THE PDC BEGAN IN 2003, when Julian Nowill, then a 43-year-old millionaire stockbroker from Exeter who refurbished East European junkers on the side, decided he wanted to test the mettle of the Soviet Ladas—the Cold War "car of the people"—that he'd been collecting since the eighties. In a local newspaper, he invited others to join him on a route that independent explorers had traveled in 4x4s for decades. The finish line was set in Banjul, the capital of Gambia, but Nowill dubbed the event the Plymouth–Dakar Challenge to play up the mockery of the "serious" Paris–Dakar race.

The ploy worked:

"To a great adventure!" Sid said. He swung the champagne, but it failed to crack, and the car began to roll down the drive like a puppy slinking from its master.

The story got picked up by the BBC and generated an avalanche of interest. That year, 43 teams in ancient Peugeots, Mercedeses, and Renaults followed Nowill south from Plymouth, despite the fact that they had no clue how they would be greeted at African borders or if it was possible for two-wheel-drive vehicles to manage the Sahara.

To the surprise of many, they made it to Banjul—minus only a couple of teams. The saga generated enough buzz for Nowill to organize a repeat in 2004, though he didn't make the drive. By the time I joined Sid and Martin in 2005, the PDC had become a full-blown cult phenomenon, with some 800 applications for the rally's 200 slots, which are divided into four waves of roughly 50 cars each that depart between December and February and finish some three weeks after they leave the UK.

The event is unique in the world of auto rallies, drawing men and women of all ages, moneyed car buffs, married couples, fathers and sons, complete strangers, and, naturally, the mechanically inclined. "It's not as radical as it was in the beginning; there are more middle-aged charity-focused people," says Nowill. "But I try to keep the spirit alive. Complete lunatics go to the top of the applicant pile." So far, no one has died, but there have been plenty of near misses, and with every running, one or two cars are usually abandoned in the Sahara, where they're stripped for parts by Bedouin. Meanwhile, quite a few noteworthy vehicles have made it through the sticky sands. In 2004, Creamy Treats, a fully functional ice cream truck stocked with popsicles, made it to Banjul before being converted into an ambulance for one of Gambia's remote upriver cities.

Nowill skipped the drive again in 2005, but his spirit was ever present in the form of hushed admonishments—"When Julian first did the race, he did it this way"—and a 15-page road book that offers teams his vague outline of the route in short, koan-like entries that usually just confuse people. The teams, selected by Nowill, pay a £200 ($355) registration fee. In return, they receive an official PDC number, the road book, Lonely Planet guides to Morocco and Senegal, and an invitation to the launch party in Exeter. Entrants also agree to the PDC's three commandments: Cars can cost no more than £100; preparations and repairs can cost no more than £15; and rules are made to be broken.

Sid was uncommonly fond of commandment three. He dumped nearly $1,500 into the Malaga in the year leading up to the rally, paying for upgrades like new tires and high-powered spotlights. He'd also decorated the exterior with dozens of colorful stickers guaranteed to impress bystanders on our route, à la: LIFE'S A BITCH, THEN ONE PULLS OUT IN FRONTOF YOU and I BRAKE FOR BABES.

At our bon voyage with the Horman family, Sid narrated into a video camera as he raised a bottle of champagne over Ros Bif's roof. "I don't know if we'll make it to Gambia—or even make it out the drive," he said. "But here's to a great adventure!" With that, he swung the magnum down, but it failed to crack, and the car began to roll slowly back down the driveway, like a puppy slinking away from its master.