on and ride a few more kms. The GPS has gone off again, so I decide to look for a problem in the wiring to it. I stop and my back feels like it’s on fire. I can’t find anything obvious with the GPS wiring, but notice that my Sentinel fix has vibrated apart. I smell more hot oil. The backpack comes off and I lie down to ease the pain. It’s then that the reality of my situation starts to sink in. I’m riding over the handlebars slowly because of the pain. I can’t grip the bars properly because of my hand. My Sentinel doesn’t work and my GPS has a mind of it’s own. And yeah, there’s that hot oil smell too…. I’m only 60km into the 350km special. Then there’s a 282 liaison when I finish it. A bit of calculating gets me into the bivouac tonight around 21:00 if I can continue at a normal pace for the rest of the day. Work on the bike and eat should have me finished around 00:30 and the bikes are starting at 1:30 tomorrow for a really tough day. I just sit for a while, numb, realizing that it’s just not going to happen. I think through my options. I can’t come up with a scenario where I’m not either timed out, or damaged from my back. I sit for a half hour thinking, trying to accept that this is as far as I got. It hurts as much as my back and I feel as low now as I ever have in my life. I get up figuring it’s time to see if the Sentinel works, and push that little blue button. I hear a phone ringing, and my bike speaks to me in French. Although I’m feeling really down, I smile at the weirdness of me talking to my bike, in the middle of nothing, in Morocco…. and it’s talking back. I’m asked if I need medical help and tell the lady that I can still ride but slowly. She suggests I continue to CP1 and wait for the sweep truck to get me and the talking bike. It’s only 40km but it’s slow until the last 5km or so. The ground becomes smooth and fast with those little ridges you see when the bikes get airborne at high speed. I lean over the bars, wick it up, and enjoy my last ride in the Dakar, hanging my left hand down beside the bike. Wish there was a media chopper around now. I pull in to CP1 and explain my situation. They give me another lunch pack and tell me to go over to the medic chopper and get checked. The medic gives me two brown pills and a bigger white one. I don’t know what they are, but I lie down next to the 4wd of the officials with me head against a wheel and go to sleep. I wake up later to the two officials laughing. I guess I was snoring pretty loud. Soon three 4wds turn up. They are from Switzerland and have been driving for hours to see the Dakar go past. They are too late. There’s only a 4wd that’s broken something and is on his way by highway back to the bivouac, and me. We talk and I explain to them the workings of the navigation gear on the bike. In return they set up a table and chairs, and bring out the beer, wine and Swiss cheese telling me to join them. I’m sitting enjoying their hospitality, and inside wondering at the absurdity of my situation. Eventually I let it go and just accept it. The pills are working and the pain in my back is receding. Life could be a lot worse. Time passes and the sweep truck arrives. I’ve heard horror stories about this thing and wonder what’s next. They load my bike up with the other five they picked up today. The medic on the truck asks what’s wrong and what I’ve taken for it. I tell him and he asks how my back feels now. I say it’s not too bad. He says to hop up in the passenger part of the truck. It’s a box behind the cab with some basic seats. Inside is Claudio from Italy. His Suzuki’s engine has died. I ask him how long he’s been in the truck and he tells me about 1-1/2 hrs. They’ve traveled about 30km. My heart sinks when they tell me they still have another five bikes to pick up and 350km to go before we reach the bivouac. It should take about 15hrs, they say. I put the GPS/Iritrack, emergency beacon and the Sentinel, inside with me. They have to be given back so I don’t lose my deposit. Within 1/2hr my back is getting sore from the pounding and I’m ready to throw up. I’ve never travelled well as a passenger. I open the side door and get ready to lose the beer and wine. A few moments later the truck stops. They have seen the open door and come to tell me it cannot be opened. I explain why it is, devoid of colour in my face. They hand me a big plastic bag and say to change seats to the one over the axle. The box rocks less there I hear. We continue. A few minutes later they stop again and come back. There’s been a change of plan. As the truck is nearly full, they are going into a town nearby to unload the bikes into a lockup, then continue on to pick up the others. We have a choice. We can stay in the truck for another 15hrs. We can catch a cab 300km to Ouarzazate where there is an international airport to fly home, or catch a cab 400km to the bivouac at Tan Tan where our trunks are, with a change of clothes, as we were still in our riding gear. We opt for Tan Tan. The local police are there and make sure our taxi driver is legit, and that the bikes are safe. We do a deal with the garage owner to change Euros into Dirham. We change 100 euros for 1000 dirham and are told the taxi ride will be less than that. 50 euros each for 400kms? I can’t get a lap of Amsterdam for 50 euros. We give our GPS/Iritrack, beacon and Sentinels to the medic. He makes a note on a form and says he will make sure that they are returned. The Taxi is a very old, very rattly Merc. The driver speaks no English, and we speak no French. Opening the door from the inside is an arm out the window job. It makes strange noises and has carpet on the dashboard. I sit in the front seat and realise that it won’t go back any further. My knees are squashed up against the dash. It’s going to be a long trip. I doze. Somewhere through the night we are stopped at a police roadblock. Later we see that they are very common. The taxi driver is very polite to them and I realise that the police here wield some power. It makes me feel safer about the bike. The police take our names and race numbers and start phoning people. Eventually they decide we are not a threat to their country and are allowed to continue. This happens a few more times through the trip. Around 100km before Tan Tan, the little rattly noise from the back of the car starts to get louder. By 50km the driver is nervous and stops to check his wheels. I know what it is, but don’t want to show him as I’m afraid he will stop and not take us any further when he knows. The rear universal joint in his tail shaft is dying. I pray that he will drive smoothly. Every now and then he backs off and the nails the throttle to try and make it go away. I cringe and ask him in English not to do that again. He smiles, nods his head, and does it again. The last 20km are driven very slowly. We arrive and the slower cars are heading off. It’s around 4:00 in the morning. The bikes are long gone. I give the driver the full 1000 dirham. I see in his eyes that he is extremely grateful, and wish I had more dirham for him. He still has to get back home. I go to the Elf plane and look for my trunk. It’s not in the piles. I get a coffee and keep looking. Someone comes up and sees my number on the jacket. Your trunk is over there by the truck he says. I am already in the DNF zone. I feel sad, and go over to sort my gear out. The last sidecar is there with a broken frame, and so is Charley Boormans bike. I wonder what happened to him and realise that even the best dressed amateurs can still fail. Bummer. It feels great to get out of my riding boots and into some jeans. I only have my dirty riding jacket to keep warm, so I keep that and my helmet with me. I’m not sure when I’ll see the rest again, so I take my tools out as well. I’ll need them at home. I have no idea what to do now or who to see. Normally there are people with red jackets on, from the competitors department, wandering around, but now I don’t see any. I get some breakfast and start asking. Someone tells me to go to the race HQ plane so I do. It’s warming up it’s engines to leave. The pilot tells me to wait as his passengers will be there soon. They arrive and tell me there will be a bus coming at 8:30 to take us all to Agadir, about 3-1/2hrs away where we can get a flight out to Casablanca. A lady asks where my GPS etc are now. I tell her that the medic has them on the truck. She asks which truck it is and we work out it’s number. She notes something on her form as well. At 8:30 we are all on the bus. An official comes on and says that there are more blokes in the sweep truck and they should arrive in three hours. We are going to wait for them. I go back inside the terminal and plug the cell phone charger into the wall. The sweep truck arrives and some riders get out, still in their riding gear. They will fly home to their own countries like that as the ELF plane is long gone. I sit opposite an English bloke, Colin. He has been in the truck for 12hrs. I ask him what it was like? Hell, he says. I am cruel and tell him about our taxi. I think I’ve made an enemy. We talk. He’s a good bloke with the same ideals as me. We get to the airport and organise our tickets. There are no more flights out today, so they organise a hotel for us. The cab fare to go 5kms is 22 euros. We know we’ve been had, but tell the taxi driver to be there at 3:45 the next morning because Rene and I have an early flight out to Amsterdam. We’re sure he will be there though, to shaft us again. The hotel costs 15 euros. We have a dinner with soup and drinks for 6 euros each. I’d guarantee in blood that the taxi driver will be there in the morning. Sitting eating dinner is nice. We are eight, from seven different nationalities. The only two the same are the Swiss sidecar blokes. One was riding a quad, and the rest of us were on bikes. It is quite therapeutic to talk as we are in the same boat, and it is a nice evening. Eventually we call it a night and head off to sleep. In the morning we go outside. The taxi driver has spent the night out the front of the hotel, asleep in his cab. At the airport I am discussing the flight tickets with Rene. He phoned Holland and got his office to organise his. I bought mine the day before at the airport. He got executive class for less than my economy ticket. I’m pissed and go in to see them. They explain that the plane is fully booked and there were no seats left at the cheaper rate, so I had to pay the most expensive rate. I’m not happy, but accept it for now. I’ll write them a letter later. At Casablanca the plane is delayed for an hour. We are given a breakfast voucher. One coffee and one croissant. I try for two, but must buy the second. Fair enough. In the waiting area my name is called. I go over and my ticket is changed for an executive seat. I’d prefer the money, but accept their gesture of good faith and drop the idea of the letter. Apart from the better food, the seat is wasted as I sleep most of the way there. We arrive in Amsterdam and I pick up my tools. Outside my children run up to me and jump into my arms. I don’t feel like a failure anymore. I’m home. ------------------------- Would I do it again? That night I tried to watch the TV coverage, but could only see half of it before I felt too miserable at having to stop. I was content with the knowledge that I’d tried. I’d competed. That was enough. Yesterday I decided to try again next year. A few hours later I got an sms saying Andy Caldecott had died. I sat at the computer and cried to myself for about an hour and wondered why on earth I want to do it. Last night I had bad dreams about being lost and stuck alone in the desert. Today I really want to go and try again. If I can organise the funds, I’ll be there next year. The Dakar is a mountain, and I still have to climb it. | ||
| Oldog |
Awesome story Peter: Thank you for taking time to share, | ||
| Davegess |
Thank you Peter. Wonderful. BTW anything you create is copyrighted the moment you create it. I am pretty sure the international copyright treaty is the same as US law. Filing paperwork is just a legal formality needed if you have to sue someone. You don't even need to attach a copyright symbol to it. Keep a copy of what you wrote. Date it. | ||
| Bomber |
Peter -- Brer Gess is right in his comments on copyright law, both US and international -- given the quality of your writing (I'm in full agreement with the good Capn), I would strongly urge you to keep a dated copy, make another copy, alter it a little, and contact a couple of magazines -- there are a couple who might be interested in the images you create (and how many of us will ever get to see things through your helmet) -- while the fiscal payback will not let your retire early, the rush of seeing your byline might be worth it | ||
| Davegess |
I agree with Bomber, someone might buy just what yo have already written. Need to be cleaned up a bit but the mag might even help. A few hundred bucks would be a good thing to have. | ||
| Jeremy_02_x1 |
Thanks for the story Peter. | ||
| Peter |
Personally, I think you're all nuts, but thanks for the comments anyway. It's nice to hear that all the two fingered typing's not completely wasted...... | ||
| Reepicheep |
Motorcycle online would be absolute fools not to take that and publish it. Submit it and I bet you will be published in short order (www.motorcycle.com). | ||
| Bomber |
Peter -- absofreakinlutely wrt to the nuts comment, but, hey, there's lots of us out there -- the magazines have folks that'll edit your writing, if needs be -- there are certainly a number of fine writers on the board who could help, but, at the end of the day, you've got a great story there, that many would just LOVE to read -- | ||
| Tripper |
he's callin' US nuts...  | ||
| Peter |
Ok. You win. I sent that mob (www.motorcycle.com) an email to see if they were interested. Bet I don't hear from them.... | ||
| Tripper |
I sent Cycle World an email with a link to your site. Would'nt surprise me if.... | ||
| Rocketman |
Pete, would it have been possible to continue to the finish given you and the KTM were up for it, or does the time thing stop you eventually if you fall behind schedule? Otherwise I'm thinking, rest up. Get better. Fix bike. Arrive late - last even. Get Medal? Another thought I had. What's to stop anybody going along for the ride unofficially? Could a stand alone solo effort be made given all the right preparation, or is the pace and terrain that harsh it's beyond say 'adventure motorcycling'? Rocket | ||
| Court |
Pete: I know I've said it once before, but I am very proud of what you've done and to have you among our number. Few, myownself included, realized what a ride this was. I know well the skill you, Grizz and the Amsterdamianians have on two wheels. Your adventure tells me ALOT about PD. Also, it's been great to see some of the old names on this thread. Valent efforts bring some neat folks together. Peter for King! |
