Motorcycle Explorer February 2015 Issue 4 | Page 188

I
didn’t want to but couldn’t help wonder if our Aussie shining stars, usually residing in
Wales were still in the race. Of course they were, despite a couple of crashes and nasty
encounters with dehydration, altitude sickness in -9 degrees Celsius conditions and dizziness
requiring oxygen and a drip en route, the boys were faring incredibly well. Their official website
and social media were keeping us well informed by the hour. More time passed and a relentless
rain began to fall. Temperatures plummeted and the thought of a hot drink to revive the cockles
settled on my mind like a nylon cloth and wouldn’t let it breathe.
Killing more clock towards the back end of a cold, drizzly afternoon, we finally retreated to the
coziness of the Unimog. There was a lull of riding anyway where only the odd quad and biker
caught our attention sporadically. Then Simon and Llewelyn came through. Triumphantly passing
the seventh stage. It was a moment of pure elation for us; it must have been euphoric for them.
And relief mingled with chronic exhaustion probably. I waved my arms crazily, like a trapped
moth in the hope of attracting their attention. I was too far away and felt my body crumpling
under the shame of not being closer, like a sheet of newspaper burning in the fireplace. All night,
the thought of catching them on the morrow niggled away at me. I would not let these men down
through their heroic marathon.
A night of torrential rain left the tent bobbing in a lake by morning. Not an ideal start but not a
deal-breaker either. We packed the tent down in record time, said our Auf Wiedersehens to our
Deutsch freunds and headed straight to the Salar, the start of the next stage. The road under
construction was slow going but made easier by filtering routes back onto the intermittent
hardcore. It enabled us to claw back a bit of time, a small boon at least. Pearl’s never been one to
relish the wet, this occasion was no exception. Pray old girl, just get me to the Salar. Putting my
selfish needs before her own, I ignored the sluggish movements of my trusty wheels and sighed
in resignation when Pearl put her foot down. Going nowhere, not least the eighth stage of the
Dakar.
Five miles from Colchani, I studied my options as I surveyed the scene. I could abandon Pearl and
ride ‘two up’ on Jason’s bike. Or perhaps push my motorcycle through the mud bath of slippy dirt.
Out came the towrope. It was wet, the ground was squidgy at best and the puddles the size of
paddling pools at worst. It was actually quite good fun once I got into it and picked up the
technique without any snotting and screaming. “You did well today”, Jason surmised as I
detected just a hair of relief in his voice. “Thanks!” I responded, without keeping the relish out of
my voice. Riding side-by-side or in our case ‘subframe-rope-to-foot peg’, we gained
independence and proximity. Motorcycling will leave you dizzy with a sense of liberation. All you
need is an open mind and a cast-iron gut.
Jason rumbled Pearl back into action at a gasoline station while I chuckled that we were
splattered helmet-to-boot-tip in mud. My hair had taken on the texture of straw and I was
sporting black rings around my neck, which complemented the thick streaks of black embedded
under each fingernail. A by-product of having too much fun in the desert over four days with no
facilities. Without delay, we bobbled over the corrugations and squelched through the mud onto
a wet Salar de Uyuni.