The Great Race!

What's that, you don't know this film? Well you should watch it! Because if you don't you probably won't understand what this is all about, but then again this isn't actually about the film "The Great Race" it's about another race.

Apparently for the last few years there has been a race going on, which I have not been made aware of, and which by my understanding would be precisely the kind of race that I would expect to be involved in. In essence this is an event or activity that is essentially me, an adventure so intriguing that I feel compelled to find a way to make it happen.

The race is called the Mongol Rally, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mongol_Rally, and it appears to be perfect in execution. You select what is described as a "crappy car" and arrive in Hyde Park in London. When the flag drops and the 200 contestants "go" as it were, you begin a trek to Ulan Bator in Mongolia. There is no route, no plans, just people all trying to make it there in one piece. Some take routes through Istanbul, others have gone to the top of the world to try and make it. Many racers are forced to quit, and once you've arrived your car is left and given to the government of Mongolia to use as it needs.

Imagine the adventures that await you, you begin huddled in your dilapidated hunk of junk, held together by duct tape and glue then speed off over uncertain roads and strange vistas. No guides, no plans, no rules except get there!

Apparently the whole thing is organized by this company, http://www.theadventurists.com/index.php

Who although being something akin to an "organization" have what sounds like my kind of philosophy. There isn't a competition on there I could think of that I wouldn't want to try. these are the things dreams are made of, harrowing pursuits for fortune and glory, dusty places better left untrod, unexpected events and unlikely scenes.

Standing astride the mountains of mundane thumb biting mollycoddles I would stretch my legs and take long bounding steps in fine pin striped slacks and immaculately polished boots. Brushing the heads of the common crowds, content to watch their prime time TV my black frock coat would catch the breeze and direct me like sail. Perched crookedly on my brow a top hat, to let everyone know that this was not a gentleman to be taken with a grain of salt, oh no! This was an extraordinary gentleman with extraordinary plans! People would look to me and swatting at malaria infected mosquitoes, their t-shirts clinging to their backs and say "What's this, the ghost of an adventurer! Isn't he hot under all that wool?!" and I would stoop to greet them, my filthy Fiat rumbling behind me and I would toff my hat to them and say "Never hot! To be hot is to be nervous, to be nervous is to have lost faith in the adventure! Here my good men, take a sup of water, my treat." and before they had time to eek out a 'thank you' I am gone in a cloud of dirt and the sound of distant brass bands.