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MOROCCO BOUND A Solo Motorcycle Journey
to North Africa |
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20 Sept 2002
(Friday)
Armin and Alex’s house, Enkenbach, Germany
The last 48 hours have been a blur. Basically, after debarking the ferry in Algeciras, Spain I began experiencing my normal, post-trip depression. Only this time I was still almost 3000 km from home. I rode over now familiar roads to the campground in Tarifa, and set up my tent in the exact same spot I had camped 6 days before. Rode back into town to send an overdue email to my honey, after which I bummed around town feeling very lonely. Drank a couple beers and ate some tapas at a street-side café. Rode back to the campground and made the decision to ride straight back to Germany. (well, okay, straight back after I crossed over into Portugal) I was done with this adventure. I didn’t want anything to detract from my Moroccan experience, and I just wanted to get back to Germany, see my friends, drink some strong German beer, and do some much needed maintenance on the bike and myself. Morocco was the trip. Everything else was getting to and from there. With that decided, I finally drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the ocean waves crashing in the background.
The patter of raindrops on the tent awakened me around 3 am. There is something so warm and comforting about being snuggled down in a toasty sleeping bag and hearing rain on the tent….. I knew it was just a passing cloud, so I didn’t worry. At 4:10 am it was still coming down. By 8:00 am, it had eased off and I knew it was time to go. Breaking camp quickly, I had the bike packed and ready to roll in just under an hour. Just in time too. As I slipped on my textile riding gear, the heavens opened again. With no other choice, I mounted and rode off into the rain. It looked as though it was going to be a nasty day as the clouds were rolling in off the Atlantic.
As I worked my way north through Seville, I was constantly dancing in and out of the rainstorms. The weather was blowing west to east off of the Atlantic, hitting the rising hills of Spain, and dumping their copious loads of rain. Normally this would have been an alacritous ride, as the two-lane road pirouetted along the hills and valleys of the Extramadura region, but the driving rains and water flowing across the roads made it a challenge. I was tired, the front tire was seriously stretching its useful life, and it was just hard riding. Three wet hours later I finally linked up with the E15 autovia just east of Badajoz. Turning left, I set my sights on Portugal. Thirty minutes later I rolled into, and I am not making this up…. Elvas, Portugal. (thank you, thank you, thank you very much….) I had been riding into the teeth of the winds and the storm, and in Elvas I surrendered. I was not having any fun, I was cold, wet, and far from home. Technically I was in Portugal, but still several hours from the coast. It was no different from the Spanish countryside that I had just come through, and there was no break from the rain in sight. I had had enough.
Reversing my course, I also reversed my fortune that morning. Instead of riding into the face of the winds and rain, in turning they became my partners and carried me eastward across western Spain towards Madrid. Soon I began to outrun the clouds, and the sun started speckling the countryside with golden patches of warmth. By noon the skies were clear, I was dry again, and the temperature was back up near 80F. It was a good day to ride.
The hours rolled by as briskly as the countryside. Even though I was forced to stop and pay tolls all too often, the smoothness of the highway and the lack of traffic were like a soothing balm after the jackhammer roads of Morocco. For the first time in over a week I was able to find the perfect sweet spot on the BMW (6100 rpm/85 mph), relax, and just thoroughly enjoy the ride. Madrid had been my goal for the day, but I cruised through it just as the evening rush hour was ending. It was a gorgeous day, the conditions were perfect, and I was not in the mood to stop with so much daylight left. Glancing down at the map on my tankbag, I quickly picked Zaragoza as my next goal. It was only another 200 km away and the riding was just so beautiful. I watched the sun setting in a gorgeous orange-tinted sky in my rearview mirrors and kept rolling. I was in a zone. Around 9 pm I finally pulled off the autovia and into the first hotel I saw. Then came the bad news. Zaragoza was having a convention and there were no rooms available within 100 km. Back on the bike, the map showed me Leida was the next town on my eastward trek, and was only another 130 km away. Rolling down the autovia I watched the moon rise over the lunar-like landscape of the Aragon region. The skies were clear, the temperature was perfect, and the nearly full moon illuminated the stark countryside in all directions. It was a magical evening to ride. Finally, just after 11 pm I found an Autovia Hotel in Leida. What had started as a horrible day for riding, ended as a very pleasant 1200 km (745 mile) day.
I awoke before at 5:30 am and was ready to hit the road again. By 6 a.m. I was blasting east towards Barcelona in the cool pre-dawn hours. The damp fog in the hills and the crisp morning air were as invigorating as an espresso. Descending towards Barcelona and the coast, I watched the eastern horizon slowly grow lighter as the sun created a warm orange haze over the Mediterranean. Once again my timing was fortuitous as I managed to surf the beginning of rush hour traffic all the way through Barcelona. Approaching the French border around 8:45 am I noticed the odometer and realized I had just ridden almost 1700 km (1056 miles) in the last 24 hours. And it was still early on a beautiful morning!
France would simply be a scenic kaleidoscope of color and countryside. Perpignon (and the road to Andorra), Montpelier, Lyon, Dijon, Nancy and Metz were just waypoints on the route northward to Germany. Even with cooling temperatures and scattered rain showers, there was no stopping me. I was on autopilot and the BMW sang to me as we glided up the French autobahns. By early evening I was stopping at the German/French border near Saarbrucken and phoning Armin to let them know I was two hours away. Pulling into their driveway I was bone-tired, but happy to be home with my friends.
All told, the 2775 km (1724 miles) back from Tarifa, Spain (via Elvas, Portugal) took me slightly over 34 hours. The entire 13-day odyssey was around 7700 km (4800 miles), with 2300 km (1450 miles) of that in Morocco. Personally I had added four new countries and one new continent to my collection of experiences. But all the numbers and all the kilometers mean nothing compared to the memories of the places I saw and the people I met. Bribing my way thru Moroccan Customs, mopeding thru the warren-like alleys of the old medina in Marrakech, bagging passes over the Haut Atlas mountains, sleeping under the stars in an oasis in the Sahara, riding for hours in a sandstorm across the western Sahara, and absorbing the cacophonic chaos of market day in Chefchaouen, all have permanently etched a smile on my face when I think of them. I can’t wait to go back.
Thanks for riding along with me.
If you are interested in riding in Europe or North Africa, please let me know. I’m always looking for a partner to ride with. I keep a bike in Germany and can travel fairly easily. You can click this link it you just want some tips European motorcycle travel, or you can contact me at this address. I’ll be happy to try to help out.
Jeff Munn
Poquoson, Virginia
BMWMOA # 39621
IBA # 12800
President, Selected Friends of Wile E. Coyote (BMWMOA Club #100)
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