Yamaha Success in World's Highest Race
Sorry about the rambling 'style'here, the tardiness of posting, lack of good pictures and that the ones I have bear little relation to the text - it's impossible to concentrate on racing and taking photographs simultaneously - but here's the first instalment of my experience in the Rally Raid de Himalaya...
Anyone who contemplates taking part in the Rally Raid de Himalaya, with its terrifying and potentially fatal vertical drops, must wonder what it feels like to go over the edge, to leave the road and spin into the void. Well, although I only went over a small one, I now have a pretty good idea of how it feels. First there's a familiar 'whoops', then a cold realisation that as far as cock-ups go, one is presently engaged in a mother. A sense of 360-degree, what-way-up space precedes a mix of pain and relief as the ground is struck and left, struck and departed again. Spinning through the twilight, tumbling, sharp blows coming in from every side, a rag-dolling realisation that if you can't arrest the downward spiral, then you've probably opened your last Kingfisher. I'll be beaten to death by the rocks, or go over a big one. I've no idea what's below me.
Legs out rigid; arms, hands and heels searching for purchase. Flailure is failure. Arse over tit again and the heels dig in.
Delighted to be alive, I go through the post-stack motions: Toes wiggle? Check. Fingers move? 'Ow!' But check. Knees, elbows, shoulders all move stiffly. I know I'm all here because everything hurts. Especially my right leg. It isn't responding to instructions, but as I draw myself upright I'm able to pull it into position and when I put weight on it there's only a marginal increase in pain. I am able to lean forward against the slope to steady myself and start to climb.
I was in the lead, 2075km into a seven-day, 2100km race when the taxi punted me over the edge. Just 10 miles to the gate and I'd have clinched a win, but all I can now work out is which way is up. I don't know where my bike is and seem to have blown it, big-time. Having taken time out en-route to get some pictures taken for coverage in Bike magazine, I am perilously close to losing time on this last 'transport stage' and only have a lead of around 1min 20secs. If not on the bike and over the line within about half an hour I'm done. A week of hard-riding; four o'clock morning musters; changing tyres in the dark in the biting mountain winds; boily backside and dust-clogged nose; stinging eyes and sunburn; four previous crashes - it all looks set to end here in the rocky scree of the Rohtang Pass thanks to a stupid error of judgement. But, make no mistake, I'm happy to be alive and not smashed to pieces.
The Preparations
The run up to 'The Raid' was a busy few days - giving the Yamaha its first full service, changing my part-worn Metzeler Karoo tyres for Pirelli MT61 enduro rubber and buying provisions. To pass scrutineering I was also required to fit mud flaps fore and aft, and they have done wonders for the bike's styling. Lovely. It was also necessary cover the bike in an extraordinary number of race sponsorship stickers.
I did manage to find time to get in a couple of test rides, getting an idea of how the new Pirellis worked on the dirt, but didn't get nearly so much practice as I'd have liked. Still, with the bike now luggage-free and riding with a bunch of other riders (including English Matt, who I'd first met in Leh) I managed to get a measure of how quick I could go - which on the lose dirt was not quick enough.
For a couple of days another English fella and around-the-worlder, Adam Lewis, and I had teamed up to halve the number of stupid questions we felt obliged to ask the organisers. Despite Adam having competed in a number of UK enduro events, neither of us had a fool's clue on how this monstrous number was run. We were also both granted the use of Motoworld's workshops - the garage business of communications director, Vijay Parmar (thanks Vijay) - to prepare our machines.
Now I like Adam, he's a proper Brit grass roots racer; ready to smile and laugh his way through inconvenience, resourceful (stripping his BMW F650 to its underwear two days before the race to change its suspension bushes) and ever ready to lend a hand. Like I said, I like Adam, but I don't want to sleep with him, thanks. But that was the arrangement laid on for us the night before the race's kick-off.
Mind you I didn't join him until after midnight, thanks to unfinished jobs and a briefing that took up a good part of the evening. From there it was a completely sleepless night, if only a four-hour one, before rising to ride to the race's start.
Day One
Completely knackered at 4.30am, I'm strapping my toolkit and Baglux tankbag, containing requisite sleeping bag, emergency rations and first aid kit, to the tail of the XT. We have to be in the start area at 5.30 for the first vehicles to leave at six. It's bikes first and then cars and of the 33 (I think) bikes leaving, I'm 28th bike, near last thanks to my high (101) unseeded race number.
It's a weird sensation running quickly through the quiet streets of Shimla at 6.30am, cops waving me through the junctions and tunnels. Soon we're off the main track and heading for the first competitive stage on the dirt. A number of waiting bikes mark the start - for every minute early into the staging area, there's a five-minute penalty; for each minute late, it's just a minute's penalty. Accurate timekeeping is essential.
Stage One, Day One, is tight and rocky dirt track. At just 26km it is short and intense with perilous falls. Advice from experienced mentors (four-times winner, Bantu; seen-it-all font of motorcycling wisdom, Trigun; organiser Vijay et al) is simply to take it easy and survive the first day - around half the entry is expected to fall out by day's end due to failure to make the maximum permitted lateness (MPL), crashes, punctures, or simply realising they're not up to the job.
My friends give good advice indeed, but it fails to take into account the fact I might want to compete. And Vijay, after taking me for a short assessment ride to gauge whether I was fit for the Raid had marked me thus: "You are good enough to ride in the Raid, but you won't win it." Whether by intention or accident, this has fired me up - nobody likes to be underestimated, let alone written-off...
I reckon that if I fall too far behind on these initial tight dirt stages - where I know the small-engined bikes are quick and agile with more experienced riders - then I won't be able to make it back up on the more open sections later in the race. Today we have some 425km to cover, and with more than a quarter of this rough-track racing there's a long way I could fall behind.
So best advice ignored I go for it, hard as I can. Over the course of stage one I pass many slower bikes, have a few near misses and one slide that has onlookers running for cover. In competitive two I slide off on a shiny surface in front of an assembled village. I was showing off, trying to spark the pegs and Matt is proved right, the word 'twat' could have been invented for me. Luckily the road just here is so smooth that the bike and I are barely marked and I lose less than a minute. Next hazard is a dog that runs out on me. I manage to lose speed, spin Muttley around on the spot, and we both go about our ways.
All day I have been dicing with 'Big Nitin', number 100, on his madly modified and hugely tuned orange Enfield Bullet. His bike is fitted with long-travel forks, a Japanese monoshock rear end and he rides it like a devil, spinning the wheel everywhere and backing off for nothing. I pass him on the long Stage Three, over 60km of dirt track, when he has a technical problem. I then have a problem of my own when the front mud flap is dragged into the wheel, but get going before he re-passes.
Within minutes I hear the drone of his engine behind me and there he is, 25m behind and gaining. I have lost concentration, over-relaxed and slowed. Efforts redoubled, I manage to gap Big Nitin and finish the last racing stage of the day, having overtaken about 15 bikes on the road and stayed ahead (on the road,not in time) of the fastest cars.
The last transport stage of the day goes over the Jalori Pass at about 3300m and on to the finish at Manali. For once taking advice, I stop only for a quick smoke before tackling the day's last 250-odd kilometres. Five hours is plenty of time, but it's best to get going and refuelled early, in case of a problem later. I have this problem when 40km from the end I get a puncture in the dark. With half-a-dozen Himachalli villagers trying to 'help', I get a new tube in and hit the finish line at around 8pm.
Adam, with whom I am again sharing a room/bed, has lost time with a puncture in the first competitive stage and now his suspension problem has re-emerged. His friend Dan helps him strip the complicated BMW once more to find that the upper shock bush of his Ohlins has once more worn out - only 400km since replacement. With no permanent fix in sight, Adam withdraws from the race, which is a big disappointment, as not only have we been working as a mini team, but I'm also looking forward to a bit of a ding-dong with him on the tarmac.
Later in the evening the day's results are out. I am astonished to find myself in second place, leading a bunch of riders who are all within a couple of minutes of me. Ahead are a couple of cars and a rider nicknamed 'Rocky' - so named because of his love of the films and his mild-mannered behaviour off the bike and tenacity 'in the ring'. Rocky (last year's winner, number 71, riding a lightly modified Hero Honda Karizma) is a whole 11 minutes ahead. With the roads opening out tomorrow and more suiting the big, heavy Yamaha, I hope to take some time out of Rocky's lead, or at least stay in touch.
Day Two
The tough first day has done its job, all but halving the field. Today is an 'easy' day, with a 50km transport over the Rohtang Pass, a 100km dirt racing stage and a further 60-odd km to the Finish at Kaza in the stunning Spiti Valley. I'm tired, a bit achy, and struggling to concentrate and pace myself at the start of the stage.
About 20 minutes in, there's a beeping behind me as a blue rally car approaches for an overtake. I consider where to pull over and let it through. Then reconsider. Overtaken by a car? Not going to happen. If it does pass I'll lose time in its dust cloud and as we're starting to climb towards the 4500m Kunzum Pass may well get stuck behind on the steepest parts of the climb.
Being chased kicks some extra adrenalin into the system and I take off like a hairy bear with its arse alight, quickly gapping the Suzuki car and managing to focus for the rest of the stage. It pays dividends as by the day's end I've pulled back (I think - I didn't check the time sheets that night) around three minutes on Rocky.
In Kaza, determined to get some sleep (I've had around three hours in the past two nights), I check into a cheap hotel that I used on my reccy, eat early and get some kip.
Day Three
Three very steep, very tight and technical 'special' stages comprise day three. They are all in the stunning high desert Kaza area and we'll only cover about 100 miles, but I know the terrain is going to be very physical on what is basically a big road bike with knobbly tyres.
Each of the stages climbs from around 3000m to approximately 4000m within the space of about 20km, with vertiginous drops from which you could base jump. There are a couple of points at which officials wave speed down for some potentially fatal technicalities, and bugger-all grip throughout.
I crash three times in all - all slow ones. Twice the bike comes around on me on nadgery uphill sand; once I'm distracted by roadside officials and topple against the cliff-side after locking the wheels. One crash leaves the bike tank-down on a steep slope and I lose at least a minute hauling it upright.
One of the stages is run twice and the last downhill 7km is rough tarmac. Barrelling down and braking into the hairpins is pulling my front knobbly apart.
Overall, though, I'm happy to be pretty much on the pace. Although I have around twice the power of the bikes near the front of the pack (the bigger bikes in the field are failing to compete), there's no reward in 40bhp when you can only get 20 of them to the floor and you're wheel-spinning everywhere, struggling to hold the weight up in the hairpins. I don't know exactly where I stand behind Rocky, but am pretty sure he hasn't got away today.
Day Four
The main competitive section of this race is basically a reversal of day two, 100kms over Kunzum La with fast valley-floor sections. I've upped my tyre pressures to try and get some more stability and a higher top speed on the fast bits, which run over gravel and stone dry river beds. The 'death weave' now sets in some 5km faster and I'm able to top out at about 130kph, but it's arse-twitching stuff when you see what terrain you'll be tumbling over.
Running the stage this way also brings those of us running at the front over Kunzum Pass early - about 7.30am. There is ice lurking in the shadows.
Again I've slept poorly and am struggling to race all the time, wary of getting the bike's mass slowed and turned on the downhill 'pins. Staying full-on for every second of an hour and a half over this stuff is hard work. I miss an official short cut and lose time. Rocky gains a little on me, but not enough to worry too much about when this is the last of the serious dirt stages.
The last stage of day four is situated on the famous/infamous Manali-Leh road. All tarmac (or at least a rough version of it) and only 17km over a small pass, it's the ideal place to see what kind of time I can pull back on good surfaces, where I can use the Yamaha's power. I get confused by a roadside 'finish' sign, put out for cars competing in the 'reliability' class, and lose a minute or so dithering over what to do.But I'm still fastest here, quicker even than the lead cars.
My front tyre is now in a state of serious disintegration. The knobs on the sides are breaking off and it's not fit to compete another day. I have my part-worn Metzeler Karoo tyres (the dual-purpose rubber that has served us so well throughout the trip) being carried by Kevin, a Brit' with his Land Rover entered in the reliability competition. But there's a problem. We are staying in a military transit camp at Patseo and as Kevin has diplomatic number plates he can't.
I've my wheel out ready for the tyre change, so the officials (thanks you, guys) arrange to bring the tyre the 25km from the hotel at which he's now been posted. It arrives at around 9.00pm and is quickly fitted, but finding someone with a pump takes another half-hour. I'd wanted to change the rear, too, but it's getting too late and too cold at near 4000m.
Carrying kit has been a problem throughout. Most of the competitors have service crews running with them, but I'm having to ask favours of people to carry my overnight bag. I'm grateful to those who helped, but this means me rarely seeing my kit and is a constant hassle I don't need. I'm having to run around finding cars when I need to work on the bike, or sleep.
Night four I sit up and have a few much needed social whiskeys with friends before crashing out at midnight in the barrack room bunk beds in which w're billeted. It's cold, the roof doesn't fit, there's a plethora of snoring styles, but I manage to get some kip eventually.
I'll leave it at that for now, cos it's going to take about two hours to get this posted. More, probably, tomorrow.
Damon
Anyone who contemplates taking part in the Rally Raid de Himalaya, with its terrifying and potentially fatal vertical drops, must wonder what it feels like to go over the edge, to leave the road and spin into the void. Well, although I only went over a small one, I now have a pretty good idea of how it feels. First there's a familiar 'whoops', then a cold realisation that as far as cock-ups go, one is presently engaged in a mother. A sense of 360-degree, what-way-up space precedes a mix of pain and relief as the ground is struck and left, struck and departed again. Spinning through the twilight, tumbling, sharp blows coming in from every side, a rag-dolling realisation that if you can't arrest the downward spiral, then you've probably opened your last Kingfisher. I'll be beaten to death by the rocks, or go over a big one. I've no idea what's below me.
Legs out rigid; arms, hands and heels searching for purchase. Flailure is failure. Arse over tit again and the heels dig in.
Delighted to be alive, I go through the post-stack motions: Toes wiggle? Check. Fingers move? 'Ow!' But check. Knees, elbows, shoulders all move stiffly. I know I'm all here because everything hurts. Especially my right leg. It isn't responding to instructions, but as I draw myself upright I'm able to pull it into position and when I put weight on it there's only a marginal increase in pain. I am able to lean forward against the slope to steady myself and start to climb.
I was in the lead, 2075km into a seven-day, 2100km race when the taxi punted me over the edge. Just 10 miles to the gate and I'd have clinched a win, but all I can now work out is which way is up. I don't know where my bike is and seem to have blown it, big-time. Having taken time out en-route to get some pictures taken for coverage in Bike magazine, I am perilously close to losing time on this last 'transport stage' and only have a lead of around 1min 20secs. If not on the bike and over the line within about half an hour I'm done. A week of hard-riding; four o'clock morning musters; changing tyres in the dark in the biting mountain winds; boily backside and dust-clogged nose; stinging eyes and sunburn; four previous crashes - it all looks set to end here in the rocky scree of the Rohtang Pass thanks to a stupid error of judgement. But, make no mistake, I'm happy to be alive and not smashed to pieces.
The Preparations
The run up to 'The Raid' was a busy few days - giving the Yamaha its first full service, changing my part-worn Metzeler Karoo tyres for Pirelli MT61 enduro rubber and buying provisions. To pass scrutineering I was also required to fit mud flaps fore and aft, and they have done wonders for the bike's styling. Lovely. It was also necessary cover the bike in an extraordinary number of race sponsorship stickers.
I did manage to find time to get in a couple of test rides, getting an idea of how the new Pirellis worked on the dirt, but didn't get nearly so much practice as I'd have liked. Still, with the bike now luggage-free and riding with a bunch of other riders (including English Matt, who I'd first met in Leh) I managed to get a measure of how quick I could go - which on the lose dirt was not quick enough.
For a couple of days another English fella and around-the-worlder, Adam Lewis, and I had teamed up to halve the number of stupid questions we felt obliged to ask the organisers. Despite Adam having competed in a number of UK enduro events, neither of us had a fool's clue on how this monstrous number was run. We were also both granted the use of Motoworld's workshops - the garage business of communications director, Vijay Parmar (thanks Vijay) - to prepare our machines.
Now I like Adam, he's a proper Brit grass roots racer; ready to smile and laugh his way through inconvenience, resourceful (stripping his BMW F650 to its underwear two days before the race to change its suspension bushes) and ever ready to lend a hand. Like I said, I like Adam, but I don't want to sleep with him, thanks. But that was the arrangement laid on for us the night before the race's kick-off.
Mind you I didn't join him until after midnight, thanks to unfinished jobs and a briefing that took up a good part of the evening. From there it was a completely sleepless night, if only a four-hour one, before rising to ride to the race's start.
Day One
Completely knackered at 4.30am, I'm strapping my toolkit and Baglux tankbag, containing requisite sleeping bag, emergency rations and first aid kit, to the tail of the XT. We have to be in the start area at 5.30 for the first vehicles to leave at six. It's bikes first and then cars and of the 33 (I think) bikes leaving, I'm 28th bike, near last thanks to my high (101) unseeded race number.
It's a weird sensation running quickly through the quiet streets of Shimla at 6.30am, cops waving me through the junctions and tunnels. Soon we're off the main track and heading for the first competitive stage on the dirt. A number of waiting bikes mark the start - for every minute early into the staging area, there's a five-minute penalty; for each minute late, it's just a minute's penalty. Accurate timekeeping is essential.
Stage One, Day One, is tight and rocky dirt track. At just 26km it is short and intense with perilous falls. Advice from experienced mentors (four-times winner, Bantu; seen-it-all font of motorcycling wisdom, Trigun; organiser Vijay et al) is simply to take it easy and survive the first day - around half the entry is expected to fall out by day's end due to failure to make the maximum permitted lateness (MPL), crashes, punctures, or simply realising they're not up to the job.
My friends give good advice indeed, but it fails to take into account the fact I might want to compete. And Vijay, after taking me for a short assessment ride to gauge whether I was fit for the Raid had marked me thus: "You are good enough to ride in the Raid, but you won't win it." Whether by intention or accident, this has fired me up - nobody likes to be underestimated, let alone written-off...
I reckon that if I fall too far behind on these initial tight dirt stages - where I know the small-engined bikes are quick and agile with more experienced riders - then I won't be able to make it back up on the more open sections later in the race. Today we have some 425km to cover, and with more than a quarter of this rough-track racing there's a long way I could fall behind.
So best advice ignored I go for it, hard as I can. Over the course of stage one I pass many slower bikes, have a few near misses and one slide that has onlookers running for cover. In competitive two I slide off on a shiny surface in front of an assembled village. I was showing off, trying to spark the pegs and Matt is proved right, the word 'twat' could have been invented for me. Luckily the road just here is so smooth that the bike and I are barely marked and I lose less than a minute. Next hazard is a dog that runs out on me. I manage to lose speed, spin Muttley around on the spot, and we both go about our ways.
All day I have been dicing with 'Big Nitin', number 100, on his madly modified and hugely tuned orange Enfield Bullet. His bike is fitted with long-travel forks, a Japanese monoshock rear end and he rides it like a devil, spinning the wheel everywhere and backing off for nothing. I pass him on the long Stage Three, over 60km of dirt track, when he has a technical problem. I then have a problem of my own when the front mud flap is dragged into the wheel, but get going before he re-passes.
Within minutes I hear the drone of his engine behind me and there he is, 25m behind and gaining. I have lost concentration, over-relaxed and slowed. Efforts redoubled, I manage to gap Big Nitin and finish the last racing stage of the day, having overtaken about 15 bikes on the road and stayed ahead (on the road,not in time) of the fastest cars.
The last transport stage of the day goes over the Jalori Pass at about 3300m and on to the finish at Manali. For once taking advice, I stop only for a quick smoke before tackling the day's last 250-odd kilometres. Five hours is plenty of time, but it's best to get going and refuelled early, in case of a problem later. I have this problem when 40km from the end I get a puncture in the dark. With half-a-dozen Himachalli villagers trying to 'help', I get a new tube in and hit the finish line at around 8pm.
Adam, with whom I am again sharing a room/bed, has lost time with a puncture in the first competitive stage and now his suspension problem has re-emerged. His friend Dan helps him strip the complicated BMW once more to find that the upper shock bush of his Ohlins has once more worn out - only 400km since replacement. With no permanent fix in sight, Adam withdraws from the race, which is a big disappointment, as not only have we been working as a mini team, but I'm also looking forward to a bit of a ding-dong with him on the tarmac.
Later in the evening the day's results are out. I am astonished to find myself in second place, leading a bunch of riders who are all within a couple of minutes of me. Ahead are a couple of cars and a rider nicknamed 'Rocky' - so named because of his love of the films and his mild-mannered behaviour off the bike and tenacity 'in the ring'. Rocky (last year's winner, number 71, riding a lightly modified Hero Honda Karizma) is a whole 11 minutes ahead. With the roads opening out tomorrow and more suiting the big, heavy Yamaha, I hope to take some time out of Rocky's lead, or at least stay in touch.
Day Two
The tough first day has done its job, all but halving the field. Today is an 'easy' day, with a 50km transport over the Rohtang Pass, a 100km dirt racing stage and a further 60-odd km to the Finish at Kaza in the stunning Spiti Valley. I'm tired, a bit achy, and struggling to concentrate and pace myself at the start of the stage.
About 20 minutes in, there's a beeping behind me as a blue rally car approaches for an overtake. I consider where to pull over and let it through. Then reconsider. Overtaken by a car? Not going to happen. If it does pass I'll lose time in its dust cloud and as we're starting to climb towards the 4500m Kunzum Pass may well get stuck behind on the steepest parts of the climb.
Being chased kicks some extra adrenalin into the system and I take off like a hairy bear with its arse alight, quickly gapping the Suzuki car and managing to focus for the rest of the stage. It pays dividends as by the day's end I've pulled back (I think - I didn't check the time sheets that night) around three minutes on Rocky.
In Kaza, determined to get some sleep (I've had around three hours in the past two nights), I check into a cheap hotel that I used on my reccy, eat early and get some kip.
Day Three
Three very steep, very tight and technical 'special' stages comprise day three. They are all in the stunning high desert Kaza area and we'll only cover about 100 miles, but I know the terrain is going to be very physical on what is basically a big road bike with knobbly tyres.
Each of the stages climbs from around 3000m to approximately 4000m within the space of about 20km, with vertiginous drops from which you could base jump. There are a couple of points at which officials wave speed down for some potentially fatal technicalities, and bugger-all grip throughout.
I crash three times in all - all slow ones. Twice the bike comes around on me on nadgery uphill sand; once I'm distracted by roadside officials and topple against the cliff-side after locking the wheels. One crash leaves the bike tank-down on a steep slope and I lose at least a minute hauling it upright.
One of the stages is run twice and the last downhill 7km is rough tarmac. Barrelling down and braking into the hairpins is pulling my front knobbly apart.
Overall, though, I'm happy to be pretty much on the pace. Although I have around twice the power of the bikes near the front of the pack (the bigger bikes in the field are failing to compete), there's no reward in 40bhp when you can only get 20 of them to the floor and you're wheel-spinning everywhere, struggling to hold the weight up in the hairpins. I don't know exactly where I stand behind Rocky, but am pretty sure he hasn't got away today.
Day Four
The main competitive section of this race is basically a reversal of day two, 100kms over Kunzum La with fast valley-floor sections. I've upped my tyre pressures to try and get some more stability and a higher top speed on the fast bits, which run over gravel and stone dry river beds. The 'death weave' now sets in some 5km faster and I'm able to top out at about 130kph, but it's arse-twitching stuff when you see what terrain you'll be tumbling over.
Running the stage this way also brings those of us running at the front over Kunzum Pass early - about 7.30am. There is ice lurking in the shadows.
Again I've slept poorly and am struggling to race all the time, wary of getting the bike's mass slowed and turned on the downhill 'pins. Staying full-on for every second of an hour and a half over this stuff is hard work. I miss an official short cut and lose time. Rocky gains a little on me, but not enough to worry too much about when this is the last of the serious dirt stages.
The last stage of day four is situated on the famous/infamous Manali-Leh road. All tarmac (or at least a rough version of it) and only 17km over a small pass, it's the ideal place to see what kind of time I can pull back on good surfaces, where I can use the Yamaha's power. I get confused by a roadside 'finish' sign, put out for cars competing in the 'reliability' class, and lose a minute or so dithering over what to do.But I'm still fastest here, quicker even than the lead cars.
My front tyre is now in a state of serious disintegration. The knobs on the sides are breaking off and it's not fit to compete another day. I have my part-worn Metzeler Karoo tyres (the dual-purpose rubber that has served us so well throughout the trip) being carried by Kevin, a Brit' with his Land Rover entered in the reliability competition. But there's a problem. We are staying in a military transit camp at Patseo and as Kevin has diplomatic number plates he can't.
I've my wheel out ready for the tyre change, so the officials (thanks you, guys) arrange to bring the tyre the 25km from the hotel at which he's now been posted. It arrives at around 9.00pm and is quickly fitted, but finding someone with a pump takes another half-hour. I'd wanted to change the rear, too, but it's getting too late and too cold at near 4000m.
Carrying kit has been a problem throughout. Most of the competitors have service crews running with them, but I'm having to ask favours of people to carry my overnight bag. I'm grateful to those who helped, but this means me rarely seeing my kit and is a constant hassle I don't need. I'm having to run around finding cars when I need to work on the bike, or sleep.
Night four I sit up and have a few much needed social whiskeys with friends before crashing out at midnight in the barrack room bunk beds in which w're billeted. It's cold, the roof doesn't fit, there's a plethora of snoring styles, but I manage to get some kip eventually.
I'll leave it at that for now, cos it's going to take about two hours to get this posted. More, probably, tomorrow.
Damon
