Feeling a little Thor

Pedal to the, ahem, metal....

There have been times in the UAE when it didn’t rain for two and a half years. In fact the expression ‘saving for a rainy day’ has become so redundant that most of us spend all our money instead on wine, women (or Chippendales) and racing cars. The latter usually demanding the most cash, naturally. Today however, was a rainy day. A very rainy day, with evil, tainted skies generating daylight the colour of jaundice, calamitous thunderstorms, torrential rain (typical - I only washed my bloody car yesterday!) and an air of foreboding; just one bode away from a cataclysmic fiveboding, and we all know how bad that is.

Consequently those magnificent men in their hovery, inverted egg whisk’oplanes, couldn’t see the ground beneath them and so said they couldn’t fly. Here’s a clue Mr. Pilot – you were standing on it when you said you couldn’t fly. And if the helicopters don’t fly there’s no medical cover and if there’s no medical cover the race is delayed. This may not be popular with the competitors, but it IS good practice, and as a repeat beneficiary of those kind people in the SAR teams, I know it’s the right thing to do.

Here's a photo I prepared earlier.

Thus it was that Ian and Sheila were, along with all the other competitors, told to drive on tarmac to a point about 100kms into the rally stage and wait. And wait. And wait. Until eventually the winds died down, the balloon went up (well, OK, the helicopters), and our heroes were released into the wild yellow yonder and told to make their way to the bivouac. (Quick track, bivouac, give The Dog a home). So off they jolly well sped, with yours truly once again failing to get half his work done because the annoying thing about having live tracking on your computer is that you daren’t look away. You minimise it, ignore it, then after 10 minutes the temptation becomes too great and you start checking their position again. Then that of friends who are racing, then the race leaders, then people who look like they might be stuck, then back to car 222 again, then 242, then bike 27, etc. etc. And then you finally minimise the screen. But only for 10 minutes. Repeat ad nauseum.

That's how that I knew Newtrix were briefly stuck for a few minutes at around 1.30pm, then again for just a couple of minutes at around 2.30pm, but after that it was pedal to the metal and Ian and Sheila were soon leaving a trail of cars in their wake. What I didn’t know of course was that the drop into the first stuck had caused the radiator catch tank to work loose, which would later cause occasional overheating and thus the engine would kick into default “4 cylinder mode”. Now suddenly having 165 horsepower instead of 330 is not what you want when racing in the desert – but it’s better than cooking your engine, so whilst inconvenient, it wasn’t a game changer.



That JCB would have been useful today.



Throughout this time I kept updating poor Richard down in the desert, via SMS. A couple of times he thanked me for the news, but when he replied “Thanks for the updates, even though they give me heart attacks” I decided to keep the news to myself. This evening Ian called me to say that they had also been suffering from intermittent engine ‘çut outs’ and upon investigation tonight by Richard “I’ll check my list and find the cause” Bailey, it was determined that the wing mounted cut out switches were playing up, so he’s spanked them and sent them to bed early. We expect no further problems tomorrow or there’ll be trouble.

With Ian and Sheila cruising down a track at 100kmh and just 6kms from the finish line at about 4.30pm, I sent Richard what I now realise was a stupid text. “Nearly there” I said “put the kettle on”. Oh dear. Kiss of death. Dr. B.S. will not be doing that again. Just minutes from the finish line and with only one more line of dunes to cross, the desert reached up, grabbed the Dog by the tail and hung on to it. Stuck. Really, really stuck, spitting distance from the finish line. Not that there was any spitting to be done, because digging a car out of the sand for 90 minutes, yes folks, one and a half hours, doesn’t leave you with any spit left to waste.



Malcolm & Patrick had a good day and are lying 23rd overall.

 When it became clear that they were struggling I called Richard and Fred, and thanks to the wonders of modern technology, could give them I&S’s exact position, and tell them what appeared to be a quick and easy route to the car. I thought if the car was broken in some way we would be much better off getting there in daylight, regardless of the penalties to be incurred for receiving assistance. Trouble is, Google doesn’t update its maps every day (typical – lazy swines) and so when Richard tried to follow my directions he was faced with miles and miles of fencing instead of the open tracks I could see on my screen. Undeterred he headed off into the desert, and I was able to pick out both a gate in the fence, and a circuitous but apparently well traveled path which would get him to within 200 metres of Ian and Sheila. Halfway down this track and with the corrugated road rattling Richard and Fred’s teeth down to their root canals, he then received a message to say that after their energy sapping digging, Ian and Sheila were ‘free at last’ and heading for the finish line.

Ian rang me at around 9.30pm in high spirits, because despite the days woes, the car’s in one piece, the clutch is holding up, they’ve no penalties and they are ready to rock tomorrow from a position of 38th overall. So not a bad day in the desert after all.