“I KNEW I WAS OUT OF MY DEPTH WITHIN THE FIRST HOUR”

In 1976, Ivory Coast resident Jean-Claude Bertrand proposed celebrating New Year’s Eve on the Côte d’Azur. Crossing the Sahara Desert, on two wheels or four, would be absolutely hilarious. N’est ce pas?

This impromptu rally-raid may have remained a local frivolity had not one of the participants become lost for three days. When rescued, Thierry Sabine turned near tragedy into triumph and, with massive publicity financed by big tobacco and booze advertising, the ‘Paris to Dakar’ was created.

Renault, Citroën, Honda, Yamaha and BMW quickly realised the value of having their wares televised blasting across the Sahara, and sponsors began recruiting the most macho talent available. By the mid 1980s, ‘Le Dakar’, as it became known, was, for a small legion of elite athletes, the world’s most gruelling motorsport event.

For those signing on purely for the adventure, ruthless officials culled the field before the overnight bivouacs were airlifted into the endless camelgrass wastelands of Mauritania and Senegal.