The Final Chapter

As we came to amongst the surf bums and euro trash of Tarifa campsite, the usual morning lethargy and mutual hatred gave way to a palpable air of excitement. The end in sight and with little knowledge of what Morocco would bring, team C2C boarded the ferry to Tangier: we couldn't wait.

Once out of the port and winding our way through the streets of Tangier, we felt separated from the European leg by more than a half-hour ferry. Narrow, bustling and an assault on the senses, we were surrounded by the beeping of horns and the broad grins of Moroccans who were clearly better informed than us of what lay in store. Passing the first evidence of many that a crash had just occurred, we pedalled tentatively out of the city, glad to be safely away. All, that is, apart from the indefatigable Hugh, quick to inform us that the streets were busier and the donkeys more aggressive in North London, and continuing to flash a wave, a stupid grin and a terrifying wobble at any passing locals.

Once out of the city and with the first few nervous runs in the bag, we settled into a rythym, with the quality of both roads and drivers surprisingly good, and we soon completed the short day to Larache. Even on the coast, however, the heat was worse than expected, and much would depend on finding the "cracking coast road" (as your tubby correspondent unwisely remarked) that would allow us to avoid a punishing detour inland the following day.

To cut a long story short, the cracking coast road either doesn't exist or is pretty well hidden, so cheers to anyone who has briefly considered putting up a sign post before deciding it was too hot and naffing off for a mint tea. It was left to us, therefore, to man-up and take on the 95 mile trek away from the coast and back to Kenitra. It would be a long day and it looked as if there was a steady headwind, but surely it couldn't be as hot as Salamanca, Seville and the barrens in between...?

Under the baking sun, with a headwind like cycling into an enormous, unrelenting hairdryer, the sweat pouring off us and burnt instantly away, we toiled through a morning session that felt never-ending. Dragged along by an incredible set at the front from Ed (perhaps the strongest cyclist standing up to be counted at just the right time) we staggered through the forty miles to lunch, to be greeted by numerous bottles of water for which we were thoroughly ripped off, and a brief respite from the sun. Whilst the heat in Spain seemed to come from the road itself, in Morocco the enormous, blazing sun was the order of the day, and following a timely puncture in George's rear tyre and an 8 mile set that was by far the hardest we had ever worked for our miles, things were looking pretty daunting. Some of the team were feeling pretty sick and tempers were frayed, but gradually the wind eased and the heat began to dissipate, and with Ed still pounding away at the front the tide began to turn.

In the fading light, and with our hardest day looking behind us, the legs seemed to acquire new energy as we surged to the finish through the outskirts of Kenitra. Then, suddenly I heard the now unmistakeable sound of a big crash and shouts of stop from Hugh and George, turning just in time to see Rory and his bike - now separated - emerging from an enormous pothole and flying into the verge. Jogging back Ed and I feared the worst, as Rors appeared to be clutching his shoulder in exactly the same way as Nat had in San Sebastian. Thankfully, however, it appears Rors had the good sense to leap his handlebars like a dolphin, absorbing the impact almost entirely with his head and saved by his helmet. With a bruised shoulder and a touch of road rash he battled on, and, tired, shaken but unbowed we finally staggered into a hotel in darkness, but safely in Kenitra.

After knocking off a casual twenty-five miles the next day, we were on the final straight, with Casablanca in our sights. Convinced that something would go catastrophically wrong, George was pacing and muttering to himself, whilst Hugh, increasnigly resembling a Butlins holiday camp supervisor, insisted that he should cheer up and that we should perhaps complete the tour in silly hats. During the last miles to meet Nat, whose collarbone was thankfully on the mend enough that he could come out and join us at the finish, time slowed to a trickle. For George, who throughout has hated  every moment of cycling, the pain was almost unbearable, but after an insufferable fifty miles we eventually came to the outskirts of Casablanca. Dodging the horrendous traffic through the sprawling suburbs, we were constantly cut-up by cars, lorries, scooters qnd donkeys, Ed and I having a particularly nasty run in with three of them attempting to overtake a truck. Although just another day in the big smoke for Hugh, chanting away and nattering to passing drivers, for George boredom turned swiftly to terror as he was forced to hand off a pedestrian attempting to give him a high-five in the middle of a motorway.

After a few miles, however, the towering figures of the Hyatt hotel and Nat hove into view and we realised, ecstatically and disbelievingly, that we were here. Exchanging hugs, kisses and firm handshakes and delighted to be reunited with Gimson, we celebrated cycling 1700 miles from (most of) our homes in Cambridge to a place where there are camels. It didn't sink in then, nor will it for a while, but at least we don't have to do any more bloody cycling.

Although it hasn't been easy, it would have been impossible without the help of people too numerous to mention in full, but they know who they are and that we're greatful. In particular, thanks to the bike shop owners who have fixed the steeds along the way, especially Steve on day one, and to Shanti, the lovely Basque cyclist who stopped to help us when Nat broke his collar bone, calling the ambulance and driving us and the bikes to the hospital. Also thanks to our families and friends for their aid, support and encouragement both before and during the trip. Most of all, however, a heartfelt thankyou to everyone who has donated over the past few weeks. The total so far stands at an amazing 6894 pounds, and there could be no better motivation to keep turning the wheels than such incredible generosity.

It leaves me to finish with a few profound words from Ed Pearson, great cyclist and thinker:

"Guys, just keep pedalling and you'll keep going".