It was my first Dakar, my best. I left at the bottom of the Ténéré, and there, I was loaded onto the balai truck, abandoning and losing my bike forever. The next stage was neutralized in a transfer that went down in history as more dangerous than the special, N'Giugmi to N'Djamena.
After that stage, no more no retreating (among the bikes). I was so that I didn't want to hear anything about Le Cap anymore. I managed to get to an airport between taxi passes and makeshift vehicles, and catch a flight home from Niamey.
I arrived in Italy that the race was already over, still dressed as a motorcycle with boots, suit and helmet in hand. Learned of the death of Lara from the friend who picked me up at night in Malpensa. I have such a beautiful but devastating memory of that edition that makes me say today “I was there”.
But in those days I cursed myself. Never edition so ramshackle and unlucky. Very few subscribers. In its approximation, organization Gilbert Sabine gave me bivacchi in contact with the champions, where they themselves had little assistance. An edition where private and officers ate together. Nice people. Good memories.