We’d heard there was a shortcut that would get us West much quicker, and save us from having to go all the way around a few mountains. But we also heard that the road closed in the afternoons… For some reason. So with that, we left our Riad in Agoudal and booked it to the pass. Maybe too fast. Because, fifteen minutes into the drive, and for the second time, I crashed.

This time in the middle of a group of CHILDREN.

We were driving along a road, weaving through a town, when we came across what seemed like a hundred kids, all heading towards what we assumed to be a school. Were they walking on the road? Yes. Did they move out of our way? Of course not.

So we weaved in and out, trying our best to steer clear, when I my back tire slipped. I felt the “Wiggles” beginning. “Oh no. I’m dead.” was a thought I literally had. And then I tumbled over, right in front of the kids.

I could hear their laughter and their feet as they tried to get to me. I rushed to get upright and on my way before my stuff was stolen. I just assumed some of it would be. I didn’t look back. There was no time. I gassed it, and put a solid several kilometers distance on them before I stopped to assess the damage. Nothing was missing, but my nerves were shot and my pants were soiled.

Soon enough, we made it to the pass, an hour or so before it closed.

It was a long day of driving.

We drove on, our bikes whining and complaining and somehow staying together through it all. It felt like we kept going up. And during the climbs, it was often quicker to help power the bike with your legs. Poor Granny could barely go fast enough up a hill to stay upright. But what a view.

At some point, we took a left when we should’ve taken a right, and ended up in the middle of a climb up one of Morocco’s taller mountains. Eventually, as we neared the top, we realized our mistake. Fortunately, it wasn’t too costly of an error. It was a lot faster going down the mountain than up, after all.

So we took some photos and continued on, stopping only when we, being the creative folk that we were, realized the lighting was absolutely PERFECT for a photo shoot. So while an old Moroccan woman looked on, we had a mini photo shoot. And we look damn good, if I do say so myself.

We crested a hill as the sun was setting, and there it was. A quiet, lakeside town with a name none of us could pronounce, beckoning like all of this was meant to be. And maybe it was. We whooped and hollered and rolled into town like conquering heroes. The hotel slash restaurant was right at the entrance to the town, and there was room for all of us. We stowed our bikes in the restaurant itself, and waved as a few Aussie stragglers rolled in.

Then we took to the town. Our Aussie friends were determined to find alcohol. We were just happy to be in a place we weren’t deathly afraid of. We scored some sandwiches from a street vendor. One of our party took a detour to a pharmacy (ask me about this sometime), and then we posted up at a restaurant and overcharged for some more meat. But at least they had some beer.

We had exactly two more days to get to the finish line. And we knew we wanted to get close enough to where, if we ran into some trouble, we could still get there in time. Because both us and our bikes were not okay. We were all tired, slightly hungover, and oh, so so so sore. Believe it or not, sitting scrunched over on a very large theragun for eight to twelve hours a day does relax you.

Plus, our thumbs were UNUSABLE. The way we had to grip the throttle, the vibrations did a number specifically on our thumbs. They were UNUSABLE. For a day or two after we finished, I literally couldn’t use it. I couldn’t grip a fork or pick something off the ground. Even a week after the run, I couldn’t shuffle a deck of cards or open my contact solution top.

Our bikes were somehow even worse. They all made horrible noises as we drove, Danny’s bike was somehow getting even slower, and my bike would slip into neutral randomly when I drove. That meant when I shifted it back into gear, it would lurch and I’d pop a violent and barely controllable wheelie. Not good.

But, we hadn’t had any flats or major disasters. Our bikes were still drivable.

So on the sixth day, that’s what we did. We skipped the detours, put our heads down, and drove.

It was a boring, slog of a ride. A half hour into the trip, one of the aussies got a flat and they fell back. We wouldn’t see them again until near the finish line. I put headphones in for the first time all trip. I had made a point of not listening to music – I’d wanted to be in the moment, to hear the environment and the roar of my bike. But by the sixth day, driving in the cold and wet thorough what looked like Nebraska, I needed a boost.

After a day of driving and only one slight wrong turn, we made it to Ait Ourir. We found a weird and wild Riaad just outside of town, which Danny described as, “A gay sex club in Chernobyl.” It was pretty accurate. Faux gaudy decorations lay about next to broken toys and overgrown weeds. But the room was spacious and the view was incredible. Plus, our room came with a crib.

We hopped back on the bike and rode into town, exploring a night market and enjoying a lamb(?) sandwich while the head of the animal watched us do it. One more day to go.