It happens in every job. In the beginning, it all starts out the same; you’re full of beans and everything is exciting – hell, even a sudden change of wind is enough to get you aroused. Sooner or later though, you reach a point where you feel you’ve explored the edge of your profession and seen it all, and then you settle into transacting business a few feet away from there. You constantly crave the excitement, but because of the nature of the occupation, you have to come to terms with the fact that it takes an exorbitant amount to get your juices flowing. It would really take something big to bring back that Clinton-with-a-new-intern feeling again.

But just when I thought I had surfed the crest of the industry and danced on the edge, I get dragged into this. You wanna talk about a rude awakening? These guys managed to yank me straight out of my comfort zone by the very root of my short and curlies, and gave me a moment I’ll never forget. Yes, my eyes are watering just flashing back to it now…


This is the BF Goodrich Grip Challenge. And it’s no coincidence either that they choose Dubai as the proving grounds for their products. In a way, the city reflects everything the brand is: bold, fun, modern, tough, daring, and very progressive. Even on the downside they share a lot in common – they are relatively unknown outside their own region and suffer from the same misconceptions and stereotypical image. This is why, in a way, they set up the Grip Challenge three years ago. In this rather obscure setting around 100 kilometers away from the nearest Starbucks, a team of young men and very good-looking women have been putting the world’s leading tire distributors and VIPS of Michelin through a torture camp that showcases the phenomenal capabilities of the BF Goodrich products they sell. This is one of those rare times they have invited press.

I arrived at the desert training facility excited but with a fair idea of what to expect. Usually, for most events, the drill is: icy cold refreshing local cocktails on arrival, followed by some instructor over explaining the basic functions of a steering wheel, and, after a lot of patronizing, eventually they let you out to play on a very controlled little playground, never outside the watchful eye of the corporate bean counters. All very sedate, usually done in order to favor the camera.

I soon had those misconceptions shoved back down my throat, followed by about a half kilo of red sand, after going airborne in a 450bhp, 5.7 liter, Paris Dakar winning Pro Truck. Basically, we sat in the ‘classroom’ long enough to put on our racing suits and helmets and just enough time for the instructor to say, “Neh-ver enter zi jump on an angle. Must al-whays be straight, oui?” Now, go out and have some fun.”

In this league, minor conveniences, like doors, are just a novelty. You climb into a pro truck through the glassless windows. Once safely strapped in, we headed out to the purpose built track – completely designed with every variation of desert jumping. A slight tap of the right foot sends the rear end swinging out like a flimsy saloon door that’s been pushed open by a backlit bandit as he strolls into a bar in one of those old western movies. The Mud Terrain tires dig deep into the dirt and throw up huge clouds of dust and sand while that hairy-chested engine barks with a deep, throaty, guttural growl that would frighten off even the most hardened desert creatures in to running up a cactus for shelter.

As soon as I have my line, I squeeze the oddly placed throttle (Because of the transmission and drive line, it is forced into the same spot as where your brake would be in a road going vehicle) very gently, careful not to break too much traction and line up my jump. With all things being equal, I put all four wheels in the air and land perfectly flat. “Nice one”, my instructor says through the radio with a smile on his face and red grit on his teeth. There is no windscreen. You need to bring your own goggles or sunglasses. But even the best glasses will let in dirt. But the feeling of the sunburnt wind in your face as you get nothing but pure airtime is magical. It’s as if God hit the mute button for that split second.

All in all we get around ten full laps around the course. Each time, we go faster and faster. Before we become part of the landscape, the instructors reel us back in and take us to another testing track where we will be using the 280hp, Subaru WRX STI, rally prepped cars. Helmets on, and full safety gear, I snick the stubby lever into 1st and dial in about 5000 rpm. All four wheels claw into the dirt and the Subaru leaps off the starting line with such alarming traction that I barely notice I’ve already maxed out first. I’m into second. The huge needle on the dial in front of me kisses 7,300RPm and I pop third. I’m topping 130kph and I still have 3 more gears to go. A wide right hook draws in close. I stab the brakes twice to unsettle the rear, get back on the throttle, season the mix, while grabbing an armful of opposite lock in the process. Phew! They don’t come any wilder than this! Unlike the tail happy pro-truck, this thing sits flat on the curves and is more predictable than Britney’s wardrobe at an awards night.

Top speed around the track would be around 160kph, although nobody really dares to check the speedo. These cars are pretty much stock save for the exhaust system and safety cage. They run, of course, on BF Goodrich tires.

After half a day of Desert storming, we arrived at a clearing where nothing but starched linen table cloths were draped over a large knee-high, U-shaped table that was literally in the middle of nowhere; the bar was freshly stocked to the brim with freshly chilled champagne, fine wine and other tasty treats. I’m not big on champagne, but there’s an exception to every rule. Each night as the day was about to expire, I just couldn’t bring myself to sip a Coke Light while watching the smoldering 24 karat sun sink down behind the windblown dunes. There are just some occasions in life where only the best will do. And the hyperacidity was worth it.

We dined under a blanket of stars, serenaded by the sounds of desert life and a portable CD player. Fresh gamey meats were flamed grilled on the spot, infused with exotic spices and the drinks flowed freely. The cuisine is a fusion of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern delicacies, each bursting with distinct flavors, and has got to be the best I’ve ever tried. By the time the week was up, though, I was on first name basis with the local pharmacist.

As with most events, the organizers save the best till last. In the morning we were set to go out sandblasting through the desert with 3.5-liter, V6 Pajeros, totally decked out for hard core dune driving. These were the same vehicles used in the Dubai Desert Challenge. Around 220hp, with the sweetest exhaust note I’ve heard from a production vehicle in a long time, these things rock. Literally.

The course takes us about one and a half hours into the desert at warp neck speed. We cross tiny little villages and abandoned airstrips and then we really start to get on the pace. I’m barely ten minutes into my drive before snapping the seatbelt. No big deal – our lead car pulls over and re-bolts it to the frame. Ten minutes down the track, I come in hard into a jump hard and snap off the steering column. It was left literally hanging by the wiring. Guess all those Gs from a 200-pound motoring hack was the straw that broke this camel’s neck. Easily fixed, though. A freshly watered, 220hp replacement camel was delivered to us while the old mule was carted away for reconstructive surgery.

Time waits for no man, so we were off into the trails, flogging every last horse in this screaming engine just to keep pace with our lead car. Everything we had learned and experienced the day before would now be incorporated in this drive. Total sideways action followed by table top jumps and sharp crests with 45 degree drops lurking over the blind side. The desert is a deceiving place; one minute you’re gliding over smooth virgin sand, next, you realize you’re at the top of a 5 story high monster dune that you need to negotiate with crawling pace. Handling is also somewhat muted – until you land nose first into a hard chunk of earth – which is loud, and excruciatingly painful.

You soon realize that you want to keep your jumping to a minimum, because weight distribution for these vehicles will always send the nose crashing down first. Do that on the wrong angle or wrong speed, and you become the shock absorber for two tons of angry metal. Despite my clothing, my balaklava (which extends down to the shoulders) and the padding on the seatbelt, I still walked away with two huge gouges on my neck from the restraint system.


The drive back was an hour and a half on the limit. No snapped seatbelts or steering columns, and no drivers getting bogged down this time – it was just pure, utter and total driving euphoria against one of the most spectacular backdrops in the world. Staring out into a vast expanse of nothing had me totally overwhelmed. Out here, beauty is not the opposite of ugly, but rather the absence of it. I never realized just how beautiful nothing can be. How powerful. How intimidating. How punishing. How rewarding. Ironically, it was the overwhelming vastness of nothing that made it really something.

And that is a beautiful thing to come to grips with.