You know it’s the New Year when you flick on Eurosport of an evening and see some nutcase charging across a remote patch of desert in a truck. Or on a motorcycle.
I have to confess that I’ve always struggled to understand the attraction of events like this, which are right at the top end of motorsport’s risk scale, but right at the bottom end of its recognition scale. Which means you stand a rather-too-high chance of dying, with a rather-too-low chance of anyone hearing about it.
A few years ago I did follow a raid myself, in Tunisia. We dodged scorpions, got drunk listening to live blues at the bivouac, amused ourselves by getting up at daybreak and listening to the cacophony of farts coming from inside the various tents dotted around a field in, well, the middle of nowhere. The camaraderie was impressive, the organisation slightly flaky, and the promotion was non-existent. I spent five days trying to work out why anyone would want to put themselves through this in or on a motorised vehicle. And I failed.