A few hours later and it’s hotter and drier, our water is running out and, though we are descending, I’m going little faster: my handling skills and nerve are being tested and my shoulders are tied in knots from the tension of grabbing my brake levers in an attempt to stay in control. I didn’t come to Morocco to pussyfoot down mountains.

...we edged to the finish by sand. I hate sand. I hate that I struggle to ride it. I hate it more when it is a diversion sent to test you and there is a perfectly good road is available. I hate it when it doesn’t take you somewhere beautiful just scrubby towns and industrial vegetable plantations that stink of muck. I hate it the most when it’s the heat of the day, there’s no shade and your riding buddy is breaking down. 40 flat kilometres took us nearly four hours.

If you quit in the middle-of-nowhere you still have to get yourself to somewhere you can get a taxi or a bus or a hotel. As this nadir came part way through a 90km stretch in the middle of nowhere we had no choice to push on anyway. I didn’t come to Morocco for the cuisine but the flatbread and Vache Qui Rit washed down with Mountain Dew in Afra was astonishingly restorative. So Tim and I decided we wouldn’t quit and kept on riding