Saturday 10th September
It
was the morning after the night before.
We
awoke to the searing heat of Hostel Altan’s asphalt car park; dazed, confused
and trying to piece together the events of the previous evening. Mouths were drier
than the bottom of a bird’s cage, heads were as mashed as lobster tail through
a mangle and our innards felt like sun-dried pig slop. At that moment we all
thought, what is life?
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| The pain |
Miraculously,
in our drunken stupor we had somehow navigated 30 feet across from the bar to our
poorly assembled sweaty nylon slum and collapsed into sleep. What was once a
luscious green lawn was now strewn with beer bottles, car parts and blow-up
kangaroos. Rich was strolling around the courtyard in nothing but boxers and a
hi-vis jacket, still drunk and losing the plot. Caleb was partaking in a game
of musical spares, changing it for the front right, then changing his mind,
then changing it back again. He clearly wanted to keep the party going and I
don’t blame him. But as the escapades of the previous night began to emerge, we
soon realised that Alf was the runaway winner of numpty of the night.
As
we re-entered the bar for some much needed gut-soothing comfort food we were
met by one of the rally organisers with a sinister smile etched across his
face. In that sarcastically accusative tone that makes your insides squirm, he
uttered “you guys had a good night last night?” meaning “please explain why you
smashed the gaff up”. He then went on to tell us that a pale ginger fella had
puked all over our table thanks to an overindulgence in beer towers and the
inability to play his own drinking game. Fighting back the urge to burst out
laughing, we gestured for a sheepish looking Alf to step up and receive his
comeuppance, a $25 cleaning fine. But
alas this is where the plot thickens.
In
the commotion of the previous evening Alf didn’t just lose his bodily fluids,
he also lost his mind. Thankfully the fine was only to the value of a
pomegranate martini and a bag of caramelised celeriac crisps down his local, so
he gladly paid the sum; that was until he reached for his pocket. To his horror,
his wallet was missing. Hoping the barman had confiscated it the previous night
to save Alf’s liver from oblivion, we called him over but it was to no avail.
Now needing a Wonga loan to afford some beans on toast, the Royal Bank of Caleb
agreed terms on a 1,666% APR representative and Alf’s financial woes were
temporarily soothed. After breakfast we wondered over to the hostel’s reception
where the wallet inquiry continued. Unsurprisingly, Alf had also visited big
vom dot com in one of their plant pots the previous night before deciding to
spark out across their armchair. You really can’t take him anywhere.
In a
bid to escape the humiliation, Alf returned outside to confide with Marigold however
Bath-tub Bilbo was in no mood to empathise. Scrawled across his bow in big
black marker was an unmistakable Russian obscenity courtesy of a guy Alf
befriended who “seemed really nice”. No worries mate, we’ve only got the entire
width of Russia to cross for our return leg. You bloody prat. This completed
the trio of bad, forgettable and downright imbecilic decisions but we couldn’t
help but laugh and despair in equal measure. By re-tracing his wobbly steps
from the bar to reception and back to Marigold, Alf had shaped his very own
Bermuda Triangle of dignity. In recognition of claiming the jackass jackpot, we
awarded him a record shattering 3 strikes in one morning, kick-starting a Medinah
style late charge in the overall standings.
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| The face of "the boys will love this" |
Once
we’d dusted ourselves down the inevitability of our trip once again consumed
us, it was time to hit the road. Like every great race our journey too had a
halfway point, a spring-board from which the finish becomes closer than the
start line. Whereas Ulan-Ude was the chequered flag for most, for us we were merely
at Hammersmith Bridge ready to up the stroke rate towards Chiswick. The
challenge isn’t to summit Everest, it’s to come back down again.
Sadly
this was the end of the road for Guy, Cal and Hockey from teams Two and a Half
Men and Thunderbirds as they had to fly home and ready themselves for the new
term at university. I know what you’re thinking, University?! That serious,
structured and responsible place where you transition into a mature adult? No
thanks, I’ll continue to wear my biggles goggles and drive across a bear-laden country
in a golden en suite. We weren’t to be alone in this endeavour however, as
Isaac and Will from each team joined forces to drive the Thunderbirds’ Kenari
home alongside us. This move was made bolder by the fact that the Kenari had
over 100,000 miles on the clock. Bravo boys, that’s the spirit.
Waving an
emotional goodbye to our fallen comrades, we offered one last gift of gratitude
to the local people, Thunderbird 4. The bright yellow mobility scooter, which
incredibly still had power, joined the colourful rally graveyard of tyres,
spent camping stoves and leather car seats. Of all the goodbyes, this was the
hardest. Memories of the Mongolian street auction and of course a star
appearance in the drag race were not enough to outweigh the heinous
aerodynamics she heaped upon the Kenari.
Our sights were now set on the Russian city of Irkutsk to the west of Ulan-Ude. As we left the safety of the clubhouse, we stepped out onto the tee ready to resume play. With a swing of faith and the famous Tiger twirl, it was time for the back nine. For the first time in 55 days, we were getting closer to home. This was the start of the London Rally….
Our sights were now set on the Russian city of Irkutsk to the west of Ulan-Ude. As we left the safety of the clubhouse, we stepped out onto the tee ready to resume play. With a swing of faith and the famous Tiger twirl, it was time for the back nine. For the first time in 55 days, we were getting closer to home. This was the start of the London Rally….
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| Play resumes |
Posted by: Rich