2010 Dakar

It’s a week since I wept in San Carlos de Bolivar. Rather than sweltering in the desert, I’m now sweltering by the beach. It’s funny returning to some sort of normality after the intensity of the preparations and then the race itself. Yes it is nice to be home and to spend time with my wife and children, but I’d be lying if i said that a small part of me (at least) isn’t already hankering for the next adventure. What will it be? Where will it be? We’ll see. In the meantime, I have hours of footage to trawl through and months of post production to put together what, having looked through a heap of rushes already, I can tell you is going to be a heck of a movie! I’ll update this blog as we progress. Feel free to email me any time at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it  

I’d like at this point to say a huge thank you to the people who have helped us get this far:

www.sportscamera.com.au for providing us with the helmet cameras that have delivered some incredible images. Without a doubt, the best people in Australia for sports cameras.

JVC for providing us with the HM100E - the “Bulldog” of lightweight HD pro cameras. Beautiful images, incredibly easy workflow (essential when shooting, uploading and backing up on the fly) - an all-round legend of a camera for adventure documentaries.

All of my investors who shall remain anonymous. Thank you all for your trust in the project. 

Hyundai and Zac Speed for supporting Christophe’s seemingly impossible dream.

My wife Melissa and daughters Anoushka and Philomena for undying support and attempted understanding. xxxx.

To everyone who has kept us going with unnumerable messages of support. Amazing the power of a cheery email when you’re starting to question what you’re doing.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU. This movie will be for all of you. Simon

I have no words today, just tears and photos. Two men, one bike, five cameras. Against all odds, WE DID IT.

More coming in the next few days when I recover some composure. 

The Dakar is a race against time. For the drivers, assistance teams, mechanics, the press – for anyone involved, the clock starts the minute the hint of a thought of possible involvement in the race crystallises into a “yes I’m going”, and it doesn’t stop until you hit the finish line. We’re not quite there yet, and the relentless “tick” of the Dakar clock still keeps me up long after the sun has gone down, wakes me up long before the sun rises.

I awoke to the sound of my alarm. 4.30 was the time shown above the photo of my baby daughter Anoushka. I resisted the strong urge to press “sleep”, grabbed my camera and dragged myself out into a dark field filled with a melee of vehicles nearing the end of their 10,000km odyssey.

Christophe was in high spirits for a man with a “sun gun” light being shined in his face as he dressed and put his tent away. We sat at breakfast with the guys from the truck that has been carrying his tires, joking, talking happily. I might even say that we were enjoying ourselves.

I filmed him departing the bivouac as the sun began to rise. I took a rare moment to appreciate the dawn, then began my daily rush for the penultimate time. Clothes and sleeping bag out - tent packed - in the boot of the Fiat – electric tooth brush only luxury of the day – spit on the grass – get in the car – roadbook out – cameras ready – GO.

350 km later, we were at the end of the special. We’d been expecting the same madness as yesterday, but it was surprisingly calm. Our new “friends of the TV crew” status meant there was none of the “shouldn’t really be here” paranoia that I have experienced at times over the last few weeks. I was able to set the camera up on a tripod and settle down for a few hours of a game I’ve become pretty good at, known as “waiting for Christophe”.

The relative ease of my morning was a stark contrast to what Christophe was experiencing on stage.

The last day on sand was pushing him to the limit. Watching the footage from the POV helmet camera, you see Christophe ploughing up a dune, falling below the top, the bike coming down on its side. You hear him shouting in exasperation. He quite literally screams as he tries to push the bike back up, his injured back causing him serious difficulty, his torn triceps thwarting his efforts. And this happens time and time again – bike hits the deck, Christophe struggles to right it, his panting in the helmet microphone bringing home just how much effort he is putting in.

Throughout the rally I have seen Christophe mostly at the beginning and end of stages. His calm, humorous demeanour on most of these occasions makes it easy to overlook just how hard it is to complete even one special – let alone a special, every day for fifteen days. When Christophe finally rode-in today, through the dust kicked up by a car in front of him, it was to successfully finish the penultimate stage of one very hard, very long race.

I am oddly calm, perhaps too tired to feel that much right now. An hour or so ago, I sat on the top of a truck  watching the sunset over the bivouac. I turned a camera on myself, trying to capture some thoughts on this night before the final stage and the end of this adventure. I watched myself blinking into the lens, lost really, for anything to say. Perhaps I’ll find words tomorrow, when, if Christophe can stay in that space he has found, we roll into Buenos Aires. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Almost there.