The bad stomach was catching me up today and we had a slow start. The Ktm lads left early but we ended up hanging about the hotel until after mid day while I rehydrated on electrolytes. It was a good chance to go over the route planed ahead and start to understand the seriousness of the undertaking, these were Pari-Dakar routes after all!
After getting some more water, checking we were fooded and fuelled to the maximum (44 and 30 litres) we set off towards Zag. Through town some kids jumped out and made drinking motions as they ran in front of us, asking about yesterday's experience at the hotel hadn't made things any clearer.
After 40Kms Chris Scott's route M13 turns right off the Tarmac, the sign he mentions is mostly missing but the stoney track took us between bushes and dune in the right direction. Just tens of meters from the road some kids sat under a tree with a utilitarian looking motorbike and then something down the track caught my eye, it was a camel blocking the way! Some might argue its one humpedness would make it a dromidary but either way it was a huge beast! Then two then three, then a dozen or so came in to view. They batted their eyelashes and chewed back at us and as we slowly neared lumbered off. Amazing! Further down the road it turned away from the trees and cut across country towards a gap in the hills and more camels. Stopping to check coordinates we noticed the water cube on the back of the ktm had sprung a leak, the vibes were just too much and a corner had been abraded.
As if by magic a voice came from the distance, carried on the wind. It was a little voice belonging to Sarem, about eight or nine years old wearing a tracksuit and Bedouin scarf. In the distance was his tent with nine family members, 200 sheep, 100 camels and a good old Land Rover. Robin's postcard of a highland cow seemed popular, as did our impressions of the grumpy beasts!
We decanter the water in to some spare empty bottles and said our goodbyes. Over the ridge we got a lesson in navigation with a bogus track heading west just after the first wall built during the Polisario wars, losing us 10kms of fuel. Even worse there were drips from the bottom of the Ktm's fuel tank! I turned the taps off on the pipe joining the two Aqualine tanks and it seemed to stop but how much petrol was lost?
Back on track just after an old waterstation we hit our first proper sand dune, cursing and swearing though we got through the wallowy quagmire and from the top could look down across the plain and see the piste running in to the distance. Something unexpected was the number of earth moving vehicles and a cement silo by the piste side; the waving men seemed to be in the process of upgrading the road.
Fast hard packed surface meant speed rose, 50mph seemed like 100 as the sand and wind whipped around. The bikes were leant hard to the right and the blast on the chest meant I was leant well over the front, the front mudguard wobbled and bounced ahead. It felt precarious and small dusty tornados caught us in their swirl but we wanted to make the most of the good surface while it lasted, and just as well.
After passing numerous friendly workmen stationed in tents and concrete oued crossings the good stuff ran out, Robin shouted 'fruit cocktail!', a mix of stones, sand and pebbles, it was like pudding beneath the sinking wheels. Without the confidence to get the speed up we road off piste but were still bogged occasionally by sand or when we had to pass back on to the road. Land rovers passed and we beeped and waved at each other. In the distance a hilux sped across the plain and we changed our angle to pick up his tracks. Attacking the sand with an aggressive throttle hand seemed the trick, any doubt or nerves sealed one's fate! It seemed the sand slowed the bikes causing the front to dig in and plough and weave, logically gunning it and leaning back kept the speed and floated through better but still ran the risk of building speed until things felt quite out of control, at that point stopping was usually the last option!
Terrain firmed up and began to rise as the sun started to sink, we crested a rocky dune and below us on the flat could finally see Lebouriate in the yellow evening sun.
It had been an amazing day's introductory ride and Robin pitched the tent while I got the fuel tank off the Ktm, trimmed what appeared to be just an abraded fuel hose and we sat down to dinner; Dolmio and pasta with shavings of mystery tinned giblets! The night was eerily silent except for the rustling of the tent and brushing of sand on canvas.
After getting some more water, checking we were fooded and fuelled to the maximum (44 and 30 litres) we set off towards Zag. Through town some kids jumped out and made drinking motions as they ran in front of us, asking about yesterday's experience at the hotel hadn't made things any clearer. After 40Kms Chris Scott's route M13 turns right off the Tarmac, the sign he mentions is mostly missing but the stoney track took us between bushes and dune in the right direction. Just tens of meters from the road some kids sat under a tree with a utilitarian looking motorbike and then something down the track caught my eye, it was a camel blocking the way! Some might argue its one humpedness would make it a dromidary but either way it was a huge beast! Then two then three, then a dozen or so came in to view. They batted their eyelashes and chewed back at us and as we slowly neared lumbered off. Amazing! Further down the road it turned away from the trees and cut across country towards a gap in the hills and more camels. Stopping to check coordinates we noticed the water cube on the back of the ktm had sprung a leak, the vibes were just too much and a corner had been abraded.
As if by magic a voice came from the distance, carried on the wind. It was a little voice belonging to Sarem, about eight or nine years old wearing a tracksuit and Bedouin scarf. In the distance was his tent with nine family members, 200 sheep, 100 camels and a good old Land Rover. Robin's postcard of a highland cow seemed popular, as did our impressions of the grumpy beasts!
Back on track just after an old waterstation we hit our first proper sand dune, cursing and swearing though we got through the wallowy quagmire and from the top could look down across the plain and see the piste running in to the distance. Something unexpected was the number of earth moving vehicles and a cement silo by the piste side; the waving men seemed to be in the process of upgrading the road. Fast hard packed surface meant speed rose, 50mph seemed like 100 as the sand and wind whipped around. The bikes were leant hard to the right and the blast on the chest meant I was leant well over the front, the front mudguard wobbled and bounced ahead. It felt precarious and small dusty tornados caught us in their swirl but we wanted to make the most of the good surface while it lasted, and just as well.
After passing numerous friendly workmen stationed in tents and concrete oued crossings the good stuff ran out, Robin shouted 'fruit cocktail!', a mix of stones, sand and pebbles, it was like pudding beneath the sinking wheels. Without the confidence to get the speed up we road off piste but were still bogged occasionally by sand or when we had to pass back on to the road. Land rovers passed and we beeped and waved at each other. In the distance a hilux sped across the plain and we changed our angle to pick up his tracks. Attacking the sand with an aggressive throttle hand seemed the trick, any doubt or nerves sealed one's fate! It seemed the sand slowed the bikes causing the front to dig in and plough and weave, logically gunning it and leaning back kept the speed and floated through better but still ran the risk of building speed until things felt quite out of control, at that point stopping was usually the last option!
Terrain firmed up and began to rise as the sun started to sink, we crested a rocky dune and below us on the flat could finally see Lebouriate in the yellow evening sun.
It had been an amazing day's introductory ride and Robin pitched the tent while I got the fuel tank off the Ktm, trimmed what appeared to be just an abraded fuel hose and we sat down to dinner; Dolmio and pasta with shavings of mystery tinned giblets! The night was eerily silent except for the rustling of the tent and brushing of sand on canvas.
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