We had spent the last night in a hotel in a city beginning with 'B'. A lot of southern Mongolian cities do. But this one was a capital city. Bayankonger or something. Perhaps.

In any case. It was a scant six hundred kilometers away from UB and the finish line. We had heard tell that the roads were paved and the driving decent. Of course, after the paved Atyrau to Aktobe hell road in Western Kaz, we knew better than to trust pavement. Nonetheless, after two consecutive warm meals not cooked on a camp stove, we drove off, feeling good about life.

Shane, in particular, was driving with a glitter in his eye and great vim. He approached the road with poise and aggression that we hadn't seen since he pretended to be Jeremy Clarkson on the Transfagarason highway, so many miles ago in Romania. Gone was the Shane that took all roads, dirt and pavement alike, at a steady thirty to forty miles per hour.

His motives were easy to understand: Ulaanbaatar was within a day's striking distance. UB, with its warm showers and decent hotels could almost be sensed beyond the horizon.

The rush to UB was all the more critical, since the Mongolian roads and Roberta had not seen eye-to-eye. They mainly disagreed on the length of kilometers between cities and the slowness with which the kilometers must be traversed. The glint in Shane's eye was that of a worried husband.

So, it was in heady spirits that we approached the roads. Until, as they often do, the tarmac ended and we were forced onto dirt.

The dirt varied from well packed and heavy sand, which was good to drive on to deep sticky mud that was rather tricky. The past two days had seen a deluge from the sky onto the plains. And the mud was deep and sticky. Yesterday, I piloted the car across several stretches of road that left me white knuckled. The car skidded through the mud, its wheels barely holding to the mud. I attempted to wind between one patch of grass and the other. The car made every attempt to slide sideways and stop.

It was the tensest driving I had experienced on the trip. It made driving through Istanbul look like a light stroll down by a county stream.

Shane handled the dirt and mud with skill garnered from shifty roads in every country this side of Georgia.

He was feeling in high spirits when we came to a river. The Marabby was a genius at handling water. She plies through it like butter, sputtering happily along.

So, when I asked if I should get out, scout, and take photos, Shane confidently waved me off. He flopped the car around and began backing through the river.

Backing through rivers seems to have three advantages. The wake means the aster is less likely to flood the engine. The reverse gear is geared quite nicely with a decent amount of power. And it makes you look awfully silly.

It has worked well.

Three quarters of the way across, we move from pebbles to mud. The Marabby lurches to a halt. Her wheels sink in. The water hits the top of the tires. Shane attempts to rock forwards and back, but the car only digs in more.

I looked outside the window, and saw a spit of dry mud on my side of the car, about four feet off. Quickly, I get my camera from Roberta and climb out my window and onto the roof. Once atop the car, I traverse the roof until at the rear left quarter of the car. This gives me just enough room to spring to land and take photos of the stuck Marabby.

While working on my photo skills, Shane interrupts me. "Hans! Get those chaps to pull us out. Water is coming in!" The chaps he mentioned were on the other side of the river, watching and waving. On our side of the river is an old Mongolian man with a motorbike.

"Don't go that way. Go this way," he insinuates, "and do you have a smoke?"

"Yes, yes. Obviously we should go that way. Bit late now, isn't it?" Was my repose.

Luckily, after only about five minutes, a minivan with an Australian came along. He offered a tow rope and flagged down a Lexus SUV. With his tow rope and our tow rope, the luxury vehicle didn't even get its tires wet as it pulled us to dry land.

Shane did a good bit of acrobatics, climbing on the top and side of the car, attaching the tow rope. He only got a bit of one of his sneakers wet when he nearly ditched it off the side of the Marabby. Luckily, he wad able to grab hold of the roof rack and cling on for dear life.

Once the car was on dry land, we set about airing it out. There were casualties. A good deal of our toilet paper wad lost in the flood. My red Brooks Brothers loafers that I had worn almost all the time since London were drowned, but salvageable.

A silver lining shone through. As we cleaned the car, we found, beneath the driver's seat, a collection of Hungarian techno. This disc, missing for weeks, was put on repeat for a good portion of our remaining drive to UB.