Saying goodbye to his footy friends, we had a significant remote chunk to get through, which turned out to the longest section of tarmac on the route, winding its way along open terrain and through canyons. It was the longest flat section we’d experience too, the only time we were jealous of the few riders sporting aero bars. Whilst my trail tyres hummed along the tarmac, Mitch’s slicker tread rolled along in virtually silence. Maintaining a good, steady speed, the km swept by. Not sure Mitch was too enamoured about having his groove broken though with my whim for a quick food break roadside. He went along with it, joining in for a quick snack, whilst I also had a mini faff sorting bags.

With the darkness, my mind too seemed to go on auto pilot, remembering little about the rest of the section, except for simply following the beam of the Exposure Revo and Mitch. A few short climbs woke up sleepy legs. Out of the darkness the lights of distant civilization beckoned us. Town was very much closed for the night though, eerily quiet, disappointingly no options for a pit stop here, which we both could have done with, both pretty tired now. The way out, a steep dirt track did nothing for Mitch’s fatiguing legs, dulling his usual climbing speed. His demeanour said it all, he needed to eat and sleep. The plateau was a relief – for us both. I was ok to carry on for a while longer, but looking at Mitch, it was obvious that he needed to get some sleep now, even though I knew that he would have pushed himself to carry on. Bivvy spots usually present themselves at opportune moments but up here, harsh rocky terrain either side of the trail was revealing nothing. Eventually, I found a suitable spot a good few metres off track. Mitch’s stubborn determination meant that I literally had to tell him to stop and pitch up. There was no resistance though – another early night by bike-packing standards, but necessary.

An early stop meant early to rise and back riding during the colder hours, not the plan, but most plans seem to go out of the window after day 1 anyway! Mitch was back alert, but I hadn’t slept at all well, leaving legs lacklustre, trying to maintain some remnants of a reasonable speed along the rolling, rocky trail. We were joined by a South African bike-packing veteran, Guy, one of the few riders on a full suspension. We rode in a quiet calm of silence, waiting for dawn’s warmth, which seemed to take its time coming. The descent was welcome, becoming flat tarmac for the final km to Tagmout. Whilst Mitch and Guy chatted away, I was simply trying to will the legs to stay with them, wondering where, when or even if I could grab a nap to make up for the lost sleep to make the legs work again.

Dawn and 7am prayer calls accompanied our arrival in Tagmout. This early, nothing was yet open and we wouldn’t get very far on our limited, remaining supplies. Unnecessary loitering never felt right when bikepack racing, but the hour’s wait was a necessary one. It would have been foolish to have embarked on the next lengthy section with resupplying. This wait had a silver lining, selfishly for me anyway. I lay down in a quiet spot just out of town for a micro sleep.

Mitch and Guy were both tucking into their 1st omelette by the time I found them. Devouring 2 and resupplying from the shop next door, we headed off all together, the legs back on line. The old colonial road was the most fascinating and talked about section of the entire route. Some 56km long, built into the hillside around the 1930s, meandering around the contours at an almost perfectly even shallow gradient – a feat of engineering built by many hands. With 2 sections having been swept away at river crossings it was no longer used as an access ‘road’, but here you could see the intricacies of how it was built.

HIGH IN THE ATLAS

It was a pass in the loosest sense as the ‘groad’ came to an abrupt end at the top, the only way down was via a rocky hiking trail and devoid too of expected snow and cold winds as Morocco had experienced the same, warm winter as Europe. The big tyres gave descending confidence over other riders’ narrower tyres, but this was enduro bike territory and Nelson’s (AMR organiser) account of going head first into rocks resonating in my mind. Besides, we were riding duo and Mitch was walking down – a sound excuse.

With dusk chasing us, we received a hearty welcome into CP1 by the checkpoint crew. Barely 123km in, it was way tougher than expected, but that 1st stamp in the brevet card felt like a small triumph. A sit down meal of tajine and soup filled hungry bellies, chat flowing with fellow riders across the tables. Being mindful of each other’s needs before heading off into the night took patience, especially when heading into longer stretches without refuel options, as we were about to. At this early stage we were both still feeling strong in body and mind, having barely put a dent in the overall distance, ready for this next long stretch to CP2.

In this terrain, that feeling for distance and how long it would take became quite skewed. That 60km to next resupply equated to nothing more than a quick Sunday ride, but our perceptions of ride time vs distance had to quickly adapt, planning well to not getting caught out without food and water. I carried a filtration water bottle (courtesy of Stu Taylor), which was of course only useful where there was a water source!

The route stayed high, rolling between 1600 and 2000m, passing through large canyons, no doubt stunning in the daylight, but all we could see was the limited track ahead, lit up by our Exposure Lights Revo dynamos. With no light pollution here too, the star filled night sky was spectacular. Rivers appeared deep under the night sky, but were thankfully shallow, although I was a little cavalier across one, falling sideways into the water and dropping my phone into its flow. My first fervent words with myself, but at least I managed to locate the phone, although all I could do was rescue the sim card. Mitch managed to put a positive spin on the situation, saying I was lucky to find it in the dark – which I was. We are so locked in to social media that losing the ability to connect felt like a (stupid) blow, but it actually afforded me a positive experience, allowing disconnecting from its pull and connecting more with where I was and what I was doing. Those 4 days without the phone were quite emotive.

Having a metal Bahookie gave me full confidence in the bike, that I could have crashed like this and simply pick up the bike and carry on without the worry of having to check the frame for potential, ride ending damage. It is heavier of course than comparative carbon, but the Shand will accompany me on many more adventures and no doubt pick up many more scars along the way.