Out early and on to the bikes for our respective tours of the Todra and Dades gorges. Hans was going to do the long circuit up the Todra to Agoudal and then down the Dades, with a very large part of this on high altitude piste. Andy and Roland were going to ride up the Todra on tarmac to Tamtattouchte then take the much shorter but apparently more difficult piste over the 2700 metre pass to Msemrir to finish with a descent of the Dades. My plan was to ride with Andy and Roland to Tamtattouchte and then back down again because the tarmac section has a reputation of being fairly 
difficult, especially after the sort of damage that is caused here by heavy rain. If I had been alone, I would have got nowhere because after a few kilometres, we reached a point where there should have been a bridge a few metres above the river. The entire bridge had been washed away and there was a temporary gravel ramp down to the river bed and up the far side. With some advice from Andy, and very little style from me, I rode across. The previously tarmac road to Tamtattouchte was a mess, with some sections missing completely and others with very temporary repairs in progress. I managed to ride all of it and gained a certain amount of confidence along the way – always a dangerous thing. 
A glass of mint tea at 1700 metres, and I rode to the start of the piste, just for a look. The surface, while loose, was very good and completely dry and, full of unfounded confidence, I set off for Msemrir. The local Berbers all warned us not to go on because the piste was ‘broken’ but we continued, knowing we could always turn back. The piste was mostly still very good although some small sections had been washed away but I was still able to struggle through them. Then came a very testing steep climb with the whole surface washed away followed by a traverse across a mountainside with the remains of the path covered in rocks. I really struggled here but I did get through it and caught up with a worried looking Andy. He had seen something I hadn’t – the weather was just about to turn nasty. As we spoke the temperature dropped noticeably, the rain started and Andy made the decision to turn back as we were still 600 metres below the pass and the next section looked even rockier. Andy explained that we needed to get back fairly sharpish as the surface would deteriorate almost immediately with even light rain. He was so right, I couldn’t believe how different the surface became within a few minutes. Our tyres completely clogged with glutinous red mud and lost most of their grip and riding became much more difficult. I took one fairly heavy but non damaging fall and had to get help with one steep 50 metre descent but otherwise rode down ok. When we got lower down and slightly ahead of the rain it took a certain amount of willpower on my part to accelerate hard to clean the tyres. I will grudgingly admit that perhaps I should have learned to do this when I was a little younger.
As we came off the piste onto the tarmac (no, I didn’t kiss it) we met our Land Rover driving friends from Erg Chebi. They had intended to drive in convoy over the same piste but had been turned earlier by the weather. The cold was starting to get to us by now so we went fairly speedily down to the river crossing and into the café near it. Having survived everything so far, I had a stupid tourist, concentrating only on his mobile, walk straight in front of me as I powered up the steep gravel climb out of the river. In best Northern Ireland fashion, I was totally committed to my, by now, traditional route and could only shout as I accelerated towards him. From his expression as he jumped, I suspect he had quite a good command of English.
The hot meal helped but, once the adrenalin subsided, we knew we needed to get to somewhere to stop for the night. With no knowledge of Hans we could only assume he would make it to the Dades so we rode back through Tinerhir to Boumalne-du-Dades and up the start of the gorge. I was right at the end of my endurance by now and I just followed in Andy’s wheel tracks as he found us rooms at Auberge la Fibule.
I didn’t sleep but I went straight to bed to rest and get warm (but obviously in a very macho manner). Just as I was starting to feel quite human again, I was delighted to hear the distinctive sound of Hans’ highly modified BMW arriving. Hans is a highly experienced rider on a purpose built bike and is on the first stage of a seven year round the world trip but he freely admitted that, when the weather closed in, it all became a bit borderline for him and his bike.
The four of us had now filled the little auberge and the young guys who ran it really looked after us well. We had an excellent meal followed by a session of Berber music with some of their friends. On reading over that last sentence it sounds like tourist hell but I’m just too tired to describe it properly – it was great.
difficult, especially after the sort of damage that is caused here by heavy rain. If I had been alone, I would have got nowhere because after a few kilometres, we reached a point where there should have been a bridge a few metres above the river. The entire bridge had been washed away and there was a temporary gravel ramp down to the river bed and up the far side. With some advice from Andy, and very little style from me, I rode across. The previously tarmac road to Tamtattouchte was a mess, with some sections missing completely and others with very temporary repairs in progress. I managed to ride all of it and gained a certain amount of confidence along the way – always a dangerous thing. A glass of mint tea at 1700 metres, and I rode to the start of the piste, just for a look. The surface, while loose, was very good and completely dry and, full of unfounded confidence, I set off for Msemrir. The local Berbers all warned us not to go on because the piste was ‘broken’ but we continued, knowing we could always turn back. The piste was mostly still very good although some small sections had been washed away but I was still able to struggle through them. Then came a very testing steep climb with the whole surface washed away followed by a traverse across a mountainside with the remains of the path covered in rocks. I really struggled here but I did get through it and caught up with a worried looking Andy. He had seen something I hadn’t – the weather was just about to turn nasty. As we spoke the temperature dropped noticeably, the rain started and Andy made the decision to turn back as we were still 600 metres below the pass and the next section looked even rockier. Andy explained that we needed to get back fairly sharpish as the surface would deteriorate almost immediately with even light rain. He was so right, I couldn’t believe how different the surface became within a few minutes. Our tyres completely clogged with glutinous red mud and lost most of their grip and riding became much more difficult. I took one fairly heavy but non damaging fall and had to get help with one steep 50 metre descent but otherwise rode down ok. When we got lower down and slightly ahead of the rain it took a certain amount of willpower on my part to accelerate hard to clean the tyres. I will grudgingly admit that perhaps I should have learned to do this when I was a little younger.As we came off the piste onto the tarmac (no, I didn’t kiss it) we met our Land Rover driving friends from Erg Chebi. They had intended to drive in convoy over the same piste but had been turned earlier by the weather. The cold was starting to get to us by now so we went fairly speedily down to the river crossing and into the café near it. Having survived everything so far, I had a stupid tourist, concentrating only on his mobile, walk straight in front of me as I powered up the steep gravel climb out of the river. In best Northern Ireland fashion, I was totally committed to my, by now, traditional route and could only shout as I accelerated towards him. From his expression as he jumped, I suspect he had quite a good command of English.
The hot meal helped but, once the adrenalin subsided, we knew we needed to get to somewhere to stop for the night. With no knowledge of Hans we could only assume he would make it to the Dades so we rode back through Tinerhir to Boumalne-du-Dades and up the start of the gorge. I was right at the end of my endurance by now and I just followed in Andy’s wheel tracks as he found us rooms at Auberge la Fibule.
I didn’t sleep but I went straight to bed to rest and get warm (but obviously in a very macho manner). Just as I was starting to feel quite human again, I was delighted to hear the distinctive sound of Hans’ highly modified BMW arriving. Hans is a highly experienced rider on a purpose built bike and is on the first stage of a seven year round the world trip but he freely admitted that, when the weather closed in, it all became a bit borderline for him and his bike.
The four of us had now filled the little auberge and the young guys who ran it really looked after us well. We had an excellent meal followed by a session of Berber music with some of their friends. On reading over that last sentence it sounds like tourist hell but I’m just too tired to describe it properly – it was great.
No comments:
Post a Comment