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At the Admiral Grand Hotel, I met the other riders, including a few from the UK who had flown in, and Joe and Brad, the team behind Desert Rose, who had transported other UK bikes— and my rally wheels— across Europe. My raid number was 149. Riders came from France, Holland, Germany, and southern England, and the air was thick with anticipation. My roommate, Hebe, had ridden all the way from Spain, the only other person to arrive under her own steam rather than via van.
The people around me were extraordinary in their own ways. Chris, the Belgian driver of the official Illyria Raid support truck, had swum the English Channel and completed seven marathons in seven days across the Sahara Desert— all while wearing a Spider-Man costume. Their presence reminded me that this rally attracted a certain breed: the determined, the slightly unhinged, and the resolutely adventurous.
Registration and bike scrutineering were the next day. Trackers were fitted to our machines, information packs were handed out, and the reality of the event settled in.
Most riders exuded confidence; I felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. The diversity of machines was striking. Massive quad bikes, racing buggies, and a few veteran KTM 640 rally bikes sponsored by Repsol and Red Bull stood alongside the smaller enduro 450s— KTM, Husqvarna, Gas Gas. Only a handful of larger twins were in the mix: three KTM 790s, three Yamaha T7s, two XT660s, and a single Aprilia Tuareg. I knew my big bike would be a handful, but I was committed.
The night before the start, I couldn’ t sleep. I went over the route in my mind, imagined the rough terrain, the water-filled trenches, the narrow forest tracks, and the relentless sun or rain. I had the rally wheels, the mousse tyres, and an adventurous spirit— and yet, nothing could fully prepare me for what lay ahead.
The first real day of the raid arrived under a drizzle that promised little mercy. The roads were rough from the start— rocky trails, muddy agricultural tracks, and trenches full of water that seemed bottomless. I rode with a small group of fellow Brits: Pete, Howard, and Ian. Almost immediately, the precision of the GPX track was lost on us. A flooded vineyard forced us into overgrown fields, hacking through waist-high grass and tangled weeds, until we found the route again. It was an early lesson in humility: maps and tracks were guides, but the terrain had the final say.
Crossing into Bosnia, the landscape hardened. The low hills gave way to upland plateaus, and every turn seemed steeper, every rut deeper. At one point, an ancient stone bridge tested my nerves. Diagonally across raised slabs, without walls, I found myself wheel-spinning over slick stone with the cold water rushing below. Embarrassment crept in as I required help, but the reality was clear: this was only the beginning. Soon, Ian went down on a bend, Pete lost control on a downhill sweep, and Howard’ s Aprilia veered dangerously off the trail. Collective effort became the rule— we lifted, pushed, and steadied each other through the unforgiving paths.
The logging trails offered some respite, but also a choice. The others pressed on, confident in their
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