Tuesday

The plucky adventurers were in high spirits after a luxurious night in bed and they rode under the rising sun in to Uyuni. A town off the south-eastern edge of the salt falts based mainly around a large military garrison - screw being posted there. After more rudimentary Spanish bartering with the locals the fuel stocks were topped up yet again. A local mechanic was recruited to weld some cracked exhausts and apply a spark of genius to Dreagle's issues. He identified the culprit as a loose bolt; removed said bolt, rethreaded it and suddenly Dreagle was back to full health...and full power! Time was now becoming a major issue and the chances of reaching the finish line before some of the furballs had to fly home were slim. We looked in to the option of a leg on a train or truck. The fuel strike had stopped the trains and there were no trucks heading our way... on we went.

Jasco collected another spoke-induced puncture on the road out of town which led to an emotional fixing session in a sand storm. Things didn't go according to plan and; as bits started to break, get stuck and get lost; time marched on towards the 2 hour mark and the sun got low in the sky. This whole event was watched with interest by a local chap with a toilet roll in his pocket, who never said a word, just stood there, in the middle of the desert, weathering the storm. How bored must he have been?! Jasco finally came back to life and the group rejoined. It was at this point that the dream began to fall apart. Terry, Anne, Ellis, Lara and Ruth (who had been severely stricken by Gilbey's earlier affliction) had earlier flights booked and were not going to make the finish line in time no matter how hard they tried. And so they decided to set camp there and then and make a run for Argentina the next day on Valkor and Boris. Charlie, Gilbey, Gareth, Paddy, Craig, John and Jen were in a stubborn mood and decided to go balls out and ride into the night to cover more ground, taking Dreagle, Jasco, The Bumblebee and the ever-troublesome Moira with them. The realisation hit that this was the end of the dream for a 100% finish line for the furballs but there was hope for some of us yet. The goodbyes were brief and the the nightriders ventured on. The story from here-on in follows those who rode on, as the author was a member of that team. All we saw of the other half, after they left their taxis at the Argentinean border with a kindly priest, were some facebook photos of them sat in a warm rooftop swimming pool with a beer. We hate them. We pressed on into the night, climbing ever higher in to the mountains. As the cold drew in and exhaustion took over the decision was made to call it a day. We attempted to warm our rat packs on the engine blocks (except for John, who had ridden with his stuffed down his pants)... we had cold rat packs that night.