16. Mission Make Hay.

03.03.24 – 06.03.24 : Marrakech – Tiznit

If I’m honest, it’s a wonder this week’s blog has come together. The days in the desert, though just beginning, are already taking their toll. The riding is tough and the days are long; it’s not a breeding ground for creativity, I’ve discovered. The Mundane is most certainly in vogue.

But I’ve chatted before about showing up, and it feels important to keep the blogs coming, to keep showing up – if only for myself. That’s why I’m tapping away into the early hours in a tin-shack town in the Western Sahara. There’s a big day of riding tomorrow, I’m sure you’ll read about that before long. But, for now, I hope you enjoy this glimpse into my life on the bike.

Do you remember those angels I was relying on? Well, by some miracle, they delivered. Jack and Freddie – my winged friends – were due to arrive in Marrakech on Wednesday morning. I’d arrived early, on Sunday evening, with Madonna close to breaking point. On Monday morning, silver-tongue polished, I picked up the phone to the wheel builders. Thankfully, unlike their rims, their customer service was rock solid and by lunchtime a replacement had been arranged. But it wasn’t time to go gaily counting chickens. Time was tight, and next day delivery less than certain. Yet, by a stroke of celestial luck, the wheel warehouse sits a stone’s throw from Gatwick Airport. The same airport where my angels were due to fly from (not under their own steam, you understand; sadly, British airspace is too tightly controlled these days… plus, the excess baggage would throw off their flight path). The wheel was collected, and Jack and Freddie received a hero’s welcome to Marrakech. And by that, of course, I mean they were ripped off by a currency exchange and almost sold a dodgy sim, all before leaving the airport.

For four happy days, we occupied a palatial riad in the quiet back streets of Marrkech’s medina. For anyone unfamiliar with the architecture of a riad, it’s basically a bricks and mortar doughnut: house around the outside, open space in the middle. If I were a third year humanities student, I might call it liminal. We spent several blissful mornings soaking in the sun on the terrace while the riad’s caretaker, M’Barek, prepared breakfast feasts fit for royalty. He was a wonderful soul and we enjoyed his company enormously; even though French was the only common tongue, and Jack and Freddie scarcely ventured beyond ça va. In my role as translator, I had a lot of airtime with M’Barek, so my name stuck. If communications ever broke down – as they often did with my ever-rusty French – he’d smile, nod and say an affirmative… Jake. Back on solid ground. Thanks to the riad’s open structure, you were often granted an observational perspective from the terrace. One afternoon, I watched as M’Barek and Freddie traded ça va’s downstairs. As the exchange faltered and petered out (there’s only so many times you can repeat ça va and maintain a conversation) M’Barek smiled, nodded, and offered a sure and unfaltering… Michael. Safe to say, Michael struggled to shake his new nickname for the rest of the trip.

M’Barek serving up a Tangia – a Marrekechian Tagine – made with the help of Touria, his wife, on the roof terrace one evening.

I’ve become well accustomed to the ritual of goodbyes during my ride. So you’d think I’ve also figured out how to maintain a steady keel during these emotionally turbulent moments. In some ways, I have. But it’s more of a blankness than a steadiness. I tend to find that for the first day or two after a goodbye, I feel a numbing apathy creep in at the prospect of my own company. Call it a social comedown. Riding out of Marrakech, I let that blanket of blankness swaddle me as the High Atlas inched closer. 

It’s an impressive range. My fifth of the trip, I realised. The snow-capped peak of Toubkal protruded from the horizon, incongruous to the arid scrubland I was riding through. I could scarcely believe these two landscapes were part of the same country, let alone within a day’s ride of one another. Where I was, the sun beat down heavily; the tarmac glistened like fresh ganache under a hot knife. Snowy slopes felt a long way off. I’d hoicked up my cycling shorts in an attempt to even out what had become some fairly striking tan lines. In my absent-mindedness I’d forgotten the key ingredient: sun-cream. My pasty upper thighs were quickly crisped, leaving my legs resembling the signature tri-colour swatch of a rocket lollipop. I pulled over in the next town for some emergency after-sun. By the time I’d resumed riding, I had a companion. 

Adam – 14 – was quick to introduce himself as he pulled up beside me on his rigid mountain bike. He spoke near-perfect English – which I later learnt he’d taught himself – and seemed very keen to let me know that I was going in the wrong direction. Now usually, he’d have been spot on. But I’ve undergone a remarkable transformation since the trials and tribulations of the Rif. I’d been diligent in my route planning and was confident I’d ironed out any kinks. My assurances that this was indeed the right way did nothing to dampen Adam’s resolve. Ignoring my protests, he insisted on chaperoning me to the next town, Asnì, which I’d conceded was my next waypoint. I gave up arguing and instead resolved not to break pace. If the kid could keep up, he could come. But I wasn’t about to halt progress for stowaways. I had some serious riding to come. 

Three thousand kilometres, two mountain ranges, and one desert lie between me and The Gambia: my next real stop. And time isn’t on my side. Allowing a sensible buffer for the two border crossings, and sprinkling in some crucial rest days, I’ve got 22 days of riding to play with. Some quick maths spits out the rather daunting daily average of 140km. The cracked rim was a close call; and a stark reminder that things can, and do, go wrong. Whether it's me or Madonna, mechanicals are inevitable. So, for the next month it’s Mission Make Hay. If the sun is shining (and by that, I mean both Madonna and I are working) then we’re riding. No lengthy coffee stops. No premature campsites. Because we never know what might be lurking round the corner…

Despite my unbending pace – and, I admit, much to my surprise – Adam did keep up. After cranking up his saddle – which had previously been slammed to its lowest setting for prime wheelie-ing geometry – he sped over and held my wheel. We were moving at quite a clip, breaking 25km/h on the flats. But the route to Asnì is rarely flat. It braves the topographical fallout of the High Atlas, snaking up and over the rippling foothills. There are several non-trivial climbs and some speedy descents. At points, my speedo ticked over 60km/h. But, amazingly, Adam kept pace the entire way. Halfway up one of the longer climbs, I offered him some water; God knows, we needed it. He stoically refused: water will make me heavier, and if I’m heavier this hill will be steeper. You can’t fault the logic; that’s basically the hill-climber’s manifesto. 

Adam with his bike in the foreground, the stretching ridges of the High Atlas in the back.

Adam is a 14-year-old who knows all there is to know about life. As we rode and chatted, he weighed in with some strong opinions on my trip. As you can probably guess, I’d got everything totally wrong. When it came to my bike, it was the wrong material, had the wrong pedals, and its tires were too flat. I covered Madonna’s ears. And the route? Madness! I was sure to be kidnapped, stranded in the desert or gobbled by wild animals; perhaps all three. Any arguments I gave to the contrary were expertly rebuffed. He was on his way to becoming quite the Amadeo! My only respite from the haranguing came when he spotted my metal camping cup. Very useful, he noted, eyebrow raised. Heats up well on the fire. Adam couldn’t know, of course, that the cup may well have been the most redundant piece of kit of the trip so far; I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve used the thing in the three months I’ve lugged it around. It has mostly served as a makeshift cow-bell, allowing Madonna to announce herself loudly and proudly as she bounces into town. But, in Adam’s honour, I’ll make sure it comes all the way to Cape Town. I left my companion in Asnì where he refused my offer of a meal and a cold coke in favour of a swift cycle home to avoid a scolding from his mum. In the event of a dressing down, I told him to blame the whole thing on me. We exchanged numbers and he turned on a dime to tackle the hour-long cycle back.

I wasn’t alone for long. A little further down the road I met Gui, a Brazilian bike-tourer who’d just begun his own African adventure. He’d flown into Marrakech a few days earlier and we’d coincidentally chosen the same day to saddle up and hit the road South. I’d left at lunchtime – after capitalising on a night in an actual bed and sleeping all morning – so by the time I’d caught up with Gui, it was about 5pm. He was still adjusting to the time difference and was keen to make camp. Although Mission Make Hay dictated I still had two hours to ride until sundown, camping with company is a rare treat, so I clocked off early and solemnly promised Mission Control some intensive agriculture come the morning. 

Gui guarding camp. Or should I say: Gui Gadoir-ing camp for you Sellers fans.

I kept my promise and left at first light, making solid progress that morning despite the state of the mountain road. The High Atlas was the epicentre of last year’s Marrakech-Safi earthquake. 5 months on, and recovery remains a distant prospect for many of the towns I passed. Countless canvas settlements dotted the landscape while the villages around them lay in ruin. Fleets of heavy machinery sifted through the mounds of debris that still block the roads. But life continues to bubble away. Makeshift mosques have been built and murals cover the cracks in the buildings that still stand. 

By the early afternoon, I’d passed beyond the reaches of the earthquake’s destruction and stopped in a small mountain town. I was hailed by a stall trader called Ischam who spoke good English and was clearly keen to make conversation. Almost immediately I’d been invited to stay that night. A hint of déjà vu began to surface. This time I politely declined, citing The Mission at hand, but ordered a quick lunch of chamila bil bayd (tomato with eggs – or shakshuka as we know it); a time-efficient choice that’s become a roadside classic – to allow us to chat a little longer. An hour later and the food I’d asked for was nowhere to be seen. I had, however, been plied with bean soup, several pots of tea, and some fresh bread, at Ischam’s insistence. 

By the time the lunch I’d ordered arrived, almost two hours had passed and I was beginning to worry about the day’s distance. As I ate, Ischam again insisted I take another pot of soup for the road. Fearing another lengthy preparation, I assured him I’d been spoiled enough already. But by the time I came to pay, the soup had been packaged anyway. Unfortunately, the bill came to a very grand total indeed, and I left the town with a slightly sour taste in my mouth. If nothing else, it made me grateful for the non-transactional generosity I’d felt from Ismael in the Rif. Still, the blank-cheque feast I’d unwittingly funded did fuel me well for the rest of the day. I crested the final climb of the Atlas – somehow managing to avoid capture from the bloodthirsty tribes Adam had warned me about – and comfortably soaked up the day’s remaining distance with a 28km descent.

Sometimes you just get in the zone. Well, the next day was one of those days. I hit the road for 9am – always a measure of success given my tendency to faff – and immediately began to eat up the kilometres. By 11am, I’d reached Taroudant and devoured fresh msemen (a Moroccan-style crêpe) by the roadside to celebrate the swift dispatching of a pre-breakfast block. Abdou, a friendly local and fellow bike tourer, bought me an ice-cold coke, and we traded stories as I ate. But he understood The Mission and was quick to usher me on my way when he heard the day’s planned destination. 

Tiznit, Adam had assured me two days earlier, was impossible to reach by bike in two days. Out of the question. Not a chance. He’d solemnly informed me that it was over 1000km away. Luckily, this was a slight overestimate. Tiznit is 370km from Marrakech; 320 and change from where I met Adam; and 180km from where I’d camped the night before. Difficult… but not impossible. There were a few obstacles along the way. It appears stoning is making a comeback – no doubt trending on TikTok. That day I was pelted several times with pebbles by bored school children milling around between classes. Then there was the small matter of the Anti-Atlas: the unexpected sting in the tail of Morocco’s mountain ranges. And whilst – in the words of Florence Welch – the dog days are over, it seems the camel days are just beginning. At the foot of one of the Anti-Atlas’ rolling climbs I came face to face with a sizeable caravan; a beefy bull at their head. When they clocked me, they began to retreat from the road. My victory was short-lived, however, as soon I was close enough for them to sense my fear. Realising I was lower in the pecking order than first assumed, they turned and resumed their position, holding the crown of the road. Another Mexican standoff. Just as I was resigning myself to a repeat of Dog’s Law, I was saved by a passing car whose approach was clearly more macho than mine. As they slowed, I skitched a ride – hanging from the car’s back wing – until I was a safe distance from the camels’ turf. 

Before long, I was happily washing my socks in an ice cold shower in Tiznit’s cheapest hotel room. I’d clocked some big days on the bike, but The Mission is only just beginning. Next, there’s a desert to cross. Let’s just hope I manage to avoid the terrible fate that Adam has predicted!