Wednesday 22nd October 2008
An easy day from Marrakesh to Essaouira was the plan today. I had breakfast with Roland Andy and Hans and we discussed the various options open to us. Hans is on the opening stage of his world tour and will go south from Essaouira to Cape Town via Dakar. Roland and Andy intend to go north from Essaouira, following the coast to Tangiers and then ride home through Spain and France to Switzerland. I have to decide whether to go south to Dakar and ship the bike home while I fly home or to ride north to the ferry at Tangiers then ride to Santander in the north of Spain and get a ferry to Portsmouth. Either way, no rush today. I rang James Cargo, the shipping company, to check that they could ship my bike home and asked them to email a quote for Roland and Andy, who weren’t looking forward to riding through Europe in the winter.I took my time riding towards the coast and stopped for a Moroccan length lunch break. The advice given to all travellers, especially solo ones, is to get your travelling done early in the day, in case something goes wrong. It’s very good advice. I rode the rest of the way at quite an angle to the vertical in a strong, gusting crosswind. The temperatu
re plummeted and I got soaked. It was no distance to the coast but, eventually, my hands turned into useless claws on the handlebars. I pulled in to a village cooperative shop which also advertised a ‘salon du the’. I used a coffee mostly to warm my hands. When the two women running the salon realised how far gone I was they insisted I join them for a warming mint tea and some bread (no charge). I know my photograph of the first sight of the coast is rubbish but it meant a lot to me. We met up as arranged, found a nice hotel at off-season rates and then I very stupidly went out for a meal instead of going to bed to recover properly.
re plummeted and I got soaked. It was no distance to the coast but, eventually, my hands turned into useless claws on the handlebars. I pulled in to a village cooperative shop which also advertised a ‘salon du the’. I used a coffee mostly to warm my hands. When the two women running the salon realised how far gone I was they insisted I join them for a warming mint tea and some bread (no charge). I know my photograph of the first sight of the coast is rubbish but it meant a lot to me. We met up as arranged, found a nice hotel at off-season rates and then I very stupidly went out for a meal instead of going to bed to recover properly.Thursday 23rd October 2008
I announced my decision to go to Dakar as we had our hearty breakfast and Roland and Andy regretfully decided to head north. Hans and I decided to ride separately each day but meet up to share accommodation and evening meals.
Sorted.
Then I lost my hearty breakfast down the loo (presumably a chill from the previous day) and I discovered that my bike had not escaped unscathed from my fall on Sunday. The brace joining the two pannier racks behind the wheel had broken right through beside a weld. So, that’s two fifty year old guys, one with an inoperable though benign tumour (Hans) and one with a dodgy ticker and galloping diahorrea (me) setting off to ride 2,500 kilometres to Dakar in Senegal on two bikes, one bike with a major component broken. What could possibly go wrong?
The ride south to Agadir started well as I found a roadside gate maker within about fifteen minutes. All I had to do was to remove the pannier and show him the offending rack. The gate making was abandoned immediately and, after about ten minutes with an angle grinder and an arc welder, I was on my way with a perfectly repaired rack. The cost? 20 dirham (2 euros). This road was not as spectacular as the mountain road to Marrakesh but it was an absolute pleasure to travel along it on a bike. Firstly through the last of the Argann production area with its strange little trees, then into an area of smallish hills (as in small like the Mournes) and finally innumerable wide sweeping bends along an escarpment parallel to the Atlantic. My riding may not have been textbook (its tough to hit every apex exactly when you’re getting shivering fits and stomach cramps) but it was a wonderful road.
Then things started to deteriorate. I stopped on the outskirts of Agadir to get petrol and my stomach appeared to take a direct hit from a small thermonuclear device (a mild exaggeration but you get the picture). Luckily Hans was waiting for me down the road and I was just about able to follow him through the traffic to the hotel while simultaneously shivering and sweating. The evening wasn’t good and I eventually came round in a toilet cubicle with no idea how long I’d been passed out for.
Sorted.
Then I lost my hearty breakfast down the loo (presumably a chill from the previous day) and I discovered that my bike had not escaped unscathed from my fall on Sunday. The brace joining the two pannier racks behind the wheel had broken right through beside a weld. So, that’s two fifty year old guys, one with an inoperable though benign tumour (Hans) and one with a dodgy ticker and galloping diahorrea (me) setting off to ride 2,500 kilometres to Dakar in Senegal on two bikes, one bike with a major component broken. What could possibly go wrong?
The ride south to Agadir started well as I found a roadside gate maker within about fifteen minutes. All I had to do was to remove the pannier and show him the offending rack. The gate making was abandoned immediately and, after about ten minutes with an angle grinder and an arc welder, I was on my way with a perfectly repaired rack. The cost? 20 dirham (2 euros). This road was not as spectacular as the mountain road to Marrakesh but it was an absolute pleasure to travel along it on a bike. Firstly through the last of the Argann production area with its strange little trees, then into an area of smallish hills (as in small like the Mournes) and finally innumerable wide sweeping bends along an escarpment parallel to the Atlantic. My riding may not have been textbook (its tough to hit every apex exactly when you’re getting shivering fits and stomach cramps) but it was a wonderful road.
Then things started to deteriorate. I stopped on the outskirts of Agadir to get petrol and my stomach appeared to take a direct hit from a small thermonuclear device (a mild exaggeration but you get the picture). Luckily Hans was waiting for me down the road and I was just about able to follow him through the traffic to the hotel while simultaneously shivering and sweating. The evening wasn’t good and I eventually came round in a toilet cubicle with no idea how long I’d been passed out for.
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