FROM DEVON TO FRANCE and into Spain, Sid, always clad in a red Ferrari-branded polo, unleashed torrents of babble. He calculated mileage, rehearsed schedules, and celebrated our luck in scoring 15 boxes of Gulf War–era C rations to get us through the Sahara. He shared stories of near-death mountain-bike crashes, of his days managing a competitive motorcycle team, and of his stint teaching "advanced driving techniques" to British cops back in Jersey.

But by the time we reached the first major PDC rendezvous point, the parking lot of the Hotel Camillas, in the small southern-Spain resort town of Sotogrande, Sid's soliloquies had turned from engine blocks and adrenaline sports to murder and revenge. At a roadside rest area outside the city of Benidorm, thieves had smashed Ros Bif's rear passenger-side window and grabbed what they could reach.

"I can't believe it! Druggies!" he kept repeating.

"Dad, it could have been lowlifes!" Martin chimed in.

Whatever they were, they'd nabbed the laptop computer case with Sid's and Martin's visas and passports, our car documents (most forged), a bag containing Martin's asthma inhaler, and some of Sid's medication. "If I'd found them," Sid steamed, "they'd be dead for sure."

As we talked through our options, the lot filled with all manner of automotive monstrosities. Some were lovingly painted with cartoon camels. Others looked like they'd been colonized by armadillos. Emma Barber's Polo was still leaking gas, the Badger Racing boys had had to scour a scrap yard in Gibraltar to get a new gearbox for their Montero, and the Conedodgers had lost an exhaust pipe.

"We took a corner pretty wide and almost got pulverized by a logging truck in the middle of France," Declan recounted at the Camillas bar. "That was a bit of a brown-trouser moment."

Over the next two days, jacks and wrenches were passed around like doobies as drivers tweaked their brakes, zip-tied exhaust systems, and bolted on sump guards to protect gas tanks from rocks. The most fortunate teams stayed for a night or less before setting off in groups of five or six to the ferry terminal at Algeciras, for the crossing into Morocco. The unlucky, including us, were stuck "sorting" things for a couple of days. We sent Ros Bif off to have her head gasket repaired while Sid and Martin boarded an overnight bus to Madrid to plea for new passports. I waited at the hotel for a DHL shipment with Ros Bif's new (and legitimate) paperwork.

At last, the Malaga returned from the shop. Sid and Martin returned also, haggard but with shiny new credentials and rejuvenated will. By the time we were ready to roll, our head start had evaporated completely.