Charley Boorman - Race to Dakar

Race to Dakar

Charley Boorman

with Robert Uhlig

To Doone, Kinvara and Olivia for being there for me.

Also for Boubacar Diallo and Mohammed Ndaw, two spectators who were tragically killed on the rally. Our hearts go out to their families and friends.

And Andy Caldecott, who lost his life in this year's rally, and for all those brave riders that fell before him.

Foreword

by Ewan McGregor

We were in an office somewhere, and our book had just been brought into the room. There was real excitement. As we both shut our eyes and covered them with our hands, the copy was placed on a table. Then: ta daa! There it was, and there we were, on the cover, standing proud like two explorers from the past. Our first book. It was a first for both of us, and we smiled huge smiles at each other. 'Wow,' we said.

'Look at this ... the picture goes all the way round the cover.'

'Cool.'

For a while we flicked through in silence, looking at the grouped photos and reading wee bits and pieces. A feeling of pride was swelling in my chest when Charley suddenly said, 'Oh, fuck.'

'What?' I asked.

'It says here I'm doing the Dakar in 2006.'

My best friend Charley has ridden motorbikes since he was seven, which makes him something of a hero in my eyes. His riding has always been really good - whether he was on the track or just going round town - but it was to get better. Much better.

On the Long Way Round trip I followed his lead through some of the rougher stuff, and it's true to say that we both improved. The terrain that tested us in Kazakhstan would have been a doddle had we faced it later on in Siberia.

There were times when we both felt pretty good about ourselves. After such stretches the helmets would come off to reveal huge dusty grins and we would relive moments of motorcycling excellence. There was a name that was always mentioned to describe these times. Not to describe the actual techniques of riding on the dirt (certainly not in my case), but the feeling of it. When everything came together, the bike disappeared beneath you and you felt as if you were just flying along, no thoughts or decisions about which line to take, which gear to be in, everything automatic, leaving you free to experience true flow and exhilaration. The Dakar moments.

Now, I don't know if Charley had actually decided to race in the world's most gruelling rally or not when, in a moment of bravado shortly after arriving in New York, he said to our editor, 'Yeah, I'm doing the Dakar next.' But when he saw it in print on the flyleaf of our book, he more than rose to the challenge.

Over the following year I saw him change, seeing less and less of him as he threw himself into an extraordinary training schedule. I'd never seen him more driven, so all-consumed by anything before. He truly surprised people with his riding and his passion for this new, terrifying challenge.

A lot of friends and family - myself included - were nervous and worried for him. The training was really tough, and we all knew about the life-threatening dangers he could face on the rally itself. By the final week before the race, I know that Charley himself was scared too, but he never flinched from the job at hand.

I was many miles away when the race began in Lisbon in January 2006, but I know that, along with many others, my thoughts and prayers found him, sweating on the start line, engine gunning, his heart beating in his throat...

'GO ON, CHARLEY ... GO ON!'

Ewan McGregor, July 2006

It's early in the morning of New Year's Eve and I am climbing into a taxi outside a luxury hotel in Lisbon, feeling strangely calm. The day I've dreamt about for years has finally come and the sheer terror that was paralysing me last night has given way to a calm feeling I've not felt for a long, long time. And I don't know why.

As usual, Simon is late, but even that doesn't wind me up. I've had a good night's sleep - a miracle considering I was in a blind panic only a few hours ago - and I feel relaxed as we head off to the start.

The Dakar Rally. Last night I could hardly utter those words without feeling sick. At dinner with my wife, children and friends, the cutlery in my hands was shaking as I struggled to force down some food. I felt like a man facing the firing squad in the morning. But this morning, everything seems to have fallen into place at last.

Kate Bush plays on the radio as Simon, Matt and I sit in silence, lost in our thoughts as the taxi moves quickly through

deserted city streets. It feels like any other early morning start. Just like leaving for the airport before a holiday.

Except we are dressed in several layers of protective motorcycle kit and about to embark on the most hazardous, tortuous, demanding race of all.

And then it dawns on me. After a year of breaking bones, preparing bikes, chasing sponsors, battling bureaucracy, getting visas and vaccinations sorted, learning to race off-road, finding funding, entering races I feared I would never finish, securing broadcast deals and convincing my teammates that I was up to scratch, at last life has become blissfully simple. No more hassles, just a simple future. Put on my helmet, get on my bike and ride to Dakar.

Two days earlier, shortly after we arrived in Lisbon, I'd felt that unbeatable feeling as I rode my BMW rally bike to the race compound. Just concentrating on the bike and the road, that sense of completeness I'd found on Long Way Round, travelling around the world with Ewan, came flooding back. There was nowhere else I would rather have been than on that bike - well, maybe in bed with my wife - right then, right there, riding past the ranks of racing trucks, rally cars and the coolest, meanest off-road bikes anyone has ever seen. Fuck! It didn't get any better than that!

I followed my team mates Simon Pavey and Matt Hall into a petrol station near the Lisbon docks. Shortly after we arrived a squadron of bikes decked in the colours of Repsol, one of the leading teams, arrived. Thrilled to be parking my bike alongside real professional Dakar riders, I watched as Simon chatted to a rider in Repsol kit.

'Who was that?' I asked when Simon returned.

Andy Caldecott. Know him from previous Dakars. Nice guy.'

Like Simon, Caldecott was an Aussie. T thought he wasn't racing this year,' I said.

'Yeah, said it was a freak thing he's even here. Hadn't been expecting to ride but one of the factory riders got injured. Repsol rang him two weeks ago, just before Christmas. Said would you come and ride on a factory KTM.

He hadn't been practising or training at all this year, but said yes straight away. Guess that's what Dakar does to you.'

I knew a little bit about Caldecott - in 2005 he'd won two Dakar stages and come sixth overall - and as I stood there looking at Andy and the other Repsol riders filling up their bikes beside me, I suddenly realised: this is it. For the first time I felt part of the rally.

We were all about to go into scrutineering, where our bikes would be examined to ensure they were up to race standard, and it would be the same for everyone. That was one of the things that made the Dakar so special. Once it got underway, everyone from the stars to the novices was equal. The stars had massive support and assistance teams, but they still had to fill up their own bikes, get them through scrutineering, ride them on the same tracks