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Heritage status.
Riding on I could feel my interest in the history fading, something had washed over me, and I needed that hit ever more. The Moroccan roads had become my dealer, and I needed a fix that would keep me going for the next few hours.
Yet another mountain pass approached and our little 108cc
Chinese made Dockers struggled with the climb. I laughed to myself, perhaps not at the absurdity of riding these tiny bikes but at the image of a small van at the peak of the climb. It was a dealer, and I knew my thirst would be quenched.
The view from this height was spectacular, a vast plain surrounded by the lower hills of the approaching
Atlas, and yet my mind was consumed by the product being peddled from the back of the van, something that would scratch my itch.
You see, the roadside of many a Moroccan thoroughfare is garnished with a small car, van or even trolley, containing an ancient looking machine that wouldn’ t be out of place
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