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.