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Morocco. It was busy, colourful and unmistakably Moroccan, but still familiar enough with visitors that English could usually get us through.
Unfortunately, my own attempts at communication were less successful. Years of speaking more Spanish had somehow pushed what little French I once knew into the back of my brain, while my Arabic extended to absolutely nothing. For once, I was linguistically useless. Charades became the order of the day.
Our base was Jack ' s Airbnb, which soon filled with a small but wonderfully mixed group of travellers. There was our seasoned traveller friend Helen, Emma and Mike, a couple travelling by motorcycle, Jonny from North Wales, Jack himself and us. It was a goodsized group without ever feeling crowded, and although most of us were there for the trails, Emma and Mike had slightly different plans. They were heading home for Christmas and, quite sensibly, preferred to spend their time exploring the Moroccan tarmac.
For us, though, the attraction was always going to be the dirt. This was our first taste of riding in Morocco, and with the bikes waiting, a new country stretching out beyond Awrir and a small group of like-minded travellers ready to explore it, the adventure was about to begin.
Day one was all about bike prep and nursing hangovers due to consuming far too much Moroccan red wine in the excitement of catching up with friends and getting to Morocco at last. A seat needed to be lowered and re-covered for the GasGas 450 that I ' d be using, as well as the fitting of a lowering link Jack had acquired especially.
Being able to get toes down both sides was a HUGE plus for my somewhat anxious brain. Finding an upholsterer locally was very easy, and unbelievably quick and cheap... plus the seat was actually comfortable despite the lack of foam. Excellent!
Our first ride out attempt was … interesting. I say attempt as it was unexpectedly raining, and the lovely, usually hard-packed trails had turned to a sticky, clay-like mud. We set off from the house with great enthusiasm, filled up with fuel and found the first( and only) trail of the day.
I think that few kilometres took me the best part of an hour, and all of my energy. Cue death grip and arm pump. Actually, I have no idea how long it took, but it seemed like ages as the bike was squirrelling around on what felt like ice, and I was in definite ' chicken legs ' mode, plus a few bike pick-ups.
The theory works well... pin it! The others were proof of that, although we all had mud clumped up in every possible orifice of the poor bikes. However, there was
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