SAHARA GRAVEL RACE - Castelli Cycling

Morocco: The post colonial jewel in northern Africa, made famous by Hollywood’s Casablanca, as George Orwell and Yves Saint Laurent set up outpost in the rose hued Marrakech. How fascinating to fly just two hours from Europe to land in such an exotic place, the hues of the crimson and azul dyes of the market, the sounds of the calls to prayer mixed with the engines of two stroke scooters, and the scent of the donkey carts side by side the SUVs as even a place as special as this cannot evade the brutalism of modernity.

Our Riad hotel, nestled deep into the old town offered an oasis of calm from the calamity of the bustling streets, yet the hotel walls were no break to the sounds of chaos of life happening outside. Waking to the warm air, deep blue tiled stairs led us to the rooftop breakfast lounge where I enjoyed my first taste of the country. Spices and rich flavours are never neglected, not even in the morning. With our final sips of mint tea and the freshest orange juice on earth, we ventured by bike into the unknown. Traffic which makes Naples feel a safe training road, we persisted, to eventually find the outskirts of the city. Whilst chaotic, the drivers were all very welcoming, with wide berths and a friendly beep of the horn. As we pulled off the main thoroughfare, the traffic slowed to a pace aligned with a sustenance culture. Carts held the days goods, reaped from arid patches of vast expanse. Goats roamed freely, a key part of the protected argan oil industry. There is a simplicity in the magic of being connected to the sandy soil, a simplicity we would learn to embrace over the four days of racing in it.

Clothes on, shoes tight and cameras around our necks, we pushed deep into the city. Snakes and monkeys beckoned to us, with wise glances, knowing perhaps we would learn the hard way that if you take a photo, you gotta pay to play. As we wandered down the side street of the souk, a sharp pain hit my forearm, as a speeding motorbike swerved down the crowded alley. “Stay tight to the wall! Don’t lose focus!” I called out to Steve. This would be a wild place for an immersive game of paintball. I had my first Tagine. You’ll hear more about this later. The energy in the city unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, there is a pulse, a beat, a sensory overload, which can only be dulled by leaning in, and venturing further.

The race was 4 stages- in five nights, starting in Ouarzazate, as we cast ourselves upon the great expanse of the Sahara desert. We set off from Marrakech with our bikes piled high on open trailers, perilously tall, and with more hard value in the cargo than the car itself. Five hours later we arrived at base camp one, registered, did our briefings and sat down for our first meal as a race family, and one last good sleep before we began.

The race set off on stage one with an ascent to high elevation, the sand was thick, the air was thin, and the downhills were wild. The front of the race became very selective just in time for small groups to eventually be chasing each other on the long road section to the finish line. This start would spell the racing for the days to come.

Being back at the post race hotel with a beautiful pool, deck chairs and delicious post race food spread of biscuits, dates and tea, there was a shared appreciation for exactly where we were. That whilst we were in amazing comfort and safety, the experience of riding through remote villages, through tiny streams of water which are the lifeline for people living in the area, gave us so much more perspective on what it means to be in this incredible part of the world. This is a very harsh environment, beautiful, absolutely, but for the nomads and small communities, life here is not what it is to be in Marrakesh, and we felt an immense respect for not only the place, but so much for the people.

And we rose higher… what goes up comes down they say… except between stages one and two of Sahara Gravel. We began already at elevation, the nip in the early morning air reminding us of this fact. And we were facing 2000m climbing in the first 80km. The terrain was harsh. The air grew even thinner. There was nowhere to hide. No rider escaped this day without a profound level of suffering. But the long downhills overlooking the most remarkable rock formations and gorge views were the medicine which soothed the soul enough to finish with an unmistakable smile. More pool time, mint tea, and of course, the clay pot tagine, opening to the steamy aroma of lemon and cumin, cinnamon and coriander. I had eaten more tagines in 3 days than I had ever in my life, but not one complaint.

And up until now… we still weren’t in the actual Sahara. Stage 3 was a change of vibe, we hit the actual desert for the first time. We had thought we had ridden sand before this. It put Dutch Beach racing to shame. And of course, the smug smiles of the riders who had ridden MTB tires all week were in full force. Well done Payson. That gamble paid off big time.

Arriving to camp, a series of tents appeared, neatly in rows, circling a central fire pit, a cabana and all connected by soft rugs so that we could walk without sand created a mood that said; this is wild, this is living. I opened the flap of the tent to be hit with a wave reminiscent of entering a sauna in Finland in January. The tents are protective to be protective, but on the blazing hot day, they were essentially human sized tagines. So after more tagines, a smuggled in bottle of white wine shared between many, the evening drew a sunset that the entire camp joined on the sand dunes. It was easily one of my most magical moments in my sporting life. Whilst most things on this trip were scheduled, this walk up the sand dunes began as a few ideas, a few whispers, until the whole camp began, group by group to venture, with tired legs, up the immense dunes. For a while it was just everybody taking photos, before Maddy Nut began to flip and roll herself down the sand. The mood changed, and then it was just a group of people laughing together and enjoying the nature, sitting as friends, sharing this crazy journey. Sure this was a race. But for those there, we all became aware that this was much, much more.

For me, cycling is a way to see the world, to take myself out of my comfort zone, to open my eyes and fight against my own prejudices. An adventure like this, minimally supported goes far beyond what I could ask for. We chanced our way into small towns for lunch, far from the well trodden tourism path. Only on bike, only in this setting could we see this. We must seem so curious, foolhardy perhaps, to do this, by choice, on a bike.

The next morning we awoke shivering. Our tagine tents had not been able to withstand the high altitude desert night, and I now understood the urgency of the camp commandoes the night before telling us to “close the doors!” as the sun started to drop. The last stage set off where we concluded, in the sand, to cross more desert. We were walking the sections that were unridable, making for a slow speed, but the feeling was universal: the longer the stage took, the better, for none of us wanted this to be over. Yet in all things, there is a finish, and at ourcamp that night, although it looked similar to the previous night, it was finally a party, without the pressure of the day ahead. The sound of drums called to us, as local musicians began to play, belly dancers by their side. With the fatigue and heat we all had within us, it didn’t take long before we were all dancing as the night went on. They played for hours after sunset, the beat, the sounds of Morocco, half a dozen drums and various stringed instruments guided the dancers rhythm, who pulled the hesitant up to their feet and left nobody out of the night. It was brilliant. It was unleashed joy. For that moment, in those hours we were there, unashamed and untamed.

The drive back to Marrakech was long, 8 hours, but with new friends, and a wild, wild adventure, we were sad for it to come to an end. As people slowly left, we all knew that when we see each other around the world, at different events, that we will always have the Sahara gravel story, that only we can truly know.

“ What does Morocco mean to a Frenchman? An orange-grove or a job in government service. Or to an Englishman? Camels, castles, palm-trees, Foreign Legionnaires, brass trays and bandits. One could probably live here for years without noticing that for nine-tenths of the people the reality of life is an endless, back-breaking struggle to wring a little food out of an eroded soil.” - George Orwell. 1939