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Day two continues the journey southwest to the state of Tennessee. Over breakfast, Hansen is looking worried. "Miles Fox and the Trashwagon have blown a head gasket," he says, "we're going to help them." A convoy of six cars leaves in pursuit of the mysterious Fox.

An hour later, we discover a sorry looking Subaru and an even sorrier looking youth. Dressed in a leather flying bonnet and combat trousers, the unkempt Fox is trying to rescue his beloved 'Trashwagon' with a pot of engine sealant. After an hour's hard labour, the Subaru is reborn. Only two cylinders are functioning, but he'll give it a go.

We prepare to leave, only to be met by a disaster of our own. The Town Car appears to be urinating on the car park. A cluster of worried faces peer underneath and their diagnosis is simple: the power steering pump has given up on life. For the next 1,000 miles, I'm going to have to muscle this 2.5-tonne car and hope that the steering column hangs together. Could be worse, I guess. At least we're still mobile.

We arrive in Newport minus the Trashwagon, which has now coughed its final splutter. The rest of the party is in fine form, although some are clearly taking the competition more seriously than others. "It's the same with any rally," says the event organiser, Justin Clements. "Some people take it incredibly seriously, while most are just happy to get to the finish."

Clements also runs the ever-popular Staples2Naples rally in Europe, but this is the first time he's organised an event here in the United States. "The biggest problem is the size of the place," he says, "it's a logistical nightmare."

Day 3 is the biggy. The route cuts across country through the tourist trap of Gatlinburg and on to the infamous Tail of the Dragon at Deals Gap, an 11-mile twist of tarmac boasting 318 corners.

We're entering the Deep South; the land made famous by Jack Daniels, the civil rights movement and Daisy Duke. Gatlinburg boasts its own tribute to The Dukes of Hazzard in a recreation of Cooter's Garage. Inside, hanging from a wooden beam are four pairs of denim shorts cut too high and too small. It's like coming face to face with the Holy Grail.

An hour later, we arrive at the Deals Gap, which boasts corners called 'Pearly Gate', 'Hog Pen Bend' and 'Crud Corner'. The scene outside the cafe is reminiscent of the Nürburgring Nordschleife on a public day. Except that most of the bikers are on Harleys, not Fireblades, and they're wearing wife-beater vests instead of 'sporty' garish leathers.

The Town Car was never built for such roads and the absence of power steering makes it doubly challenging. We crawl our way across the mountainside at little more than walking pace. We're a pathetic sight, but after a thousand miles of competition, I've grown quite fond of the giant, rusting turd.