Memories of the year: After Dune delight

Imagine if a passing Monegasque Monsieur broke down at Sainte Devote just before the Monaco Grand Prix, or if the start at Le Mans were to be spiced up by a stranded hire car at the Dunlop Chicane.

Try as I have to erase the shameful episode from my recollection, my overriding memory of the year was the excruciating moment on January 12 when the Volkswagen Amorak in which I was riding as a passenger lodged itself in soft sand on stage nine of the Dakar Rally.

I should emphasise - slap in the middle of stage nine; precariously in the middle of stage nine. Just beyond a blind crest. With 92 cars and 46 unwitting truck competitors about to bear down on us.

I have to get in early that VW's superb PR man Markus Kleemann cannot take any responsibility for our ineptitude, and professional courtesy prevents me from naming the unfortunate journalist from a Southern Hemisphere publication who was at the wheel when we became stuck - given the limitations of my off-road abilities, and the treacherously fine sand of the Chilean desert, I doubt I would have fared any better.

The Copiapo stage had appeared relatively innocuous, and the morning had got off to an uneventful start. After watching the surviving bikers blast off in batches, I climbed into the passenger seat of one of two Amoraks from VW's media fleet. Our aim was to gain an improved vantage point ahead of the car competitors, and the sight of a steep hill lined by locals in 4x4s appeared to conclude our quest.

Having let air out of our tyres, my South African colleague and I ventured timidly onto the soft sand, drew alongside the second Amorak and wound down our windows to discuss a course of action. But while the second VW pick-up subsequently engaged first gear and scrabbled up the hill to our planned destination, we moved less than a yard before sinking to the sound of a straining engine.

After furiously clearing sand from the wheel arches, our next, optimistic attempt to get going resulted in the worsening of our predicament. The underside of our Amorak was now totally immersed in sand.

Our colleagues eventually returned from their jaunt to investigate and offer some gratefully-received assistance. But even with all hands to the deck, progress was painfully slow given the impending arrival of the car competitors.

The reverberation of an engine being gunned in the distance prompted me to abandon shovel duties and claw my way onto the sandbank to provide warning for the leaders. Fear that VW's multi-million-pound, flagship motorsport programme would come to a violent end in an accident involving one of their own media vehicles receded when first Carlos Sainz, then Nasser Al-Attiyah and Giniel de Villiers and co deftly avoided us.

The next worry - being spotted by a TV helicopter and ending up on Eurosport's Dakar highlights package - was interrupted by the appearance of a radio-wielding French official on a quad bike.

Hopes of a friendly offer of a tow were premature. Instead, quite justifiably, he went apoplectic. The pass around my neck was grabbed roughly while my assailant raged: "Who are you? Peter Mills! My God! You guys are supposed to know what you are doing! Look, there is some camel grass which you could have used right next to the soft sand!"

After threatening to throw us all off the rally, the official's rage was muted by the arrival of the trucks, a spectacle that could only be watched through slightly parted fingers over eyes. Meanwhile, the hill in our path was proving too much of a challenge for many, and a mass of quads, trucks and cars, which had all run out of puff, descended the incline, defeated, to search for alternative routes.

Eventually we were free, and after the stragglers had passed we returned to the start of the stage to meet the remaining Amoraks, whose occupants had sensibly opted for a lie-in.

"So, Peter Mills, you got out?" A white course car had stopped by our group, and the same official who had earlier been in danger of cardiac arrest now exuded a cool charm.

"Yes, I'm just relieved," I replied. "I was worried that was going to end badly."

"Me too. But it was all OK," smiled my new friend. "We occasionally have problems with the locals, but don't expect it from you guys. You're going into the dunes? That'll be good, enjoy your afternoon."