Agadair (dair dair, push pineapple, shake the tree)

The previous night in Rabat I was out like a light at 8pm hoping to wake nice and early for that done deal that was a 9.15am ‘chocs away.’ Here we go...but after waking up at 8.15am (?!) and then a further two hours of dicking about with everything I finally hit the road at 10.15am. I was disappointed with myself as Mick had given me some campsite locations further afield and not knowing the road and riding conditions along with not having the wonderful road mapping anymore on my GPS (instead just a distance by straight line and some roads that I never seem to be on) mean that I’m never quite sure what’s achievable in a day. The first half of the day continued along the same newly laid perfect tarmac that I’ve pretty much ridden since I entered Morocco but this eventually turned into a regular bumpy road through towns and villages with some corners! This was more interesting to ride but at the same time more dangerous and of course slower. I pressed on though, only stopping for fuel/snacks/drinks and made good progress all things considered. The visibility now doesn’t seem to be much more than mile or so due to what appears to be a constant low dust cloud. Also the air is getting much drier, with each breath it dries out your nose/mouth. That’s not all that’s changing, so to is the terrain which is a mixture of semi desert and then deep red mountainous tree filled regions. Tourists aren’t to be found except for the odd French registered car.6pm was decision time as I approached Agadair with 606 km still showing on the GPS for the next campsite I sensibly looked for a suitable place to stop. Now as many of my friends would testify I’m sure, I like a pound note but having found a nice clean motel offering everything that comes with it for 187 Dinar (£15) my hand was in my pocket. You see, I would happily pay someone £15 to erect my tent and pack all my stuff up in the morning so this was an easy decision, not to mention the time saving. Laundry and me washed  and assisted by the very helpful receptionist, I headed to a nearby restaurant for a proper meal, the first since I left the UK actually. And what a meal! They must have thought I was American as I did over order somewhat. The tuna salad starter would’ve been enough alone without the fish platter, chips and bread but thankfully I was joined by a cat who happily helped me out to spare my blushes! That’s about it for the day although I do have some thoughts about this place. With Mick waiting for me in Gambia I am moving along quickly and I did think that was fine as the Saharan ‘Arab Africa’ wouldn’t be as interesting as ‘Black Africa’ but now I am regretting the pace slightly. The similarities with Turkey continue and with Turkey being my favourite country of all, I like it here. The people are fantastically friendly and it feels very safe. My only regret and it is a big one, is not brushing up on my French before I left, for what looks like the spoken language for most of the trip. Yesterday though, I did buy a French/English micro dictionary and I’m trying as much as I can which of course goes down very well with the locals who seem to find it odd/amusing that I can’t speak their language.
D’accord. Apres moi petite dejourne a wuit heur deman matin, je allez!
Ps If you understood the ‘pineapple’ gag, then like me, you are officially old. Sorry.

Getting a sweat on in Rabat

It’s no longer cold. Although last night was still a bit nippy the days from here on in are going to see me chugging some serious amounts of water.
I had a day off the bike as visa applications were made. First up was the Mauritanian visa. Application in at 9.30am, collected at 3pm. As a bonus I’d already found the Mali embassy which was nearby and somehow managed to get that one immediately after, just before they closed! Result. However...for a long reason my second passport isn’t with me and it hasn’t arrived at home! The reason, the UKPA say, is they require further information and as I’m a sole director blah blah blah. This is very bad news. After today I’ve only two blank pages left in my passport which by my reckoning will get me about as far as Nigeria at the most and unable to continue. Plus plenty of other messes that I just don’t want to think about. After a couple of calls to the UKPA and my friend and accountant Sarit, HOPEFULLY, (I’m not religious but I’ll pretend if it helps) he’ll be able to ‘create’ what they require from me which will allow said passport to land in my hallway and then be whiskey off by DHL to somewhere where I can at last have it in my hands!!
As a distraction to all this and while waiting for the two visas today I explored Rabat by daylight and...it’s actually very nice. It’s pretty clean, with plenty of French colonial buildings, the people are very nice and the place has a Turkish feel about it. It’s maybe nicer than Spain actually.
I can’t help but think of most of the Spanish as a bit skanky, if you know what I mean? Having said all that, I haven’t had a shower for three days now and I reckon that I’m still not even half way from the next one. There are no facilities here at what is essentially a piece of waste ground that you’d expect the only guests to be the odd burnt out car. There is a tap somewhere so maybe later I could take a sort of wash. I was contemplating going ‘tackle out’ as no one’s around but within the last hour a dozen Germans and Austrians have just er, invaded. So I guess washing that way is now de rigour...
Early night planned as I prepare to continue heading south through Morocco tomorrow at 8am sharp. OK OK how about 9.15am for cash? Done!
Bon soir.

Pressing on into the dark unknown...

As per my last trip, some work needs to be done on my ‘efficiency of getting ready.’ I almost typed ‘organising’ but I think that would be unfair as I am organised but it just seems to take me FOREVER to sort myself out sometimes (isn’t that different?). I get the feeling my new friend ‘Danish Mick’ now waiting for me in the Gambia is one of those types that effortlessly just does his ‘stuff’ and so a compromise may have to be made. This was perfectly highlighted by my inability to get on the road for 8am sharp as two big rides, a boat crossing and a border crossing lay ahead. So then after defrosting my toothpaste and toes, packing up and of course three attempts at getting my earplugs just right I finally hit the tarmac at 10am.
A better ride followed but like the day before I remained cold all day. Not surprisingly part of this was down to the altitude which included riding alongside the impressive looking ‘Sierra Nevada.’ From there, Granada and Malaga passed and I was now into the Spain I know, it being ‘Andalucia.’ A visit into this region isn’t the same without passing into ‘Arroyo de la Miel’ to see my grandparent’s old villa and the Spanish neighbours that have lived in the same very small cul-de-sac for my lifetime and beyond. They include Juan who was unfortunately alone and of course Pepe and Maria who couldn’t be more Spanish if they tried. Despite Pepe trying to empty the contents of his fridge onto my bike and much chatting about absolutely no idea I re hit the road at around 3.30pm getting more than a little concerned about the time due to me needing to get to Rabat, Morocco by nightfall as a safe campsite (GPS programmed) and visa application procedures awaited...
No chance. A fairly quick boat trip was nearly slowed down by the usual Moroccan toe rags trying it on at the ferry terminal. Not sure which of the old favourites it would’ve been had I played along but I guess that was for someone else to find out. Got to Cueta pretty quickly on a sea cat across a very choppy Mediterranean sea but I struggled to find my way out of this Spanish enclave and onto African soil proper. Eventually I found the border and it was pretty much as I expected. Chaos. Last year’s trip with all its border crossings had prepared me though and I honestly think that without this experience I’d have come out of the other side three times slower, some euros lighter and possibly even missing a few items.
This still didn’t save me though from the horrible feeling that you know you can’t meet your objective, you’ve no plan b and not even any local currency, just in case. With my GPS not able to direct me by road now, some friendly policemen advised me on heading to Tangiers in order to then continue to Rabat which would take around three hours. It was 8.30pm and already very dark. The road from the border, like Bilbao, immediately headed ‘up.’ This time though it was a dodgy mountain road in bad repair in the pitch black. Not good when you have a tinted visor! So I was forced to ride in my sunnies and concentrate VERY hard. I’d like to comment on how Morocco looked but the following three and a half hours of almost terror behind my glasses didn’t allow me to see any more then that small speck where my not great headlights ran out of light in the distance. Actually, that was the only bit of real light the whole way to Rabat so not much to see anyway. The road did eventually, after 100km, finally turn into a pretty good (but still unlit) dual carriageway which finally got me to Rabat at 12.30am, still freezing and needing to set up my tent etc having found the ‘campsite!’ This wasn’t quite as hardcore as the 18hr ride to Kabarosk in Russia with Steve but just as worrying as any problems would’ve meant finding myself in the very very deep stuff. Fortunately ‘Des’ again, carried me through it like some growling gunship where we’re both having a day and a half off in Rabat whilst waiting for visas for Mauritania and Mali...

Boat, Bilbao, Brrrr and Bed

The thirty six hours onboard ‘The Pride Of Bilbao’ were spent mostly the following: Two hours in the ‘International food court’ which served up, quite frankly shocking fare, sixteen hours in my cabin wondering how to lose a bit of luggage weight (which included throwing away a pile of medicines that I picked up in Russia and had absolutely no idea what they were for and of course my home laptop’s power lead that I decided to pack?!) whilst generally avoiding the grotesque English,Welsh and Scousers. And finally about eighteen hours sleep. No, Make that seventeen as I was woken by someone banging at 2am. Yes that type.

Bilbao then. Freezing fog, along with riding immediately up into the mountains and seemingly staying at altitude all the way to the southern coastline meant for a very cold and damp day. I managed as far as ‘Santa Elena’ which was a small village due east of Cordoba which I reckon was about 420 miles from the top. Not too bad really considering the conditions. I had a few issues camping though, the first being that I couldn’t get my stove to work for about 45 minutes and the second was that it felt like below zero and as a result my ‘three season’ sleeping bag and ALL of my clothes weren’t enough to stop me getting into a bit of a state through the cold. I eventually lost feeling in my feet and in the morning not only had my toothpaste nearly frozen but my toes had frozen together! Not a good start but then I guess it will warm up a bit...

‘...’ indeed!

So here we go again then. It’s all Ian Reed’s fault. You see, once I’d settled back into ‘normal life’ after finally coming home he went and bought me the ‘Adventure Motorcycling Handbook’ which is widely regarded as THE biking bible and a source of inspiration and information to fellow er, adventurers? As my old roomie Scott from last years RTW reckons ‘adventure before dementia.’ Damn right. So, fast forward ten weeks and here I am in my cabin onboard a P&O ferry to Bilbao, Spain and from there it’s 99.999% land to Cape Town. The intended route once in Africa is too long winded to write right now (I can’t remember) but suffice to say it’s through the Western Sahara and a west side route all the way to the cape and maybe 16,000 miles, I’m still not sure. This route is reckoned to be as about as challenging as they come especially from April-October when the monsoon (read MUD) seasons hit hard deep in the jungle in places such as Gabon, the Congo and Angola. Oh did I mention that I’ll be riding until early June? Hmmm...
So what this time then? A group? Solo? More unexpected Trance clubs? Bike?
Well no group but only solo for 3,000 miles or so. BJ had indicated that he was in but eventually he was out. That led me to email a Danish guy named ‘Mick’ who I was aware was about to leave on a similar trip as I hoped to do in a similar time. As it turns out he was leaving that very night (eight days ago) with a Greek guy who was only going as far as Gambia. One swift reply later and it was agreed that I’d remove my finger from inside something and follow Scott’s thought. The plan is that Mick will then wait for me in Gambia with cold beers at the ready (I like him already) and on we’ll go. Fast forward eight days to now and here I am, absolutely shattered, 96% prepared and making a first entry to the continuation of my RTW trip. There’s no WIFI though so it’s on a word document for now. There will be much of this though as I’ll be mostly camping out there. Sorry about the pictures by the way but there wasn’t really much else to photo, for now. Oh well here’s to a couple of days R&R at sea...
Oh yeah... Trance? I’m thinking no way but there was one in Mongolia so who knows?
And my bike? It’s ‘Des’ again of course! He’s feeling fine but this time he’s carrying more weight due to all the spare parts/extra camp stuff/medicine/worry. Still not sure about the racket he makes or the wind turbulence though?!?
I need sleep.
I really do.
X

New York City

Barring an incident on the 70 mile ride from Southampton to my house when Des arrives back in the UK this is officially the finishing post.
So then here I go for the final time. Or maybe not?
As not to spoil my consistency I was the last to leave but actually I was pretty much on time as everyone else had left very early much was their keenness to get to the finish line. So, again over went my right leg and I fired up Des which no doubt woke up anyone within 200 meters! Freshly serviced from the night before he cruised us along a very nice and steady ride to the 'Big Apple.' It's funny, the many big mile days that had gone before made this 140 mile ride seem like my 12 mile commute to work. As the GPS indicated that NY was getting nearer and the traffic increased as it does when nearing all cities my thoughts turned to how I would react to seeing and then getting to Brooklyn Bridge and realising the end of what has of course been an amazing trip and an ambition of mine over many years. Watching 'The Long Way Round' the two guys had admitted to crying in their helmets as they crossed the bridge as their emotions came to the fore so I was interested to see how I felt about it. The imposing NY skyline loomed large on the horizon and I felt a little twinge of something but it was more in awe of the site of the Empire State Building surrounded by loads of other huge buildings than anything else. They got closer and closer until I passed through the Lincoln Tunnel and into NY proper. This was my second time in NY but the first one didn't really count as it was a yellow cab ride between the airports JFK and Newark, in think fog. Anyway, it was just as I thought it would be, full of yellow cabs, police directing the busy traffic at junctions, hot dogs sellers, people everywhere, neon lights and I have to say, one of my most favorite places ever. Brooklyn Bridge. I made it. Stood up on the foot pegs as I crossed the bridge and even opened up Des to drown out a load of noisy demonstrators that were crossing on foot which made me smile. But that was it really. No tears, no emotions. Maybe I am a bit cold (as I've been told) but all this stuff I've read/heared about how this was going to be 'a life changing experience' etc was rubbish. It was just me, doing what I love doing, riding my bike and discovering new places and experiences. Someday I'll do it again...

Catskills

So with the finishing post now in sight I left the Canadian side of Niagra falls later than everyone else and made the 300 mile + ride to a little place in a national park called Catskills. The first 220 miles were all motorway/freeway/interstate or whatever and were of course boring, every one of them. The last 70 miles however were very nice indeed. The roads and landscape were very much like a nice Sunday ride near my home. Twisty quite roads, through forests that were losing their leaves and all in all very pleasant. I even got to see an elusive Amish person, complete with black carriage and horse, hat and silly beard (not worn by the the horse!) So, I made Catskills which in truth was in the middle of absolutely nowhere but no matter as everyone was well and truly thinking about the following days final 140 mile ride to New York's Brooklyn Bridge for photos, then onto the shippers and finally the farewell party.