When the klaxons sounded the start, my team of 3 Fins and 2 Brits jostled for prime position, our sights set on finishing top three. But Jungle navigation is tricky when going fast, and six hours and two fairly large navigation errors later, we frustratedly raced past many teams for the third time that first day. Our captain, Pasi Ikonen, (winner of the previous Raid Gauloises) was throwing up and my feet were in pretty bad shape but we weren’t the only top team struggling. Two members of ‘Nokia’ were vomiting in the heat and ‘Spie’, had almost immediately had to drop out. The French Vietnamese athlete who had replaced their team-mate struck by a motorbike in Hanoi, had soon collapsed. The rigours of expedition racing are not to be underestimated.

Twilight: fireflies came out to escort us. Rocks sparkled beneath our feet, and friendly embroidered people from the hill tribes smiled greetings at us as we passed by. Magic filled the air. Until, that is, lightning flashed, the heavens opened and the cold suddenly became an unexpected concern. And until, after a two hour sleep at the third checkpoint, a grumpy Frenchman inexplicably delayed us for a further hour, but allowed ‘Ertips’, a top French team, to pass us in the dark of the night…

We spent the morning wading through never-ending jungle rivers, pulling leeches from our arms and legs. Hitting ‘civilisation’ in search of fizzy drinks, locals offered instead the liquid from a jar containing a whole chicken complete with feathers and claws. We declined, hoping not to offend. Then Ski started to feel rough – the start of an illness that got progressively worse during the race – and Intersport and Nokia passed us by.

The relief of changing to the bike for a 90km ride was short-lived. The Sleepmonster came to call. So, with thunder growling in the early hours, we sought shelter in a stilt house, and had our first comfortable hour’s sleep in the race. My feet were bad and I hoped they would recover during the paddling leg to follow but was quickly discouraged at the first assistance point by the race medics. After 3 hours of skin removal, severe iodine cauterisation, and many photos for medical journals later, they didn’t give much chance to me completing the course – especially since there was over 300km of trekking still to come - on what they termed, ‘the worst race feet ever’. I was pretty daunted.

Thinking there would be nothing but pain left in the race for me, my spirits lifted considerably during an awesome 45km single-track bike stage. Prescription-only drugs made me fly. And suddenly I was literally flying - hurtling downwards into eerie darkness, suspended on a pulley from a flimsy Tyrolean traverse wire. The return ticket, shuffling along a ‘monkey bridge’ of two parallel ropes suspended one above the other, made the far side seem just as far away.

Dawn on day 3 – the hottest yet. 40 sweltering degrees during 4 exposed hours poling a bamboo raft – oh but for more punting practise in Oxford! At the far side, a doctor was fixing ‘Intersport’s’ feet. With no more dry dressings and another (87km) trek to follow, I too needed advice, but it took tears before the guys in my team could be persuaded to wait.

No running now, just pain. And hobbling. Through a night time of mosquito-ridden paddy fields, two hour’s sleep in a farmer’s hut and a daytime of pain-induced nausea and reduced weight in my pack. It was late that evening before I discovered a pain-killing tablet combination that worked and it was no longer me holding back the team’s pace. It was now Ski’s turn to find the going increasingly difficult, but he ploughed on, struggling amongst people he didn’t really know, people who seemed to have a different concept of teamwork. It was no longer fun for either of us.

Another biking leg and our fifth night. After building a catamaran from two Canadian canoes, the boys paddled our bikes five hours downstream to the second assistance point, eyes straining in the night to avoid rocks and the banks. I huddled in a space blanket, asleep, knowing the medics would keep me awake during the compulsory three hour stop at the assistance point.

It actually took them five hours to remove most of the skin on Ski’s and my feet but it was worth the lost sleep since we set off again at a far faster pace, jostling with Intersport for fifth position. Parallax, in first position, were slowing, and Eider, in second, had had two people on IV drips. The race was far from over. There were still hundreds of kilometres to go.

Confused, on the mountain trails during our sixth night, a little boy and his father left their home to guide us. And, after an hour’s sleep in a village of curious faces, we awoke to an established relay system of locals who guided us all the way to the next transition.

Ski rallied briefly when traversing the high roped ledges and dark waters of the caving section, but Buff and Intersport were asleep outside when we emerged. Buff had gained three hours on us during the trek, but Intersport were now unranked, their captain too ill to continue. Nothing remains the same for long at the front of these races.

We moved off quietly into the night, hoping to gain some ground on our opposition, but slippery mud and jagged rocks caused frequent crashes and left us with no choice but to sleep the 45 minutes until dawn. Finally hitting a good road, a kalishnikov-wielding Vietnamese official insisted upon a 30km shorter route to our next checkpoint. Would we be disqualified if we took it? Would we be imprisoned if we refused? As a debate ensued in Finnish, Ski and I wondered if we would ever feel like part of the team?

Setting off from the third assistance point into oppressive heat, we battled for three hours with a ‘sampan’ boat that wanted to sink. ‘Parallax’ had been less lucky, and had had to retrieve both boat and gear from the bottom of the lake. But soon the hand of fate turned against us too. Iiro’s rear bike rim split and despite 1 ½ hours of quick-fix solutions with the help of a local ‘mechanic’ and hammer, he had to ride the remaining 40km standing up. Exhausted from the effort, we stopped frequently for short naps and then for a two hour sleep on the dirt floor of an empty village school. Our seventh night.

Ski suffered badly on the last jungle climb, Eero towing him on foot and Pasi carrying his pack, keeping branches and creepers out of his way. The descent was surreal - 4000 steps hewn into a mountain side, surrounded by camera-touting Japanese on a Buddhist pilgrimage!

Wobbly legged at the base, we hoped for a straightforward journey to the kayaks but instead spent three energy-sapping hours lost. It was enough for Buff to once more catch us. We just hoped we were better paddlers.

And sure enough, the gamble we took in sleeping 2 ½ hours on top of a shop roof waiting for the best tides, paid off and we swept passed them in the night. The 130km paddle should have been one of the most beautiful experiences of our lives, surrounded as we were by the mystical pillars of rock rising up in all directions from the turquoise waters of Halong Bay.

However, 15 non-stop hours of sitting in a urine-filled double sea kayak doesn’t go down in my book as one of the most pleasant ways to spend a day, no matter how spectacular the surroundings, and as the sun burnt down overhead and the salt bored pain into my open sores, I just longed for the finish and for the whole thing to be over.

8 days, 1 hour and 29 minutes after setting out, the gongs sounded the end. We finished 5th in one of the most prestigious races in the world, in which 46 teams took up to three days longer to complete the course, but we were not satisfied. Illness aside, we could have done so much better. But that is adventure racing and lady luck always plays a part. Roll on next year and the hope that fate will deal us a gentler hand.