Crossduro Pennines #XDP17

The Pennines were in characteristically brusque mood on the 7th October, unwilling to give up  their finest views to the riders who’d travelled from far and wide to pit themselves against the rugged gritstone of the southern Pennines. Low cloud laden with fine Atlantic rain soaked all who were brave enough to take on the elements.  This was looking like a 'type 2 fun' kind of day, one to feel good about later in the pub, or reclined on the sofa in front of deadeye. 

    

It was good to see a bunch of riders including some familiar faces already assembled down at St Georges Square as I rolled in at 7.30am. Some sat astride gravel bikes but quite a few were on mountain bikes, these fat tyre riders were mainly locals who knew the terrain and had opted for comfort and puncture avoidance. As the hands of the station clock eased past 8 I thanked those assembled for turning out and offered some route advice.  A couple of photos later (thanks to Stephen Smith for these) and we free-wheeled off past the outdoor market, across the ringroad and onto the canal towpath. I led the riders westward out of town, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to see a string of riders stretched out along the canal path behind me.  

#XDP-1

Marsden was the start of the first Strava timed segment (#XDP-1). I pulled over and let the riders get on with the segment, I wanted to sit back and watch today as they climbed towards the cloud. Wessenden Head was cloaked in mist, moorland grass heavy with fat droplets of water and the dying bracken adding a melancholic shade of rust to the view up the valley. The old cart track down to Digley reservoir had many cursing the old stone slabs which were grooved deep from the thousands of iron shod cart wheels which had rolled this way in centuries past. The descent also claimed the day’s first victim, a rear mech terminally twisted out of shape. A trail-side singlespeed conversion got the bike mobile but that rider was homeward bound. 

another cobbled climb

The summit of Holme Moss was wild, heavy mist from the west soaked us whilst the wind grabbed wheels and pushed unwary riders toward the roadside ditches. This was no place to hang around and we soon dived down toward Longdendale playing a high stakes game of ‘who’s going to touch their brake first’, you can hit 60mph down here on a calm day.

I was now riding with a couple of local riders; Mick Collins and Pete Horne - both on mountain bikes and both well used to this terrain and weather. Pete will celebrate his 70th birthday next year and yet is not afraid of a a fast rocky descent or a slippery technical climb. An inspiration to all of us and a reminder that if age is your excuse, you need to find a better one. 

After the rocky and occasionally technical track of the Pennine Bridleway came Chew Valley Reservoir climb, a traffic free but tough and pointless climb to a dead end atop the Pennines. This was another wild summit and few hung around, most eager to return to the comparative calm of the valley bottom. We rode on towards Diggle on narrow roads and ancient tracks. In Delph Pete opted to carry on whilst Mick and I stopped for lunch and a coffee break in the back room of a cafe in Delph.

After making up time on the road from Delph we turned left to follow the now familiar Pennine bridleway signs. This time we were bound for Hollingworth Lake, once more on old packhorse trails. I was glad of some suspension on the descents, Mick and I flew past riders on gravel bikes, impervious to the drainage channels and rocks lining the trail, focused only on getting down as fast as we could without puncturing. A shove up a steep rubble strewn chute and we were on our bikes again, contorted in the search for rear wheel traction on the saturated grassy climb that followed. Mick’s relief at completing the climb was tempered by the realisation that his freewheel was going bad, only engaging every few turns of his cranks. He nursed his Van Nicholas down to Hollingworth Lake where we decided to see whether together we could get him back home to Sowerby Bridge 10 miles away. An occasional shove from me and some frantic spinning from Mick saw him home within an hour. I was now some way off route and it was late afternoon, I needed to get to the finish at the Magic Rock Brewery Tap.

I met up with a few finishers down at the Magic Rock who agreed; it had been tough but they'd enjoyed the challenges of the route. Some riders had retired around the 50 mile mark and a few had suffered mechanical problems but plenty had completed despite the challenging conditions. It had been a pleasure to share some local trails with riders from further afield, one which I hope to repeat next year.

Pennine Bridleway End to End

"I've ticked off a few big rides this year and I'm still thinking about more so I must enjoy them, right? Otherwise it's just masochism", so goes the internal monologue. I turn down the volume on that and look forward. Only a couple of days after returning from Crossduro Oxford I realised that every weekend until late September was taken up with gigs or family holiday. The weekend coming was also close to the summer Solstice which seemed like a good excuse to ride all night. A quick consider of the possibilities offered up the Yorkshire Dales 300 or the Pennine Bridleway. Both would be a big challenge but the Pennine Bridleway won out as I'd been mulling an attempt at the route for a year or two. 

Wife Jen generously offered to drop me at the Middleton Top start point and meet me at the end in Kirby Stephen. She also prepared my bike replacing the bottom bracket which was totally shot after the Capital Trail. Preparation for this kind of thing was definitely getting easier with practice, getting a reliable GPX file of the route was the main headache. I had no idea how long the 180 mile ride would take, Phil Simcock set a record of around 20 hours and 5 minutes in 2015, others had taken more than 24 hours over it. Only one way to find out...

Setting off from the former railway station at Middleton Top south of Matlock I'm feeling relaxed, the disused railway line is mainly flat and fast, a good fifteen mile warmup into a stiff westerly headwind. Limestone trails are beautiful at this time of year, yellow and blue wild flowers, cow parsley and long grass heavy with seed overhang the bright white stone. Further up the Tissington Trail at Parsley Hay I pass groups of school kids on Duke of Edinburgh expeditions, for many their first foray into the great outdoors without adult supervision. I'm glad to reach the end of this trail though and reach the first of many sections of single track on the PBW. The descent into and out of Chee Dale gets my heart rate right up and I have to make a conscious effort to shift into easier gears, there's another 20 000ft to climb in the next 24 hours.

Leaving the white stone of the White Peak for the Dark Peak feels good, real progress and a change of terrain. Mud, gritstone and moody grey skies, not that I get much chance to look up, I'm too busy staying upright on the challenging rocky sections south of Hayfield. A brief respite on the Sett Valley railway out of Hayfield before a climb up over Lantern Pike. My GPX route runs into trouble south of Glossop, a dispute over funding of the trail means the trail is officially closed with no official diversion. This throws me off route and I end up in someone's back garden high above Glossop. Back on track at Tintwhistle it's only a hop over the moors to familiar territory. Greenfield, Stanage, Buckstones are all dangerously close to home and a ripped rear tyre allows an opportunity for those 'wouldn't you prefer to be at home on the sofa?' thoughts that periodically surface during any challenge. Tyre fixed with a tubeless repair and I'm on my way, nearly one third of the distance under my belt but plenty of challenges ahead. A couple of minor mechanicals have me deploying cable ties and borrowing bottle cage bolts to make my left hand shifter work, at least it can be fixed. 

    

The setts of the old Rooley Moor road above Rochdale are always a slog, the ancient route to Whalley Abbey from  Rochdale  is wide and straight but decades of Pennine winters have left their mark. Near the summit above the popular trails at Lee Quarry the setts have parallel grooves worn into them where horse drawn carts have worn the stone away. A reminder of tougher times, when survival required routine hard physical labour. 

The steep descent into Stacksteads is over in a flash and a stop at the Coop is my last chance to pick up food today. Bags filled with bean wraps, croissants, chocolate bars and an emergency Coke I climb up towards Cliviger through the 'Gateageddon' section. There's a gate approximately every two hundred metres on which frustrates progress, fortunately the clouds have passed and evening sun lights the way. I even enjoy the climb out of Cliviger up to Hurstwood and Gorple. The new sections of trail between here and Wycoller are fantastic, fast rolling and well graded, there are even berms through some of the corners and a rock garden mid descent. It's early evening and lambs are playful on the lawn-like short grass alongside the trail, pheasants scatter from the trail ahead and I spot a couple of owls and a gull which is presumably far from home. There's a comedy moment above Wycoller when a lamb and a pheasant run directly at each other after being spooked by my bike before simultaneously changing direction at the very last second, the lamb looks very confused. 

I've ridden this middle section though to Settle once before on a recce ride, something I'm glad of as the trail gets very vague south of Long Preston and in the darkness it's difficult to spot the way marker posts. Still summer nights are always thick with insects looking for food, the odd one ends up in an eye, or worse, in my mouth. Dropping down into a steep wooded valley the thick scent of wild garlic hits me as I duck and dive through a tight tunnel of trees. On the far side of the woods Saturday night is in full swing, I pass several pubs with live bands and a large recently built house lit up like a christmas tree for all to see. Through the floor to ceiling windows I can see twenty or so immaculately dressed guests taking their places at a long table, I'd rather be out here I think to myself and press on north. I don't see anyone else until a farm near Long Preston where a farmer comes out to shine a torch in my face and ask what I'm doing. I apologise for scaring them, don't suppose they see many people out here at this time of night. 

By the time I reach Settle it's a new day but Saturday night's party is still in full swing at the Rugby Club where the local Moto Guzzi (motorcycle) Club are having their Summer Camp. I stop round the back of a dilapidated barn for ten minutes above the town to eat bean wraps and enjoy the view. Noisy bunch down there, most of them are customers of ours at work. I don't know the route from here very well, a glance at the map during the week showed it climbing over the south eastern shoulder of Ingleborough not far from Gaping Gill. To get there the route meanders along farm tracks and winding single track between crumbling limestone dry stone walls before climbing onto the flanks of Ingleborough. I push up one particularly loose, steep climb and am aware that I'm tiring, this is the most difficult time of night, my body clock wants to shut everything down for rest and yet I need to keep going. The emergency Coke is pulled from my pack and downed, within ten minutes I'm more alert and I imagine that I can see the silhouette of Ingleborough to the north east, the sky is slowly modulating from black to darkest blue grey.

Climbing up the track to Cam End I feel stronger with the dawn of a new day, the climbs are all ridden with the assistance of a tail wind and the well surfaced track encourages rapid climbing. I was last here twenty years ago in an ageing Land Rover which later caught fire near Settle after some over enthusiastic green laning. Back then the former Roman road was pot holed and rutted, this morning I find it in better condition than many roads in West Yorkshire. To my right I can see a couple of bright LED lights, I assume they are other cyclists on the road climb to Hawes but they are of course lights outside a house, at least I'm not yet hallucinating as I did on my 600k day ride. The descent from Cam End is another highlight of the route, a smooth and well surfaced strip of single track snakes down the hill to the junction with the Dent road. I laugh out loud at several points as I'm launched skyward, maybe that's an effect of sleep deprivation.

Descending the Old Coal Road to Garsdale Head I'm under the impression that the climbing is pretty much done for this ride. I'm proved very wrong, there are at least two more largish climbs and I'm not ready for them. Enthusiasm ebbs as the minutes tick past, I'm conscious that any hope of a sub twenty hour time has gone. I just want to finish now but the real stinger is the final climb, it looks like the trail funding ran out here, the track is way marked over lumpy moorland but there's no surface and no easy grading. The route heads straight up from the valley bottom to the ridge. I push most of it which makes it painfully slow but I no longer have the strength to keep the bike moving in a straight line at granny gear pace. I can't help thinking that whoever planned this section had a wicked sense of humour. At least the descent on the far side is better, finally on the road to Kirby Stephen I've just about cracked it. I roll in to the railway station at 0645, 21 hours and thirty six minutes after I left Middleton Top. I get a lift from here, I've no enthusiasm for a twenty mile road ride for a shower and change of clothes. Sunday is going to be a day of rest. 

Credits

• Velofondista for last minute bike preparation
• Jen for support, supplies, lifts and endless patience

Stats

• 20 300ft climbing
• 181 miles
• 9.9mph moving average
• 21hours 36minutes elapsed time

Singlespeed Sand Racing at Battle on the Beach

New Year's Eve is an odd place to start a beach race but that is where this one starts. Wannabe racers need to have their index fingers poised at midnight, credit card in hand to stand a chance of bagging a place in the always oversubscribed Battle on the Beach race. Some may have celebratory champagne in hand as they scrabble to register before the event sells out, I did, but reactions need to be quick to get registered before the entries sell out. That otherwise serially underwhelming evening is fortunately in stark contrast to the excitement on the start line at Pembrey as hundreds squeeze behind metal barriers into the natural funnel between sand dunes in early spring each year.

Start Line at Battle on the Beach photo © Stephen Smith

Arran at Bike Park Wales

Stadium Riders were fielding a good turnout this year and most of us had enjoyed an exciting day of riding at Bike Park Wales the day before. We were amongst the first to ride the new blue trail 'Popty Ping' which was well worth the climb, even for Arran on his single speed. We camped at Pembrey Country Park on Saturday night in a field of camper vans and tents between the woods and sea, the weather was perfect and the company good as we shared Saul's trademark 'go faster pasta' under starry skies. Earlier Claire, San, Saul and I had raced the 'Battle on the Dark' night time trial which used a shortened version of Sunday's full race lap; six miles of full throttle torchlit effort. The sunset was stunning, the sky painted blue, pink and purple for the thirty minutes that we queued up by the beach waiting for the darkness to fall, and the race to begin. 

tick tock, tick tock © Stephen Smith

This time trial is unique, the first half is spent chasing down lights on the beach and in the case of the singlespeeders maintaining a cadence more suited to roller racing until the feint flashing lights further down the beach are hunted down and the exit into the woods is reached. Dismount and a short run up a soft sandy dune leads to the return leg  through the woods. Twisty singletrack gives way to forest road and sandy double track, occasional steep climbs gain the rider ten metres of altitude before plunging back down into the woods. It's not long before I can hear the music and tannoy of the finish line and we can return for some food and a peaceful night's sleep on the camp site. 

Track stand off

Most races start early but this one leaves plenty of time for fretting pre-race if you are that way inclined. Fortunately a beautiful sunny morning and plenty of activity at Camp Stadium Riders left little time for worry. San, Arran and I took a spin down to the beach to take some photos and make the most of the glorious weather. We left it a tad late to return and the thirty minutes after we returned were hectic. Last minute bike adjustments, something to eat and drink and packing of the vans to enable a quick getaway post race. We rolled down to the start line for 11.30am, thirty minutes to spare notionally but any later and you'd be at the very back of the funnel of riders on the start line. I was lucky enough to have been seeded so I slipped though the queues and down to the very front of the start line, up against the barriers between two of the fastest riders here: last year's winner and George Budd (winner of last year's Dirty Reiver gravel race). I'm a bit out of place on my steel singlespeed amongst the skin suits, shaved legs and sponsored riders and these riders all seem to know each other, masking nerves with banter and chat about the new season. There's still a good variety of bikes down here at the front from fat bikes to skinny cross bikes, there's not obvious choice for this race although last year's winners are on mountain bikes with skinny bars and taped bar ends. 

© Stephen Smith

Meanwhile a DJ pumps out '90's hits and our compere builds the excitement in the start funnel. Fifteen minutes, five minutes, two minutes, one minute... and... FOGHORN!!! A frantic scramble throught the soft sand to the hard packed beach where speed can be attained. Easily a hundred riders pass me as I leave it late to mount my bike and get going. Once spinning I concentrate on maintaining that cadence. Frequent heart rate checks ensure that I'm not overcooking it at this early stage, it's like a motorcycle track day where I'd watch the tacho, you can't stay north of the red line for an hour and a half. There is a tail wind down the beach this year which the single speeders can't really benefit from, I remark on this to Charlie the Bikemonger as I pass him, he's smiling whilst I spin furiously in an attempt to catch the riders in front before the singletrack through the woods. Towards the end of the beach a few riders are already flagging, others are busy shouting at anyone who passes a bit close. I've got my race head on now, eyes down focused on what's ahead. The sections back through the woods seem less congested than last year and by the second lap I get a clear run at most of the hills. It doesn't lessen the amount of grunt needed to climb them on my 34T x 15T gear. Marshalls shout much appreciated encouragement and by the second lap slower riders are happy to move over to let faster ones though. 

lap 2, before it started to hurt © Stephen Smith

The third lap splits left at around seven miles on to a wider track through the woods to give us a chance to battle it out with our peers. I can see one guy a hundred metres ahead but I can't catch him on the flat. The finish draws closer and I make a last effort over the timing mat. I catch my breath on the grass overlooking the finish, Saul is in a few minutes later followed by Claire and Gary. San is nowhere to be seen, we wonder whether he's stopped to take some photos but it's his low singlespeed gear that has held him up. Its good to have finished the first proper race of the year, after much hanging around I find out that I've won the singlespeed category so swag and a framed award are presented, podium photos snatched and then back to the van for a long drive home. 

 A Cycling do a great job of organising the event (as well as others through the year) so if you haven't yet raced it I'd certainly recommend giving it a go. I'm sure we'll be back as Arran wants to race next year, the only question is what to ride... 

All quiet on the beach © Stephen Smith 

Clare racing © Stephen Smith

Tandem fat bike! © Stephen Smith

San spinning his singlespeed fat bike © Stephen Smith 

the winning pair, real pros © Stephen Smith

Saul spinning hard © Stephen Smith

Big thanks to Saul for organising and Stephen Smith for the photos.

Gear Used:

Skookum 853 singlespeed running 34T x 15T, Niner fork, cutdown bars and bar ends

Riding Morocco

Acclimatisation

I've been here nearly 20 hours and the appeal of loafing by a pool has evaporated as rapidly as the water splashed on the pool side in the 30 degree heat by our kids, I'm Itching to get out and look around. Outside the steel gates of our villa is a different world, Range Rovers barge past single speed bicycles and Docker mopeds (imitation Honda C90's) on the road to the villa and I find my place on the ragged edge of the road, ready to jump onto the gravel shoulder if a lorry should come by. Further along the road I take a short cut along a dusty gravel track, rammed earth walls line the track past a quarry and on up to a main road. The N8 trunk road crosses Oued Ourika on a new bridge but I ride the old partly collapsed bridge which has developed some interesting ramps and holes as it has collapsed. Once out on the main road progress is rapid with a south westerly tail wind blowing me towards the mountains, I overtake a couple of mopeds and in less than thirty minutes ten miles is behind me.

Turning right onto a minor road I thread between farm buildings and houses passing donkeys, three wheelers and mopeds, occasionally a car comes past but most of the traffic has two or three wheels. Hamlets seem like sociable places, groups of locals gather outside shops or around a broken moped and I'm the only one rushing to get anywhere. This road winds past fields of increasing size until I'm reminded of fenland roads; mile straight, ninety degree bend and another mile straight all the way to the end of the road.

Right turn again for home and I'm riding a ten mile straight road into a headwind, sunset is drawing close so I'm fighting to get back before the light goes. Progress is measured by milestones to Marrakech which I count down from the drops doing my best to get out of the headwind. 

Back at the village by the semi-collapsed bridge there is a festival vibe, the  scent of spices, BBQ'd meat and diesel fumes. The pavements beside the main road are filled with people and it's all lit by strings of light bulbs hanging from the the roadside shops. It's now dark though and I need to get back to the villa so I pick up a tow behind a lorry and enjoy free wheeling at thirty mph along the dual carriageway to my turnoff. On the back roads navigation is difficult, it's totally flat and it's difficult to distinguish between these single track roads. Checking my GPS a few minutes later I see that I missed my junction resulting in much improvised route finding and a couple of dead ends in dusty fields dodging thorn bushes. Following the blue arrow of the GPS in the darkness I eventually pick up a side road that leads me back to the villa, later than expected but in time for dinner. 

 

Atlas Raid

Time for a ride to the mountains, I can see them from the balcony of the villa and they look a long away but Google maps assures me that it's only twenty or thirty miles to the foot hills. Various routes between 100 and 120 miles are planned and I set off after a breakfast of cereal and bread rolls with most of a plan. Armed with a pancake and a couple more rolls in my back pocket I get on the N9 out of Marrakech to the mountains. It feels like slow going but checking my watch I see that I'm climbing all the way past wooden shacks and new towns. As traffic thins gradient increases and the towns and villages become more rural, sheep and goats wander out into the road, barren hills cast a heavy shadow over the settlements. 

shop swept away by winter rains

Slate at the summit

prickly pear cactii

Sticking to the N9 keeps route finding simple and the first proper climb of the day is a relief after miles of grinding away on the plain. Verges are lined with prickly pear cactii and thorn bushes, little else appears to grow without cultivation hence the only animals I see are scraggly goats and sheep. Signs warn of steeper sections, presumably because many of the cars and vans I'd seen on the plain would struggle to make it up a 8% gradient, it's also the first time in years I've seen a cow in the back of a pickup truck. Roadside stalls display rows of local mineral stones and fossils, trade looks slow and it isn't until the Tizi ait Barka summit that I see much evidence of tourists. On the way to the summit I pass one of King Mohammed's forrest reserves where pine trees have conquered the barren scrub and the scent of pine trees fills the air. Round the next corner I glimpse a tanker climbing up to the summit, there's plenty of climbing left and I drop a gear to settle in to the rest of the climb. As I round a left hander a group of kids playing at the roadside stop to shout encouragement and one put his hand out to offer a high 5 which is returned. At the summit groups of Europeans pull up in 4x4s, take photos and continue to their next destination. A local asks if I would swap my bike for his moped, 'non merci' is my reply, I'm enjoying the challenges of the Atlas. Truck drivers pull in up here to have a drink whilst their trucks cool down, I eat a pancake and free wheel off down towards Zerkten. My plan was to turn left onto a minor road at Zerkten but when I get to the village which clings to the side of a lush, steep sided valley I can't see my turn off so I continue on expecting the turn off to be just around the corner. 

high above a deep ravine

Five miles later I have to admit that I've probably missed the turn. My GPS doesn't have enough detail for me to work out exactly where the turn should be and I am running out of time to ride either of the routes I've planned. With data to my phone costing £5/MB I'm not about to use Google maps either so I decide to return to the summit at Tizi ait Barka. From there I race some trucks down the far side of the pass and back towards the plain. Back in the barren land of the prickly pear I take a right turn sign posted Sidi Rahhal which should drop me on to the plain in around fifteen miles, and a very empty fifteen miles they are, nothing but occasional thorn bushes, cactii and tumbleweed holding on to dirt that looks to to be resculpted by every rain storm. At the end of this road lies Sidi Rahhal, I'm reminded of a frontier town; thick smoke, earth movers and tired buses mix it up with taxis, pickups and rickshaws on the main street. I take the Marrakech road and settle in to a thirty mile spin straight across the plain.

 

Back to the Atlas

sculpture in the Atlas foothills

Another ride to the Atlas but this time I have offline maps app maps.me installed on my phone so I have a much better idea where I'm going. Today's route sets out on gravel tracks dodging the main roads and aiming for the Atlas by a cross country route. It seems slow now because more route checking is required but it pays off later in the ride. As I near the mountains I hear a moped coming up behind but it doesn't pass and eventually I look round to check I'm not imagining the sound, the kid on the moped asks me where I'm from and which Manchester football team I support (always a tricky one if you don't care). We chat in broken English for a few minutes before he turns off, I am reminded that this is why I love to explore on two wheels, in a car you are passive and paranoid, by bike approachable and adventurous. The back roads are always more of a treat for the senses, the scent of honey suckle and jasmine greet me in every village whilst villa walls overflow with brightly coloured blooms.

camels for the tourists

Once on the main road into the mountains I'm overtaken every few minutes by tourist mini-buses and hire cars. Camels and honey vendors have set up camp in the lay-bys on the Atlas approach and villages are peppered with artists' studios. The road kicks up out of the valley and winds upward along a tributary towards the higher peaks of the Atlas. It's not evenly graded like an alpine pass which makes it difficult to pace, I stop a couple of times in the steep sided valley to take photographs and take in the sounds of the place, children playing across the other side of the river, goats on the hill above and bird song all around. 

A few miles further up the lush valley is a junction, straight on is a dead end and right climbs up out of sight to a ridge, the right turn is mine. I quickly gain elevatIon out of the green valley up the red earth slopes which are mostly bare until I reach a ridge where pine trees grow. From here the road hugs the conour of the steep wooded slope, tight gravel strewn corners need concentration but the view west over the plain back towards Marrakech is distracting. Eventually the road descends out of the woods back to barren slopes, far above to the left is a peak with a radio mast on it, this road is at nearly 2000 metres so the. mast must be very high. I see goats from the road in the woods above and further along the road a boy shepherds the rest of his herd which includes several kid goats. Although not busy this road is in poor condition and the road surface at nearly every switch back and water crossing dissolves from tarmac to mud and gravel, I'm glad of some tread on my tyres as I loose grip in another corner. The descent is quick and I'm soon bouncing over speed bumps and free wheeling into a traditional mountain village, thick red earth walls, small windows and tiled clay tiled roofs. No sign of tarmac now either, just gravel and as I stop to check my route the call to prayer is sounds from the mosque I just passed. 

A couple more miles through olive groves to a junction where to my surprise I join the road from Imlil which we were driven down a couple of days before on a day trip to the high Atlas. From here it is downhill across the plain all the way to Marrakech, pick a big gear and ride straight to the hazy horizon. I've no idea how far remains, it always seems further on the flat without the distractions of the mountains. I can tell that I'm getting close to Marrakech, the road improves and golf course and leisure club developments line the road. The last few miles to the centre are a typical colonial boulevard, wide road, ornate street lamps, palm trees and prestige buildings set back from the road. It's only another ten miles from here though the back streets near the palace, mixing it up with the Marrakech traffic which isn't half as scary as a Leeds rush hour, trucks and buses leave loads of room when passing and nothing no-one is in enough of a hurry to put anyone else at risk. Many of the roads have a metre wide bike lane for cycles and mopeds, I can't help thinking that contrary to first impressions this is a pretty good place to ride a bike. 

street market in Marrakech

Nearing the villa I end up riding through a deep pothole to avoid an oncoming car on a narrow back road, the hiss of air from my rear tyre that follows is one of my least favourite sounds. I park my bike up-side down to see that I can't remove the rear axle - the splined collar that should be on the axle has fallen off at some point today and now I can't remove the wheel. I can't even grab the axle with any other tool as it's in a recess, as I'm only a couple of miles from the villa I decide to ride on carefully putting as much weight as I can over the front wheel. Arriving back at the villa with a flat tyre, two broken spokes and several more loose ones I'm glad to have made it, a flat in the mountains would have been a major problem. 

Road to Nowhere

The backup Planet X bike is deployed and as I've been to the mountains a couple of times I fancy finding the nearest thing to desert that's within an hour and a half of here. Looking at the map heading west from our villa should take me into some pretty empty territory and an off road shortcut will save time and add interest. After only eight miles I run out of road and pick a track heading out of a village into a barren vista of red earth and rock. Other than the occasional dry river crossing this is pretty straight forward although I'm being super careful to avoid punctures as I'm down to just one spare tube and no puncture repair kit. There are tracks heading off in all directions, I'm tempted to explore them but I need to be back at the villa for lunch so I stick to the planned route. Using the offline map app maps.me on my phone it's fairly simple navigating through this red wilderness although I'm glad to see a milestone for the P2118 once I find tarmac again. Typically the P2118 is absolutely straight to the horizon in the small hills ahead, progress marked by pot holes and milestones passed. Nothing grows here without a great deal of work, occasionally I pass a riad (courtyard house) in its own oasis created by pumping water from deep aquifers to satisfy the thirst of palm, olive and herb. Everywhere else bears more resemblance to the moon, it's difficult to even grasp the scale of the place when all you can see is rocks of varying sizes and dust. 

After twenty miles or so it's good to meet a main road which will return me towards Marrakech but the sun is now high in the sky and I'm not used to riding in 30 degree heat. The air is so dry that every breath sucks the moisture from mouth and nose, I've nearly run out of water and a few miles later I stop at a roadside shop for a cold coke. Once we've worked out what variety, size and style of Coke I would like a mug of cold water is poured for me and a kid asks me how I find my way. I explain about the phone and down the cold bottle of coke, before leaving he takes a selfie with me.

It's just after midday and most people are hiding in their houses or have found a patch of shade, riding fast in this heat is not clever but I have to be back for 1pm so I press on down the N8 towards Marrakech computing milestone markers as I go, 50 km - that sounds like more than one hour...

Fortunately the villa is this side of Marrakech and I make back in time to puzzle over how to remove the rear wheel from the other bike so it can be packed up for the return flight to Manchester. Eventually I source a hacksaw and slot the other side of the axle so it can be undone with a screw driver. I'm reluctant to leave our villa where we've been treated so well, if I return to Maroc it will be to the Atlas with better maps and some pre-planned gravel road routes. There are hundreds of possible mountain riding routes in the Atlas, I just need to research them and drag some accomplices out with me next time.

      

 

Gear:

• Cannondale Slate Ultegra
• Planet X custom XLS
• Osprey trail bag with 2.5l water reservoir