So, a quick question to propose: Say an undertaker wishes to sponsor your team. Is this a sign of unparalleled awesome, or perhaps a portent of doom? I’m leaning toward the former.

When it comes to sponsorship, money talks, even if it’s money that comes from the sale of embalming fluids and caskets. I mean, the whole point of the Mongol Rally is to embrace the absurd. And, dear friends, it’s hard to trump the delicious absurdity of an undertaker sponsoring our sojourn.

I received my one way ticket to London this week (India Air was cheapest, FYI). We’re leaving New York on July 16 and landing in London on July 17, Josh’s birthday. After a nap and a celebratory jet-lagged pub crawl, we’ll get cracking on our car (which we don’t have yet). New shocks, G.I. Joe–style jerry cans, and lots and lots of windshield-wiper fluid will hardly prepare us for this trek. We WILL break down at some point. The race starts the following week on July 21, when we go through the Chunnel and hit the back roads of Northern France.

Driving six hours a day, six days a week, averaging 40 mph over 10,000 miles equals seven weeks, putting us in Ulaan Baator by the last week of August. I think we can probably go faster than that, but I want to keep the estimates conservative.

Evidently, Asia is crawling with creepy viruses that would like nothing better than to infiltrate our supple, supple bodies and compromise our immune systems, turning our organs into liquefied goo. Who knew!

My father, an infectious-disease specialist, suggested the following vaccines to prevent an early engagement with the grim reaper:

1. Hepatitis A vaccine
2. Hepatitis B vaccine
3. Tetanus
4. Oral typhoid vaccine

Then he tosses in the sweetly reassuring bon mot that “when you are in Europe, you can look into the tick encephalitis vaccine.” Sweet Jesus, by the time we return home, you’re going to have to piece us back together with Elmer’s glue and a hot solder gun.

It’s official: We’ve finally decided on a route (check the map) that, like the very concept of the Mongol Rally, is riddled with idiocy. After taking the Chunnel Tunnel from London to Paris, we’re going to mosey through Europe for a smidge, before detouring north through Scandinavia.

“I want to see the Arctic Circle,” Mims says. “Eternal sun. Vodka. Reindeer jerky. What’s not to love?”

Well, besides driving 1,000 miles out of our way, not much. But once you’re committed to nearly 10,000 miles of driving lunacy, what’s another cool thou? Besides, the northern route is far more appealing than heading far south and driving through Afghanistan and Iran. 2007 doesn’t seem like a swell time to test foreign relations, you know.

After Scandinavia, we’re going to motor through lovely St. Petersburg and Moscow, before making a beeline to Kazakhstan. We will refrain from making any Borat jokes. Or at least grinding our naked nether regions in one another’s faces, though our lack of feminine accompaniment may make this a difficult commitment. Following Kazakhstan, it’s time for Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, then back into Kazakhstan (perhaps we’ll stop at the rapidly shrinking Aral Sea) and Russia. Finally, Mongolia! And a few thousand more miles until we reach Ulaanbaatar.

That’s the plan…provided we’re not attacked by nomadic bandits, à la Mad Max, hungry for our oil and our tires’ sweet, sweet rubber.

Would now be a good time to start learning to talk like a badass Aussie? Or perhaps it would be more prudent to learn the Cyrillic alphabet. Or maybe I’ll just settle for learning how to change the oil.