Raid Report - The Aftermath
My riding kit has performed a number of small miracles. Spine, forearms and elbows have been saved by the soft armour in my Hein Gericke jacket; the same firm’s trousers have saved my knees and backside from serious damage. Dainese Moto-X gloves have also done their thing. My Arai helmet has three distinct impacts, one a deep gouge.
The Sidi boots that I’ve been criticising for the ingress of water have redeemed themselves. I have taken a huge impact to the shin. It has exploded the front of my trousers and broken the thermoplastic shin guard, but not my leg – without proper bike boots my lower leg would be smashed to pieces.
The day is spent between hobbling over to the bike to play ‘spot the damage’ and sitting around drinking coffee.
At six we assemble in the huge hall of the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute for the prize-giving. There appear to be hundreds present to hear the Himachalli minister for sport (who doesn’t look like he could pick up a shuttlecock without having a heart attack) mumble out a list of sports he’s heard of for what feels like an hour. If he isn’t drunk he does a very bad job of being sober. Representatives of the various sponsors also get their limelight time, before the gongs, finally, get distributed.
I have never seen trophies the size of these. I get a cup you could boil a head in for the overall bike win, a plate you could then carve it on for best in class and then am called up to receive the John Mark James Trophy – given in the memory of John Mark, a Brit’ who died while competing in 2001. The award is given for something like ‘embodying the spirit of the event’. I feel there are others more deserving.
Perhaps the best prize is my giant cheque. Not purely for the fiscal benefit it imbues, but because a) I am still suffering from the bang to the head and it’s wonderfully surreal and b) it’s one of those big cheques like what them proper sportsmen get… like the ones Flintoff is forever receiving for man of the match.
As the show breaks up I am interviewed by various print and TV reporters, to whom I babble incoherent nonsense. My Land Rover friends Koos and Kevin offer to bung my cups in the car and transport them to Delhi for me - thank God, as I’d never get them on the bike – and give me a lift to the posh Manali hotel where we’re to party the night away.
It’s a good do and several bottles of muscle relaxant mean I can dance disjointedly with the younger of the assemblage. The most exhuberent of these are the Punjabi contingent, who whirl for frenzied hours.
OK, I’m also tired of this overly-long explanation. Perhaps I should leave it to the succinct and accurate Himachal Times: “In bike category, Demon Ison was declared first.”
As the other competitors headed home, I moved to a cheap hotel for a few days of recovery (really shouldn’t have overdone it at the do). I found a guy to do a pretty shabby job of welding on a new footpeg, banged the front end of the Yamaha straight and did some considerable eating and drinking.
I also popped up to see my friends Luder and Khem at the Hotel Iceland – more eating and drinking. In the morning following crashing in one of their rooms, Luder suggested we go paragling. It was a short flight, but fantastic, a really natural flying feeling. I will be back to do a course.
A BIG THANKS TO
Vijay (pictured looking sinister), Manjeev, Bantu, Trigun, Suzie and all the mechanics at Motoworld who helped me find things and let me get in the way. Also thanks to all the Raid officials and medics who toiled for seven days to make the Raid possible and the other competitors in all classes who showed such great sportsmanship and hospitality.
