BMW field test - Morocco (day 4)

When I gripped the handlebar the following morning, I winced: my right hand in particular felt sore and it was only later in the day that I discovered blisters on both palms, under every knuckle. Witold looked over and said "ouch, those are gonna be painful tomorrow, I'd pop them if I were you but..." and then looked around at all the dirt and sand. I agreed that I wouldn't have been able to do it in sanitary conditions and so left them alone. It was annoying for a day or so, then I either learned to ride around it or the discomfort eased off.

So began Day 4: flat, long tracks across rocky terrain dotted with shrubs and the occasional tree, with dark grey-green mountains lining the far edge of the plain and a decent cruising speed. The heat was becoming intense, the sun seemed to shine from all angles and was nearly blinding at times, particularly when potholes and other hazards would have required a close eye on the terrain ahead. Every so often we’d hit deep, transverse ruts, perpendicular to the tracks and unavoidable. Sometimes they'd cause sharp hits, other times, when in close succession, they'd induce this undulating rhythm (even though the suspension and the bike in general was still very composed). One of these ruts was so sudden, so steep and so nasty that I felt full compression, a harsh jolt followed by horrible noises coming from the rear of the machine. Given the impact it had just sustained as well as this loud grinding noise, my first and immediate thought was "well here we go. I've cracked the swingarm and the final drive open, the driveshaft must be dragging in the sand, I'm cooked". Yet there was still drive and the bike appeared to be moving forward - understand, all the foregoing happened in a couple of seconds - so I pulled over immediately and braced myself for the horror I was about to witness. I lifted the bike on its stand, walked over to the other side and looked down at the swingarm: perfect. Not a scratch, nothing out of place, no oil leaking out, nothing missing. How could this be? And then I saw it, it was the bag that had come loose, fell off the luggage rack and got caught between the rear wheel and the silencer on the left-hand side. It was properly lodged into the frame and it took some effort to yank it out, at which point the full contents of the bag were strewn over the sandy track, the bag obviously all torn to shreds.

Many of the items were damaged beyond repair including, unfortunately, the NOCO booster. My rain gear, some first aid supplies, a spool of fuel line - all ruined. Catching up to me a minute after, a couple of the guys stopped to check what had happened and I then had to pack everything back in what remained of the bag and use my rain jacket to wrap it all up and tie it down on the luggage rack again. It held for the next few hours and, luckily, we met up with Matteo on the Land Cruiser at the fortified mountain of Jbel Mdauar. It was there that I was able to transfer some of the essentials in a backpack (which I wore for the rest of the trip, noticeable if not heavy, a little bit uncomfortable) and leave the rest in the 4x4.

Our day was far from over, and the real challenges were just about to begin. First came our initial encounter with sand deep enough to demand real technique and it was almost embarrassingly difficult to navigate. Just a hundred meters was enough to immediately make me wonder how we could possibly hope to cover all the many miles ahead of us in the few hours we had left.

I needn't have worried just yet though, that was but a taste of what was to come.

In nearly 45°C heat, Witold's rear wheel collapsed.

Why, you ask? Because to avoid potential problems with punctures, he had opted to fit "mousse" inserts instead of inner tubes and sure enough, that's exactly what caused the problem. Stopping in a proverbial oasis and finding a modicum of shade under the palm trees, he and Matteo proceeded to remove the rear wheel, extract the mousse, which had become a gooey and sticky noodle almost too hot to touch, and then stretch a 17″ inner tube over Witold's 18″ rim. Outstanding. As of the time of writing, he's still riding on it and in all likelihood will continue to do so for many years to come.

With the repair completed, the trails (and trials) ahead of us unfolded well past the horizon; despite it being less than 60 miles in a straight line, we still had many hours of shifting terrain to navigate before the dunes of Merzouga appeared in the distance, golden orange. The color was contrasted sharply by the rocky terrain that led up to them, black and dusty.

But the day wasn’t over yet. Delayed by our earlier misadventures, we found ourselves facing the final stretch of road well after sunset. Asphalt, thankfully, but in total darkness, with only our headlights to carve out a narrow tunnel of visibility through the void.

We tried to keep the group close, but not too close; trying to share as much light as possible without drowning one another in dust or fumes. Behind me, I could feel the presence of the others, each of us doing quiet calculations: how far ahead, how far behind, who might need help if anything went wrong. I switched on the auxiliary Siem light — a wide, clean beam — though at times it was throwing too much glare into the mirror of the guy in front of me.

Out there, beyond the beam, we had no sense of the landscape. It might have been vast and open, maybe cliffs, plains, gorges, but it felt like it was closing in, heavy and unseen. The dark didn’t just surround us; it pressed down, thick and absolute. I crouched low over the tank, almost instinctively, drawn toward the faint green glow of the instrument panel and behind the tiny windscreen, like it might offer some shelter. The thought crossed my mind "shit, we are hauling ass right now" as I tried to squeeze every last drop of focus from my mind, keenly aware of the edge between control and a pile-up.

The pace stayed high. Not reckless, but taut; everyone was determined to arrive together, or not at all. It was one of those moments during the trip when I could feel the strain ripple across the group, not through panic, but through the weight of accumulated fatigue and the quiet effort of watching out for each other.

We did arrive, of course. Dog tired but in one piece and with no mechanical issues.