Just how wet can you get on a bike?

I finally caught up with the lorry and, after being stuck behind him on a single track for a while, he finally managed to pull over. I pulled alongside to ask the dreaded question, not really wanting to hear the answer:

"Does this track go to Rissani?" I asked in pidgin French.

"Oui," came the reply, "dix kilometre", or at least I think that is what he said.

I breathed a sigh of relief and set off along the track, which at least by now was rocky. No sand to contend with, but it was still raining and I only had 40 minutes of daylight left. I had to get off the piste and back to civilisation. The thought of camping on a cold, wet piste did not fill me with excitement.

The track went on, and on......and on. I had been so convinced that the lorry driver would have known where he was, that I didn't really follow my progress on the GPS. 10km he had promised, but I had now done 15km and Rissani looked just as far away on the GPS as before!

I knew I was heading in the right direction so there was nothing to do but to push on.

The rain got heavier and the light began to fail. As if I didn't have enough on my plate the track had started to get muddy, nice slippery mud that gave me some heart stopping moments as I slithered around. I wanted to slow down, to take it more easy, but I was aware of the choices that I faced: should I continue at the speed I was going and risk a fall, or should I slow down and end up having to ride on the muddy piste in darkness?

I continued at the same speed.

As darkness fell I reached a road. I turned in the direction of Rissani and finally felt that I was nearly "home". The rain by now was torrential and the roads were flooded with standing water. It was too late to put on my waterproofs, so I just hunched my shoulders and continued through the downpour. Before long I had that horrible feeling of water trickling down my neck, my arms and my legs, and shortly afterwards I felt the socks begin to squelch.

Once I had reached Rissani I had a short, and unsuccessful, attempt to find accommodation, and then I headed the 35km to Merzouga. I had started to dream of finding the place that I had stayed at last night. The owner would greet me, show me to my room and would light an enormous fire that I could sit in front of while I ate my dinner. Mmmmm!

The reality was that I got to Merzouga totally soaked and in the pitch darkness and I was unable to find the place. I slithered around in the copious mud of the back alleys, getting more and more frustrated, before a local popped out of the darkness, took pity on me and said he had a place to stay.

I rode my bike around the back of the auberge and finally, with the last of my strength and energy, propped it up on the sidestand and finally got out of the rain. I was knackered. I had done 160 miles in a big circle, not the greatest achievement, but I had survived!

I got out of my sopping clothes, poured the water from my motorbike boots and sat down to the most delicious tagine I had ever tasted. I was safe, and dry.