Marrakech, Morocco

I don't know if it's the heat and anticipation or a premonition of the disaster that awaits me on the final day of the ride, but I'm awake before 6am and spend a restless hour trying to regain some sleep to help with the day ahead. But it's to no avail and so, soon after 7, both Paul and I rise and prepare for what's to come.

Breakfast is embraced wholeheartedly with pastries, cereal, bread and potatoes featuring heavily; a carb overload to propel us forwards, washed down with strong Moroccan coffee. And then it's back to the room to slather on factor 50, before applying a new sensation to my virgin skin. Those chaps at the Cycle Surgery had pointed me in the direction of Chamois Butter and so I ooze the lubricant on to my padded shorts and nether regions and pray for the best. No saddle-sores for me if this miracle lotion works its slippery magic.

Down in the lobby we load our luggage on to vans to be whisked ahead of us to tonight's destination, while we pack whatever we need for the journey ahead into bum-bags, and extra supplies into rucksacks aboard our mechanic's vehicle.

Out in the carpark our bikes await. I fiddle with the saddle height and fix the gel cover I've brought with me for extra comfort. A swift trial run around the hotel forecourt proves I need more air in the tyres and then, after much fannying from 40 fellow cyclists, and water bottles filled with isotonic powders to retain hydration, we finally set off on this madcap adventure.

Turning left out of Hotel El Andalous, we're immediately on one of Marrakech's main roads, confronted by the kind of traffic that makes London rush hour seem like a Sunday outing. Motorbikes and lorries thundering past, cars changing lanes around us with no warning, roundabouts defying not just the rules of the road but all logic entirely, and horse-drawn carts plodding and shitting along the road combine to make this an experience I'll not voluntarily repeat... at least, not until we arrive back into the city in three days time.

After eight miles of, erm, stimulating chaos, passing the Gare de Marrakech and various other impressive buildings, we make it out of the city, past signs for Casablanca and turn into a region called the Palmeraie. Much quieter and more rural, it plays host to a series of large hotels with golf courses, before turning into palm groves and orchards of date trees, and ultimately arid desert lands. As we cycle along in groups of two or three we pass camels and shacks, surprised locals and dirt roads, feeling the sun burning down upon us, getting hotter and hotter.

About 90 minutes into the ride Paul pulls up ahead of me with a blown tyre. We're at the front of the pack but have to wait while everyone sails past us until the mechanic arrives to patch up the puncture, dodging flies and trying to seek shade while we linger by the side of the road. Once we set off again we discover we're only 500 metres away from where the first rest stop is and we help ourselves to bananas, dates, water and biscuits while everyone gathers together and checks all are ok.

This desert lansdcape is strangely familiar, its palm trees making it reminiscent of southern California or the Mojave Desert. After 20 minutes we set off again, this time fully off-road cycling over packed dirt and dried up river beds bumpy with rocks and potholes. We travel through dusty villages where locals stare bemusedly at us and the kids playing by the road shout "Bonjour" and stick out their hands to high-five us as we go.

We've not gone far before Paul gets another flat tyre, something that as the trip goes on becomes irritatingly familiar. But fortunately the mechanics are never too far behind and are dab hands at these pit-stop changes, having us on the way in minutes.

After a few more miles we spy a couple of tents in the desert and are directed over to them, where we find tables arranged for lunch, and locals serving us fresh mint tea and rice and vegetables. Once we've refuelled, aided and abetted by energy bars we're all gathered together for a team photo and then we're off, another 25km to go in the afternoon sun.

At one stage we turn a corner into a swarm of schoolchildren finishing for the day, all of whom scream excitedly and run alongside us, shouting greetings and holding their hands out for us to slap. A few of our party, cycling slightly slower than the rest of us, find their bottoms smacked and in Carol's case her bum-bag unzipped and items stolen, before she stops and casts a withering gaze at the culprits who shame-facedly hand over her tissues. But for the most part the high jinks are innocent and amusing.

The route we've taken has seen us leave Marrakech to the north and circle around the city but as we start seeing the Atlas Mountains mountains looming in the distance we find ourselves skirting the southern most districts of the city, encountering traffic again as we go.

We stop for a mid-afternoon break and it's obvious the heat is taking its toll. By now it's in the mid-90s and we all cram against a wall seeking shade. Poor Barry looks like he's about to expire, red-faced, sweating and close to collapse so Paul digs out an energy gel and hands it to him, to get him through the last stage of the day. The taste makes Barry gag but it works and he powers off, a rejuvenated man.

We've ascertained from the emergency numbers we've been given that we stay in a hotel this evening, but tomorrow is just described as a 'rural location', and Rod, Claude and Jono remain tight-lipped about what that entails, and we're all expecting a campsite of some description. So off we all go looking forward to a shower, bed and a beer, aware that it may be the last time we get such luxuries for the next 48 hours.

I'm at the back of the pack amongst the final five riders as we leave the rest stop, having been refilling my water-bottle with isotonic powders, but all the training, power bars and energy gels combine and I start powering through the field. Ahead of us stretches a long straight road through uninteresting terrain with a slight, but tiring incline going on for 15km or so. And as the others flag in the searing heat I start overtaking them until finally, as I arrive at the hotel, I realise I'm in fourth place, having passed more than 30 cyclists as I go.

It's not a race, but I feel a small sense of personal victory as I park my bike at the gates and enter the grounds ahead of my fellows.

Our hotel tonight is called the Vatel, residing in the middle of nowhere but very well appointed. We are the only guests and our room seems to be prepared for a romantic couple. Rose petals adorn the bathroom and our twin beds pushed together. I dump my bags, pull on my swimming shorts and, stopping solely to open a beer, get straight in the pool, which is ice cold and perfect for muscle recovery.

Then a leg massage is provided, which though excrutiatingly sadistic while it happens, proves to be just the tonic for weary limbs, before a welcome shower washes the dirt and strain of the day away.

The hotel dinner is buffet-style consisting of lentil soup, tagine pots with vegetables, then lamb, apricots and prunes, washed down with red wine from the Sahara. We finish with a briefing from Claude about tomorrow's marathon leg, preparing us for 80km climbing into the foothills of the Atlas Mountains, and then without saying my goodbyes I sidle off to bed at 10pm, determined to get as much rest as possible ahead of the 6.30am wake-up call.