Into the clutches of the desert.

Yesterday's report, today. Try to keep up. I'll ask questions tomorrow.

Ian and Sheila singing, "I believe I can fly"

So, Day 1, the first proper race day in the dunes, and usually a day when the organisers have just a modicum of sympathy for the racers so the course is slightly shorter and easier than the following days. Of course Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom decided that meant the competitors were all pansies, so she turned the wick up. RIGHT up. Many of the moto riders, including friends of the team Alan Boyter and David Mabbs, retired from the race due to heat exhaustion, or accidents brought about by the effects of the same. Ian and Sheila didn't succumb to the heat but sadly, after making good progress for the first 200kms or so of the stage, The Beast did.

Without warning and with no prior indications that there was a problem, suddenly Ian discovered he had no drive. No efforts to engage drive seemed to help, and after a while, they called in the A Team to come and rescue them from the clutches of the dunes.Which was ironic since as they would find out later - much later - it was in fact the clutch which was FUBAR.



The underside of a UFO

 Nor was that the only drama, for as Rick and Kate were driving out to the point on the road where the fantastic Sweep Team had recovered The Beast, their own Patrol (actually Ian's Patrol, not Rick's Patrol, although he does have one, nor Dawn's Patrol) overheated, meaning they had to abandon their attempt to meet The Beast, so Jason drove up instead and stood guard over the race car whilst Ian and Sheila, who had no clothes (well, obviously they had SOME clothes - their sweaty race overalls) headed back to the bivouac with somebody (frankly I've lost track) and then couldn't shower. Yeeuch.

So Jason spent his birthday baby sitting a sorry looking Patrol, Rick spent his evening fixing a different Patrol, Kate did some knitting, Cristina contemplated the solar system, Phil wondered where everyone had buggered off to, and The Phantom Blogger (oh, that's me) worked out how to blog.

Finally The Beast got a lift to the bivouac and Rick and others ( I know not whom but I guess Jason and Phil) ripped its innards outward, decided the clutch was bereft of life, and summonsed T-Phlog sur la telling-bone. "Though shalt go to 1000 Dunes garage at 8 am tomorrow, go to the main workshop doors, walk inside 8 paces. 7 paces is too few, 9 paces is too many, and 10 paces is WAY out. Turn left, walk 5 paces (not 4, not 6) forward, reach down with your right hand and LO, there shall be a box marked "This is the clutch you are looking for" at your finger tips. Collect said clutch and anything else you can lay your hands on, jump into a rapid automobile and drive, drive like the wind, for yet another illicit liaison with the great Kate. Don't be late, remember, start at eight."


Today's News now - well done, you've caught up.


No-trix racing today so...
"Sam Sunderland"

So I was all ready to do so at 7.15 this morning when I received a message. "It's the gearbox, delay your visit to 1000 Dunes". So I did, and had a nice cup of coffee, disturbed by Rick's urgent phone call at 8. "No, only kidding, now it's 45 minutes later and we wish you were there, it's the clutch, hop to it, sharpish now, stop buggering about". You know that noise Muttley used to make when Dick Dastardly annoyed him? That.

So great haste was made, clutches were clutched, doors were slammed, petrol was consumed, roads were punished, and I was rewarded with hugs and kisses by not one but TWO fair maidens at the side of the road halfway to Qasr Al Sarab - underneath a never opened restaurant disguised as a giant Land Rover, and in full daylight! Which makes a change because when Kate and I usually meet, she likes to switch the lights off.

Cristina proved her petrol-head credentials by looking at one of my car tyres and saying 'Looks a bit flat' and lo (low?), she was right. A difference of only 4 psi (37 not 41 - yes it's high but so would you be driving at 140kmh when the outside temperature is 50C) but well spotted that girl.

They raced back, I raced forward, Rick paced backwards and forwards, Phil was a little forward, Jason laid back, and Ian and Sheila spent the day in a bar getting wasted (it's not true but hey, this story needs an angle - Fake News!!)

Metallic things were bolted, unbolted, wobbled around, lubricated, aligned, spanked, torqued to nicely and generally manipulated, until The Beast was a car again and the whole team had a beer. But of course, being Newtrix, that wasn't straight forward, oh no. The clutch plate was a different diameter, so the flywheel didn't match, and the replacement flywheel had no starter gear ring, so that had to be fitted, and we're using the old release plate, new fly wheel, new clutch etc. Once that was finally finished, Ian and Rick took it for a test drive, got stuck, there was no phone reception, so they couldn't call for help, they walked back to the bivouac, Jason went out and winched them out the sand, etc. etc. etc. Just another day at the DC really!

Now stop that. This is all far too silly

A large number of complaints have been flooding in from oop North (thanks Morag) and down Souf (much appreciated Mr. B) that the artist formerly known as Phantom has been, well, how can I put this, a bit sensible lately. And for that I must apologise. To be fair, try applying skin whitener and leaving it on overnight.

What with tragedies, late night delivery runs (a 500km / 310 mile round trip last night) desert recoveries, badly broken cars, incorrect parts et cetera, et cetera, I have to be honest and say my funny bone has been badly bruised for the last couple of evenings. But fear not, lovers of Phantom Philosophy, for tonight, "I be back".

To err is human, to Aaaarrrrr is pirate.

Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to begin. When you read you begin with A-B-C, when you rally you begin with 200 right 4 flat into left 2 tightens over crest Caution! Don't cut. And thus the prologue began, as evidenced by these here photos wot was taken by my talented assistant Mr. Ansell. Quite what his talent is, other than making flatulence impressions under his armpit, nobody knows, but he's claiming it anyway. As usual there was a gale blowing, causing endless misery for the spectators and indeed, for the spectres (we Phantoms notice these things.) But Ian drove steeringly, Sheila co-drove navigatorily, and thus the car went from one end of the Special Stage to the other faster than some of the cars and slower than some of the others. What's important is that they competed, and everyone got a rosette, regardless of how fast they drove.

RUBBISH! What's important is going faster than your competitors, embarrassing and belittling them and kicking sand in their face. And thus, the politically incorrect fairytale of Newtrix Racing blasted on to Day One. Which is the second day of the competitive part of the rally. Are you following? Well you would be if you were slower than Ian & Sheila.

Following the prologue the dynamic duo were interviewed by Larry King and Angela Rippon. Actually that's not true but I don't know the name of their interviewer so Larry King will have to do. What was quite hilarious was watching a cameraman who stood about 5' 3" tall, raising the tripod sufficiently to interview 6' 4" Ian. Take a look at the photo. I have no idea if Ian was even in the camera shot because frankly, neither had the cameraman or sound engineer. (If you describe yourself as a 'sound engineer' are you bragging, or understating your potential?)

Anyway, I digest.

So Day One  (the second day) consisted of Ian driving fast, Sheila telling him to slow down a bit, Ian ignoring those particular instructions, other people's cars breaking down, "Richy Ricky Kate" sitting around counting their toenails (Kate helped Ricky with the big numbers) and PB in the office scratching his elbow. At least I think it was his elbow. The Dogs finished, Richy Ricky had too much to drink, Kate and I had a late night rendezvous (woo hoo, see "Was That It?" magazine for details) and a lot of people snored.

On Day Two (which is Day Three) Ian decided to put in his application for the Australian Rally a few months and several degrees of latitude too early. Had he started out the day inverted, things might have had a softer ending. But you know how that story goes, so where did we leave the story last night. Oh yes.....

As I left the bivvy at around late o'clock, Sheila was looking for a man. Not just any man, but an FIA inspector, who all simply love being woken up and dragged out of their warm beds to be shown a badly bent car and asked 'is it OK if we race this tomorrow?". Clearly said FIA man was disinclined to accede to this request and went back to bed to count rule changes, but come the morning a different gentleman, the slightly more awake  Mr. very very nice Lionel (yes, he's a nice, helpful, charming and ever so nice Frenchman. I know. But he is named after Richard the LionelHeart so perhaps he is really English but has a funny accent.) said "bert off cours you can race mon leetle Cherie, juust straighten ze bodywork and she weel be as right as pleut". I told you he had a funny accent. But he is nice.

So while Sheila made the nice Mr. Lionel a soup bowl of onion and snail flavoured black coffee, Kate fluttered her eyelashes at him and buttered his baguette (you know what those French, possibly English guys are like in the morning) Ian dashed into town to buy some brake lights, because the old ones were completely braked, Richard "I've got a tool for that crushed bodywork I 'ave" Bailey and Rick "I may not be much help but I'm a bloody good shot so don't argue with me" Carless started hitting things very hard with large hammers, and I had a lie in.(Well it was a VERY tiring drive!) By lunchtime, Lionel had finally finished his cup of coffee (OK, so he is French) Kate's eyelids were exhausted and Sheila was topping up her tan. Ian was telling rude jokes to the medical staff (they'd heard them all before but morphine is wonderful stuff when you've got a tough crowd) Richard "nothing flusters me I'll just make a new roof out of this baked bean tin and some duct tape" Bailey was still hitting things and Rick "Are we there yet" Carless was shouting bad words at the pigeons. So just another day in the bivvy then.

By 7pm the car was sorted, Lionel was 'appy' (thanks for the morphine Sean), Ian and Sheila were besides themselves with Joy. Joy was besides Ian and Sheila, Richy Rick was knackered and so was the engine. Oh yes. The engine. Bad news. It knocks like an Emirates hostesses headboard, despite having access to far more lubricant. So after all that hard work, it appears that excrement may have struck the rotary airflow displacement device with considerable velocity. All indications are that 'it's reet buggered' as Rick would say, if only he'd stop eating for 5 minutes. And you know when people are using indications in the UAE, something's seriously wrong. Nobody uses their indications.

So that's that. I'm awaiting more news from t'bivvy but there's trouble at t'mill. And on that bombshell, here's a joke.

A grasshopper walks into a bar, jumps up onto a bar stool and asks the barman for a pint.

"Blimey" says the barman, "why order a pint when we've got drink named after you?"

The grasshopper looks at him quizzically and says "Seriously, you've got a drink called Graham?"


And on that note, I'll get my coat. Aaaarrrrr.
 

A lot of balls

Lock up your daughters. For t’is I, the phantomest blogger this side of Phantom Blogsdale. Once again I have cracked the top secret and n’er to be discussed password (“newtrixpassword123”) of their dognesses account, and once again I shall be plumbing new blog depths, in a James Cameron / Mariana Trench sort of way. But obviously without the funding, the back-up, the global interest, 7 miles of garden hose or indeed, the pictures. But more on that later.

The entire NewTrix support team (that’s Rick “I’ll never leave you Carless”, Offshore Ian and I) gathered en masse this afternoon at the windswept, bland, featureless, flat, dull, boring piece of litter and re-bar strewn wasteland known as a “Special Stage”, in deepest, darkest Abu Dhabi. It’s a “Special Stage” in much the same way that some schools are “Special Schools”. For reasons known only to those of greater foresight and wisdom than I, this windswept, bland etc. etc. is now the regular home of the two minute televised spectator stage dash, designed to mix up the starting order a bit and to teach all the show offs a lesson. This year it was the turn of the second “G Force” team, car# 205, driven by Vladimir Vasilyev and co-driven by Vitaly Yevtyekhov, to make complete fools of themselves. As they passed the corner from which I was photographing, they spun the car round so hard that a large rock flew out and hit me on the back of the head (I was ducking for cover by then). Somewhat miffed by this, after regaining consciousness and borrowing 3 pints of blood, I shouted after them “You bounders, I jolly well hope you suffer from ill fortune within a very short space of time”. And 30 seconds later they rolled their car onto its side. HAH! Nobody messes with the Phantom Blogger and gets away with it. I can’t help wondering if tomorrow, that particular car will have been rebranded “Centripetal Force”

Oh you’ll notice from some of the shots that in an attempt to brighten up the windswept bland etc. etc. the organisers placed large blue and green plastic balls atop the steel marker posts. Many drivers struck these posts, causing their balls to fly off in different directions during the rally, whilst others drove ‘balls out’, meaning that they kept their car lined up between the balls, thus avoiding striking their balls on the front bumper. One driver drove over balls dropped by a previous competitor, crushing one of them and putting a nasty dent in the other. He struggled to cross the line and appeared to be in a great deal of discomfort. This is probably an opportune time to say “Thanks for all your hard work” to Dr. Sean Petherbridge and his medical / SAR team.

Unlike the Russians with the Countdown conundrum names, Ian and Sheila drove in a very considerate manner, allowing me to take a great many photographs with my Canon 7D camera and 70-200mm lens. They were all technically outstanding photos showing appropriate depth of field, perfect exposure, pin sharp details and yet eye wateringly beautiful motion blur of the wheels and scattered dust. I tell you that because not one of those pictures is here on this blog. For the first time in the 4 years I’ve been shooting with digital cameras, one of my memory cards became corrupted and I lost all the shots. Did it happen midway through the shoot so I could change cards? No it happened after I’d actually finished shooting, so I lost everything taken on that camera. Canon uses the CF format card and today I learned what those initials stand for. Completely Fubar. Fortunately, being the consummate professional (as opposed to a consummating professional) I also carry a second camera (my venerable – and reliable 40D) and the shots seen here today were captured with that. Hurrah for back up equipment.

Speaking of which, just an hour before I left the office to drive down to Abu Dhabi, TNT delivered the long lost drag link. So, unlike last year, this time when I carried some spare parts down to the team, a) they were the right parts, and b) they were genuinely happy to receive them.

Finally a quick “Bongiorno” to our mate Tommaso “No mates” Castellezi whose presence at the rally is always very welcome. Tommy earned this entirely inaccurate nick-name simply because he races his Land Rover Defender without the aid of a co-driver, thus “no mate” in the car. But the fact is that you won’t find a nicer, more pleasant and friendly competitor than Tommy (well, not now I’ve retired) and it’s great to see him back racing. “Forza Castelazzi”

Until tomorrow, ciao, arrividerci.

News just in: Ian and Sheila will start tomorrow in 14th position, which is an excellent spot. They finished the stage in 2’11”, 2 seconds ahead of Mark Powell, 6 faster than Dave Mabbs, and 7 faster than the team who have no scruples. Stick that in your baguette and smoke it.