OK, so two is a magic number. Here's two:



The one on the left is "Son of Dawn to Dusk". Obviously, it's smaller. The one on the right is the one we got this weekend. See that word there on the left? "Finisher"? That means we finished the toughest enduro in the UK. Fate and Physics put up a hell of a fight - which we'll come to in a second or two - but we finished. And I use the word "we" deliberately.

Saturday evening, we started to arrive. We arrived and erected our home for the next two days - a leaky nylon tent which we will refer to as "Chateau du Paddling Pool". My ITM arrived in a transit van - complete with mattress in the back - which we will call "Hotel du Poisson". It was a refigerated van, normally used for the transportation of seafood. Nonetheless, he had the best accommodation out of the lot of us. I understand that "Hotel du Poisson" is available for weekend family breaks and dirty weekends - contact itm@dodgymobilehotels.com for details.

We were buzzing. We might just win this. We might. Let's try to. One trip to the beer tent later, and we had the whole thing in the bag. As the riders briefing went on, we were drawing Caesar-style maps in the mud on the ground. This box, this one here, is the pits. This line, this groove in the mud I drew with my finger, is the start line. This wavy line here is the track which is visible from the pits when there is 1.5 miles left to ride. So when we se somebody here (wavy line) then we have a maximum of five minutes to get ready. Next rider gets helmeted up, Missus stands in pole position to swap the scoring transponder, we'll save 3 minutes per lap in changeover. We'll win this.

Before we go any further, here's a bit of general advice:

Dear Dierdre,

I am taking on Dawn to Dusk tomorrow morning (the toughtest enduro race in the UK).

I haven't race-prepped my bike yet, and I'm considering whether to just race prep the bike whilst it's still light, or whether to have a few pints first and then do it in the dark.

By the way, it's pissing down with rain, everything is muddy and we can't see a thing.

My boyfriend loves doing it in the dark when we're drunk, but I much prefer doing it with the lights on, so I don't know what to do. Please help me.

Yours sincerely,

Confused of Pissing-down Wales.

I know, I know, but we were excited. I'll leave you to guess what happened. In fact, we'll come back to "excited" in a minute when I tell you about Zippy.

So, as they told us at the riders brieing, there was to be a film crew there - filming Dawn to Dusk for the Extreme Sports Channel, to be aired in October. When somebody poked a camera in your face and asked you questions, you were to style it a up a bit - you're on TV.

A few minutes later, some guy poked a TV camera in my face and asked:

"Why are you here?"

"This is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy"

I've got the guy's attention now. I am not your "average" enduro rider. The zoom goes on, he crouches down.

"How's that then?"

"Well, this is better than sex. It's a chance to be alive. It's life, it's living. The alternative is dying a slow death in a 9 to 5 job. What would you do?".

"And what do you do to prepare for something like this? Whats the secret?"

"You shit yourself, and you pray"

Several screws - obviously the important ones - and tools and stuff all got lost in the dark. Martin and I are doing the whole sweary mechanics thing and going at eachother like an old married couple. Bits were lost, bits were found, other bits were lost and found again, lost again, found again, sworn at, sworn about, good old enduro stuff. Watch us survive three weeks through Asia.

We left a new tyre till the last minute and when we turned up at the tyre-fitting tent, there were two unsavoury individuals swearing at a wheel that wouldn't get a mousse into it. The two individuals were none other than Patsy Quick and Zippy. The girl and boy your mother warned you about. Grins all round.

Martin slept in our tent, my ITM slept in Hotel du Poisson. It was absolutely pissing down with rain, and blowing a gale. The crap dog, not content with being inside, wanted to be outside getting wet. This was OK, until she decided that she wanted to be dry again. She came into the tent, walked up to within an inch of a just-getting-to-sleep Martin, then shook herself dry. All that water had to go somewhere. The Missus and I pissed ourselves for about fifteen minutes whilst Martin swore like a drunken sailor on shore leave.

Karma got her own back when the blanket being used by me and The Missus dipped itself in a puddle of water and started acting like a wick. The water crept up the blanker until we were both soaking and freezing and - crucially - wide awake. 5am, and the alarms start going off. Nobody has slept much, if at all. "Private Missus" - because she is a Marine - breaks out he porridge and the coffee and the bananas and the smiles and the morale-boosting. If you've never met The Missus then take my word for it - one look at her jugs (revealed or not) is a morale boost. She wore a nice tight top, which does the trick even at 5am on the side of a pissing down Welsh mountain. Then she covered it over with a coat. Aw, bollocks.

We set off on the bikes to get them to the start line - Scotsman, Englishman and Irishman. Team AJP. Team. Think about that one. A DNF for any of us meant a DNF for all of us. Team.

Back up the road and I am drinking porridge and rainwater out of a mug. They key to a long race like this is to get as much of whatever you can down your neck - you'd eat shit if it would give you energy. Maybe it does, maybe I should try this.

The experts flew off the start line as only the experts can. Having lost the toss, I sat on the start line whilst my ITM and Martin stood on the side of the hill. I gave it a good go, and was out-cornering and out-braking the 2-strokes through the corners and up and down the wet and slippery hill. I was looking good, and feeling great. Corner after zig-zaggy corner and I was keeping the 2-strokes at bay.

Then, as soon as we were out of sight of the crowd, we had to go up a very steep and slippery hill. Halfway up the hill, I binned it and ended up on my arse as a half-dozen riders passed me. Bollocks.

I remembered a lot of the course, which was much the same as March, and this gave me a bit of an advantage. I knew, for instance, that that slippery downhill over there was a stay-to-the-right job. I knew this because I remembered almost breaking my leg back in March when I went to the left and got trapped under the bike after washing out on the hill.

For the first time ever, I was passing people. For the first time ever, I was shouting "Oi Oi!" as I pulled behing people and I watched them move over to let me pass. I am an enduro rider. Nothing fazed me or the little bike. She got up everything and, crucially, down everything. I was quicker than I had ever been and I was absolutely flying.

I came in from the first lap after about an hour. The Missus grabbed the transponder off my wrist and chucked it onto Martin, who then took off like a bat out of hell. Rinse and repeat. Me, my ITM and Martin. Lap after lap, The Missus feeding us and fanning us and running around to get the transponder from one bike to another. Keep that transponder moving at all costs.

Martin did his lap in an hour, and my ITM took off on his orange bike. When he arrived back in the pits, the bike was less orange and more black. The only thing that wasn't muddy was that insatiable grin he has. Never put out, never fazed, always looking to the horizon. An honour and a privilege to be riding in the same team.

A familiar face popped his head into our pit tent - Duncan Tweedy, robbed Dakar Legend. We met him in Morocco, where he was training for the 2008 Dakar, and he was cruelly robbed of his chance on the start line in Lisbon. We got chatting, and we were hubristic enough to suggest that we might even win our class. He smiled knowingly and said he'd check with us again at 6pm - it was only 10:30 am and there was over 8 hours to go.

I thought that my little bike had fuel issues - she was labouring in the higher gears and needed a lot of clutch abuse. She had been up at Martin's all week and had been out on the trail on Friday, but Martin assured me that she was fine. I knew otherwise. I had ridden this little bike every mile she had ever done, except the ones on Friday, and I know a fuel problem when I see it. It was exactly the same symptoms as Tea til Dusk. Martin delcared that she would be fine.

I went out for my second lap and got 5 miles into it, with more clutch abuse being required all the way round, and the little bike gave up - starved of fuel. Paul Carlile (who we met in Morrocco) stopped to see what was wrong, and declared that it was a fuel problem and he would fetch a marshall. I called The Missus, Martin, my ITM and none of them answered. I did this several times. Standing at the side of the track, I saw several numbers in our class pass me, and I knew our place was going west. I left Martin a very snooty voicemail:

"Martin, next time I tell you that a bike is about to do a 'teal til dusk' on me, please will you fucking listen?"

Next minute, up popped Jago (who was riding in the marathon class). Out came spanners and the like, but we still couldn't fix it. He took the transponder (keep the transponder moving) to get it back to the pits whilst I waited for recovery. I waited about half an hour, then I was resuced by a grinning marshall called "Chip". He put the bike on his trailer and, since I "wasn't getting in my van in that state", I had to sit on top of the bike. On the trailer.

Chip was a complete nutter. I'm sat on a bike on a trailer behind a ford transit being driven through tracks an up hills that I wouldn't even do on a bike by itself. Up these steep and muddy tracks, Chip is giving it the transit equivalen of a 'andful whilst I am doing my best to stay upright.

We passed Nick Plumb on a quad bike and he has a cameraman with him. He pulled up alongside as we're driving and shouted "Oi! You! On your pegs!". So, here's me on my pegs in a traler attached to a transit van, being filmed by the TV crew. Nice.

Back at the pits, and everything started to get dismantled - particularly the carburettor. Duncan Tweedy, who came to scrounge a fag, saw the spanners and just got stuck in. This is what enduro is all about. The riding is the riding, but the real story - the real adventure - happens in the pits:

This is where the real drama unfolds. This is where the frantic jury-rigging and quick-fixing and the "that'll do you for now" goes on. This is where the waiting and the worrying and the counting happens.

I will dine out for a long time on Duncan Tweedy - robbed Dakar legend - spannering my bike whilst I;m trying to fix it at the same time as getting food down my neck, before my ITM finishes his current lap. We saw my ITM turn the corner - 5 minutes to go - and we've 20 minutes of spannering to go. This means one of two things:

1. We wait 20 minutes, and the transponder stops moving;
   
2. I ride the KTM

Now, the last time I was on a KTM, it bit me. It bit me so badly that I needed surgery. I willed the carburettor to magically put itself back together again but no joy. My ITM pulled into the pits and my bike was still in pieces. It's the KTM.

My ITM knows I am terrified of his bike. He knows that it is his bike and that I will drop it - a lot. But this does not worry him. His main concern is keeping the transponder moving - onwards and upwards. We are part of a team, keep the team moving. We did not come here to fail. I grap a step-ladder and climb the mountain that is the KTM - she is tall. I don the transponder, start shitting myself, and give it some gas.

The KTM is fierce, and way too tall for me. My ITM's "progressive" riding style means that he has turned up his idle to about 4,000 rpm (which will become important in a moment). The throttle and brakes are on/off switches - there is nothing gradual about this bike. It is a race bike, ready to race, and need much more finesse and skill than I posess.

Downhills for instance. My technique for going dowhnill is to chop the throttle and use the engine braking, plus the front brake if you have to. This would be fine if you were not on a race-ready KTM 250 which "idles" at 4,000 rpm. Your natural instinct when you are powering down a hill is to pull in the clutch to cut the engine power. When this makes you speed up (you NEVER pull the clutch on a hill) then you snatch a front brake. That's over-the-bars incident number 1. My confidence saps with each fall, and there were many of them. My lap time increases accordingly.

In the end, and I am ashamed to admit this, I gave up trying to go downhills on that bike. But, unlike Midwest last year, I was not going to allow my team-mates to DNF. I walked the bike down the hills. Or, to be more accurate, I sat on my arse and held on to the bike whilst it dragged me down. I call it "buttock-ski-ing". I figure that it helps to chisel the old rear end into a Despres-envy-inducing shape. I think it worked too, or at least the Missus likes it (which is the main thing).

Somehow, I got that bike back and it took me 90 minutes for that lap. Martin was growling, since he knew that that had cost us the win. My ITM on the other had knew that it was a fucking big deal for me to even get me and the bike back in one piece and had a much more philosophical attitude to it.

As of that moment, it became a race of survival. No mtter what it too, it was all about finishing. OK, so we had lost the win, now it was about finishing even if we didn't finish well. Martin went out, after fixing the Husaberg radiator hose which had emptied his bike of coolant, followed by my ITM who turned out a sub 1-hour lap (our first of the day). The little PR3 had been jury-rigged to keep her going and now it was my turn.

I shot out and was going well. I came to the hill where i had binned the bike every time for the last three laps and there was a young lady standing there with a sign saying "Photo". This meant that a cameraman was at the top of the hill. Fuck.

If you ever need a lift when you're on an enduro, have a young lady stand up with a sign saying "Photo". No matter how out of shape things are, no matter how knackered you are, no matter of muddy you are, I guarantee that the next 10 seconds will have you showing off in a way that would win the Olympic Gold for showing off. And so I did. I made it right up the hill and pulled a lovely MX-style corner just for the photographer. OK, so I binned it once I was round the next corner and our of sight, but that's not the point.

Then, a few miles in, my right footpeg fell off. The whole footpeg. Gone. That means no standing up, and no left turns. It means no steering in ruts. In fact, it means no steering at all since you steer by weighting the pegs. It means doing the last 12 miles sat on the bike like a sack of potatoes and having every single bump mash all the way through your back. Several times on that last lap I wanted to DNF and cut the course. But it wouldn't just have been my DNF - it would have been Martin and my ITM's DNF as well. In fact, if I had DNF'd on the last lap then it's a safe bet that I would have had the little PR3 stuck right up my arse by an angry Martin, whilst I was bei held down by my ITM. Even if they didn't go as far as to give me a PR3 enema, I'd have got a proper slagging. More importantly, I'd have let them down. No medals. We came here for medals.

I did the last 10 miles without a footpeg. I tried several techniques, including side-saddle, but nothing worked. IN the end I just had to paddle the bike at walking speed through most of it - and this meant a 2-hour lap. Everybody in the pits was worried.

When I was going down hills, I'd hear an expert behind me:

"Ring-ding-ding-ding-ding (2-stroke noise) - come on mate!"

"Bear with me mate, I don't have a footpeg"

"Don't have a brain either, if you're still riding. Respect!"

and, my favourite when there was a bunch of guys having a committee meeting at the top of a hill:

"Guys, you better go first - I'll be slow since I don't have a footpeg"

"Nah, we'll go behind you - I want to watch this"

Buttock ski-ing is, apparently, "one way" down a hill.

I was so late, that everybody had moved from the pits to the start/finish line to cheer me home. They saw that I didn't have a footpeg and cheered al the louder. I almost cried. I really did.

As I crossed the finish line, Nick Plumb said:

"You cheated - you did most of it on the trailer"

which was very amusing. Then, what we came here for. A medal each. My ITM, Martin and myself. Medals. Dawn to Dusk finishers. That's us by the way.

I'll talk about some of the surrounding detail another time - including some of the things which demonstrate the giganticness of my ITM - but for now I wanted to report on the event.

Oh, and that excited thing about Zippy? He came over and was talking to us in the beer tent. Riding behind me, he notices a hell of a difference in my riding and, if I stick with it, then it will click. When it does, I will (apparently) have the enduro equivalent of a wet dream. I have ordered some waterproof boxer shorts in preparation for that day.It was tough, but we did it.

None of us could have done it on our own, but tenacity and sheer bloody-mindedness won through. A big Thank You to Paul and Mike and Zippy and Patsy and the guys who cheered me on. A massive Thank You to Nick Plumb for laying on a great event, and the biggest Thank You of all to Duncan Tweedy for getting stuck in on the spannering - without which my bike would not have finished the race.

That team spirit, that whole everybody mucking in an keeping the race going, is what enduro is all about. The whole truly is greater than the sum of its parts.

Beijing mothers, lock up your daughters ...

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