Feature: The Indian Job: day one

Team-mate Simon has that pursed look of a passenger wishing more than anything to be the driver, but tough - this is my stint. First, though, there's an elaborate flag-off ceremony. Collectively, India can't believe either foreigners or fellow countrymen (three teams are solely Indian) would drive one for fun, let alone travel the equivalent of London to beyond Aberdeen. So there's plenty of media attention to milk, and a famous film producer to drop the flag. Finally we're away and dicing with traffic for the first time. It's not really a race, but we have to keep up with the guys in front, largely because we don't know where we're going. The coastal temple town of Mamallapuram is the destination, but which direction? Road signs would be around 10th on the list of things to watch out for, if there were any. At the second junction, I bodge a series of gear changes, losing both momentum and everyone we're chasing. A motorcycle glides alongside, and the two astonished riders engage us in a stilted two-minute conversation that doesn't involve any looking ahead. A pushbike wobbles, a bus driver blasts his airhorn and an open Ashok Leyland truck piled high with live chickens revs a noxious cloud of diesel smoke into our rickshaw.

Finally, we make it past the suburbs, into the flat, sandy countryside and onto a new dual carriageway. The relief makes us giddy. We reckon we're maxing at 35mph (there's no speedo, or odometer for that matter), but it's more comfortable at three-quarter throttle. A powerful vortex of wind in the cabin removes the sheet of paper telling us how to find the hotel, but that's coast we can see on the left and the short stint (just 47 miles) is over quickly. The one-street town soon reveals the hotel (it's the posh one) and we crack open a mini-bar Kingfisher. Day one, survival accomplished. Only 550 miles to go.

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