Morocco - The Longest Day
I've avoided writing about 3 March due to mixed emotions. Adventure motorcycling requires a rider to push oneself out of their comfort zone, whether it be by exploring remote places, testing technical riding capabilities, or simply enduring some serious hardship. Each of these can be found in other types of sport, but seldom do you combine all three, when you know it's truly an adventure. And the euphoric memories of willfully venturing deep into such a situation that encompasses all three aspects forces reflection on what happened, what should have happened, and what could have happened. Two familiar memories follow this vein, when I stubbornly accepted the challenge and love to tell about it. First was in Cañón Del Colca, Peru (twice the depth of the Grand Canyon), where upon departing, I chose to continue down a gravel road rather than double back on the more common route with tour buses. I didn't see a human or car for hours and 100 of kilometers of desolate trails. The second time was in Colombia, where I had to cross a mudslide before navigating hours of the "Trampolin de la Muerte," the little brother to Bolivia's Yungas "Death Road."
March 3 was one of those days.
I spent the morning riding around Ouarzazate (remember the film-making mecca of Morocco in my last blog entry?), bouncing between slums and tax-backed facades on the main avenues. My map reconnaissance from the night prior said 4hrs 17min from Oaurzazate to Agoudal. This was the most direct route via R703. But, the Casablanca-based motorcycle tour guide had recommended R704...likely an equivalent road. Google Maps, which had been accurate thus far, confirmed this was only 4hrs 42min. Though the route was 15km shorter, the added duration was likely because of the switchbacks in the hills. I'd seen pictures similar to the one I took below and thought, "Aaaah, no wonder it takes so long...the epic R704...let's do this!"
Confident that I could make it to Agoudal in 5 hours, I left the hotel at 11am and made a brief stop at Ait Benhaddou, a UNESCO Historic Site somewhat along the way. This site has been the backdrop for the most movies in the region. After a quick drone sortie around the mock village, I was quite pleased with the way the day was going...beautiful sun, sand, and pavement. The flight was great, too...I got all up in that place. However, on the way out, an official stopped me and wanted to confiscate Maverick. It's a good thing he didn't see my mouth freeze and eyes widen in panic. I managed a string of mumbling responses, oscillating between Spanish and English while he thought I was Italian, and I forced the end of the conversation with a handshake. He wasn't convinced but also wasn't afforded the chance for further interrogation. The second he started to smile a bit, Green was off to the races. Speeding away, I thought, "Man, that was some luck...this is gonna be an amazing day." I spent the next hour thinking about how to capture that memory and how my next blog entry would also include some self-praise for not dropping the bike thus far. I figure, riding day-in-day-out for a month would at least incur a few spills at a stop sign or something...but no, I was above that.
Over the course of the last few days, I'd dragged the footpegs leaning into corners and bottomed out the bike while bouncing into dips and curves. So, it become common practice to adjust the suspension for two-person riding, which increases the seat height almost 4 inches. This leaves this 5'9" guy only able to put one foot down at at time. Or, some ballerina-like tip-toe skills are the other option. Unfortunately, this also raises Green's center of gravity. Combine that with a top-heavy load plan (my learned mistake), and you could have a disastrous combination. I am well-aware of this situation and compensate by choosing the appropriate, level ground when bringing the bike to rest and dropping the kickstand. If the ground isn't suitable, I'd pause a second, drop the suspension down with the push-button control, and gently step off.
The ole Camelbak is clutch on the bike. Sip all day long, stay hydrated, and make frequent stops on side of the road. Well, not too frequent. Always worth pushing the limits a bit. So, when your bladder is about to burst, you don't take time to deal with minor details, like choosing a suitable parking spot. I stopped quickly in a deserted location, hopped off the heightened bike, and immediate felt it falling on top of me. Yep, first drop of the trip. Damn it! No damage, but weighing in at nearly 700-lbs, it's no easy task to pick this thing back up. See how the tire is well above the ground? That's because the kickstand is wedged under there, propping Green up on his side. I was not excited to right that bike multiple times on this trip. Let's not do that again, Andrew.
I powered up through Gorges Dadés, a simply beautiful, curving canyon, actually reversing once to enjoy the switchbacks twice more (previously shown). Then, we continued through some of the most beautiful mountainside ever seen. The pavement disappeared intermittently, often due to construction detours or wash-out from an influx of winter snow run-off. But, it always felt to be the planned road, and the pavement always reappeared within a kilometer. I welcome plowing through riverbeds and dodging large rocks. Breaks the monotony.
At around 5pm, I realized...Wait...I'm just over two-thirds of the way to Agoudal, and it's been at least 5 hours after the diversion to Ait Benhaddou. I should be there...or close. Alright, if I kick it in gear, Green and I can be there by 7...with an hour of daylight to spare. Then, we sped through the village of Ait Moussa Wichou. Blink twice, and you miss it. I semi-intentionally caught some air on the perfect moto-cross style hump in the middle of town. Some men passing by gave me thumbs up, so I guess they didn't mind. And then, the road disappeared from my path. Completely. I was no longer slowing down for such towns, but a group of children caught me on the outskirts of town and we conversed a bit. They spoke a combination of French and Berber, so we relied on hand signals. I think they told me the road continued, but they also wanted me to stick around, just for fun. They'd probably seen the tour-guide bring countless groups of space-ship riding adventure bikers down here, who would stop for a moment, hand out candy and money, and then start the last leg home. I was short of time, so, I followed the only road out of town after consulting the map multiple times.
Note, below...R704 doesn't cut through the mountain...and taking a wrong turn out here could put me in a bad spot. Throw a horde of excited, screaming children in my path, and you have a frazzled Andrew. The road went from solid tarmac to a mud path carved beneath a rock overhang, clinging close to a slow-running stream. If this is the path, I'm in for a long evening...I need to make some time. While thinking this and exiting town, Green slid right out from under me before I could complete the thought. DAMNIT! TWICE IN ONE DAY?!
(Note, the bike spun around completely...the rear tire track can be seen in the center of the picture.)
I slipped and fell a few times in the mud, trying to put Green on his feet, all the while being grabbed by the children who'd sprinted the 200m out of town to investigate. This was not a good place to be right now, deep in a ravine, with the sun cresting over the mountain. Coming to realize pavement might be a mere memory, I shifted Green and my mindset to off-roading, and charged up a serpentine gravel path. The map led me astray again, eating 20 minutes of daylight. Then, I finally came to see...there was just one more path to Agoudal... and it went up that mountain... and it wouldn't end anytime soon. Wind howled up the mountain, so drone footage wasn't even an option, but that wouldn't matter anyway, I was racing the clock to get to my destination. Sure, I had camping gear and enough supplies to stop anywhere for the night. Fuel was not an issue. And spirits were still high. This was adventure motorcycling at its best! But, when you have a destination, and it seems more difficult and more further to achieve, you want nothing more than to do just that...achieve it.
Then, nearing the crest, we entered snow country. The temps dropped to below freezing, but the sun had caused melting earlier in the day, creating massive mud pits along the path. This was not good. The big bike loved pavement at 110mph but wasn't a huge fan of mud at any speed. I took the time to stop, prep mentally, and make a few brief phone calls to let someone know I'm alive and still in motion (it's amazing where you can find voice cell service in this world). Forging ahead, I caught the tail-end of a four-vehicle off-road convoy. Massive, late-model Land Cruisers with jacked up suspensions and over-sized tires, they would joyfully create huge ruts in the mud without pause for the lone biker tagging along, far behind. Ruts eat motorcycles. So, I'd slow to a crawl for the mud, then speed up, just a yo-yo behind the convoy. They may have never seen me as they disappeared beyond the pass. The thought crossed my mind multiple times... "If I fall off the side of this mountain, on one will likely find me for days. Best not do that."
Finally, with the map showing just 15-km to Agoudal, darkness set in. Time progressed, but we didn't seem to be getting closer fast enough. Green plowed through rivers, cut through canyons, and followed a nearly invisible path to the edge of the village. Under complete darkness, we entered the the backside of the town...a town without a single exterior light... probably no more than 300 inhabitants lingering in dark mud huts. A man on a scooter spotted me and made chase, honking his horn relentlessly. Ugh! Not again. I quickly turned from my path to avoid him...but, he cornered me eventually.
"Where are you staying?" Great English!
I mispronounced whatever sketchy place I thought might have a bed.
"Oh, great, my brother is expecting you...follow me. Are you alone?"
"No, my buddy was right behind me and will be here soon." It couldn't hurt.
I followed him outside of town to a mud complex. Finally, a tourist trap wasn't a tourist trap, but rather a welcoming host.
While the host spoke perfect English (and Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese, Arabic, and Berber), I didn't have much of an appetite for conversation, but I wolfed down the Chicken Tagine he prepared. Yes, the Chicken Tagine trend continues into the hinterlands. Completely exhausted, I collapsed in my riding gear, not knowing that the room temperature would drop to 40-degrees that night. Probably wouldn't have cared anyway. We'd made it.
