The Big Adventure - Part 8

The desert road continued to plough through the barren landscape in a pretty much straight line with only the odd diversion for a fallen bridge here and there. You travel for miles without any real feeling of going anywhere because it all looks the same.

Almost inevitably given the condition of the road, one of us got a puncture: it was Mark H’s font tyre than went down. We’d prepared for this and all of us were carrying spare inner tubes, and we had a selection of tyre levers too. Removing the wheel from the bike, Gareth set about changing the tube – it was a classic compression puncture undoubtedly caused by one of the many rocks that littered the road.

We’d only just set to work when three children appeared from nowhere. The sat on a rock and watched us quietly, not asking for a sweet, money or anything else. When we’d finished, they just wandered off in to the desert again – you’re never alone anywhere in Morocco, there’s always someone watching somewhere.

Back on the road we caught up with Mark L and Jason, and we all came to the same conclusion that the desert was really boring and decidedly over-rated. And we now understood Tim’s comment about having better things to do too!

Our revised plan was to continue to Zagora and instead of spending another couple of days trudging through the desert to Taouz, we’d go via surfaced roads and get there today.

As we got closer to Zagora the surface improved, and widened out. There was also an increase in the amount of traffic – i.e. there was some. A group of Dutch bikes, travelling light on Yamahas, a pair of 4x4s and we passed an encampment with other 4x4s parked in the rare shade of a tree.

The wide, flat road gave a chance for another photo call with the bikes lined up in the middle of the road:

Photo by Mark Littlewood

Arriving in Zagora we found the famous “52 Days to Timbuktu” sign, and took photos to prove we really were there. It was hot, I was tired, and the shade of a palm tree was appealing – so much so that I fell asleep, sat on the kerb, propped up by my own body armour, much to amusement of the others and bystanders.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

One of the bystanders, a chap on a moped, told us he was a big KTM fan (big fan of KTMs or a fan of big KTMs? Don’t know – it doesn’t matter) and persuaded us to visit his garage. We were a little reluctant but when we rode round there we were treated like minor celebrities – the other guys in the garage all wanted photos, as did passers-by, and we took a few too. It turned out that they’d worked on KTMs in the Dakar Rally when it last came through Zagora, and the wall of the garage was covered in pictures of the various cars, trucks and bikes they’d worked on.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

When we eventually extricated ourselves, with all the bikes now wearing Desert Garage Zagora stickers, we headed in to the town centre for some lunch. There was something about five dusty bikes parked at the kerb-side of a bustling African town-centre street that brought to mind horses tethered outside a saloon in the wild-west. Declining an invitation from the neighbouring shopkeeper to view his wares, we followed the main road east towards the sand dunes at Erg Chebbi. The first petrol station we stopped at had a faulty pump, so after filling two of the bikes painfully slowly we decided to do the other three elsewhere. As a main road, petrol stations were fairly frequent so this wasn’t a problem.

The road initially followed a river, which wound is way through a narrow rocky valley below the road, with lush green vegetation along its banks. From the numerous roadside peddlers, it was obvious we were again in prime tourist territory – dates this time. The air was hot and humid, and opening your visor for air was just like having a hot hairdryer blowing in your face. As the afternoon went on, it got even hotter and although we didn’t have a thermometer with us, it must have been in the high thirties if not the low forties.

Leaving the main road for a more minor, cross-country, road we found that Moroccan speciality: the rustic roadwork diversion. The old single track of tarmac with gravel edges was being replaced with a new, full-width tarmac road and where the work was still in progress, traffic was just diverted off in to the desert alongside. This suited the big KTMs just fine, and we loped along at a reasonable pace. Dust was the biggest hazard, with clouds of it being thrown up by other traffic making passing anything, in either direction, an exciting experience.

What did come as a surprise were further convoys of road bikes heading in the opposite direction. They were travelling at a very sedate pace through the works, and even the pseudo-trail bikes’ riders were being cautious. The last stretch of diversion helped to explain it: deep, loose sand right at the end (for us) or beginning of the diversion – entertaining for us, but probably a nightmare for non-dirt riders.

Erring again on the side of caution, we stopped to re-fuel again at around 140 miles from Zagora and to take on plenty of water. We were surprised, although with hindsight it seems obvious, that many petrol stations have, in addition to the more usual facilities, a prayer room.

Throughout the trip, the Islamic influence was one of the more visible reminders that we were in a very different place – simple things like pharmacies having a green crescent on the sign instead of a green cross, and in most towns the minarets of mosques could be seen much like our parish church spires, and the call to prayer from the muezzin; just like our church bells. Riding through towns at certain times, especially on Fridays, we would see a huge number of people making their way to Friday prayers, mostly on foot.

Rissani was our next major town, and getting through it was slightly nerve-wracking. The throngs of people on foot, bicycle and mopeds, most of them with no road-sense or awareness, making their way through the narrow main roads of the town, meant staying extra vigilant as they variously wandered or pulled out in front of us, overtook and generally got in the way. We got split-up through the town, and it was with some relief that when we re-grouped the other side of the town none of us had collected anyone on the way – I’d say more down to luck than judgement.

We'd been given the name of a hotel, but not precise directions to it. Unlike most places, the hotels are not neatly lined up along the roadside, but scattered across the desert around the sand dunes. We selected one more or less at random, and followed the coloured poles they'd thoughtfully provided across the nothingness to the hotel.

Compared to the other places we'd stayed, this was a very grand establishment with a swimming pool, bar, open-air restaurant, house parrot and air conditioning in the chalet-style rooms. Most of the walls were made of mud and straw, and apart from reception and the rooms themselves, everything else was outside with drapes and canopies to provide shelter from the sun.

Our room was the “family” room, with a double bed and four single beds. I was very generously given use of the double after my falling asleep on the roadside earlier.

After taking the opportunity to freshen up a bit, we convened for drinks on the terrace – Moroccan brewed Flag beer. And it fitted the bill perfectly.

Dinner was another tagine, beef and apple this time, and delicious – the best meal we had all trip. We had a bottle of red wine to go with it, from Meknes. There was also a proper dessert on offer, in fact a selection of them, and I had a chocolate mousse.

Tomorrow was going to be highlight of our trip: a day playing in the sand dunes at Erg Chebbi.

The Big Adventure - Part 7

The day was already warmer than it had been, and the temperature increased as we headed south. Just after leaving Ouarzazate we took a short detour to the oasis at Fint. They really are an unusual sight, with lush green vegetation and trees in an otherwise baron landscape. This one was very much on the tourist-trail, and we had to vie for road space with taxis and 4x4s.

Wildlife likes oasises too, and this frog was obviously enjoying the river. Tempting as it may be, the advice is not to drink the water because it is usually home to various nasty bugs – although it should be OK if you use water purification filters or chemicals

Climbing back up from the oasis we followed the road up in to the hills once again. The road had recently been upgraded, and although it was unsurfaced it was wide, straight and fairly easy to ride. The old road could be seen in places, winding its way through the landscape whereas the new one ploughed through it.





Humidity was increasing and it felt like a sultry British summer day where even the altitude failed to offer much in the way of cooling breeze.

We’d been told that spending a night in the desert would be an amazing experience, mostly due to the lack of light pollution and the resulting show of stars in the sky. Our plan was to ride across the top of the Sahara from Foum Zeguid to the sand dunes at Erg Chebbi, spending one or two night in the desert en route. Tim’s comment when we’d asked if he’d done it was that he had better things to do – and we were about to find out exactly what he meant.

Even this far south there was a surprising amount of water around – enough to need fording, and for the local residents to grow their crops.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

And even in these harsh conditions, there’s always something that will grow in an unexpected place.

Dropping down from the hills for the last time the track followed the bed of a river which made for a challenging ride with loose shale and our first real taste of deeper sand. One of the most important tips for riding in sand is not to stop, because it’s the starting off that causes the most trouble. After one particularly lengthy stretch the leader decided to stop for a breather – and here's a hint: if you're near the front of the ride, please don't stop right on the edge of the firm ground it leaves the rest of us in the deep sand! Ho hum…

The sand hadn’t caused any serious difficulty, although Mark H had a couple of tumbles and with the ground being so soft it made getting off the bike to help a delicate balancing act so its stand didn’t sink-in and allow your bike to fall over too.

At the end of the river-bed stretch the track rose in to a small settlement and from there we joined a properly surfaced main road. It was wide, straight and recently surfaced – in fact they were still surfacing it in places, and there were detours off the road, through rough ground past the works and back on to the road.

With the five of us making progress we carried on towards Foum Zeguid. Looking back over my shoulder to make sure nobody had been left behind I saw nobody. Which was strange because there should have been a Gareth there. I turned back to try and find him, and before too long spotted him still riding along. It turned out that after the work on his bike the previous day, one of the fuel tanks hadn’t been turned back on causing the bike to stop because it had used up the other tank. It’s a common error, mostly because there are few bikes with two separately controlled fuel tanks – but it’s still alarming.

We came up behind a very new, slow-moving, French, Land Rover Defender and overtook. Looking back we discovered why it was going so slowly: it had obviously been rolled at some point, and the windscreen was missing, roof squashed down at the front and the two doors were bent out of shape: A timely reminder that things can go very wrong in the desert if you aren’t careful.

We made a comfort stop to stretch legs and take photos of our first sand-dunes, and while we were resting the Land Rover trundled past with the lady in the passenger seat looking, not unsurprisingly, cheesed-off! That was going to be a very slow drive back to Europe, and a very big repair-bill.

There was very little traffic, and as we arrived on the edge of Foum Zeguid we were stopped at the Police check-point. The officer spoke with Mark L who was leading, and apparently asked where we were going – and looked puzzled when told, “pour quoi?”.

Some of us were running low on Dirham so we were hoping to find a cash machine, and while we were in the town centre, outside an army barracks, we took the opportunity to have some lunch, brochettes avec frites, while watching a Portuguese film crew in a couple of 4x4s – although we’ve no idea what they were actually doing.

After lunch the time had come: we were about to ride in to the Sahara for the first time. Retracing our steps to the edge of the town we stopped in a petrol station to top-up our tanks and also fill up our spare fuel cans in case we needed any later. We bought extra bottles of water, and Mark H and I filled up our panniers’ water jackets with non-drinking water.

Turning on to the desert road, we ran off the tarmac and on to the sandy, gravelly track and it wasn’t long before we spotted our first camel.

Our plan was to camp overnight at an oasis en route. We’d been told that a night in the desert was a “must-do” because the lack of light pollution allowed a much better view of the night sky and that the display of stars was spectacular.

The road was wide, but very rough with a ridged “washboard” surface that took its toll on both us and the bikes. Deviating from the wheel tracks of previous vehicles gave an even rougher ride over stones – which was a surprise because the surface didn’t look all that much different to other tracks we’d ridden earlier in the trip.

Every so often we’d come across a bridge or a causeway that had been washed away. They were marked by a row of three or four larger rocks placed across the road, and that was our cue to divert around across the dry river bed. Missing the row of rocks could lead to a nasty accident, and I’m glad it was daylight when we were attempting it. The main difficulty of taking such a diversion was the soft sand and shale that you had to ride through, and with the extra fuel and water, the bikes were heavier than usual – and in the heat, man-handling the bikes was very tiring.

We rode on and on, the road was straight and apart from the occasional detour there was very little to keep us amused – not even any wildlife, scenic views or anything else to look at.

With the road being fairly new, it didn’t match with either our paper or electronic maps, so there was an element of guesswork involved in locating the oasis. When we found it, the family that were living beside it weren’t all that pleased to see us, with what we took to be the elder son making it fairly clear we weren’t welcome – although the mother seemed more keen, perhaps thinking there could be money to be made (everything in Morocco has its price!).

We decided that this wasn’t going to be all that satisfactory, so we returned to the road to seek out an alternative place to camp. This was easier said that done because, despite what you may have seen in films, deserts aren’t made of soft, shifting sands, but rocks, stones and gravel.

After a few more kilometres we found what looked to be a reasonably rock-free, flat area to pitch our tents in. As anyone who camps will tell you, no matter how careful you are, you will always end up pitching on something that you’ll only discover once you’re in bed and lying on it – and inevitably in such a rocky location it proved to be so.

A friend had kindly lent me his lightweight tent for the trip, and with hindsight I probably ought to have tried erecting it at home rather than trying to do it for the first time when it really mattered. The other four got their tents up while I struggled with mine – the strong wind and light structure of the tent made it resemble a kite more than a tent as I tried to get it to stay on the ground long enough to peg it down.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

Dinner was taken from the long-life food that we’d brought with us for camping / emergency use, and because it’s easy to prepare being boil-in-the-bag: Mine was pasta and meatballs in tomato sauce.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

We waited in expectation as night fell for the stars to come out… only to have full cloud-cover. We saw nothing.

A side-effect of the cloud cover was that the temperature didn’t fall as we had been told it would, so it was a very warm and sticky night. Even the wind was hot. I turned in fairly early hoping to get a good night’s sleep, but it wasn’t to be and I got very little sleep. The mesh walls of my tent weren’t all that good at keeping the desert out of the tent, and as the night went on a layer of sandy grit covered everything in the tent.

Dawn broke, and we were greeted with a spectacular view of the early morning sun lighting up the desert is a wonderful golden glow:

Breakfast was another long-life meal, baked beans with sausages for me, and I realised that I’d forgotten to bring any coffee with me which didn’t help matters (I don’t wake up until I’ve had at least one cup of coffee!). After breakfast it was time to strike camp and carry on towards Zagora.

It’s a funny thing, but you know that there’s nothing in the desert, that’s why it’s a desert, but when you get there and find that there really is nothing there, it still comes as a surprise. But strangely, even there, we weren’t alone.

To be continued…

The Big Adventure - Part 6

On the seventh day we rested. A leisurely start to the day with a traditional Moroccan breakfast: bread, cheese, coffee and sweet tea, yoghurt and fruit preceded a bike-fettling session before going in to Ouarzazate town centre for lunch.

One of the features of Bikershome is a fully equipped garage that visitors are welcome to use should anything need attention The bikes had stood up well (mechanically) to the abuse of the first few days, with just a check-over, chain adjustment and oil top-up required. We also took the opportunity to effect some repairs to the damage inflicted by rocks. Pete showed Jason how to tidy up the scratches in his fairing, and with some super-glue his Lexan headlight guard was back in one almost complete piece. He also repaired and re-wired the damaged indicator leaving just one missing piece of lens.

Deciding to take some interest in the outside world, we used Pete’s computer to get on the Internet and learned for the first time about the volcanic ash disruption – sparking ideas about riding all the way back to the UK through Europe as an alternative to flying home from Spain.

Another guest staying there was Tim Cullis, who some might know from the UK GSer forum. Tim is a regular visitor to Morocco, and much of the mapping we were using on our GPS receivers was his work. He was able to regale us with stories from adventures past, as well as suggesting possible routes we could take later in the trip. As proof of the vagaries of the Moroccan road (and piste) network he related how one year a route on a fully laden GS took two hours, whereas the following year the same route on an unladen bike took eight.

When you’re out in the mountains you need to be aware that most people you meet won’t know what the trail conditions ahead are like. After being assured that the piste was open and passable, Tim discovered that it had been washed away down the mountain and instead of being open and passable it now no longer existed.

At lunchtime Pete drove us in to Ouarzazate in his pick-up truck. There are only three passenger seats, so the rest of us climbed in the back in typical African style. We went to café favoured by both Pete and Tim, where the speciality of the house was fruit “milkshakes”, although they were more akin to smoothies as there wasn’t any milk in them. Pick a fruit, any fruit: avocado, mango, strawberry, pineapple… and it arrived beautifully blended with fresh fruit juices in to a not too sweet, refreshing drink. From the menu we ordered a “homburger” each, which was unformed minced meat, chopped olives and tomato salsa with seasoning in a hamburger bun-sized, round loaf of bread. To finish we had a mille-feuille pastry, which varies from the French version in that it doesn’t have crème pâtissière between the layers of pastry, but something more akin to vanilla buttercream – and it’s not as tall either – but a bargain at just 2d each, and the local equivalent of a latté coffee: a nous-nous.

Tim had broken the number plate on his bike and needed to get a replacement for his journey back in to Europe, and with this being Morocco nothing’s impossible. Although what he came back with was so amateurish it was almost comical. Motorbikes don’t have registration numbers out there, and the ones for other vehicles are entirely numerical, which isn’t all that helpful for a British registration which is mostly alphabetic. My guess at the reason for the numerical only plates is that this means there isn’t a conflict between arabic and roman scripts as “the west” uses arabic numbers anyway. The addition of a Moroccan flag sticker, similar in style to the blue Euro flag on European plates, completed it.

Back at Bikershome we enjoyed the sunshine on their rooftop terrace, carried on with the bike fettling and made plans for the following day.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

We decided that a circular ride would be a good idea, meaning that for once we could leave our luggage behind. Tim was our route consultant, and with his help we put together a route.

On the edge of Ouarzazate lies the film set for Kingdom of Heaven, which you can go and wander around the outside of. None of us had seen the film (in fact I’ve not found anyone who has seen it) but it certainly made an interesting diversion.

From there, there wasn’t a track to the next main piste, so the instruction was “go north”. The area around the film set was stony with dune-like mounds. Some parts had a very loose surface, and Mark H discovered that too much throttle could instil a sinking feeling.

I also came unstuck when I took a route slightly lower down one of the dunes. Looking ahead I saw that it curved up on to the same plateau, but what I’d missed was a square-cut channel between me and the plateau and as I rode in to it I fell off. The bike is well protected with engine bars and the luggage rack, but of course I missed both of them and put some scratches in fairing around the seat.

We’d had a slight navigation error which had seen us go east rather than north, but we found the main trail easily enough. It was wide, flat and straight, and perfect for a play.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

Gareth in particular managed a good impression of Terminator on his black 950. The pictures here tell the best story – the well defined track carried on and on across the flat landscape until we came to a series of dried-up riverbeds which we had to ride across:



When we got in to the more hilly terrain we found another film set lurking:

Being at the back of the ride I took the opportunity to take some photos to give a sense of the scale:

One of the more curious sights we encountered was the way the telegraph poles were being held up: by the cable. The rocky and, in places, unstable ground obviously isn’t ideal for keeping the poles up.

At the top of the hill we joined the main road leading back down, which was in the process of the being resurfaced. They’d sprayed it with water to keep the dust down, but this left a very slippery yet sticky clay-like surface that kept us entertained until we got to the bit that hadn’t been watered. We also had to stay alert to the random appearance of heavy plant repairing and re-shaping the rock-face.

We stopped for a late lunch at a touristy place which had a row of tables under an open-sided Hessian tent. The tables and chairs were very low, and those that sat with their backs to the Hessian discovered it was really quite scratchy as it blew against them. I’m not sure whether we ordered or whether it just arrived, but lunch was a vegetable tagine (mostly carrot) followed by cinnamon orange slices and tea.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

Most of the other customers had already moved on, and we were the only ones left. One of the locals came over to talk to us because he wanted to improve his English. He also owned (or a relative owned, I’m not sure) a shop across the road, and on seeing Mark L’s watch he wanted to swap a carpet for it. Needless to say Mark declined – not least because we’d no way of getting a carpet home again.

Where places have a car park, you’re expected to pay a few Dirham to use it. Being the stingy people we are, we’d parked on the other side of the road for free. Although an out of control sounding articulated lorry thundering down the hill caused some concern – if it had hit the bikes they’d have gone over the edge of the cliff. I’m sure it sounded worse than it actually was – when they’re empty they rattle a lot, and on the gravelly road the wheels will be prone to locking up anyway.

It wasn’t far to the main road which would take us back to Ouarzazate, along a two-lane road with only one lane’s worth of tarmac. Not that there was much traffic, and on the Adventure taking to the gravel verges wasn’t really a problem. What was becoming a problem was Gareth’s bike.

It had become more and more rattley as the day had gone on, and the oil light had been flickering at idle. On the ride back to Bikershome it came on properly, and the rattle was really sounding unpleasant. What was it? There was plenty of oil on the dipstick – oil pump? Camchain tensioner?

Back at base we got on the Internet to harness the power of the combined knowledge of various forums – although being a Saturday night would most of them be in the pub? Or just back from the pub?

The first few replies gave a consistent diagnosis: water pump. It’s a known weakness, and we had brought seal kit with us so it was just as case of getting in there to confirm it, and then repair it. So that was another day at Bikershome.

Next morning we set to work. First job was to confirm the diagnosis by checking the condition of the oil filter. Using some old tyres as a cushion we laid the bike on its side and pulled out the filter – eureka! It was crinkled, which is a sure sign of water in the oil and a good indication that the oil pump seals have had it. We set to work undressing the bike and removing the clutch cover to get at the oil pump. The inside of the clutch cover had the classic ‘mayonnaise’ blend of oil and coolant.

In the midst of this excitement, Pete had been called away to help rescue a couple of bikes: a FJR and a Bandit. The Bandit was quite severely damaged after being run off the road by a taxi, and somersaulting in to a concrete drainage channel. The owner, also called Pete, had gotten away relatively lightly with just a dislocated elbow – and a big repair bill.

Mark H decided to set off to explore some waterfalls that he thought weren’t too far away. After he’d gone, we got the map out and found that they were about a four hour ride away… No, he didn’t get to them.

To help get the new bearings in to the water-pump casing the instructions suggest putting the casing in the oven for a few minutes. The resulting smoke was eye-watering, and didn’t go down all that well with our hosts, but it worked and by tea time Gareth’s bike was back together. We didn’t have a new oil filter with us, but fortunately Pete has a KTM Super Enduro which has the same engine, and he had a spare filter. Job done.

For dinner that night Pete and Zineb took us in to Ouarzazate to eat because Zineb had got something in her eye earlier in the day (we don’t think it was related to the engine casing in the oven though).

While we were out Pete got a call from a group of Polish riders on Honda Africa Twins who’d arrived and were needing assistance. They’d been out in the desert, two of their bikes had broken down, and they’d been charged 500€ each to get the bikes rescued. Ouch! They stayed the night at Bikershome, most of them sleeping on the sofa-benches because by now all the beds were full. Their plan, incidentally, was to get a trailer made so they could use their support vehicle to tow the bikes back to the border, get them back in to Spain and let their breakdown insurance deal with them.

And so, after fours nights in the Bikershome, we set out for the desert.

The Big Adventure - Part 5

By morning the rain had cleared, and we were horrified to find five cleaner (on one side at least) bikes parked outside. Sure enough, Grandpa was still sitting on the step: although I think I woke him when I went out with my luggage.

After a typical Moroccan breakfast, including coffee with goats’ milk, we set off towards yesterday’s target, the Dades Gorge. This meant riding back through the village, but the touts from the night before were obviously still in bed and we had no trouble at all riding through. The road skirts around the edge of the flood-plain, and after an unusually wet winter the amount of greenery was quite impressive and there was even water in the river.

Arriving in a village on market (souk) day was an interesting experience, and we initially missed the turning to start our journey through the mountains to the top of the gorge. A U-turn, and an opportunistic Dirham-scrounger later, we set off along another riverbed. The road had obviously seen a tough winter, and was in a very poor state of repair. At one point it diverted in to the dry bed of the river itself and the shale made tough going before it rejoined the actual road.

I had my second misjudgement of the trip and clobbered one of my panniers on a rock, dislodging it from the bike. A feat I repeated soon after, on another rock. The only apparent damage was to the lock securing the pannier to the bike which would hold the pannier on the bike but no longer locked with a key. Much later I discovered that I’d put a hole in the pannier, and when trying to fill the water jacket it just poured straight out again.

Climbing up the winding track was a matter of preference and technique. With a steep drop to one side and a rock face on the other you had two choices: the inside or outside wheel-track. Most people opted for the inner track, although I preferred the outer track because the odds of clouting a pannier on a rock were much lower.

Riding along a ledge like that isn’t for the faint-hearted because the potential for things to go wrong is significant. That said, if you concentrate too much on the drop then you have less concentration for the road ahead, and there’s always that age-old hazard of target fixation. I have done a fair amount of riding on tracks like this one and the drop isn’t of particular concern. Obviously I respect it, and know what could happen, but otherwise I treat it much like any other stony track.

The map showed a settlement near the (road’s) summit, but when we got there it turned out to be a single, abandoned house without a roof. The views were spectacular though, and we were close to the snow-line: riding around a bend in to a shaded spot and finding a bank of snow on a warm sunny day comes as something of a surprise.

After a short break we began our slow descent, and it was here the differences between our bikes began to show. My 990 is completely standard in terms of gearing and I was struggling to ride slow enough not to run in to the back of the bike ahead, and even in first gear I was having to slip the clutch. A popular modification is to change the number of teeth on the sprockets to improve off road performance, and this probably helped the others – although I don’t know exactly how their bikes were setup.

Being at the back of the ride I took advantage of being able to stop and take photos of the scenery and the others ahead:

Once we got to the bottom we had a river to cross. Although not our first of the trip, it was the widest, deepest and fastest flowing. A gathering of children raised the stakes even higher in terms of sweets, Dirham and general pestering. Whilst Mark L went to see if there was an easier place to cross, Gareth waded in and the rest of us rode though with little difficulty. Mark returned having found something that looked easier to find us all on the other side, so he had a go himself after entrusting his camera bag to me to carry through on foot.

Anxious to get away from the pestering of the children we set off down the road and found a shaded spot between the river and the cliffs to have a breather. We’d not been there long when two young girls on donkeys came past and Mark H tried to take a photo of them – which didn’t go down well at all: Many people in Morocco, especially those in more isolated or rural locations, are superstitious about having their photo taken and the effect it might have on them in the afterlife. It didn’t stop a degree of banter with them, and I suspect they understood more than they let on.

Having been at the back of the ride most of the day I took the lead for the next bit. Mark L showed me on the map where we were going and told me to look for a right-turn at some point. When we came to a junction with a road to the right I stopped and pointed at it. Looking back I saw Mark apparently nodding his head, so I duly turned right – only to discover that the nod was indicating that we should go straight-on. Oh well…

We knew that the road to the Dades Gorge had been properly surfaced because it is a popular tourist attraction, but we were coming at it from the other side and the road was still piste. There is a village at the top of the gorge, and it’s here that you join the tarmac.

There’s no denying that it’s a spectacular sight, but sadly it is also full of tourists. We stopped to take some photos before carrying on through.

There are a few cafés along the road side, and we decided to stop for a coffee and something to eat. One of the things that we were missing most was junk food like chocolate. The healthy Moroccan diet is all very well, but sometimes you need some tooth-rotting sugary sweetness (other than the tea), and when we saw they had Snickers bars we couldn’t resist.

Looking down from the café gave a superb view of the road ahead: hairpin after hairpin, on recently surfaced tarmac. Brilliant.

Photo by Mark Littlewood

 

A common way for tourists to see Morocco in with a Berber guide in a 4x4, and as we were preparing to leave, a number of these 4x4s drew up outside. We chatted with a Canadian family who appeared to be doing a whirlwind tour of the country, and had our photos taken by group of American tourists who were interested in what we were doing, where we were going, what we were carrying etc.

We set off down the road ahead of the 4x4s and even on a heavily laden, knobbly-tyred KTM it was a fantastic bit of road. While we’d been having coffee we’d seen a group of three cruiser-style bikes go past heading up the gorge, and we half wondered if they’d be heading over the top the way we’d come, or whether they’d be following us down the surfaced road (silly question!).

The road wound its way down the gorge, and offered some spectacular views:

Our plan for the night was to head to Ouarzazate [Wazzat] and stay at the well known Bikershome. This meant a lengthy, and mostly dull, road ride across the plains. The road was busy, and there were a number of convoys of road bikes going the other way. From the plates I think they were mostly German and guessing from guide at the front of each group, an organised tour. There were a good number of BMW GSs amongst them, but one thing we did notice is that despite the number of them we saw, none of them bore any signs of being used on the pistes. It seems a shame to have ridden all that way and not take advantage of exploring the more remote parts.

Heading in to the setting sun wasn’t much fun, and the dust on our visors (inside and out) left us peering through the shadow cast by the peak of the helmet. Another hazard was the presence of so many tourist 4x4s, mostly Land Cruisers, with their kamikaze Berber drivers having no qualms about overtaking in to the face of oncoming traffic, then barging their way back in-between us to get out of the way.

This was the busiest we saw a road outside of a city, and as usual there were regular Police checkpoints and speed-checks. A new bypass around one town, Skoura, caused a bit of confusion with Ouarzazate being signposted the opposite way to the road shown on the map..

On the way through the city centre we needed to stop for cash, but the presence of a cash machine doesn’t guarantee that you’ll be able to get your money! It was the one recurring problem, and one that there isn’t a solution to other than take advantage of any working machine you do find! With the delays and detours it was getting dark by the time we wound our way through centre of Ouarzazate to Bikershome.

Bikershome is run by Dutchman Peter Buitelaar and his lovely Moroccan wife Zineb. Pete was out when we arrived, but Zineb made us very welcome, taking their 4x4 out of the garage to make room for our bikes, and cooking us a very welcome meal.

We intended to stay two nights, to allow us a rest-day, but plans change.

The Big Adventure - Part 4

After a long day, and a few days with not all that much to eat, we were looking forward to a good meal. I'm not an especially fussy eater, although spicy food causes me problems, so I was looking forward to trying some real Moroccan cuisine.

Dinner was included in the price of our room, and started with a thick soup with beans in the bottom (no, not baked beans!), then a lamb tagine with seasonal fruit to finish – washed down with some Moroccan wine.

A tagine is a kind of casserole dish with a conical lid. The meat is put in the centre, with vegetables arranged around it before being cooked in an oven. Simple and delicious.

The local beers were pleasant enough, although in one hotel we had locally brewed Heiniken. And no, it doesn't taste any better than it does here.

The rooms were comfortable, each having a double bed and two singles. One concern about the trip was the law relating to sharing rooms where is illegal for an unmarried lady and gentleman to share a room, and with homosexuality being illegal, the scope for a potential misunderstand was definitely there – although, as with most of our concerns, they were unfounded and sharing rooms, even at one point being expected to share a (double) bed, was never a problem for our various hosts. We did ask for an extra bed though!

Wednesday was out first day together in Morocco, and the day we left the tarmac and headed for the pistes. Breakfast was bread, crepe, apricot jam, cheese, coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and omelette – some things are much the same all over the world.

We stowed our things, and rode out of the gate…. Well, almost. Mark H's bike had blown a fuse the day before, leaving him with no brake lights and no dashboard lights or speedo (it's a digital one on the KTMs), but this wasn't the problem that stopped him this morning: this time his bike died completely. No lights, no starter, no clocks, nothing at all.

Photo by Gareth Jones

Now we knew that Mark's battery was getting weak, which is why it wouldn't start my bike back in Spain, but we were getting a horrible sense of déjà vu. Thinking it through logically, we started with the rest of the fuses in the fusebox between the two fuel tanks – all present and correct (bar the one that had blown the day before). So what next? Main fuse? Bingo! The 30a main fuse, buried in the sump-guard with the battery and starter relay, had blown. Strange. Then we spotted an unplugged plug through an opening in the side of the bodywork, reconnected it, changed the fuse, and the bike started.

The only way that plug could have been disconnected was by human intervention, because it had to be pulled up out of the socket. Very strange.

With the fuse changed we were back on the road and doing the last few kilometres in to Midelt. There we branched off on to the Cirque du Jaffar, with the intention of getting to Imilchil [Ima-shil] for lunch.

The going was pretty easy: a gravelly track with gentle bends, the odd stream and relaxed uphill gradient. When we stopped for a breather, Gareth said he'd go on ahead and take some video as we rode past and to give him five or ten minutes head start – so that's what we did.

Carrying on up the track we found Gareth gesturing frantically beside a small stream, so we thought he was asking us to go a bit quicker to make it look more spectacular – but that's not what he was meaning at all.

Stopping a little way further up the track for him to catch up, we soon found out that what he wanted us to do was to stop. He'd had a bit of a crash, where the front wheel had hit a rock as he was looking backwards for a good place to film. He'd gone over the bars, and given himself a nasty bruise on his thigh (we took his word for that!). Most seriously of all, he'd hit one of his metal panniers on a rock which had severely dented it, forcing the lid off and popping the bottom out of it too.

Before we could carry on, the pannier needed to be repaired otherwise we'd be collecting his kit as it dropped out the bottom. Of course getting the pannier off the bike was the first challenge because the dents in the back of it obstructed the locking hooks. Once it was off, we needed to bang it back in to something approximately pannier shape – and I came to the rescue with a mallet.

I got a fair amount of teasing for bringing a mallet, but it wasn't the only time on the trip that it was to come in handy.

Setting off again, and climbing a little more steeply now, the piste remained wide, gravelly and easy to ride – although on one left-hand bend Mark L managed to run wide in to some boulders. Normally this wouldn't be too much of a problem, except that Mark isn't all that tall and rides a 990S which has around an extra inch of suspension travel. He's also fitted a more comfortable seat that's about an inch higher than standard too. The net result is that he can't put his feet down.

I'd ridden past him, but stopped on the next flattish bit to make sure he was OK. By this time he was off the bike and trying to roll it back on to the path – which he didn't quite manage, and gently toppled over.

Climbing off my bike I walked back to help him. We were higher than we thought at this point, and even the short walk down the track was tiring. Between us we rolled the bike backwards out of the boulders and back on to the path. He set off again while I climbed back up to where I'd stopped and took a few moments to get my breath back and take a photo of the scene:

The track gradually narrowed, and took on a sideways slope from the rock face towards the drop. The surface also changed and became looser and much less grippy – even with knobbly tyres.

Coming to a boulder that had fallen down the hillside, I had to ride around it and with the extra weight of my luggage, the slope and the loose surface, the rear stepped out and it was my turn to have a lie-down:

The bike landed on the pannier, which popped off it's mounting without damage (other than a dent in the bottom corner of the plastic), and the rear wheel came to rest right on the edge of the drop:

I decided that trying to pick the bike up on my own probably wasn't the best idea given the loose surface and if the bike had gone over the edge then that would be the end of the bike – although it's worth noting that we never saw an abandoned wreck anywhere in the mountains, and we suspect they get picked clean and carted off by locals in much the same way as ants devour fallen food.

Being the last person in the ride at this point, all I could do was sit and wait until they realised I wasn't with them and it wasn't long before Mark H and Gareth arrived and between the three of us we got the bike up, pointing in the right direction and the pannier re-attached.

The track remained “technical” for another kilometre or so, before widening out, losing the camber and having an easier surface.

When I caught up with the other four bikes I found that I wasn't the only faller on that section. Jason had slipped in much the same way as I had, and in his eagerness not to go over the edge had rammed the rock face with his bike, smashing his Lexan headlight guard, breaking off an indicator and putting a selection of deep gouges in to the fairing.

We rapidly came to the conclusion that if the trail had many more sections like that one, we could be in trouble and we wouldn't reach our intended destination near the Dades Gorge. We subsequently discovered by comparing maps that what was shown as a piste on one map was shown as a donkey track on another... Mapping Morocco isn't easy and you cannot rely too heavily on the maps because the condition can change dramatically, and often actual route of the road changes because of landslides, floods, upgrades etc. A route taking two hours one year can be an eight hour epic the next.

The rest of the route was much easier to ride, and a mixture of wooded sections, rocky outcrops and the occasional hairpin bend kept us entertained. By about midday the track joined a more major track, which was wide, smooth and consisted of a layer of gravel over tarmac. Possibly the worst surface there is to ride on. The track curved around the hills, and we were able to pick up the pace a bit.

A new experience for the day was riding through the many small villages. Invariably you're the day's big event, and people will stop and stare. Kids will run out of their houses and generally do one of three things: Wave and 'Hi-5', demand sweets (bonbon monsieur) or money (Dirham monsieur – or if that doesn't work, “Euro monsieur”), or throw stones.

The biggest hazard was often the number of children all trying to hi-5 you as you rode past – on both sides. The left was fairly easy, but the right was a little more tricky, and care was needed because the very worst thing that could happen was you running over one of the kids. It didn't happen, but I dread to think what they'd do to us if it did. One lesson we all learned very quickly was that the kids put their all in to the hi-5, and it hurts!

As the afternoon progressed, the sky got darker and more threatening with the odd flash of lightening in the distance. Arriving in a village at the bottom of a valley, the road was blocked by an excavator that was rebuilding the road where it crossed the river, and we had to wait for it to stop to let us pass.

As we waited, crowds of children appeared demanding sweets, money etc. and before too long I felt (and heard) something hit my helmet – great, I thought, they’re throwing stones… Except they weren’t. Another couple of pings and something bounced off and landed inside the fairing: a marble-sized hailstone! Not something we expected, but better than stones.

Eventually we took our leave, and carried on through the pouring rain. None of us were really dressed for rain, and it even got cold enough for me to deploy the headed grips. We stopped on a causeway just outside the village to check the map and see where we could change our plans. While we were stopped, a young girl wandered over and asked very politely for a sweet and it made a pleasant change. She was rewarded with a boiled sweet and a Biro.

The whole issue of giving stuff to kids is somewhat contentious. These people have very little, and are desperately poor whereas we are rich and have everything – at least in their eyes. Is it wrong for them to want a bit of what we’ve got? Or does it just promote begging and dependency? Who knows…? I certainly don’t.

From there it was a short ride to Imichil where we planned to refuel and stop for the night. The petrol station there is fairly new, and before it was built fuel  had to be pumped from barrels. While the bikes were being filled (petrol stations aren’t self-service) we were surrounded by yet more children all trying to get us to stay in their father’s / brother’s hotel or visit their shop etc. and it was very irritating.

My technique was to say a very clear “no thank you” and then ignore any repeated requests, but some of the group found the constant clamouring for attention to be very wearing – although I had to suppress a chuckle when someone, I can’t remember who, started trying to reason with one of the kids. Needless to say it didn’t make the slightest bit of difference!

Having eventually got rid of all the kids, we planned out next course of action. None of us wanted to go back through the village, so the remaining option was to carry on until we found a hotel – which is exactly what happened, just a few metres up the road.

Photo by Gareth Jones

The hotel was built on a rise just beside the road, and as we rode up the driveway we were greeted by what seemed like (and probably was) the whole family from Grandpa through to granddaughter. Of course they had rooms; would we like to eat? Yes please – what? Lamb tagine? Lovely – thank you.

Next thing we knew, Grandpa was given some money and sent in to town for supplies, returning half an hour or so later in the cab of a truck. Tea was prepared for us, traditional Moroccan tea with mint and lots of sugar. I can’t stand tea, but for good manners I had a glass (which wasn’t too bad) and a couple of biscuits.

The hotel was fairly imposing affair inside, with a large atrium with rooms arranged around the edge, and rooms off the ground floor with sumptuous carpets, for meals and tea. Custom is to remove your shoes before going in to someone’s house, but as we stopped to remove our boots we were hustled politely inside saying that it did not matter. But with light coloured carpets throughout, we did feel somewhat guilty with our dusty boots and luggage.

Our rooms were on the first floor, with a connecting door. There were three beds in one room, and a double in the other. Hmm… We asked for another bed and it wasn’t a problem – the beds were layers of foam mattresses, a bit like caravan seat cushions, so it was a simple matter to re-arrange them in to two singles from one double. The pillows were very solid and heavy, and we had to check to see if they were sandbags or sacks of concrete; neither would have been a surprise but they weren’t, just very solid pillows.

While we waited for dinner, we went and stood on the porch to watch the approaching storm. The whole sky was repeatedly split by shards of lightening and, when it came, the rain was torrential. We felt sorry for Grandpa who was going to sit on the porch all night to watch the bikes. When it came, the lamb tagine was delicious, with seasonal fruit to follow (a fresh orange). No alcohol here, just a chilled bottle of water.

The bathroom was enormous, not far off the size of my lounge, with a marble floor and beautifully tiled walls it had both a bath and a separate shower cubicle. There was also plenty of hot water, and we made the most of it before a sound night’s sleep with not even the rain drumming on the windows keeping us awake.

Next time: American tourists and bars of chocolate.

KTM Forum Welsh Weekend - May 2010

Normally I would have been in Arromanches this weekend, but after my Morrocan trip in April I'm a bit short of holiday so I went to Wales instead. The KTM Forum's Adventure Wing had a fund raising trip for the Welsh Air Ambulance, because in the past they've had cause to use its services.

The plan was to go through to Rhayader on Friday evening, ride all day Saturday and again on Sunday morning before heading home. A friend, Craig, picked me up in his van on Friday en route from Norfolk (I know, I should have ridden) and we arrived just in time at the campsite - last arrival is 22.30, and we got there at 22.28!

We pitched Craig's tent in the darkness, and I went in search of my B&B - which turned out to have a four-poster bed! Never slept in one before, but I can't say it made much difference to the sleeping experience.

Saturday morning arrived and I set about getting me, my bike and my riding apparel in the same place at the same time ready to meet the others at 09.00.

There were three groups: two normal and an advanced group. I opted for the second of the normal groups partly because I'm a wimp, and mostly because the guys in the advanced group really are good riders.

We lost our first rider six miles in, before we even got to a lane: Craig misjudged a junction and toppled over at less than walking pace owing to the camber of the road. He stuck his leg out to catch himself, and pulled his ham-string in the process, putting him out of the ride. Not a good start, and it was Craig's first trip out on his new KTM 950 Super Enduro which he bought to replace his stolen 690 Enduro.

Still, onwards and, this being Wales, upwards. The lanes were an interesting mix of green, slightly rutted routes to rocky paths and the odd stream to ford.

On one lane, rising up from near a quarry, I had a bit of a crash. The surface was stony but firm and fairly smooth, except at the top of a climb there were two ruts with a knife-edge strip between them. I got cross-rutted and went down at about 20mph. I somehow managed to abandon ship while the bike slid along on its side, slewing round across the track.

Having heard an ominous 'ping' I was hoping that the damage wouldn't be either expensive or annoying - it would be too bad to have to stop with a bust footpeg, or a holed engine casing.

The sum total of the damage was a snapped engine bar where one of the welds gave-way. Damage to me, none - I even managed to stay on my feet :)

Lunchtime saw us arrive in Clyro, and one of the guys in the other group flapping fit to take off because he'd lost his wallet (or thought he had).

From there, our ninth lane of the day was a steep climb up to a gate. It was a pretty nasty one with a deep, single rut up the middle of the narrow lane. The gate had a foot-high step, albeit steeply sloped, which made for an entertaining time as people tried and failed to get through the gate.

The lane is obviously very lightly used because the surface was so loose - think freshly turned soil - and hadn't been packed-down by vehicles, horses or even pedestrians.

Attempting to escape from the single rut was futile, because the angle of the embankments ensured you just slipped straight back in.

With all the bikes finally up, we carried on through some wonderful scenery (we don't have hills in Cambridgeshire!). We stopped at one point for a rest and had a visit from a National Trust ranger making sure we were behaving. He checked his map, but even then wasn't sure of we were allowed to be where we were (which of course we were).

Some of the group was starting to tire, so while most of them set off back to Rhayader, three of us carried on. We were all tired, and on one lane my coordination abandoned me and I just couldn't ride along a fairly easy track. Time to stop, reset and try again :)

We caught up with the other group, and just we did, one of us got a puncture - and as it happened the leader of the other group's bike decided to have a bit of a fit and put on its oil light. And someone came prepared in case I had battery problems...

A new tube, and a bit of poking and prodding and we were off again. This lane had a number of water troughs, which gave some people an opportunity for a swim... 950 Adventures don't like swimming, and after a lot of fiddling around the bike still wasn't having any of it, and as it was around 19.00 we then towed it the three miles back to the road to be collected later.

We got back to Rhayader eleven hours after we left, had covered just 90 miles but had a great day out.

A few drinks seemed a good plan, and after a quick shower we made it in time for last food orders.

Sunday morning, with Craig unable to ride, we set off home again.

I've now got a very grubby bike, a broken engine bar and I ache a bit, but it was great fun - and much easier going than in January's snow. And we raised a good few hundred pounds for the air ambulance (which wasn't required this time). And I got more sunburnt in one day in Wales than 2 weeks in Morocco!

The Big Adventure - Part 3

It was to be a marathon ride, and Morocco’s roads were an unknown quantity: How good would they be? How busy would they be? Will there be good signage (in roman script)?

As we soon discovered, the main roads are in pretty good order, although mostly single carriageway. Speed limits are up to 100kph outside of towns, and typically 60 or 40 within them. The standard of driving is, as you might expect, poor. This caused some of the group a lot of stress, but I decided that there was no point getting fussed by it, to just accept it, and work with it – and in the main, it worked quite well. There were no collisions between any of us and other motor vehicles.

Our route was along the N13, and traffic was light by British standards. Overtaking was easy, although staying alert was essential because the use of mirrors obviously isn’t in the driving test. Worst of all were the long-distance “grand taxis”, mostly elderly Mercedes, who would use both sides of the road, stop (and pull out) at random and engage in kamikaze overtakes at unexpected moments.

If you think we’re heavily Policed in the UK, then Morocco will come as a shock. Police check-points are common, as are speed-checks – especially on the approach to towns, and crossing bridges or causeways which often have much reduced speed limits on them. The officers aren’t clad in yellow either, just their grey uniforms. That said, we were only stopped once in the whole time we were there and that’s because we were the only traffic on the road and I suspect the officer was bored! As in France, oncoming traffic was generally pretty good at warning of speed-checks with flashed headlights – although we also got flashes because of having our headlights on. Driving with headlights on in Morocco, even at night, is not the done thing.

Unleaded petrol is plentiful, and slightly cheaper than in the UK at around 100d per litre (80p), although few filling stations accept card payments. Our first fuel stop was on the outskirts of Chefchaouen, where we drank more Red Bull with some biscuits from the shop. The picture on the packet looked promising: two biscuits with a generous chocolate cream filling, but the reality was two thick, dry biscuits with a thin scraping of something brown in the middle… Not really living up to the “Max” name on the wrapper. Still, better than nothing.

Back on the road, and getting more familiar with the Moroccan way of things, we hopped past lorries, wove around mopeds and kept a watchful eye for oncoming grand taxis! About half-way between Chefchaouen and the next city, Meknes, we stopped for a comfort stop. With lush green vegetation and rolling hills we could be almost anywhere in Europe and I had to keep reminding myself that this was Africa!

Roadworks, of which there were many, are a very different proposition compared to the UK. The general absence of cones, flashing lights, signage and the like makes them interesting and sometimes challenging affairs. At one point we came to a four-way junction where they were building a new roundabout, and as a result none of the roads were connected to each other, and the signs had been taken down too. Fun. Two of the roads set off in generally similar directions, so we took one and hoped for the best. A few hundred yards down the road we spotted a pedestrian and asked if this was the road to Meknes – and of course is wasn’t, thus adding further weight to adage that if there’s a fifty percent chance that something will go wrong then nine times out of ten it will.

Doing a U-turn on an off-camber, gravelly road, with heavy luggage and other traffic travelling in random directions was interesting as we returned to the junction and picked the other road. Care was needed to avoid other traffic, the workmen, the plant and the piles of gravel and other materials strewn around, but both of us made it through safely – even stopping to re-direct a confused local who’d also got the wrong road.

The road offered a mixture of terrain, from plains with long, straight sections to mountainous areas with entertaining twists and turns, as well as steep climes and descents. Slow moving lorries were a regular sight as the struggled up hills, and when I say slow I mean little more than walking pace. Even when they were travelling in the opposite direction you had to be aware of them because traffic behind would overtake without much attention to other traffic – especially when the overtaking vehicle was another lorry that didn’t want to lose momentum up the hill.

Arriving in a village with a sign pointing to Meknes: simple. Next junction with left or right choices and no signs: not so simple.

It's times like that where a sense of direction helps – and a map. We had maps and also an electronic version on our Garmin GPS receivers. Unfortunately the electronic version didn't allow automatic routing, but at least it gave us a pretty good idea of where we were. As it happens, we didn't use any of that to decide the direction – just instinct, which proved to be spot on. Result!

Meknes, christened Milton Keynes by one of the Marks in a moment of confusion, is the largest town that Gareth and I rode through. It was much busier and more chaotic than any of the small towns and villages we’d been though, and there were Police officers, some of them female (which came as a surprise), directing traffic at junction, as well as roundabout and traffic lights. Traffic lights in Morocco have four phases: green, flashing green, amber and red before returning straight to green.

Meknes is also the home of some of Morocco’s alcohol producers, with wine and beer being produced there. We knew that there was alcohol available in Morocco despite it being a Muslim country, but we were less prepared for how readily available it was. As long as you were reasonably discreet about it, nobody paid any attention either.

Heading south out of Meknes we came across the most bizarre roadworks I’ve ever seen. A new dual carriageway is being built, and much of it is finished and in use. Some sections were only partly complete with a contraflow arrangement, and it was this that came as a surprise. Instead of a formal, marked cross-over the closed side was fenced off, with traffic carrying on around the roundabout and turning in a dog-leg on to the other carriageway with no cones, markings or any other indicators that there’s two-way traffic. When it’s time to cross back, a row of three rocks across one side of the carriageway and a bloke in a chair vaguely pointing at the central reservation is the cue to cross back – but not everyone noticed it and runaway lorries were observed still on the wrong side some distance further on. Imagine that on the M25!

It was on this stretch that we found a convoy of British registered Land Rovers and we got a cheery wave and toot as we rode past. British registered vehicles were few and far between, with French and Spanish being the most numerous, although there were quite a lot of German bikes – including, on our return journey, a long procession of Harley Davidsons, complete with Police escort, support vehicles and recovery trailer (with only one space – optimism!).

Once the road quietened down, Gareth and I rode side-by-side for a while, sharing the realisation that not only were we in Africa but that we had the biggest hurdles behind us, and with huge grins we knew we could do it and catch the others.

We’d been keeping in touch with the others via text message, and updating them on our progress. Actually, that’s not quite true: Gareth had been sending texts but was deliberately ambiguous as to whether I was there or not.

Coming to the first of the more mountainous areas, I was surprised to see a very modern variable message sign that wouldn’t have been out of place on a British Motorway. As in the UK, it’s there to show traffic information – principally whether the mountain road is open. The main difference was the provision of substantial height-bars each side of it to stop overloaded trucks from hitting it – and you could understand why when you see the amount of stuff people piled on to trucks: A triple-deck sheep carrier for example, based on a 7.5 tonne truck – and no, they don’t look all that stable.

For a hot country Morocco gets a lot of snow, even on lower ground, and snow barriers were a common sight along the route. Looking at the Atlas Mountains ahead, there was still a lot of snow visible on the tops, and later in the trip when we were riding through the mountains, rounding a corner to find a bank of snow in a shady spot was not uncommon. The temperature varied quite a lot, and you could feel the change from warm to cool and back again – although it was never actually cold.

The trouble with riding through such spectacular scenery is that you can’t appreciate it fully whilst riding, so on finding a suitable lay-by with a stunning view on the top of one of the hills we made out final comfort-stop of the day and spent a few minutes drinking in the view and taking photos.

Aware that time was marching on we pressed on towards Midelt, and hoped that we could find the hotel that the others were going to be staying in. Our third fuel-fill of the day, at a tiny Shell branded station, would see us through the last leg of the day’s journey in terms of both fuel and water.

Buying water at filling stations became a habit, as none of us were all that keen to drink the tap water (although we all did, unknowingly, at one of the places we stayed thanks to the refilled bottle trick!). A 1.5 litre bottle cost around 6d and a couple of those would fill my water-pack.

As the shadows started to lengthen, and we dropped out of the mountains for the last time that day along some wonderful sweeping bends, we drew closer to Midelt. We spied a group of three big bikes ahead and, wondering if they were the others, pressed hard to catch up. They weren’t, and keeping up the pace we soon passed them.

About 20km north of Midelt we saw a sign for an auberge ahead, and as we drew closer we spotted a bike parked outside the gate. A blue bike. A blue and orange bike. A blue and orange KTM Adventure S. We’d done it!

The look on the faces of the others that we were both there was one of astonishment, because they weren’t expecting me to be there at all, and they weren't expecting Gareth to make it there so early because they’d had a lot more trouble with the border and insurance than we had.

It was 17.15 as Gareth and I rode through the gate and parked up next to the other bikes. We’d been on the road for thirteen hours, ridden 525km, negotiated ferry and border crossings and done in one day what the others did in two and a half.

Still to come: pistes, crashes, desert and storms...