Ait Ourir, Morocco

Applying unguents to unspeakable areas for a second morning I'm pleased to note that I'm neither chafed nor burnt. I'm also reasonably well-rested despite the 5am muezzin call to prayer that wakes me and the avian dawn chorus that follows preventing further snoozing.

We have been instructed to deliver all our luggage to reception and to have checked our bikes before breakfast at 7am and with the tasks done and our stomachs filled we all gather outside. Howard, a rock journalist of many years standing, is amused by my hardcore sunblock and laughs that with my white face I'm paying homage to a certain Carl McCoy. "You've not brought any Nephilim flour along, have you?" he laughs.

Being eager beavers Paul and I set off at the front but within five minutes Paul gets the first of six punctures today so we drop right to the back and have to wait until the support vehicle leaves the hotel until it's fixed. We're far behind everyone and as we set off again the heat starts building fast, baking both us and the scorched desert earth around us. However the views across the parched landscape up to the snow-capped mountains on the horizon are breath-taking and we really enjoy the solitude of cycling through such an amazing place.

After thirty minutes or so we start catching people up, their green t-shirts getting closer and closer through the heat haze. One of the first we pass is Mark who is struggling in the heat. It's barely 9.30 by now and already it's unrelentingly hot, with very little shade on the route. I dig out an energy gel from my supplies for him and making sure he and his companion have plenty of water we continue on, passing Alex who's doing very well and stopping to get some beautiful photos as he goes.

Here and there through this incredibly picturesque but desolate area mosques and mud houses appear against the far Atlas backdrop. Medieval villages with chickens, goats, donkeys, sheep and dogs roaming free in the tracks and shy men working the fields occasionally appear, but every now and then a satellite dish or solar panel incongrously reminds you that technology is all around.

Eventually, after only 17km, but feeling much further with the hills, dirt and heat, we all regroup in a copse by a little dirt pond with terrapins bobbing their heads above the water. The usual ritual of rehydration, dioralytes to replace lost salts, biscuits and power bars consumed for energy is followed by Claude giving us all a talk on the proper use of mountain bike gears and the best way to tackle the next few stretches as we climb steeper and steeper into the mountains.

After about another 15 minutes of rocky paths and cycling off the beaten track we hit a main road and start ascending towards a town called Tahannaout where beside the road a temperature gauge is displaying 33 degrees in the shade. It's only just gone 11am so we're looking at 36 or 37 by mid-afternoon and there's sure as hell no shade on the roads we're travelling.

There is however the most stunning and panoramic scenery. Ochre red sand dunes and rocks abound as we plough diligently up steep hills and then whizz down the other side picking up vast speeds as we go. After another 13km there's another rest stop to cool down and rehydrate in the shade of a random wall. And then off we go again, only for Paul to have another puncture within minutes.

The hills continue until we make it to the saffron farming town of Ourika about 15 km further down the road, where we stop at a restaurant for a lunch of tagines, bread and ice-cold fizzy drinks. Fortunately due to the early start we've already covered 45km and Claude announces that we have only 35km left this afternoon, to be done in two sections, riding through the valley and round the white-stone mountains on the horizon and onto the plateau where we'll stop for the night.

Three more punctures for Paul during the course of the afternoon see us both getting more and more frustrated, especially as there's little shade to shelter in each time we have to wait beside the road, but the truly jawdropping views keep us entertained. To catch up with everyone Paul teaches me the technique of slip-streaming, riding at speed in close formation and taking it in turns to be the lead cyclist battling the air resistance and wind, while the one behind gets a bit of breather.

We make quite a formidable duo as we race along the plateau covering the gap between us and our fellows in super-quick time until we arrive at the final re-group point moments after the lead party. Finally we make it through the town of Ait Ourir, and on higher until we reach a valley amongst rocks where ahead of us a little village of tents are laid out, with a central marquee at its heart. This is our camp for the night.

The temperature by now is starting to cool and we're thankful after 80km and 700m of altitude to have finally stopped. It's been ten hours since we set off this morning and while I'm feeling surprisingly resilient, a cold beer from a cool box in the marquee tastes better than any champagne.

After a welcome rest I investigate the campsite, inspecting the wigwams that house miniature chemical loos and poking my head in the very rudimentary shower tent, essentially a mat to sit on, a bucket of hot water and a cup to douse over your head. We all start to notice that local kids have mounted the tops of the rock outcrops above us and are staring down at this strange caravan that has rolled into their part of the world.

In the little two-man tent assigned to Paul and myself lie a couple of foam mattresses and a sleeping bag each. No pillows are provided but a thin towel completes our home for the night. Basic this may be but having survived many a muddy festival under canvas I feel sure I can get through one night in the desert.  

The main tent has been set up with tables and chairs for dinner and we are shown a clay oven that's been built into the hillside where a sheep is about to be roasted. I express a little surprise that they can roast an entire animal fit for human consumption in just over an hour but am reassured this is the Berber way. Oh, if only I had trusted my gut then perhaps my gut would not have betrayed me just a few hours later. But that tale is still to come.

Before that spectacular eruption occurs I am wowed by the night sky, undimmed by light pollution, which here in the desert reveals stars in their millions and the clear swathe of the Milky Way above us. After a while feeling humbled by my sheer insignificance I throw myself back into the merriment of campfire entertainment watching a troupe of Berber musicians and dancers - Wooden Maiden as they are later named by our one-man gag machine Tom - who seem to play the same song for a good 30 minutes or so. It's fabulously authentic but a touch monotonous.

Their musical efforts bring the older brothers and fathers of the little kids who'd been watching us earlier into the campsite. There's something of a threatening air building as we start feeling surrounded by menacing locals in the dark perimeters of the valley just watching us silently. We wind each other up with jokes about our tents being robbed as we eat and our throats being slit while we sleep until the expedition leaders have a quiet word with the curious Moroccans and they seem to melt away to their rocky village built high into the hillside opposite.

Their retreat could also be put down to the musical efforts of 40 slightly tipsy middle-aged men who, after chomping through a rather fatty and chewy lamb dish, indugle in a night time singalong that would scare Arab militias for a 100-mile radius. Murderous versions of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' (led by Alex), The Carpenters, Oasis, The Beatles, Don MacLean, Steppenwolf, Elvis' 'Always On My Mind' (courtesy of Howard, Paul and me), Beach Boys, Elton John, Frank Sinatra, The Monkees and many more are the biggest deterrent to invading our campsite imaginable. The poor, gentle locals are probably hiding under their beds in terror at such musical massacres.

Around midnight the volume from our desert karaoke finally falls and while a hardcore few decide to stay up, and in one case fuelled by a secret bottle of brandy attempt barefoot walking over hot coals much to the disbelief of his fellows, the rest of us slump into our tents and vainly attempt to get some sleep.

It's not only the sound of snoring echoing around the valley that keeps me awake, nor the packs of wild dogs that prowl through our campsite and howl at each other as the night progresses, but a growing sense of unease in my stomach that means any fleeting moments of sleep are regularly disturbed by aching nausea. Finally about 3.30am I fling myself out of the tent into the brilliant white light of the moon and hurrying behind the shower tent vomit copiously, huge retching torrents pouring out of me as I collapse onto the ground.

This doesn't bode well for tomorrow!!