The waiter gives me a disdainful look as I unzip my jacket in the café overlooking Portsmouth harbour.
Dipping doughnuts into coffee in an attempt to thaw out I remembered buying a copy of the Star newspaper 350 miles earlier to keep the cold wind off my chest, opening my jacket had treated the waiter to a an eyeful of ‘Anthea’s’ breasts and crutch.
Great start for an intrepid biker.
Several whales, dolphins and San Miguels later I meet the returning GS’ers, they look worn and tired, but appear to have achieved personal goals. Guess that’s how our group will look and feel in a few weeks.
A cock up in ferry booking gives me a few days to scrub in the TKC 80’s around the Picos de Europa before meeting up in Bibao with the others, Alan and Slimbo, and Tony who has ridden/swam down through France.
In my absence I was elected leader, so in rush hour traffic lead the others down the motorway hard shoulder, breaking every good rider rule in the book. My behaviour improves as I learn that Alan is a Senior Advanced Rider Instructor thingy and I feel his beady eye ‘observing’ me.
With plenty of time ahead of us there is no need for mega high mileages so we stop over near Caceres, then to Ronda the next day. I find a hotel in the centre of town where the landlord remembers me from a previous visit and agrees to let us ride the bikes into the hotel and park up on his marble floor.
Excitement mounts as we board the ferry for Ceuta where we find digs and Tony walks further than his previous best as we look for grub. Tony grabs a cab back for us.
Up early for the big day. Crossing into Morocco has been described well elsewhere, we all try to relax and breath into the ‘experience’ as the first of many Moroccan tomcats takes a leak on my sheepskin seat cover.
Skirting around to the east of Tetouan we head south through a busy street market in Chefchouen where Slimbo discovers that the mere rustle of a pack of Biros will bring about a swarm of mournful looking children.
Heading south we stop to watch a Berber wedding procession, I try my luck with one of the bridesmaids but am sadly rebuffed even with my helmet on.
A great stop over in Arzou and our first taste of ‘Stork’ beer and first of too many Tajines. We give our leftovers to a worker and young girl of around 8years, she came over to our table and thanked us when she had finished.
I guess she was hungry.
Up early and heading SW towards Marrakech we detour into the unknown and find the Cascades d’Ouzoud waterfalls. But not before lunch of tajine. Our guide an old timer leads us along the riverbank and down, down. Tony is horrified at the distance, particularly in the heat and bike boots. Finally the view of the waterfalls, yes very impressive as we feign enthusiasm for the benefit of our guide. After crossing the river on makeshift rafts we all make it back to the top without a cab or cardiac arrest.
Later than we hoped we ride on in strong winds and a blinding low sun to the outskirts of Marrakech. Tony drowns the cockroaches that live in our bath, we eat drink and hit the sack.
Breakfast around the pool ogling blonde totty before a short ride into Marrakech. We are befriended by a guide who proved invaluable, I got him to take us into the Place Jema al-Fna. The sight of 4 GS’s in that incredible setting almost rivalled that of the water merchants and snake charmers. With our guide watching over us from a distance like a guardian angel Slimbo and I had henna applied by Berber women, my right hand was a scorpion, my left was inscribed GSCLUBUK, what else.
Slimbo’s lady offered to make cous cous for him, I’m not sure what mine was offering but she had no teeth so it could have been interesting.
The rest of the day was pure Moroccan magic, Slimbo bought a carpet, we played guitar in the souks and met a hundred friendly souls. All trying to sell us something.
Next morning Tony buys breakfast for lovely woman and we set off for the Tizi-n-Test Pass and for us Morocco proper. But an hour later Slimbo is almost unconscious with kidney pains lying the shade of a tree on the side of the High Atlas mountains.
Shite we have a situation here.
Chris the Colonel at the other end of a mobile phone provides advice. Dehydration and heat stroke combined with tummy bug have struck. We force fluids and rehydration salts into our ‘patient’
Luckily I find a hotel nearby and use their car to get Slim into a cool breezy Berber tent where we relentlessly get more fluid AND rehydration salts down his neck. I later remind him that had he lapsed into unconsciousness then he would have to be rehydrated using his Camelback up the bum. Mmmm tasty.
That evening I go and play football in a dried up riverbed with around 20 local boys, I fall and injure my elbow, they all laugh.
Two beautiful young women look on from the fields and giggle as I talk to them.
What a day.
Next day he’s recovered!
Over the Tizi-n-Test pass and down into the full heat of the stony desert. Refuel at Talouine stock up on water and food then head south on the piste route described as M3 in Chris Scott’s Sahara book.
The first part has been tarmaced then becomes fun. The Anti Atlas become indescribably beautiful as the big GS’s find their off-road feet. We stop at an oasis, a man jumps out and insists this is where we shall camp the night.
We are led to a shady spot where he sweeps the floor, we pitch our tents, he lays out a large rug and brings mint tea. Tony cooks my dinner. I produce a small flask of Jack Daniel’s brought for that very moment. Our host sleeps with the bikes. In the night his donkey is very noisy, I wonder about the rumoured truth concerning Panthers and Jaguars, or perhaps Alan is getting frisky.
Breakfast and more mint tea, then we are off. Light and colour are stunning.
I have the route photocopied in my map case with the GPS way points logged, as does Tony.
Once I get slightly confused over the route we retrace ours steps and are back on course the bikes are now proving to be the perfect all rounder, soaking up the dried riverbed crossings, rocks, gravel and sand. We park in the shade of a few trees alongside the skeleton of a camel. It’s 40deg C in the shade. Yikes.
Later we cross a barren rocky plain it’s still 40deg C in the shade, only now there ain’t no shade.
Please GS do not fail me now.
Later we stop under a tree, a boy appears from nowhere we share some bread, water and biscuits, Tony gives him a cigarette which the boy will give to his father in the village, he smiles and returns to his goats.
The last couple of miles before the road have been graded in preparation for tarmac, this is ridden with confidence at 90mph + with Alan closing in on me. Bloody nutter.
North up the road to the lovely town of Tazenakht, cold beer, pretty Berber women giggle as Tony and I watch them making a carpet.
Dinner was probably Tajine.
Next morning we survey the bikes, caked in dust. We blast the worst off with a high pressure hose in a local garage (for a small charge). Then up north to Alt-Benhaddou but the prospect of more walking keeps Tony and Alan in a café sipping coke whilst Slimbo and I at least make a token effort at appreciating the local culture before a quick coke and head south through the Vallee du Draa to Zagora. We pose for pictures by the famous sign for Timbuktu. A young boy makes a simple woven camel from a reed. We find a palace of a hotel and meet some Spanish dirt bike riders, Alan spots tourist totty around the pool, the heat is getting to him poor lad!
The two day piste known as M5 to Merzouga would be pushing our luck on 4 big GS’s fully laden in this heat, so north then east for a very hot ride to Alnif. I chat quickly to some more dirt bike riders then with the aid of a route guide and GPS find our way north onto the route M6, a rewarding piste over the mountains and down to the road before turning left to Tinehir. I go straight on in some deep gravel until a big rock says “far enough”.
Yet another palace of a hotel (but for Tony and I the best is yet to come).
Next day a ride up and down the Todra Gorge for breakfast, we decide to miss out the Dades Gorge and head for Erfoud.
Here we stop at a café and are offered a landrover escort to Erg Chebbi. The landrover is already going there with some tourists on board. We head south at an alarming rate through a sand storm. We stop and are told that our accommodation has been arranged! Oh what the hell.
The wind drops a little and four 1150 GS’s and a landrover leading at 60-70mph blat across the stony piste side by side, just like the Paris Dakar (in slow motion) with the wind blowing our dust. For me, the ride of my life, until a little ‘moment’ in the sand.
Our accommodation turned out to be the stunning Auberge Erg Chebbi, basically a mud and straw built fortress right on the edge of the sand. Alan and Slimbo were given their room. I, rather sneakily secured the penthouse suit, an entire turret of this fort with million dollar views for more or less the same price including dinner and breakfast. Slimbo headed off into the evening sunlit sand with a struggling camel beneath his 18 stone. Tony had no beer. Our young friend, guide, host was named Azniz, I later described him in the visitors book as a jewel in the desert which he was.
5am had us up to see the sun rise, Slim is already out there, but without his camel, perhaps they had a tiff. I wander out knowing exactly which photos I want.
Tony watches from the Auberge, there’s no cab. Alan continues to snore.
We feel the power of the sun as it rises, once again I drench my shirt in cold water button up my jacket and we head off across the piste for Merzouga. Tony and I stop, where are the others? 5 mins later they arrive. Slimbo has tried looking behind whilst standing on the pegs and has discovered how to steer the bike by weighting the pegs, only this has sent him off the piste and into the sand where he goes apex over anus, luckily no damage to bike or rider. Merzouga, and we are hassled beyond belief, thank goodness we didn’t stay there for the night as was planned. We beat a hasty retreat outrunning a thunderstorm north to Midelt, drank beer with locals had yet another Tajine, slept and up for, what!
A cold ride in the morning arriving at Ceuta, where a familiar friendly copper suggested he could smooth our passage out of Morocco for 200 Dirham, too late I’ve changed my money and get your thieving hands off my sunglasses. The tom cat takes a last piss on my sheepskin and we slip onto the ferry. Morocco, once daunting now our friend, slips into the haze.
I feel a contrast is in order, so no not Gibraltar but Tarifa, totty capital of southern Spain. We eat, drink watch the girlies and reflect.
Next morning Tony heads off to his mother’s near Alecante for roast dinner and to get his washing done before riding home through France. After a last longing look around Tarifa I accept that the quality of totty is beyond my current means and we head for San Pedro to ‘ride the ride’ to Ronda. Then north, north on some fantastic back roads I know.
We split for a couple of days and meet again on the ferry, worn and tired but also having achieved our personal goals.
Tim
Dipping doughnuts into coffee in an attempt to thaw out I remembered buying a copy of the Star newspaper 350 miles earlier to keep the cold wind off my chest, opening my jacket had treated the waiter to a an eyeful of ‘Anthea’s’ breasts and crutch.
Great start for an intrepid biker.
Several whales, dolphins and San Miguels later I meet the returning GS’ers, they look worn and tired, but appear to have achieved personal goals. Guess that’s how our group will look and feel in a few weeks.
A cock up in ferry booking gives me a few days to scrub in the TKC 80’s around the Picos de Europa before meeting up in Bibao with the others, Alan and Slimbo, and Tony who has ridden/swam down through France.
In my absence I was elected leader, so in rush hour traffic lead the others down the motorway hard shoulder, breaking every good rider rule in the book. My behaviour improves as I learn that Alan is a Senior Advanced Rider Instructor thingy and I feel his beady eye ‘observing’ me.
With plenty of time ahead of us there is no need for mega high mileages so we stop over near Caceres, then to Ronda the next day. I find a hotel in the centre of town where the landlord remembers me from a previous visit and agrees to let us ride the bikes into the hotel and park up on his marble floor.
Excitement mounts as we board the ferry for Ceuta where we find digs and Tony walks further than his previous best as we look for grub. Tony grabs a cab back for us.
Up early for the big day. Crossing into Morocco has been described well elsewhere, we all try to relax and breath into the ‘experience’ as the first of many Moroccan tomcats takes a leak on my sheepskin seat cover.
Skirting around to the east of Tetouan we head south through a busy street market in Chefchouen where Slimbo discovers that the mere rustle of a pack of Biros will bring about a swarm of mournful looking children.
Heading south we stop to watch a Berber wedding procession, I try my luck with one of the bridesmaids but am sadly rebuffed even with my helmet on.
A great stop over in Arzou and our first taste of ‘Stork’ beer and first of too many Tajines. We give our leftovers to a worker and young girl of around 8years, she came over to our table and thanked us when she had finished.
I guess she was hungry.
Up early and heading SW towards Marrakech we detour into the unknown and find the Cascades d’Ouzoud waterfalls. But not before lunch of tajine. Our guide an old timer leads us along the riverbank and down, down. Tony is horrified at the distance, particularly in the heat and bike boots. Finally the view of the waterfalls, yes very impressive as we feign enthusiasm for the benefit of our guide. After crossing the river on makeshift rafts we all make it back to the top without a cab or cardiac arrest.
Later than we hoped we ride on in strong winds and a blinding low sun to the outskirts of Marrakech. Tony drowns the cockroaches that live in our bath, we eat drink and hit the sack.
Breakfast around the pool ogling blonde totty before a short ride into Marrakech. We are befriended by a guide who proved invaluable, I got him to take us into the Place Jema al-Fna. The sight of 4 GS’s in that incredible setting almost rivalled that of the water merchants and snake charmers. With our guide watching over us from a distance like a guardian angel Slimbo and I had henna applied by Berber women, my right hand was a scorpion, my left was inscribed GSCLUBUK, what else.
Slimbo’s lady offered to make cous cous for him, I’m not sure what mine was offering but she had no teeth so it could have been interesting.
The rest of the day was pure Moroccan magic, Slimbo bought a carpet, we played guitar in the souks and met a hundred friendly souls. All trying to sell us something.
Next morning Tony buys breakfast for lovely woman and we set off for the Tizi-n-Test Pass and for us Morocco proper. But an hour later Slimbo is almost unconscious with kidney pains lying the shade of a tree on the side of the High Atlas mountains.
Shite we have a situation here.
Chris the Colonel at the other end of a mobile phone provides advice. Dehydration and heat stroke combined with tummy bug have struck. We force fluids and rehydration salts into our ‘patient’
Luckily I find a hotel nearby and use their car to get Slim into a cool breezy Berber tent where we relentlessly get more fluid AND rehydration salts down his neck. I later remind him that had he lapsed into unconsciousness then he would have to be rehydrated using his Camelback up the bum. Mmmm tasty.
That evening I go and play football in a dried up riverbed with around 20 local boys, I fall and injure my elbow, they all laugh.
Two beautiful young women look on from the fields and giggle as I talk to them.
What a day.
Next day he’s recovered!
Over the Tizi-n-Test pass and down into the full heat of the stony desert. Refuel at Talouine stock up on water and food then head south on the piste route described as M3 in Chris Scott’s Sahara book.
The first part has been tarmaced then becomes fun. The Anti Atlas become indescribably beautiful as the big GS’s find their off-road feet. We stop at an oasis, a man jumps out and insists this is where we shall camp the night.
We are led to a shady spot where he sweeps the floor, we pitch our tents, he lays out a large rug and brings mint tea. Tony cooks my dinner. I produce a small flask of Jack Daniel’s brought for that very moment. Our host sleeps with the bikes. In the night his donkey is very noisy, I wonder about the rumoured truth concerning Panthers and Jaguars, or perhaps Alan is getting frisky.
Breakfast and more mint tea, then we are off. Light and colour are stunning.
I have the route photocopied in my map case with the GPS way points logged, as does Tony.
Once I get slightly confused over the route we retrace ours steps and are back on course the bikes are now proving to be the perfect all rounder, soaking up the dried riverbed crossings, rocks, gravel and sand. We park in the shade of a few trees alongside the skeleton of a camel. It’s 40deg C in the shade. Yikes.
Later we cross a barren rocky plain it’s still 40deg C in the shade, only now there ain’t no shade.
Please GS do not fail me now.
Later we stop under a tree, a boy appears from nowhere we share some bread, water and biscuits, Tony gives him a cigarette which the boy will give to his father in the village, he smiles and returns to his goats.
The last couple of miles before the road have been graded in preparation for tarmac, this is ridden with confidence at 90mph + with Alan closing in on me. Bloody nutter.
North up the road to the lovely town of Tazenakht, cold beer, pretty Berber women giggle as Tony and I watch them making a carpet.
Dinner was probably Tajine.
Next morning we survey the bikes, caked in dust. We blast the worst off with a high pressure hose in a local garage (for a small charge). Then up north to Alt-Benhaddou but the prospect of more walking keeps Tony and Alan in a café sipping coke whilst Slimbo and I at least make a token effort at appreciating the local culture before a quick coke and head south through the Vallee du Draa to Zagora. We pose for pictures by the famous sign for Timbuktu. A young boy makes a simple woven camel from a reed. We find a palace of a hotel and meet some Spanish dirt bike riders, Alan spots tourist totty around the pool, the heat is getting to him poor lad!
The two day piste known as M5 to Merzouga would be pushing our luck on 4 big GS’s fully laden in this heat, so north then east for a very hot ride to Alnif. I chat quickly to some more dirt bike riders then with the aid of a route guide and GPS find our way north onto the route M6, a rewarding piste over the mountains and down to the road before turning left to Tinehir. I go straight on in some deep gravel until a big rock says “far enough”.
Yet another palace of a hotel (but for Tony and I the best is yet to come).
Next day a ride up and down the Todra Gorge for breakfast, we decide to miss out the Dades Gorge and head for Erfoud.
Here we stop at a café and are offered a landrover escort to Erg Chebbi. The landrover is already going there with some tourists on board. We head south at an alarming rate through a sand storm. We stop and are told that our accommodation has been arranged! Oh what the hell.
The wind drops a little and four 1150 GS’s and a landrover leading at 60-70mph blat across the stony piste side by side, just like the Paris Dakar (in slow motion) with the wind blowing our dust. For me, the ride of my life, until a little ‘moment’ in the sand.
Our accommodation turned out to be the stunning Auberge Erg Chebbi, basically a mud and straw built fortress right on the edge of the sand. Alan and Slimbo were given their room. I, rather sneakily secured the penthouse suit, an entire turret of this fort with million dollar views for more or less the same price including dinner and breakfast. Slimbo headed off into the evening sunlit sand with a struggling camel beneath his 18 stone. Tony had no beer. Our young friend, guide, host was named Azniz, I later described him in the visitors book as a jewel in the desert which he was.
5am had us up to see the sun rise, Slim is already out there, but without his camel, perhaps they had a tiff. I wander out knowing exactly which photos I want.
Tony watches from the Auberge, there’s no cab. Alan continues to snore.
We feel the power of the sun as it rises, once again I drench my shirt in cold water button up my jacket and we head off across the piste for Merzouga. Tony and I stop, where are the others? 5 mins later they arrive. Slimbo has tried looking behind whilst standing on the pegs and has discovered how to steer the bike by weighting the pegs, only this has sent him off the piste and into the sand where he goes apex over anus, luckily no damage to bike or rider. Merzouga, and we are hassled beyond belief, thank goodness we didn’t stay there for the night as was planned. We beat a hasty retreat outrunning a thunderstorm north to Midelt, drank beer with locals had yet another Tajine, slept and up for, what!
A cold ride in the morning arriving at Ceuta, where a familiar friendly copper suggested he could smooth our passage out of Morocco for 200 Dirham, too late I’ve changed my money and get your thieving hands off my sunglasses. The tom cat takes a last piss on my sheepskin and we slip onto the ferry. Morocco, once daunting now our friend, slips into the haze.
I feel a contrast is in order, so no not Gibraltar but Tarifa, totty capital of southern Spain. We eat, drink watch the girlies and reflect.
Next morning Tony heads off to his mother’s near Alecante for roast dinner and to get his washing done before riding home through France. After a last longing look around Tarifa I accept that the quality of totty is beyond my current means and we head for San Pedro to ‘ride the ride’ to Ronda. Then north, north on some fantastic back roads I know.
We split for a couple of days and meet again on the ferry, worn and tired but also having achieved our personal goals.
Tim
