Race to Dakar: Crashing

Crouched on on the floor, trying to assess the damage, I was still reeling from shock. I'd landed heavily on my left side and back and could feel unusual pains. I inhaled deeply and a sharp bite of pain occurred in my ribs on the left, but nothing crunched and no odd lumps could be felt. OK, I thought, some cracked ribs, not so bad.

Next up, the pain in my shoulder needed to be understood.

"Please don't be broken" I said aloud.

I don't know why I had to say it, there was no one to hear it, I was in the middle of a Moroccan piste miles off track and I couldn't even hear another motorbike.

I moved my right arm in a full circle over head, all good, no problems. I repeated the same with my left arm and almost puked in my helmet, the bone crunched and pressed outwards against my skin. Bollocks! My collar bone is broken I thought, I didn't bother verbalising it for my invisible friend this time.

My day had started on slightly higher note, waking in the bivouac, tidying the campsite and setting off with the other riders and drivers for the start line. There was an air of excitement, everyone could feel it almost as much as the biting cold. It had actually snowed and there was mud everywhere! Not at all what i expected.

My start time came and i set off....

A few hours later, at the crash site, i stood up and checked my self over. I realised my back was wet, my water reservoir burst on impact absorbing some of the energy like an air bag, but it meant I had no water to drink. Moving my left arm was agonising, but I slipped my backpack off to get to my first aid kit. With every movement I could feel bones moving and stabbing at thinly stretched skin, like clingfilm over sharp object. I used the last of the water in the reservoir drinking tube to flush the paracetamol and ibuprofen down, then repeated the agony to get the backpack on.

My bike was laying on its side, like bikes tend to do if you crash them, but it looked OK, it still had fuel in the tank and the bars and wheels were fine. To be honest, it should have been fine, the crash occurred when the front wheel hit a rock on the piste and immediately jerked sideways which stopped the bikes forward motion and threw me over it. I wasn't travelling at speed and had been unfortunate with my landing on the rocky surface.

I knew I could pick up the bike with one hand because I'd been preparing and training for such an eventuality. So I did just that, standing with my.back to the bike I crouched down, grabbed the bar with my right hand and, with a groan of pain, I stood up with the bike. thank god the KTM is so light.

It's important to note that the bike was equipped with a satellite tracking system that allows the rally organisation to know your whereabouts. We had all been trained on their use and you only have to press a button and (eventually) the medical staff would arrive. However, I didn't want to do that, I still had a crazy idea that I might be able to continue and, more importantly, I didn't want the medical staff to have to aid me when there might be somebody in a worse condition. Considering myself 'walking wounded' at this point, I thought I would just press on and try and get to the bivouac, and the doctor, under my own steam.

Taking shallow breaths, so as not to hurt my ribs, and groaning aloud i threw my leg over the bike. I used my right hand to place my left hand on the bars so I could grip, and pleasingly, once my left arm was in position it felt much more comfortable like I was locked in, the bike actually providing some stability to my broken frame. Thankfully the bike fired straight up and so I began the journey, albeit at a snails pace, following the GPS waypoints over the barren landscape.

When I eventually reached a tiny slip of broken tarmac that passes for a road, I knew I had to rethink my approach. It had taken age to cover ground off road, every bump of the surface transmitted to my less than able bones. Looking at the GPS I found the final waypoint that indicated the bivouac and plotted a road route. My heart sank when I saw the resulting options. 200km off-road in a straight line or 515km by road in a huge arc.

I estimated it would take about 6hrs until reached a doctor. I checked my fuel level and guesstimated 100km range left, I looked for the nearest fuel station, 100km down the road. It would be tight and I wouldn't be able to push the bike if i run out, but I'd at least be close.

Setting off down the tarmac the smoother surface was a pleasure to ride on, the temperature not so much. You'd think a rally through Morocco would be lovely and warm with heat, not cold, being an issue. On this occasion you would be wrong, it had snowed and the temperature reflected that.

I lived every second of these first kilometres, each passing one seeming to take a aeon, Leaning forward as best I could, shivering with cold and pain with freezing snot dripping from my nose, I sped through the bleak landscape on the tiny road that disappeared to the horizon in a straight line.

After about 45 bleak kilometres I started having second thoughts about my course of action and stopped the bike. What if I fell off? What if I ran out of fuel? Would it better to wait for the medics and press the SOS button? Given the temperature and the thought of a long wait in the cold awaiting a medic, I was resolute that I'd rather keep my fate in own hands and found the resolve to fire up the bike and get it done. I didn't know it at this point, but SOS GPS was actually broken, i was told by the org it had been damaged in the crash when I handed it back!!

For whatever reason, from this point on, the distance passed easily. The road was closed and flooded at points and my injuries prevented me from standing up.on the bike, which severely limits your off-road stability. So I had to navigate small sections off-road sitting down and walk through river sections to test depth before attempting the same on the bike. Each time I dismounted the pain was intense, I preferred being on the bike and decided I'd not get off again. Finally, with the fuel light on and the bike running on fumes a petrol station came into view. What an incredible relief!!

Shivering with cold and shaking with pain I pulled up to the pump and through gritted teeth asked for,

"sans plomb, complete"

the attendant complied, but looked at me oddly. With shaking hands I found money in my pocket and gave it to him, fired up the bike and set off. Only another 415km to go...

A few kilometres on it began to rain and I added water to my list problems. FFS! I stopped at fuel station and sheltered under the forecourt, a trucker and the attendant approached to look at the bike. They both spoke French, I asked if they spoke English, but they didn't, so that made everything easier, i wasn't in the mood to talk.

When the rain cleared a little i set off again. Next problem, the police had blocked the road and were checking everyone, it was still raining. They approached me and we did the usual, 'who speaks what language?'. Neither of us really understanding the other. They could see I was on rally and I agreed, they asked of I was ok, it was probably quite clear i wasnt, and I said no. In my best sign language I attempted to explain my bones were broken, they seemed to understand and asked for my destination. In my backpack were the fiche that detail for the authorities all your official numbers and destinations, but there was no way I was removing the backpack, the memory.of the last bone crunching time was still too fresh in mind. The thing was, I couldn't remember where I was going either, I was fixated on only two things; follow the blue line on the GPS and keep going. Like a dumb fool I just pointed at the GPS, "that's where I'm going". The kindly official smiled, pulled the stinger off the road and waved me on.

As the kilometres passed the rain stopped and the sun kept popping out between the clouds. Such a welcome feeling when the heat made it through my layers. I caught up with a bus at one point and hid in its slip stream for while allowing my body warm, but it dropped my speed considerably. Mentally i couldn't handle that it would take even longer so I overtook the coach and opened the bike up again.

The KTM 500 is such a capable bike, fast on and off road I was musing, as I flew along, then, suddenly, Fuck, fuck!!! Camels were crossing the road and I was doing 80mph towards them!!! Leaving a huge black skid mark on the road and larger one in my pants i just managed to slow the bike as I reached the camel train.

They were in no hurry and we both regarded one another as I waited. As I began to set off again there was a huge owl perched atop a caution sign for camels. Not for the first time this day I wished I had the strength to grab the camera, but my objectives were clear; follow the GPS, keep going. A little later I had to stop for goats and then later still, sheep, it was busy day for the animals.

I'd prepared the bike to be able to travel 250km between fuel stations and I'd done that since the last stop. I was dangerously low on fuel and the GPS didn't show a fuel stop anywhere within range. I was cold, thirsty, hadn't eaten a bite since breakfast and the pain killers had worn off. Damn it! At the next village I'll stop, better to be in a village than the wilderness if this is the end of the journey, i thought to myself.

The next village was tiny, a single road with a collection of small earth coloured shacks. I pulled up on the road in front of a shack, my head slumped forward, breathing shallow breaths and feeling pretty miserable.

It's been my experience at times like these, when you really need a hand, fate often steps in. A Moroccan man in his late 20's / early 30's came out of the shack to hang out some washing. He stopped his task, looked at me and then approached. We did the usual who speaks what language, he only spoke Arabic and me English. I signed I was hurt and immediately he disappeared inside and fetched a chair that he placed in the sun next to the hut. Helping me off the bike and aiding me to the chair he removed my backpack and helmet and I leaned back in the sun. He disappeared once again only to return moments later with a pot of hot sweet mint tea that he poured for me. What a saviour, I was ready for a drink! Reaching for the tea i saw my hands were visibly shaking. I drank the tea, washed down the pain killers and ate a small packet of dried biscuits from my bag. The kind Samaritan crouched next to me and attempted to use a smart phone to translate between languages, but it failed, so we just sat quietly whilst the food, drink and sunshine took effect.

After a few minutes I felt better and thought about leaving, I attempted to pay the Samaritan for his help, but he refused, he just kept putting his hands together, like in prayer, and then pointing to heaven. He wouldn't accept money.

I arose and he helped with the backpack. Walking to the bike, which was now surrounded by children, I remembered my fuel problem and tapped the empty tank and asked,

"gasoline, sans plomb?"

He pointed in a wide arc at the horizon and shook his head. Then, remembering something, he disappeared inside his hut and emerged with a dirty container of fuel. I was soo pleased as he emptied the fuel into the bike, this time he accepted a small amount of money, I thanked him in French and set off. I'll never forget him, the kind soul that saved me. Only another 160km to go...

I figured I could make it back to the bivouac on the fuel and set to it. I only remember three things about the last section; the first was that I caught i up with the other riders and bumped into teammate Tom. He a had big smile and asked if was OK?.

"I think I've broke my collar bone", i said, smiled, and then we parted.

A little later i passed the some of the support trucks in convoy, that made me smile as I knew I was getting somewhere. Finally with 16km to go some massive sand dunes loomed to my left, a burnt golden orange in the setting sun, they looked magnificent. Perhaps I was delirious, but I'd thought I'd ride towards them and get a picture. I couldn't manage it though, every bump was agony and the thought of falling off this close to the fishing line changed by mind. A picture from a distance will do i thought, but upon pulling out my phone i noted that it had no charge. Between the broken SOS GPS and a discharged phone, i had been truly alone, but hey ho, everything was working out.

I pulled into the bivouac riding the sand to the finish line and was greeted with smiles. I was the first bike in! After all that the officials thought I'd won the stage! I could have laughed, but thought better of it, my ribs weren't ready for humour. The time keeper approached eagerly to collect my time card, but I explained i had bigger issues than time keeping. He informed me the doctors were still out with other bikers so I rode into the bivouac to rest.

My team, RaidAssist, and the support driver, Barrie, hadn't arrived yet, so I settled with a Czech support team who gave me a drink to take pain killers with and I waited for the rest of the teams and riders to arrive. It wasn't long before two riders came in, one of them on a badly damaged bike. As it happens they were both part of the Czech team, the guy on the damaged bike was helped from his steed by the support guys. He'd broken his leg and was mostly carried to the bench next to me. The two of us swapped injury stories in the setting sun and awaited the medics.

As I waited I mulled over my options, it's odd to say, but I was still considering that I could continue!? Shortly after Barrie arrived and could tell I was injured. I explained my situation and decided that sleeping in a tent on the ground wasn't an option, I doubted I'd be able to rise from the floor. Thankfully the bivouac was at a Gite, a Moroccan Castle style hotel, that fortunately had rooms, I booked one and even managed to secure a discount from the manager (forever a tight Yorkshire man)

Walking back into the bivouac I bumped into two medics, both women from Spain called Maria. They had a little laugh at the sling I'd fashioned from a cargo strap and gave me a proper one. I wouldn't let them inspect me, it was too painful to even consider. They did however let me know the doctor was visiting the guy with the broken leg and would come and find me. When it was my turn the doc felt under my jacket and said,

"There's nothing a Moroccan hospital can do for you, you can go, but it will be a waste of time".

I saw the guy with the broken leg in the back of a Toyota or a Landrover heading to a hospital and decided that wasn't for me.

I knew then that I needed to get back to Europe, preferably the UK and get medical help. I arranged transit for my bike with Barrie, swapped and packed bags and asked around for a lift to the nearest airport in the morning. The race team rallied around me, but there was little anyone could do and so I said my farewells to all.

I tried to sleep sitting up, it wasn't easy, but the hardest part by far was getting out of bed in the morning. It was absolute agony, the pain killers had worn off, my ribs hurt so bad I couldn't take deep breaths or use my core to support any torso movement. My arm was pinned to my chest in a sling and my bones hurt like hell. I had to kind of slide and shuffle off the bed using tiny movements until I could use my knees for support and eventually stand on the floor. I was unable to dress properly and had to seek help from someone in the hotel grounds. A man at the hotel aided me with my bag, gave me an orange I couldn't peel and helped me to the van that I'd booked transit in to the airport.

Ninety minutes later i reached Errachidia, a small town with a tiny airport walled in by snow capped mountains. Only internal flights leave Errachidia and I managed to book transit to Casablanca. I can't remember how long it took for the plane to arrive or the actual flight time, but at some point later that day I was stood in Casablanca buying passage on the next flight to Europe, Paris as it happens. A really kind African man, and fellow passenger, helped with my seat belt and coat. We spoke a few words before settling into the flight.
Arriving at Paris my spirits were low and pain high, whilst the African security had been kind, the Europeans didn't give a damn about my plight and made me strip like everyone else for the metal detector and search. It took me ages to get through and this was definitely my lowest point, i could have cried, but i kept my shit together kicked my bag along and paid for a flight to Manchester.

Eating painkillers like bad tasting M&M's I don't remember the wait time, the flight, the landing or security checks in the UK. I only remember using Google to find a hospital and getting a cab there. Wythenshawe hospital was great, they saw to me immediately, cut my clothes off and x-rayed me. Understanding the extent of my injuries they gave me loads of codeine and explained I'd need an operation.

It was 2am by the time I left the hospital in another cab looking for a hotel. The hotel was a total dump, but the kindly night concierge helped me to my room and get outer garments off. The next morning was agony again, I couldn't move and had to eat pain killers and wait a while. When they took effect i reached the phone and called the reception to get help. You must see some odd sights in hotels, but helping a man with broken bones from bed and into clothes must be up there!

Another taxi, two trains and an Uber later and I was in Nottingham at Queen's Medical Center. It had taken three days to get here and would you believe it, they actually turned me away!! Stating the fracture clinic only does morning appointments and my x-rays from Manchester hadn't arrived. FFS!!! Thankfully, over the course of the next few days I was examined by the doc's and booked in for an operation to pin my collar bone back into place.

just a small bruise (one week after the operation)

When the operation came i had to stay in overnight, what an amazing experience the ward was. A fracture ward for dementia patients, i was high on Morphine, the pain gone, my bones back in place and i watched the goings on like an audience of one at private theatre showing. I made a few notes;

The guy next to me, Jim, is kicking off! He loudly accused the nurse of stealing his teeth and wanted the police. Tries to climb out of bed constantly to 'turn off the cooker' or 'go to the bedroom', but he's got broken bones, is bruised and frail. He just screamed "help, help, help!" and shouts at David, (patient; middle opposite), "thief! Thief! You're getting nothing thief, stop fucking smiling at me!!"

I did help him with his covers, until I realised he was using me to make good an escape attempt! (Wiley old fox) He's shouts at the nurse to fetch his shoes. I asked what had happened to him, and in his own words;

"I went for a pee in the night, but decided to leave the light off, which was the worst the mistake of my life. Whilst reaching for the banister I missed and fell down the stairs and that is when it attacked me!"

"what attacked you Jim?" I asked puzzled.

"The fucking top step" he replied. 🤭


The nursing shifts change as the evening creeps on. The older nurse (a new one) is properly stressed, bedside manner failing, is voicing her opinion overly loud and has been working loads of shifts from what I can hear. Flipping heck Jim caused some bother that night. I had two Jim's as it happens. Jim right; (stair guy), mentioned above and Jim left; (shouter).

Stair Guy started shouting he wanted to poison the nurses for steeling his teeth and kept calling one of them a dirty whore, constantly climbing out of bed to catch a train now (or taxi or to go his daughter), refused his meds, wouldn't let them help him pee until the last moment, then was angry and shouting "quickly you stupid girl". (Poor nurses)
He shouted for his wife a few times and had full on conversations with himself injecting bits of conversation he'd heard in the ward. When I asked about his wife he told me she was actually his bosses wife?!

Jim Shouter (to my left) hearing aids broke so he kept shouting his wifes or nurses name really loudly, he also kept peeing next to me all night. His dementia has hampered his speech so his voice is very loud and odd sounding, imagine a frightened, shrill rhesus monkey, but with a slightly deeper voice. You can't really make out the words so he just keeps trying and trying and trying.

The bed across, but diagonally left, was Richard. Nice chap, lives near me, but had the loudest farts and managed to pour a whole container of piss over himself. Always had his balls and arse facing me (no pants) poking out between his legs as he curled in the fetal position.

Alan, diagonally right, is a great bloke and in the early stages of dementia, a bit pissed off at being here since before Xmas with a broken hip and would join in the shouting just for good measure.

I spent a bit of time in conversation with Alan, he's 86 and didnt like the way the opiates bung you up and kept eating prunes against the advice of the nurses. I saw him move from his chair to his bed later in the night and he had a massive skiddie on his shorts, it is with certainty I can vouch for the power of the prune.

Opposite me is gentle giant David, nice chap, but got knocked of his Mobility Scooter by an arctic truck. In pain with his knee cap weeping, suffering from early onset dementia he doesn't fit in the bed as he's so tall, he also doesn't like taking meds, but has a kindly face and caused no trouble.

I read a dementia guide and helped with Stair Guy Jim when the nurses were flagging or were sick of being abused. They asked how I was coping and i replied;

"I'm really enjoying it, what an amazing experience. Its like a busman's holiday as a night nurse"

They think I'm crazy and laughed with me or at me... who can tell? They gave me morphine every 2hrs so I really couldn't be sure of much. One of them took a shine to me and gave me a private room at 5am for a couple of hours of kip. She came to say goodbye the next morning, commenting I was her favourite patient and was sad she wouldn't see me again. (That was the angry nurse, who actually reminded me of a scary women I know, so you can guess my thoughts on the matter!)

I recounted my night story to the doctor and explained how much I'd enjoyed it, he laughed suggesting I need my heading scanning!
👍🏽🤕

It's now several weeks since the operation, the physiotherapy is well underway and I'm recovering nicely. I must thank my good friends Glen and Nic and my ex partner Lucy for their loving help, support and especially the food packages! A special mention Max who got me a 'shout out' on a the Podcast 'shat the movies'!. Love you guys.

Although i don't sleep so well, I'm always dreaming about bikes and the next adventure.....