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Stage Three was predominately on piste—on track. Dunes were definitely off piste—“HP” in the Road Book for the French hors piste.
Of course “track” was a strong word to describe the day’s route. There was a dirt path that a road grader might have cut through the wilderness fifty years before. Or maybe a couple of ox-drawn carts had once come this way—when the world was even younger than she was.
Zoe could have measured the smooth spots in the road in meters—on a good stretch. The suspension was doing a dance that had nothing to do with a Michael Jackson moonwalk and a lot to do with a Metallica heavy metal show. The Senegalese beach had been so much smoother by comparison that the car had seemed to float while the suspension took the abuse. Not so much here.
Every turn was a slide,
