Mr. Dinosaur would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the numerous people who have helped us on this rally. To everyone who has contributed money to our charities and to our team we owe the deepest gratitude and would otherwise not be here at all. To all of our friends who have followed our progress offering words of encouragement thank you for checking frequently to see if we’re still alive. To all the people along the way, including several who will probably never read this for lack of a computer, thank you for your directions, couches, vodka,  and sparse conversations in English, Russian and French.

We would also like to thank Jon Nash, our adopted Briton, for being a pleasant if unlikely teammate. Likewise, to all of his family and friends who helped him find his way into our company, thank you as well.

Many people have told me how sad they are that our blog entries are coming to an end. We appreciate your diligent attention, but hope is alive, dear readers. Thanks to Joshua M. Bernstein, Saucy Journalist, and Mims H. Wright, Hapless Photographer, our culinary exploits will be chronicled quasi-daily on Chow.com as a Chow Tour. We invite you to read along to every kebab and greasy bit of goat. Bon apetit!

By the grace of alcohol and blind ignorance, Mims and I found a place to stay last night. We bumbled our way to Dave’s Place, the expat pub, and dined on off-brand fish and chips. They were covered in bread crumbs, while the chips were more like home fries. But never fear!

More Mongol Rally teams were hanging out. We chatted them up, exchanging tales of the Rally. Most conversations began with, “Screw this country’s goddamn roads,” and devolved into niceties not fit for lady or man. Around beer No. 2, which was all I could stomach after being squished next t0 Mims’ manly odor for much of the last several days, a bald Peace Core dude and his local “girlfriend” (we are still unsure if she was of the paid variety) whisked us to a guest house. We’re sleeping six to a room, but more importantly,. I was able to shower and shave off my unfortunate man beard.

Now I am baby smooth and in search of that other luxury: a washing machine. No matter how much one tries to fool himself, Dr. Bronner’s does not make clothes clean. Where are Andrew and Jon? Still no sign. Perhaps they are selling the goat skins on the black market. I would expect nothing less from them.

It is official. Team Dinosaur has driven all the damn way to Ulaanbaatar. Though the powers of the Internets, we have located our teammates, and are set to meet up shortly.

It’s true, Jon and I smell of wet goat. The trusty Justy was unloaded onto a small hill by a yurt, which was carved into a loading platform by a few of our truck driver’s lackeys and some old fashioned rusted shovels.

Things we have learned: It is possibly to cram five grown men into a truck’s cab. When goat skins get wet, they smell of warm blood. Jon’s sleep-talking even freaks out hardened Mongolian truck drivers.

Off to drink beer and figure out why the hell we wanted to come to Ulaanbaatar anyway.

I will never curse Greyhound ever again. After 41 hours smooshed into a 15-person van that fit 20 (people had to keep hiding beneath blankets at police checkpointsm so the cops wouldn’t know our true numbers), Mims and I have finally arrived in this fair capital of Mongolia.

There is much neon. The weather is cold and rainy. And we are utterly lost, wasting time in an Internet cafe, trying to find fellow English-speakers. Our brains are also cooked. The 41-hour trek was total insanity, with the Mongolians unable to communicate with us except for one girl who kept texting Mims in French, while he would text her back in French. Plus, a man vomited outside while chain-smoking cigarettes. And we saw a double rainbow.

Where are Andrew and Jon? Who knows. Last we saw, the Justy was a foot deep in goat skins. Then the rains came. I do not want to be near a Justy surrounded by wet goat skins. How will they get it out of the truck? I have no idea in sweet heaven. Off to find a hotel, or possibly sleep in the street!

Well, we finally killed the Justy. Or rather, we have reached the point where any more driving will surely kill it. We’ve lost four springs, have two flat tires, have shaken loose the bolts holding in the hood and the radiator on, lost most of the exhaust system, and the front left wheel will no longer turn. Rather than driving our car 50 miles into the desert then have to figure out what to do, we decided to throw it on the back of a truck and cheat fate for the last 600 miles of the trip.

The truck is filled with goat skins. The Justy is riding on top. Our flat tires spun out on the fur while loading the car. We cannot even begin to make this stuff up. 

While stumbling around the city center of Govi Altay, Mongolia, we ran across a helpful gentleman who spoke English. It turns out he’s from the Ministry of Finance and he assigned his secretary to take us to find a suitable truck for hire.

“I will help you talk to locals,” she said and we piled into a white UN Land Cruiser headed for the local bazaar. After a couple hours of negotiation, we reached the price of 300,000 Mongolian Tugrugs, a spare tire, a jerry can, and a tent for safe passage to Ulaanbaator. Also, the truck can only carry two passengers, so here is where the team splits up. Two of us will take a bus through the Mongol countryside, and two will ride with the car in the truck cab. Both groups will surely emerge in Ulaanbaator with many ridiculous stories. So wish us luck on the last leg of the journey!

As a sendoff, we’re going to drink beer and sing karaoke with Australians riding their bicycles from Siberia to Mount Everest. Josh will likely sing Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” which the karaoke joint will surely have.

We’re alive and in Altay, Mongolia right now about 600 miles from the finish line. We’ve been driving for four days now but only averaging about 15 miles per hour. Imagine the worst road you’ve ever seen, then imagine it a little worse, then stretch that road over mountains, under rivers, and through a massive desert. Plus, our car has no springs left so the ride is spine-crushingly bouncy. We’re considering hiring a truck the rest of the way since it looks like it’ll take another 6 or 7 days if our car survives. However, all the people and places we come across make us constantly question whether we really want to leave so quickly.

Well. We’re still alive. But we’re not yet in Ulanbator. We’re halfway there. This makes me want to cry. All of our car springs have blown, and riding in the car is a bone-rattling experience. We are averaging 12 miles per hour.

This also makes me want to cry.

We just survived the Gobi Desert. It was filled with hundreds of miles of sandy, rocky nothing, and weather that chaps our lips something fierce. We have taken to sharing our one, half-melted tube of Chapstick.

Now, we are getting ready to meet with a man who might throw our broken car on a truck and steer us to Ulanbator. Our radiator is held together with a carabiner. And our exhaust is only two inches long. Plus, we have lost something called a rear stabilizer.  Is it important? Who cares! The car still runs.

Sort of.

More updates soon. The end is near, one way or the other. Thank Jesus. Jon’s feet smell much like swamp monster.

The roads in Mongolia are hellish. We’re pushing hard. We’re dirty, safe, but still alive. And we may have eaten marmot last night.

Oh, no. It’s happened again. We were pulled over last night on the mad dash to Mongolia. And once more, Mims was at the helm.

“Shitshitshit,” he said, as he was led into the cop station. We were shaken down for another $20, due to some tiny paperwork error we couldn’t understand. Goddamn, I can’t wait till people start talking ‘merican again.

Onto Mongolia!

P.S. I lost my ATM card, which is why I’m online, desperately trying to cancel my card before a Russian racks up huge bills. Not that it’s likely. No one takes credit cards in this here country. Viva cash! Perhaps it’s time to sell my blood again to make money.