reliable paper map , and a plucky demeanour — what could go wrong ?
One thing that obviously could and did go wrong as I started out the next morning was the road . Ayoub forgot to mention that it was regularly washed away by the raging rivers on its way up the pass . It was an interesting ride ; the first 80km took about three hours in near zero-degree conditions . Over those three hours I didn ’ t see a single other vehicle .
The road twisted , turned and crumbled up to the pass and I narrowly avoided plunging into a ravine several times by skidding cleverly sideways into welcoming snowdrifts .
Aside from the terrors of the climb , I was utterly gobsmacked by the scenery . The one thing that nobody can prepare you for in the High Atlas is its vastness and grandeur . Nothing you have ever seen or been told can prepare you for those mountains . It is literally breathtaking ; the hundreds of deep gorges and snow-capped escarpments take your breath away . Breathtaking , that is , if you have any breath left from the strength of the wind up at 3,000 metres .
Stopping to take a photo of an impressive scene the wind casually blew the Duke from its stand while on another occasion , riding with the wind at my back I checked the speed at 100 kilometres per hour and the cloud shadows were still racing past me like I was standing still .
My most abiding memory of the ride over the spine of the Atlas , apart from the incredible views , was the process required to urinate . The previous night Ayoub had related grim stories of travellers dying of dehydration in the mountains and plied me with lots of sweet tea just in case . It had another effect .
As the temperature dropped , and the treacherous roads made me clench everything , piss-stops became more and more urgent . Every one of them was a small test of torture .
Stable ground needed to be found , a patch of secure rubble where I could stop the bike ; not always easy with the wind constantly trying to tip it over , ice and scree patches conspiring to make the sidestand slip and collapse .
I would then unglove , hitch up my overjacket , unzip my riding jacket , pull down my overtrousers , unzip my fly , and try to piss . Tricky , given the multiple layers of clothing I had to navigate through , the strength of the wind , and the effect of the intense cold on the size of the old chap leaving little space for a firm , directional grip .
Pissing was , as a result , subject to extraordinarily little control - which didn ’ t make things particularly effective or predictable . Then I had to reverse the process to put everything back without freezing ,
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