And now for something completely different.....

A new departure to the SHR calendar for 2008, and representing a significant departure from anything we had done until then, was the Plymouth-Bamako Run 2007/8. The 4,500 mile trek from the South Coast of England to Central Africa started on Boxing Day, taking in 8 countries before finishing three weeks later in Bamako, Mali. For those clearly in need of some sort of remedial treatment, there was the option to drive on to Timbuktu - if only on the grounds of being able to say that they had been there. However, in our case, just the 21 days in a car was enough....

Initially called the Plymouth-Dakar Rally, in homage to the great Paris-Dakar (where millions of dollars are spent by factory owned teams in both the car and motorcycle categories), the PBR represents a distinctly British take on things - the cornerstone being that all competing cars had to cost less than £100. Out go the "Silhouette" BMW X5, Mitsubishi Pajeros, GPS Systems and Support Helicopters; in come the Montego Estates, Rover 216s, Roadbooks and Gaffer Tape.

The event is strictly non-competitive, and represents more of a test of  human endurance (sanity?) and mechanical reliability than anything else - not to mention a sense of humour. After all, where else have you seen a Black Cab pitted against an Ambulance and an Ice Cream van, swiftly followed by a Stretch Limo (driven all the way from San Francisco, obviously) and a customised Reliant Robin? However, there is a serious message underlying an otherwise rather tongue in cheek event - all cars participating - assuming that they make the finish line- were auctioned off at their final destination to provide vital funds for worthy projects in Mali, such as new village schools, wells, irrigation systems and shelter.

Participating under the catchily monikered "Powered by Boddingtons", yours truly and his trusty co-pilot/ loyal friend/ complete mug (delete as applicable) Rob "The Housewives Favourite" Cecil took the start in that great contribution to Scandinavian automotive design - the Volvo 240 Estate. With all the aerodynamic integrity of a small village church, it may at first have been seen as a curious choice. However, we were working on the basis that they are nothing if not sturdy workhorses, and were originally designed with the very harshest of working environments in mind. Whilst customs regulations in Africa sadly precluded our accompaniment by the obligatory Black Labrador, rather worryingly Rob has was seen casting some admiring glances in the general direction of Laura Ashley for his outfits for the journey whilst I dusted off the tweed jacket and flat cap for the occasion.

Following our rigorous quality control testing campaign of precisely....one car, we purchased a J reg Volvo 240 GLE Estate, showing just the 190,000 miles on the clock. In a manner somewhat appropriate to the adventure, the deal was struck with my good friend Robin Hanauer (purveyor of some truly hideous cars, as well as some very nice ones) at approximately 3.45am on the morning of his Stag party. Whilst rumours that Robin was incapable of speaking, let alone talking numbers, are slightly wide of the mark, it is fair to say that his normally razor sharp bargaining skills had taken a bit of a knock throughout the course of the evening. Which probably goes to explain why he sold a car for £95 which had £130 of Road Tax on it and 12 months MOT.

In a manner entirely in keeping with the rest of the rally, Team PBB started their journey outside the Public Lavatories at the Railway Station in Canterbury, with the aim of catching the lunchtime boat from Dover to Calais. After toasting their fortunes on board with a pint of their eponymous beer, they set off down the Autoroute to get to Paris in time for official drinky poos time (6.30pm). All was going well until the ignition warning light came on just as we exited the Peripherique. With the immortal words from SH to RC of "Don't worry - it does that all the time", the Volvo coughed, spluttered and crawled into the curbside. An executive decision was taken to vacate the vehicle for the evening, and to repair to a suitable hostelry to discuss the emergency action plan.

The morning dawned bright and crisp, and Team PBB set about parlaying a bit of franglais to see if anyone could assist with what we assumed was a dodgy alternator. After a visit to a Volvo dealer, only to be told that yes, they could do it but it would cost €500 and take a fortnight, we decided to buy another battery and carry on southwards on a total loss system. However, as is often the case with electrics, the problem gradually got worse and the purchase of a further two batteries and one battery charger was getting expensive. The situation came to a head approaching Montpellier, when (at night) the engine stopped, the lights went out and we expired in what can only be described as the middle of nowhere. Strangely reminiscent of the opening credits of a Hammer Horror movie, the intrepid pilotes made a beeline for the only house in sight to see if they could offer any assistance as to where the nearest town or village was. The door was answered by a chap who we subsequently got to know as Jean-Christophe - and who had to be officially the nicest bloke in all of France. After phoning around and booking us a hotel, he then drove us the 15km or so to the village, and refused any payment either in kind or in monetary terms.

The 28th represented something of a "Judgement Day". The Volvo had made it to a local garage courtesy of a recovery truck, and they set about trying to repair it. After a lengthy diagnosis, we were presented with the dilemma of (a) having to wait for the alternator to be fixed - which could take a day or more, assuming they had the necessary parts, (b) abandoning ship and returning home or (c) buying another car to carry on with. Eventually, we decided on (c), and we thus became the proud owners of a diesel Alfa Romeo 156. Looking on the positive side, it was extremely comfortable, very frugal and left hand drive. On the down side, it cost a lot more than £100, had far too much style to be a genuine PBR contender, and was still officially registered to some bloke called Rene which would come back to haunt us later on.....

However, resolving to carry on regardless in true British fashion, we set off to reach Barcelona by the evening of the 29th. In just over 4 hours, we managed the 320 miles from Montpellier to Barcelona, and rewarded ourselves with a fine selection of tapas and local grog that evening. We had flown down the Autostrada faster than a couple of Mafioso on the run from the Carabinieri, in almost total silence and comfort. Truly a fine automobile.