‘The value of the journey is in the fear’, writes Camus, ‘the journey makes us feverish and porous, so much so that every slightest emotion shakes us to the core of our being’. The aphorism is even more true when one ventures out on a bicycle: to the slight but cheerful discomfort that the traveller feels when leaving his daily routine, his comfort zone, on a two-wheeled journey one adds the unknown of technical problems, fatigue, the meticulous preparation of the vehicle and bags, the lack of water and food, the climbs, the cold. Emotions skyrocket, as do perceptions.
Every year there is that miraculous astral conjunction whereby five long-time friends manage to simultaneously shirk their obligations and squeeze themselves into a plane with their respective two-wheelers, disassembled and pressed into a carton along with their bikepacking bags. Now there they are, the five of them, in Rome, at Termini station, lugging around a quintal and a half of cartons, bags, steel and aluminium, doubts and hopes. Laughter, lots of it.
No rules were laid down on the choice of setup: everyone equipped themselves to their taste, some well in advance, others, as usual, late rotten. Two front MTBs that were not exactly the latest fashion, followed by two elderly gravel bikes, one of which had a double bar handlebar and MTB gearbox, and finally a steel adventure MTB. It has to be said that the perfect bike for Morocco does not exist; the tough Moroccan terrain will test any bike, motorised or not. We're not pros, we know that, and this isn't the Atlas Mountain Race but it's clear to us that those stony, semi-desert areas are unforgiving; breaking something means getting into a lot of trouble, in some stretches there's not a soul to be found for tens of kilometres, let alone a decent workshop. We will have to grind nine hundred kilometres in eight days, not exactly a walk in the park given the eleven thousand metres of positive altitude difference; for now, however, the only hurry we are in is to shove our thirty-kilo cardboard box into the Boeing's belly: pushing it continuously through stations and airports looks more and more like a cycling via crucis.
Three whole hours of flying and it is now late at night in Marrakech, the low-cost timetable is bad, we still have to get to the hotel and assemble everything. The High Atlas is just around the corner, we are tired but determined, and above all ready to be beaten by the infamous North African altitude differences.
Day 1 | 100 km 2.090 dsl+
Marrakech - Taddert
We leave the chaos of the medina of Marrakech and head east along an asphalt road that climbs towards the rust-coloured mountain range. We cross an olive grove that is reminiscent of our homeland and a stop to bivouac on Umbrian specialities is a must. The tarmac gives way to gravel, the villages become more sparse and we begin to grind uphill on stony but fairly well-trodden roads. Reddish rocky ridges dominate barren valleys parched by the African sun, only a few green patches of shrubs interrupt the alien landscape. The final climb to the pass overlooking the state road to Taddert is tough, ramps of around 20%, staying in the saddle is not for everyone. A glorious and well-deserved atay (green mint tea, which from now on will punctuate our Moroccan days), warms us up and cheers us up at the edge of the highway. It is night and cold, and we climb in the pitch black of the valley floor up to Taddert, 1800 metres. Ahmed is waiting for us on the road, in front of the door of his meagre inn, cold and worried about our colossal delay. One of the toughest stages is closed, the legs are spinning well and the bottom doesn't seem to be protesting, at least for now. Shoulders are patted, hands shaken and five tajines are put on the stove.
Day 2 | 86 km 1.400 dsl+
Taddert - Ait Ben Haddou
Another clear, cool morning, a few kilometres and the valley floor steepens abruptly towards the infamous Tizi n'Tichka pass (2260 m). After the pass, turn left, direction Ait Ben Haddou, the asphalt cuts in two a panoramic view that seems to have been taken by one of those rovers running around on Mars. A shepherd and a mule laden with hay remind us that we are on earth, we have been pedalling for hours, and we are hungry. In the Berber village of Telouet we tuck into a plum, egg and beef tajine, fabulous. The final ride towards Ait Ben Haddou fulfils the promises made, also thanks to a golden hour that could not be more golden. After all, the Kasbah in the town is famous for having been the set for several very popular film productions, including Lawrence of Arabia, Stargate, Gladiator, a handful of episodes of the Iron Throne, and so on. It is night now, an off-road vehicle cuts across the village road at breakneck speed, the usual stray dogs barely make it out of the roadway.
Day 3 | 100km 1.170 dsl+
Ait Ben Haddou - Taznakht
We distance ourselves from the main road and civilisation by pedalling a track that cuts through the Martian nowhere in the direction of Ourzazate; were it not for the mule track, I would have no difficulty believing myself to be on another planet. To make it even more alienating, a sign pops up here and there advertising some film studio not even in Holywood. You actually look around and... fuck, it's Monument Valley! We're in the Yankees! How is that possible? The sun has evidently gone to your head and you pull yourself together for the triumphant entrance to Ourzazate, a small village equipped with ATMs and the fictitious Carrefour where the story goes that there is an alcoholic beverages department... The up and downhill stretch to Taznakht is breathtaking, the majestic valleys alternate quickly, the road runs great. The little village is also lively in the evening, here we are already outside the tourist caravans, there are no other Europeans in sight. We take accommodation in one of the two ramshackle auberges in town. Hungry as hell, we sit down at the tables of a street food restaurant that brings out flab to our heart's content, a gargantuan dinner is laid out to the sound of tajine, grilled chicken and kefta, a type of aromatic meatball served in a tajine with eggs. Seventy dirhams per head, a mere seven euros.
Day 4 | 95km 1.010 dsl+
Taznakht - Oasis Aguinane
The night at the Hotel Taghadoute was not one of the best. The rooms overlook the main street and amidst the nocturnal hubbub, the barking of the usual stray dogs and cars thrown about, there was no shortage of noise. We put our bags back against the colonnades of the auberge's portico and left the morning bedlam of Taznakht behind us. The trail bisects a semi-desert valley for at least thirty kilometres, the landscape is lunar, alien. In the middle of nowhere we meet several wayfarers laden like mules; I wonder how long they have been walking, behind them are kilometres of total emptiness. We continue uphill for kilometres and kilometres, then finally the pass and a descent that is really at the limit for gravel bikes, wrists and forearms are begging for mercy, the gaze is lost once again in the sidereal distances, and you think that if there is a more beautiful place to cross by bike, God has probably kept it for himself. It is now evening, the first palm trees of the Aguinane oasis can be glimpsed. From the minaret overlooking the valley rises the song of the muezzin, it is seven o'clock, we stop in front of a structure. An elderly man in flip-flops and caftan hurries towards us, speaking only Berber, handing us a telephone. At the other end is his son, who acts as our interpreter and helps us to take care of the necessary formalities, in particular ordering dinner and convincing the Berber that we are really, really hungry.
Day 5 | 107km 800mt dsl+
Oasisi Aguinane - Tata
The morning, as usual, is crisp and sunny. We set off again among the palm trees of the Aguinane and only now do we realise that the oasis proper is located much lower down than where we were staying, in fact we descend down wonderful hard and technical hairpin bends to the bottom of the valley. The oasis is located in a basin, and to get out of it we travel through a narrow, phantasmagorical canyon that then steepens decisively towards the pass, then at the fork we turn right and leave the asphalt for a sultry desert area, flat and alienating, where the stones take on a beautiful purplish colour. In the small village of Akka Ighane I realise that compared to Marrakech we are definitely further south, and it is here that an idea finally strikes me: Africa. Just to confirm my fantasies, the sultry plateau in the direction of Tata is dotted here and there with camels grazing the sparse vegetation. We leave the gravel after a very long stretch, the asphalt at the moment seems like a blessing, but up to Tata it turns into an exhausting straight stretch of dozens of kilometres that at times is a dream, but also a nightmare. The group disperses over a radius of kilometres, around it there is nothing, the tomb-like silence is only interrupted by the din of jeeps launched at motorway speeds towards Tata. The city, still far away, is shrouded in a cloud of mist. The Sahara is at the gates
A less-than-exciting breakfast and we set off from Tata to tackle about fifty kilometres of asphalt until we reach a petrol station where we leave the tarmac for a gravel track through a semi-desert area. Instead of the distributor, where more or less everyone was hoping to stock up on water and provisions, there is instead a construction site. Excellent. We come out onto a huge plain, get the track wrong, then cross it. The heat is hellish, forearms roasting in the sun. There is no shade for miles. The only form of life that thrives in this scorching slab is a variety of green, fleshy-leafed acacia, much appreciated by the goats and armed to the teeth with inch-long thorns. In fact, the puncture dance begins; we almost all puncture, some sooner and some later, in a ten-kilometre stretch. We get lost. The track turns left towards some dark ridges, but the fork can't be spotted, a mountain bike has already passed, someone else has simply gone straight, and obviously his mobile phone is not reachable. From the sultriness of the plain, once we have regrouped, we grit our teeth until the cool of the pass, it is now sunset when we cross towards Tiouadou, with the hope that in the charming little village that closes the valley there will be an open structure.
Day 6 | 115km 1.380m dsl+
Tata - Tiouadou
A less-than-exciting breakfast and we set off from Tata to tackle about fifty kilometres of asphalt until we reach a petrol station where we leave the tarmac for a gravel track through a semi-desert area. Instead of the distributor, where more or less everyone was hoping to stock up on water and provisions, there is instead a construction site. Excellent. We come out onto a huge plain, get the track wrong, then cross it. The heat is hellish, forearms roasting in the sun. There is no shade for miles. The only form of life that thrives in this scorching slab is a variety of green, fleshy-leafed acacia, much appreciated by the goats and armed to the teeth with inch-long thorns. In fact, the puncture dance begins; we almost all puncture, some sooner and some later, in a ten-kilometre stretch. We get lost. The track turns left towards some dark ridges, but the fork can't be spotted, a mountain bike has already passed, someone else has simply gone straight, and obviously his mobile phone is not reachable. From the sultriness of the plain, once we have regrouped, we grit our teeth until the cool of the pass, it is now sunset when we cross towards Tiouadou, with the hope that in the charming little village that closes the valley there will be an open structure.
Day 7 | 96km 1.850m
Tiouadou - Tizourgane
It is early morning, and in the gorges of Ait Mansour the sun still does not come, it is cold. After refuelling at a well-stocked date vendor, we start to grind up the height difference, today distributed over two large ‘horns’ whose summits are located at the 30th and 70th kilometres of the stage. The first ascent is hard but feasible, we are still fresh, from the top there is a splendid and endless descent which leads directly to the village of Tafraoute along a well maintained asphalt road framed by red and white kerbs, never seen so far here in Morocco; during the descent sudden and lethal gusts of wind, we must be careful not to exceed the speed. The view from above is incredible. The second effort of the day is less clement than the first, which also had some ups and downs, this one instead never lets up, and we go from the 900 m of Tafraoute to the 1,700 m of the pass. When it is less than a kilometre to the pass a van overtakes me at crazy speed, almost hooking my handlebars as it passes me, unrepeatable words fly. We arrive at the Kasbah of Tizourgane at sunset, the splendid fortification suddenly emerges from the plain, a volcanic island in the oceanic void. We decide to be rich, at least for today, and take lodgings directly in the kasbah, nowadays adapted to accommodate travellers. The guests' luggage is hoisted directly with a motor winch over the fort's walls.
Day 8 | 107km 660 dsl+
Tizourgane - Agadir
Today's stage is long but with little elevation gain, we overnight at an altitude of over a thousand metres and finish in Agadir, on the shoreline of the Atlantic. In the small village of Ait Baha, we stop for a rest. We set off again in the intense heat, we are losing altitude and the temperatures are suffering, the coolness of the Atlas Mountains is now only a distant memory. In the afternoon heat, we find ourselves pushing along for long stretches at 30 kmh or more, in the slipstream, grinding out kilometres of asphalt until we reach the Berber town of Biougra. The smog is asphyxiating. Returning to the traffic, the chaos, the bedlam of Moroccan cities after days of hermitage and desert Martian landscapes is truly traumatic. The gentle slope allows us to speed away at unusual averages, we even do stretches at an average speed of 35 km/h. When the saltiness begins to push away the smog, we realise that we are close to our destination, the Atlantic is just around the corner, we begin to perceive the relaxed mood of the holiday cities. On the seafront, the sight of a German pensioner in Birkenstocks, white pedal pushers and Hawaiian shirt reminds us, alas, that the wonder is over, we could be anywhere, even in Rimini, and it wouldn't change a thing. However, life teaches us that where there is a German, there cannot be a beer brewer, so we raise our glasses to this journey.
