They say the camera never lies but do not be fooled by the rooftop 'glamour' of the terrace on which Coman and I take breakfast today. The glorious sunshine makes everything look better through a lens but in real-life casts everything in an even more unforgiving light than yesterday.

The doors at Arrivals part yet again, as they've been doing relentlessly for the past 45 minutes and finally he appears. "Coman!!" I shout and a look of startled surprise sweeps across his bleary-eyed features. Having had a 3am alarm call for his ridiculously early Ryanair flight from Stansted, Coman was expecting to make his own way to our hotel as the likelihood was I'd have been out celebrating the end of our ride late into the night and still be in bed when he landed.

Oh God, save me!! I feel dreadful. Having spent a sleepless night battling the onset of food poisoning I emerge from the tent I've been sharing with Paul into the dawn light around 6am and make the first of repeated visits to the tiny chemical loo. It's not built for the abuse it gets over the next couple of hours, not only from me but a few others whose tummies are in revolt. However no-one else is (yet) succumbing to the ravages of nausea sweeping over me.

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.

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 arise and prepare for what's to come.

Groups of men in matching t-shirts at airports generally fill me with stag-weekend horrors. Their beer-fuelled 'hilarity' is a sure-fire signal to avoid at all costs. But here I am in my green t-shirt with its 'Truants Marrakesh 2012' logo emblazoned proudly on it, shaking hands with Jono our tour leader and introducing myself to my fellow masochists, all of whom are sporting the same vibrant-hued tops.

I've done some crazy things in my life, but how the hell I find myself sat in a taxi en route to Gatwick to face a death-defying, ass-destroying, white-knuckle ride across the outer fringes of the Sahara desert and into the Atlas Mountains is a mystifying conundrum that even Carole Vorderman would struggle to solve. But, then, she's never met Rod Smallwood, manager of the biggest metal band in the world, and a veritable force of nature.