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.

The longest day...

When I woke in my tent by the dunes of Erg Chebbi I had made up my mind that I was going to do the piste as planned. The piste headed off to the west from Merzouga to a place called Tagounite, 239km of varied terrain along the Algerian border. This is the stuff that I had been looking forward to, but I was a bit nervous.

First I had to sort out some supplies. The trip was to take two days so I had to stock up on water and fuel. The auberge owner had advised me against getting fuel in Merzouga, "Bad fuel" were his words, so I had to go to Rissani, 35km in the wrong direction!

With 30 litres of fuel and loads of water I headed back to Merzouga and started the piste.

The first 24km to Taouz was tarmac, a bit of a disappointment, but I needn't have worried. From Taouz the piste proper started. A single, well marked track snaked off into the distance, I was finally off road!

The track was great, easy going and a nice gentle intro to off road with my fully laden bike. I soon passed a rally support truck that, rather ominously, was bogged in some mud up to it's axles. The French drivers were busy digging it out wearing just their underpants (Mmm!), and their guide said that the piste up ahead was impassable due to mud! He offered to show me a different piste (for a fee of course) that would bypass the mud but it would take me 50km out of my way. I told him that I would continue and see what the track was like.

About 10km later I reached a muddy oued (dried up river bed), but managed, without much difficulty, to cross it. "Great!" I thought, "No problem there".

I continued for about another 10km and was flagged down by some locals. They asked where I was going, and once I told them, there was much head shaking with tales of cars and bikes that had not managed to get through the muddy oued that was still ahead of me. "Damn!" I thought, "Perhaps I can't make it through after all."

One of the locals offered to show me to the piste that would bypass the mud, all he wanted was a contribution to his fuel costs for his moped. Seemed reasonable, so off we shot.

Before we had gone very far we came across the first sand of the trip. I had never ridden in sand. The little moped just twitched slightly as my "guide" flew across it with ease. My mighty Dakar, however, seemed to have a mind of it's own. The front end of the bike was all over the place and I fought to keep upright. Everything I had read about riding on sand had said "Open the throttle", but now I was experiencing it first hand my mind was telling me to "slow down!"

The sand went on for about 7km, and by the time we had reached firm ground again I was awash with sweat and totally knackered!

My friendly guide looked pityingly at me and pointed in the direction that I needed to take. With his words of "Toute a droite" ringing in my sweaty ears, he had gone, having refused my offered money (I think he pitied me!).

I was alone once again. I consulted my map, but the piste was not marked. It was however on my GPS, and so I felt confident that all would be OK. Off I went. Sure enough the track was easy to follow, but within 2km I had bogged the bike in trying to get out of a sandy oued.

Suddenly I felt rather vulnerable as I dug and sweated and swore in order to get my heavy bike out of the sand.

20 minutes later I was underway again. The track was mainly good but had frequent bits of sand to keep me on my toes, however with each bit of sand that I crossed I felt I was getting better.

Finally the track disappeared! It started off by not matching my GPS, and then it just disappeared. To say I was disappointed is an understatement! Here I was, by myself on an infrequently used piste that was not on any map, and now the piste had "run out"! I could hear the documentary running in the background: "Lone biker gets lost in the Moroccan hills and is found months later having been eaten by wild dogs".

Nevertheless, I knew that I would not be able to find my way back to where I had started, and just how lost can you get? After all I knew that if I headed north I would eventually hit a main road.

I continued north. After a while I saw a lorry moving about 5km ahead of me. If there was a lorry that meant that there would be a track, and a good one at that. I felt reassured and slightly more confident. Soon I found the promised "track" that the lorry was on. It consisted of the softest sand I had encountered so far, all churned up into foot deep ruts. It was a nightmare. The only way that I could make any progress was to go slowly, slipping the clutch in first gear and paddling along with my feet, always fearing that my legs would be caught on my panniers at any moment. It was not pleasant.

Despite my slow progress I was closing in on the lorry. Soon I was only a few hundred metres away from him. Then I realised that he was heading into the hills rather than sticking to the valleys. Suddenly I had a chilling thought that maybe this lorry, that I had been following blindly for the past 20km or so, was heading into the hills to a quarry to fill up with rocks before returning along the track we were on! I was heading up a dead end! Then it started to rain....

The smell of Africa

As I rode away from the border it was like entering another world, far removed from mainland Europe just a few miles away. As I dodged mopeds, taxis, buses and lorries my senses tried to take it all in. Africa has a smell all of it's own; a mixture of earth, woodsmoke and diesel fumes, certainly distinct!

I headed southwards into the Rif mountains I began to realise why I read so many warnings about driving in Africa. Blind bends and steep hills seemed to be an invitation for the most grotesquely overloaded and underpowered minibus to try to overtake a similarly overloaded and underpowered lorry, both belching copious amounts of diesel fumes as they battled against gravity and played the ultimate game of chicken. All I could do was watch and plan an escape route in case the inevitable happened and something came the other way!

Surprisingly I made it to Chefchaouen without witnessing any carnage, and managed to find a campsite. My first night of camping! Pitching camp was relatively successful, although, as I emptied the whole contents of my panniers onto the ground around me in order to find my lighter, I realised that I would have to improve my packing system! But I felt justifiably pleased as I sipped my cup of tea by my tent before going to bed.


The next morning I succeeded in packing (cramming) all of my belongings back into the panniers, although it did take me about two hours of faffing around before I was ready to ride away!

The road south took me along some fantastic biking roads away from the Rif towards Fes, winding higher and higher into the Middle Atlas and a more barren landscape towards Midelt. My socks had still not quite dried out from Spain, and it got decidedly chilly as I reached 7200ft!




From the highlands of the Middle Atlas the road wound down across the flatlands around Midelt, where I spent the night in the fantastic Auberge Jaffa situated 5km down a dusty track in the middle of nowhere.

The next day I continued south across the western edge of the High Atlas before dropping down towards Merzouga. The landscape became drier and finally, the huge dunes of Erg Chebbi came into view. I found myself somewhere to pitch the tent, had the obligatory camel ride, climbed a dune (totally knackering!) and thought about my plans for the next day.

The plan had always been to head off on a track (piste) that wound 239km to the west of Merzouga. I had mentioned my plan to a local who advised me against travelling alone and offered to provide, for a price, a 4WD to accompany me on the journey. This smacked of a distinct sales ploy and went against my sense of adventure, however I couldn't but help thinking that he might have a point. I knew that people had journeyed along this track by themselves before so maybe I would be OK, but there again I had never ridden that sort of distance off road before......what should I do?

I made my decision...I would decide in the morning!

Into Africa

I woke to the sound of more Spanish rain! However it did seem to be warmer rain, and so I optimistically removed my fleece......big mistake. Before long I was riding along through Grenada shivering, perhaps my slogan should have been "Gritted teeth" rather than "Hit the grit"! I rode the 250 or so miles to Algeciras dreaming of the African sun that awaited me!


The short ferry crossing to Cueta gave me a chance to prepare for the entrance into Morocco. I had heard all sorts of horror stories about the chaos at border crossings in Africa. A number of people have immediately fled back to Europe having been exposed to the hustlers and hassle that are encountered and so I was slightly nervous as the boat docked.




Exiting Cueta (a Spanish enclave) was no problem at all, but then came the Moroccan border. Huge queues of cars greeted me, all beeping their horns, there appeared to be no system, no signs above any of the offices/booths and there were people swarming everywhere. Let the fun begin....


The hustlers were onto me like bees around honey. Lone tourist with a new bike standing there looking bemused, I was obviously ripe for the picking! I tried to do what all the guidebooks recommend "look as though you know what you are doing and politely decline offers of help" but before I could say "non merci" I had had an immigration form thrust in my hand and was being led over to the immigration booths by a man with the promise of a "special service"!


I was a bit worried as to what a "special service" entailed, but was sure that it would cost me money, and that it probably wasn't entirely necessary, so I extracted myself from the hustler's vice like grip and queued for the passport stamp. Meanwhile and official from the tourist board began to warn all of us in the queue not to enlist the help of hustlers, and that we should always speak to an official.


After getting the passport stamped it was time to deal with registering the bike. With the official's words of warning still ringing in my ears I went back up to him and asked him where the office was to register the bike.
"I will take you there" he said as he handed me a form.
"That's kind of him" I thought.
As we walked towards the office, which was only 30 metres away, I asked him if this was free.
"Well I am helping you," he said, "so you will need to pay me what you think is right."


Bugger me, another hustler in disguise! Once again, with a little more difficulty, I managed to extract myself. But as he wandered off I am sure that I could hear him putting a curse on me, my bike and my family!


With the bike duly registered and some money changed up I was ready. I jumped on my bike and rode the 10 metres to the customs/final clearance point. There I had to run the final gauntlet of two policemen. The first policeman said I needed to go back and get my passport stamped, although how he knew this is beyond me because he hadn't even looked at my passport! I showed the second policeman my passport and he agreed that I had completed all the border formalities. This was followed by a shouting match and much gesticulating between the two policemen, and I got the impression that there was some kind of power struggle going on.

"Mmm, this probably isn't the best way to enter a country," I thought as I waited for them to come to an agreement. They finally agreed that I could proceed, although the first policeman still did not look happy (was that another curse I could hear as he stomped off?).


I weaved my way around the gates, past all the taxis and buses, and continued southwards. I had made it into Africa. The real journey had begun!

The rain in Spain falls mainly......bleedin' everywhere!

Day 2 dawned bright, but cold, with a frost covering the bike. Brrr! I finally managed to get to grips with route finding in France by using a combination of GPS waypoints together with a list of major towns stuck in the see through pocket of my jacket, plus memorising the map and using the sun's position! If all else failed then I followed signs for "toutes directions" rather than "centre ville" until I knew where I was going again!

It all worked out and I found myself making good progress down through France and by the evening I had got to Pau in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Shortly before it got dark I got a view of the mountains in the distance, tomorrow was going to be good riding!

The next morning was clear again, but really cold. I had put thicker engine oil in the bike in anticipation of the high temperatures in the Sahara, but at -5 degrees it was like treacle. After a bit of strained cranking the bike started and I was underway again.

The route through the Pyrenees was stunning. Hardly any traffic, beautiful blue skies and amazing scenery all linked together by some fantastic twisty mountain roads, bikers heaven. "This is what it is all about" I shouted into my helmet as I leant the bike into corner after corner, loving every moment. This is what I had thought the trip would be like.


As I dropped into Spain I saw the beginnings of clouds in the far distance and an hour later I entered the weather. At first it was hill mist but as I passed Zaragoza it turned to rain. The rain went on.....and on....and on. As I wound my way towards Madrid I felt the horrible squelching sensation of wet socks and the odd trickle of water down my neck, this was no longer much fun!

I fought my way round the Madrid equivalent of the M25 (about 4 of them!) as the rain continued to fall. Heading south I felt that surely the rain must end soon. It was cold as well. Madrid is higher than you think, and I was frequently above 2500ft, with the temperature consequently colder. I vowed to continue for as long as I could bear it, in the hope that I would find dry and warm weather.

It got dark and the rain continued, made worse by the spray thrown up from the countless trucks on the road. By 1930 I had had enough. I pulled into a roadhouse and got a room for the night. My feet were soaked, I was slightly aching, and when I took my gloves off my hands were black with the dye that had come out of the leather. I crawled into bed for a well deserved sleep, I had covered 507 miles, most of it in the rain.

Surely tomorrow would be dry?

Time to ride.....Farewell UK

Thanks for reading so far, feel free to leave comments if you wish (or I feel like a DJ talking to himself). It had been about 8 months since I had come up with the hare brained idea of riding to Banjul, and the day had finally come for me to get on with the ride.
1st November dawned bright but cold, and as I sat trying to get some food inside me I had that horrible feeling that you get in the pit of your stomach when you are wondering if you are doing the right thing.

Nevertheless, I had to get on with it. I wheeled the fully laden bike out of the garage hoping that I would not drop it. There was a small gathering outside the house to see me off (or maybe there were there to make sure that I went!), I swung my leg over the bike, gunned the engine into life and rode away from home with a bit of a tear in my eye.

It was a beautiful, but cold day and as I rode down to Dover for the crossing to France I had the last minute doubts: "What the hell am I doing?" "Riding by myself to Gambia and back, am I nuts? What happens if I break down, or fall off?". All the self doubts were racing around my head but luckily I could keep them at bay.....just. "It'll be OK" I kept reassuring myself.

The crossing was uneventful, but as I rode off the ferry the fun began. I had always wanted to avoid the motorways for my journey through Europe, and had a complicated route worked out using minor roads. The French , however, had different thoughts. Roadsigns for anything but motorways are rare, and I soon found myself hopelessly lost in Calais! Not a great start. My GPS had also thrown the towel in and refused to even turn on! I tried rebooting the GPS about 10 times without success. I was disheartened. For a second I even considered jumping on the ferry and going home to sort the GPS out and starting again the next day, but I managed to talk myself out of that! The GPS sparked into life and got underway again.

The planned route turned out to be hopelessly optimistic, and after a couple of hours of slow progress, involving much double backing and a great deal of looking at the map, I admitted defeat and headed for the major roads. Progress was much better, although it was very cold. By nightfall I had covered 350 miles and found myself in a hotel in Le Mans.

I must admit that on that first evening I felt very alone. I sat having supper by myself in the hotel wondering whether I had bit of more than I could chew (metaphorically only, as the food that I was eating was actually very nice!). The first day of my adventure had been a mixed bag; anticipation, excitement, sadness, anger, desperation and now loneliness. It had to get better, surely....

No plan survives contact with the enemy....

At the early stages of planning my trip I looked into the possibility of flying me and my bike back from The Gambia. I work for an airline and The Gambia is one of the destinations that we fly to. I reckoned it would be a simple matter to load the bike into the cargo hold of one of the company's aircraft in Banjul to save me having to ride all the way home. (Mmmm, ever the optimist!)

Early enquiries revealed that, despite a motorcycle being classified as "Dangerous Goods", it is perfectly feasible to carry a motorbike in the cargo hold of a passenger aircraft, subject to certain requirements. Approval in principal was given by the powers to be at work, and I so I set about tracking down cargo handling agents in The Gambia and UK and sorting out customs clearance etc.

All this took a great deal of time and effort. Simply finding the right person to speak to in Banjul was an experience in patience! Finally I had tracked down all the organisations I needed, and they all agreed to their part in the operation. At last all the pieces of the jigsaw were in place.

Final approval from HQ was a different matter.

Unfortunately, three weeks before departure I was told that yet more paperwork was required in order to approve the carriage of my bike. I was asked to obtain a copy of the training course syllabus that the cargo handling agents in Banjul had taken that allowed them to ship Dangerous Goods! Anyone who has had dealing with parts of Africa will realise that I had about as much chance of obtaining this as I had of winning Miss World!

Initial phone calls to Africa proved fruitless and stress levels were reaching for the stratosphere.
At this point in time my bike had no panniers and no long range fuel tank, and now my original plan had been well and truly torpedoed.

Time was not on my side. Choices:

1. Just cancel the whole trip......No way!
2. Freight the bike from Banjul with another carrier........Not enough time.
3. Ride to Banjul, fly back, and then arrange for the bike to be freighted back.......This breaks rule number 1: Never be separated from your kit!
4. Ride to Banjul and go back later to sort out freighting of bike....This also breaks rule number 1!
5. Ride to Banjul and then ride back again......This seemed to be the only option worth considering.

It's a long way, but I knew it would be possible. A quick redraft of the itinerary showed that it was feasible to do it in just 10 days more than I had originally planned for the one way trip. It would also mean that I did not have to rely on help from any other organisation, I would be totally responsible for the success (or failure) of the trip.

The decision was easy to make, I would ride there and back. As I made the decision I felt a weight lift off my shoulders, I felt back in control.