Wreford and I left north London on the evening of Friday 19 October 2002. We had carefully planned our route which, all being well, would take us to the Sahara and back in 7 days.

The first night we rode around 200 miles to Abbeville in France, crossing the Channel by Eurotunnel for reasons of speed and cost. We checked into our pre-booked Formula 1 hotel at around midnight. With an early start planned for the next morning, the lack of hotel bar didn't bother us too much.

On Saturday we were on the road at 5am. With temperatures barely above freezing, the bikes, if not the riders, were performing well and we made rapid progress south before we stopped for breakfast and fuel a little south of Chartres.

With our demanding schedule, sightseeing was not on the agenda so much as knocking off the miles. By mid-afternoon we were in southern France enjoying, I am pleased to say, warmer temperatures. Crossing into Spain at the western end of teh Pyrenees took no more than a few minutes and we headed off to Vitoria to visit Wreford's former au-pair (not in) and to find our delightful Parador hotel. In my view, there is no substitute for a cold beer and a hot shower in luxury accomodation at the end of a long day's ride!

Another 5am start on the Sunday morning found us riding hard through an unusual combination of thick mist and gale force winds! But they soon cleared and we were making good speed on the glorious roads en-route to Madrid.

The Madrid ringroad is little different from the M25 although we had soon left it behind as we headed for Granada. Welcomed coffee breaks as we stopped for reasonably priced fuel kept us (me in particular!) going.

From Granada we turned right into Andalucia and toward Malaga. An encounter with another biker with pillion saw Wreford wringing the neck of his mount to keep up as the roads snaked through the mountains. Wreford swears that it was an R1. I'm not so sure - it looked like a CB125 to me!!!

By late afternoon we were on the ferry from Algerciras to Ceuta. We had been told that it was a 45 minute crossing - and so it was (but add 20 minutes fannying around in each harbour!).

Again, we enjoyed the luxury of a Parador in Ceuta and had time to walk around much of this Spannish enclave before retiring to the bar.

Monday was always going to be our hardest day. A border crossing and 500 miles along unknown roads beckoned. We hit the highway at 04.00hrs. Within a few kilometres, we were at the Moroccan border and faced an hour-and-a-half of what passes for bureacracy before we were let loose on Moroccan roads. A planned detour into the Rif moutains saw us being chased by drug-barons at 7am. They were only looking for an easy sale (which they didn't get!). As we rode high into the mountains, it began to rain, eventually in torrents. With roads offering no more grip than greased manure, fogged visors and glasses, thick mist and fog, progress was slow. After 5 hours, we were only 150 miles from where we had started our day.

As we decended the Rif and headed towards Fez, the weather (and my temperament) improved. By early afternoon we were through Fez and into some rather pleasant roads in the Atlas foothills. At a coffee break, we noticed that Wreford's trailing arm had filled with water, and thoughts of a call to Sawbridgeworth (who had dismantled same in previous week) went through our minds. However, as the coffee (US$1 per cup!) slipped down, the trickle of water subsided and we pressed on.

By early evening we were on the outskirts of Erfoud - our destination! Our hotel was easy to find and, to our amazement, the 1150 GSA of Neil Miller and his partner Theresa. We met up with them, where else but in the bar and mapped out our plans for the next day.

Neil and Theresa took an early morning Land Rover ride to the Erg (dunes) at Merzouga. Wreford and I took breakfast before we blazed the path across the desert on our bikes. The ride was just 20-25 miles, but the sand was no also easy to read or to ride. I was grateful for my GPS (we each had one), but rather more concerned that my water bottle had fallen off on the trail!

At Merzouga we enjoyed a local beverage (OK, it was Coca-Cola!) in the company of our new-found friend, Ali. Ali turned out to be a carpet salesman and Wreford duly obliged with purchase of a bedside rug!

We returned to Erfoud by mid-afternoon, in time to have a quick swim in a surprisingly cold hotel-pool and a few drinks from the bar.

Next morning, it was back in the saddle for the return run to Ceuta along a more direct route. With no local currency, and few garages accepting credit-cards, fuel would have been a problem had we not been carrying about 16 extra litres between us.

On Thursday morning, we made a leisurely start from the Ceuta Parador and crossed back to mainland Spain. Some 600 miles later, we were in our hotel in Benicarlo, about 150 miles south of Barcelona.

We had independently come to the conclusion that we wanted to ride the 1100+ miles home the next day. But could we do it? Wreford's preference was to set out in the very early hours, mine to take a more leisurely start. I tended to stop regularly for a coffee break, Wreford to push on. There was also perhaps a 5 mph difference in riding speed. I tend to cruise at an indicated 100mph, Wreford that much faster. We agreed that if we were going to manage 1100+ miles, we should ride seperately, each at his own gait.

I heard Wreford leave at about 3am and wondered where he would have got to as I enjoyed my 8am breakfast. As I picked my way through the stationary traffic on the Barcelona bypass, I figured that Wreford could have made the better decision!

We had agreed that there would be no heroics. If we got too tired to complete the journey, we would each find a hotel and leave a voice-message on the other's mobile. But I found that I wasn't tired at all as I headed through southern France and was confident of getting home. The Paris Periferique at 8 o'clock on a Friday night is not an experience to miss! As I headed towards Calais, I knew that this would be a breeze. As it turned out, it was a gale and a strong one at that! The winds must have been gusting at 70-80mph. These were the most difficult riding conditions that I've experienced for sometime. But reducing my speed to around 40-50 mph, I arrived at Calais at 11pm.

The winds had eased by the time I emerged from the Tunnel at Folkestone and I pushed my BMW 1150GS into my garage at just after midnight on Friday night.

As I turned on my mobile phone to ring Wreford, his message reach my ears that he had arrived at his home a few hours earlier.

We'd both done 1125 miles in one day, and 4200 miles to the Sahara Desert and back in 4 hours over 1 week.

Greg Masters