The Atlas Mountain Race: A Journey of Grit, Guts, and Goats in Trees
Editor's Note: In this latest addition to the Buffet, 2024 SS Tour Divide Winner Alex Kowalski shares what it took at this year's rendition of the Atlas Mountain Race in Morocco. If you have an epic ride report or story you'd like to share on The Buffet reach out to Zach at southcitystitchworks@gmail.com. Let's go!
The Atlas Mountain Race: A Journey of Grit, Guts, and Goats in Trees
written by Alex Kowalski
photos by Lloyd Wright, Alex Kowalski, and Eric House
There’s something about the idea of racing through one of the most rugged landscapes in the world that pulls at your soul—something about the mix of beauty, grit, and suffering that makes you wonder if you’re a little bit insane for signing up. That’s how I felt when I lined up for the Atlas Mountain Race (AMR), a brutal 810-mile ultra-endurance race that challenges even the most seasoned athletes. It wasn’t just the miles that had my heart pounding, it was the 96,500 feet of elevation gain, the intense mix of terrains, and the promise of a journey through Morocco’s heart, from the bustling streets of Marrakech to the peaceful, salty air of Essaouira on the coast.
The race, directed by the ever-determined Nelson Trees, is something that goes beyond endurance. It’s an invitation to experience the raw power of nature. The Atlas and Anti-Atlas mountains aren't just backdrops—they’re characters, shaping every turn and every grueling climb. Every single mile? Earned. You don’t just ride them; you suffer through them, sweat pouring down your back, legs aching with every pedal stroke. And yet, each view, each moment of pure, untouched wilderness? Worth it.
Pre-Morocco: The Calm Before the Storm
I won’t lie: I was nervous as hell. A week before flying to Morocco, I felt like I might as well have been stepping onto a battlefield. My last race, the Granguanche Trail in the Canary Islands, had been a disaster. Heat exhaustion had me throwing up like a champion before a flat tire took me out of the race entirely. That was my second attempt at that particular event, and yet again, no finish line. Great. After limping back to Arkansas, I had to undergo surgery to fix some damn tooth problem that had been nagging me since before the Tour Divide. Oh, and let’s not forget that the weather in Arkansas during December and January was about as inviting as a snowstorm in the Sahara—rain, cold, and a distinct lack of sunshine. Meaning, my training? Yeah, that was a joke. If I’d been trying to build muscle and endurance through winter, I might as well have been trying to build a sandcastle with a spoon.
By the time I finally packed my bags for Morocco, I had to reassess my entire plan for the Atlas Mountain Race. Racing for a podium spot? Yeah, no. Not going to happen. My goal was simple: get through it. Treat it as a week-long training block where I could focus on my nutrition, recovery, and most importantly, enjoying the hell out of the experience. This wasn’t just about racing—it was about soaking in the culture, the landscape, and maybe, just maybe, doing something that would make my legs burn in ways I never thought possible. Plus, it was my first time in Morocco and my first time setting foot on the African continent. Racing was secondary to taking it all in.
As someone who’s raced all over the world—about a dozen ultra events under my belt, including four abroad—the prep was a breeze. Packing the bike? A piece of cake. Final checklists? Meh, no big deal. Honestly, the hardest part of the whole journey was leaving my pup, Luna. It’s always the hardest part.
Ahoi! Photo by Eric House
Morocco: The Adventure Begins
If I could change one thing about my trip, it would be this: giving myself more time to adjust to the new environment. I barely had time to breathe after the 24-hour travel marathon to get there. But, hey, no pressure, right?
The days leading up to the race were far better than I expected. I met a crew of amazing people who I know I’ll stay in touch with for years to come—Eric, Bahadir, and Jack. These guys were the real deal: warm, open-hearted, and laid-back. They were the kind of people you meet once and feel like you've known them for ages. We spent hours obsessing over our gear, eating enough carbs to keep an entire village alive for a week, and wandering through Marrakech’s medina. The medina? Absolute sensory overload. Tiny alleys winding through the maze of ancient streets, packed with food stalls, artisans peddling their colorful wares, and enough people watching to keep you entertained for hours. It was magical.
By the time race day finally rolled around, I was almost… well, relaxed. Almost. The race start at 6 pm totally messed with my head. It’s this weird limbo of being able to sleep in but also having way too much time to overthink everything. You sit around, you try to distract yourself, but eventually, the clock keeps ticking and you realize it’s almost race time and you’re suddenly panicking about all the little things you still have to do. By the time I’d gotten my tires pumped up for the last time, I was still running around like a chicken with its head cut off. But hey, I was ready. Sort of.
And then, the moment came. The start. The adrenaline, the nerves, the sense of "Here we go, no turning back."
It was finally time to give this race my all—well, not my absolute all. But enough to turn this whole crazy thing into an unforgettable adventure.
Alex Kowalski and Eric House livin' the dream in Morocco. Photo by Lloyd Wright
Marrakech to Checkpoint 1 (Telouet): The Wild Start
I could feel the electric buzz in the air. The anticipation, the nerves, and the excitement of the Atlas Mountain Race were palpable as 275 riders piled out of the hotel and onto the wild streets of Marrakech. Now, I’d done some big races before—like the Tour Divide last year, with its staggered starts and over 225 riders—so I thought I’d be ready for the chaos that awaited. But holy hell, nothing could prepare me for this: 275 cyclists, all revving to go, lining up and blasting off through the outskirts of Marrakech. It was friggin’ mayhem.
The race directors, in all their wisdom, had arranged for a police escort to make sure we didn’t get completely obliterated by traffic as we tore through the city. For the first 25 miles or so, those cops were our shield, clearing the way for us to escape the madness of the urban jungle. It was exhilarating and, frankly, a little overwhelming, trying to stay focused amidst the thrumming chaos of all those bikes and engines and the sheer noise of it all.
At the start, I should’ve been thinking about pacing, right? But that was about as realistic as asking a lion to go vegan. With all those cyclists around me, my heart rate was skyrocketing. Looking back at my Whoop data, I was cruising in the 165-180 BPM range for the first 12 hours. NOT GOOD. The kind of bad that made you wish you could stop, but pride and ego don’t exactly let you take that breather. My brain was like, “You’re fine, just keep pushing,” but my heart and legs were already starting to argue otherwise.
In the early miles, when the pavement was still smooth and clean, I found myself catching up to Eric, who had clearly also made the mistake of starting way too hot. He was riding hard, but we stuck together for a bit, pushing through the miles. The first 50 miles of the course were essentially a drawn-out departure from the chaos of Marrakech. As the sun set and the darkness crept in, I was surrounded by blinking lights in every direction—riders ahead, behind, and all around. The sight of it was surreal, like I was part of some massive glowing insect swarm, all of us desperately trying to escape the city’s grip.
The terrain had begun to change, too. It wasn’t long before we started grinding our way up gradual climbs, with a few short descents thrown in to give us a bit of a breather. But it wasn’t until hours later that I looked down at my bike computer and realized: We’d already covered a hell of a lot of ground—60 miles, to be exact, in the first four hours. That was a hell of a start.
Then came the real meat of the race. The climb up to Telouet Pass. That’s when the fun really started—if by “fun” you mean gut-busting, sweat-drenched pain. The roads were unpaved, rough, and hella steep. Some parts of the climb reached 15-20% gradients, so even the most seasoned riders were off their bikes, pushing through the snow and gravel. That’s when I met Max—a German guy from Stuttgart who had the kind of friendly energy that made you want to trust him with your life. We swapped stories of our early hours on the course, and that’s when he told me he’d already dealt with two tube malfunctions. In other words, this guy was out there fiddling with his tires for about an hour and still caught back up to me without missing a beat.
But here’s the kicker: Max had started the race with latex tubes. Yeah, you read that right—latex. I had never heard of anyone using latex tubes in an ultra race. Everyone I knew swore by tubeless setups for the reliability and lower risk of flats, but Max was a believer. He’d done XC races with latex tubes for years, and in that moment, I realized that I would never, ever question the eccentricities of other racers again. Yeah right.
The climb up Telouet Pass was pure suffering. For about three hours, I was off my bike more than I was on it, trudging uphill with my bike in tow. But when I finally reached the top and saw Eric again, a sense of relief washed over me. Thank god, my only single-speed compadre is still here with me.
Now, if the climb up to Telouet Pass was the meat of the section, then the descent down the mule track was the guts. And let me tell you, those guts were not kind. The mule track, once it was covered in snow, became a literal nightmare. Parts of it were barely rideable—snow, rocks, and jagged boulders the size of cars littered the path. And to top it off, it was dark. Pitch-black dark. We were now into the midnight hours, and descending this godforsaken trail was nothing short of terrifying.
Behind me was Emma Missale, this Italian powerhouse living in Copenhagen who, quite frankly, made me feel like I was riding with a bag of rocks on my back. She got in front and disappeared from sight within minutes, her legs moving like she was born on the mountain. I thought I was a solid hiker, but Emma was literally flying down the mule track on foot. That was the last time I saw her until the finish line in Essaouira. Oh and she just won the Monstertrack alleycat race in NYC recently! Holy crap what a unit.
As we descended, the snow grew deeper, and post holes appeared—some of them looked like they could swallow me whole. That was when the reality hit me: I couldn’t afford to mess up. Getting injured here, this early in the race, would be catastrophic. It took about an hour and a half to cover just four miles down that infernal trail, but finally, blessedly, we hit some pavement. I felt like I’d crossed into another world—one where I could finally breathe again.
I rolled into Checkpoint 1 just before 6 AM, a little under 12 hours after leaving Marrakech. In those 12 hours, I’d covered 80 miles and climbed over 13,000 feet. My legs were like jelly, my mind was mush, but I had made it.
Moroccan locals greeted us with bottles of drinks and hot mint tea. Honestly, I wanted it all. But I couldn’t get too comfortable. I needed my brevet card stamped, and the clock was ticking. Mel Webb, a member of the race crew, had a few questions for me, but as tired as she was, she needed a nap more than anything. I didn’t blame her—after all, I wasn’t in any rush. Eric showed up just after me, and we sat down to a much-needed meal after my card was stamped.
It was time for my first real taste of Morocco's hospitality: a beautiful tajine, with couscous and a bone-in chicken leg and thigh that tasted like heaven. Meanwhile, Eric enjoyed his first of many omelettes. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I let the food settle, savoring every bite. In one corner of the room, the Yates brothers—Jesse and Liam—cracked jokes and cuddled with one of the local cats. In the opposite corner, a group of older Moroccan locals in military garb sat, smiling and laughing. One of them was blasting old-school country music from his phone. It felt like we were all part of something bigger, something safe and welcoming.
As I ate, Kobus, a rider from South Africa, joined us. He ordered an omelette, and I decided to offer up my untouched soup after he mentioned he would order one. He dumped it all onto his omelette—yes, all of it. The locals stared in disbelief as he dug in, and I could barely contain my laughter. I nudged Kobus, pointing out that the locals were watching with wide eyes, and he just gave them a thumbs up and a smile. It was one of those moments that made the whole experience feel like something out of a movie.
After a little rest and some solid food, it was time to move on. Mel was ready to ask me some questions, but all I could say was, “I’m cooked.” The first 12 hours of this race had drained me, but the adventure was only beginning.
And so, I set off again, eager to see what the next section had in store. Whatever it is, I’m ready for it.
Telouet to Checkpoint 2 (Asserarghe): The Kindness of Strangers
Alex and Eric House being single speed heroes hiking up a mountain in Morrocco. Photo by Lloyd Wright
I left the checkpoint with a faint glimmer of life returning to my exhausted body, though it was still a hell of a lot less than it had been when I’d rolled in. The air felt heavy, thick with the early morning chill as I spun off into the dark, alone. Remember, I was about 12 hours into a race that kicked off at 6 p.m. the night before, and all I could think about as I pedaled through the stillness was the rising sun. I needed its warmth, its energy to pull me back from the brink.
I cruised past some dreamy bivvy spots, the kind that make you second guess pushing through the night, but I pressed on. I passed one of the guys who had clearly just woken up from a bivvy session. He looked like he had only been asleep for a couple of hours, while I was already feeling the fatigue of the full night’s ride. He caught up to me after about half an hour, moving at a pace that spoke of someone well-rested—damn, I should’ve bivvied. But instead, I kept on going, judging his fat-tired rig and the 29x2.8in tires that looked like they’d been picked out by someone who didn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.
Well, guess what? I was wrong. We hit the dirt road, and I ate my words like the dust in my face. Those wide tires are like having a cushion beneath your ass. He knew what he was doing. I reminded myself to shut the hell up about tires and bikes. A lesson learned.
For the next hour, we leapfrogged, passing each other back and forth. He’d surge ahead for a bit, then I’d reel him back in. But by the time the sun had officially started to rise, I could feel my pace drop. The cold was unbearable. The sun hadn’t quite reached the valley yet, and the chill of early morning Morocco clung to my bones. The brutal reality of what I’d signed up for hit me full force. My body was shot, my energy tanked, and my mind was begging for a break. So, I made the logical decision to lie down and wait it out.
The first spot I chose was way too cold, so I stubbornly kept riding, telling myself the warmth would come soon enough. Then, finally, around a corner, the sun kissed my skin with the kind of warmth that could heal wounds and resurrect souls. I felt it all flood back. I threw my bike down, propped my legs up on the wheel, and tried to rest. I was half asleep when I heard the familiar hum of wheels on gravel. Eric. Of course, he showed up, just like I’d thought he would. My one true singlespeed comrade. The sun had worked its magic, and I felt like a whole new person.
Eric and I rode together as the morning unfolded. There’s something about the feeling of the sun after a full night of riding that can’t be replicated. It’s like a reset button for the body and mind. Everything felt lighter. The desert had its grip on us, but the sun was like a lifeline. Maybe it was the vitamin D, maybe it was just the raw power of sunlight after being in the dark for so long, but either way, I felt better than I had in hours. That early morning magic carried us through the miles as the heat began to rise.
By the time we hit the villages, the temperature was already pushing its limits, and the sun was starting to feel unforgiving. We were in for a real scorcher. As the heat peaked, we found a cluster of ruined buildings offering some much-needed shade. We decided to crash for a while, laying our bikes on the ground and peeling off our shoes. This wasn’t the first time the heat had made us rethink our choices. I’d learned the hard way from the Canary Islands race, where dehydration had ruined my race. I wasn’t about to let it happen again. So, we laid down in the shade, feeling the heat bear down, but grateful for the brief respite.
It didn’t take long for the local scene to wake us up. First, a woman came by, speaking to us in Arabic. We gave her a polite smile, and she didn’t seem upset, just curious. Then, a second woman passed in silence, and for a moment, we thought we might be left to sleep in peace. But no. Moments later, an elderly man approached. His name was Nemus. At first, I thought he was pissed at us for napping by the ruins, but I was dead wrong. He was just excited to talk, and the language barrier was clearly frustrating him. But the message was clear: he wanted to help. He started gesturing at us for food, rest, and water, and we could only smile and nod in understanding.
He led us to his home—a humble concrete structure with a makeshift porch made of wood and recycled materials. His wife, the first lady who had passed us while we slept, greeted us warmly. They’d already set up blankets and pillows, and fresh mint tea was ready to be served. They fed us bread, fresh-pressed olive oil, almonds—everything grown and made by their own hands. I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t just a race anymore. It was an experience. It was about connection. Real, human connection, in a place so far from my own world.
After two hours of rest, Nemus and his wife woke us with more tea, bread, and a fresh omelette. We ate with grateful hearts, feeling like we had just been given a glimpse into something far beyond the race. It was a moment of pure hospitality, one that I’ll carry with me forever.
Before we left, Eric remembered something from Marrakech—the cultural norm in Muslim tradition to leave a gift when invited into someone’s home. We didn’t have much, but we did have Skittles. Unopened, a bag of neon-colored candy. We handed them to Nemus and his wife. Their faces lit up. It was like we had given them gold. This was something I’ll never forget.
Refueled, both physically and emotionally, we rolled out of Nemus’ village, our spirits high. Eric and I hadn’t started together, but now we were on the same mission. We were going to complete the AMR together. The first singlespeed duo.
The next goal was the town of Imassine, about 30 miles away. The road to get there wasn’t going to be easy, but we knew there was food waiting at the other end. And that’s all that really mattered at that point.
The heat was unforgiving, but we powered through, passing other cyclists who had clearly been affected by the brutal conditions. As we rolled into Imassine at sunset, we headed straight for the nearest restaurant. The courtyard was already filled with bikes and riders, a welcoming sight for two starving cyclists. We got our food orders in—tajin for me, omelette for Eric—and settled in.
While we waited, we struck up conversations with other riders. Natalie Taylor, a rider with a vibe that felt like instant friendship, was among the first to introduce herself. She mentioned that the restaurant owner had rooms available for a few bucks, and that sounded like exactly what we needed before the next 60-mile stretch with no resupply.
We got our room, and while the idea of a soft bed sounded good, we quickly realized the room wasn’t exactly quiet. A latecomer inflated their pad right in the middle of the space, making a racket. Another guy started snoring like a damn chainsaw. I could’ve gotten up and found another place, but I wasn’t about to. So, I did the most logical thing I could think of. I popped in the earplugs my buddy Jack Taylor had gifted me, threw my beanie over my eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.
Earplugs—absolute game changer. From then on, I slept like a baby no matter the chaos around me.
The next day began with a bit of groaning. Natalie and the others were up a solid hour or two before Eric and I decided to pull ourselves out of our sweaty, crumpled sleeping bags. They weren’t exactly loud, but there was a bit of clattering as they packed up, their movements sharp and deliberate. Honestly, though, it wasn’t enough to get under my skin. Hell, we were all in this wild, sleep-deprived state together. It wasn't the last we would see of Natalie, that much was clear, and I figured it would be a damn pleasure when we crossed paths again.
We soaked in the quiet of those extra morning hours, the air still cool as the sun stayed hidden behind the mountain range. By 5 a.m., we finally dragged ourselves up and onto our bikes, ready to get this ride back on the road. The first descent out of town hit us with a quick, chill bite in the air, but I knew the heat was waiting just around the corner, so I braced myself, reminding myself to soak it all in. No complaints. No whining. Just deal with it. And deal with it, we did.
Before long, we were back on the dirt. The rhythm of the bike beneath me, the steady drone of the tires on gravel—there’s a kind of bliss in it. We soon hit the first real challenge of the day: a river crossing. The kind of crossing that lets you know this is what you signed up for. The river wasn’t wide, but it was a swift-moving pain in the ass. We were joined by four or five other riders, all of us stripping off shoes, peeling off socks, and hefting our bikes over our shoulders. The cold water was a slap to the face—icy and rough—but it was a solid wake-up call for the day. The water barely came above our knees, thank God, so we made it across in no time.
Once we were out, we all set about the post-crossing routine: shoes back on, socks wrung out, and a quick breather. That’s when one of the other riders, a guy who was already winning points with his easy-going vibe, tossed out a suggestion: “I think it’s time for some 80s jams!”
I had to laugh. “You ever heard of Party All the Time by Eddie Murphy?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He looked at me like I’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare. He hadn’t heard of it, but I made it my mission to let him know it was a must-hear for any fan of the 80s. I told him to look it up when he got the chance. If there’s one thing that’ll make you feel alive after wading through an ice-cold river in Morocco, it’s Eddie Murphy’s voice on a solid groove.
A solid climb came after the river, and Eric and I slid into our singlespeed rhythm. The mountain rose in front of us, and we just... went. No gears, no fuss. It was a perfect morning to be on the move. The sun was coming up fast, and though the heat hadn’t fully kicked in, you could feel the edge of it creeping. Surprise, surprise—we caught up with Michael and Ariane, a pair we’d seen in every town we passed. Michael pulled out a sweet little film camera and snapped some pictures of us. They were just good people. The kind of folks who make these races feel like more than a competition—they make them about connections.
The track from Imassine to Afra had been painted as tough, and the warnings weren’t lying. The route was remote, rough, and the kind of place that would break lesser riders. But not us. We were ready. We were set. The only real question was just how much fun we were going to have along the way. The landscape was wide and open, the kind of vastness that makes you feel tiny and free at the same time.
Eric pointed out a rock formation in the distance. I’m not gonna lie, it looked like a giant dick. Yeah, that’s right—a massive rock formation that was undoubtedly the work of Mother Nature herself, with a little help from some well-placed imagination. And in that moment, I knew I liked Eric even more. It felt like we’d been riding together for years. Nothing was off-limits between us. Jokes, laughter, and even the weirdest observations were all on the table. This felt like one of those friendships that doesn’t need time to build; it just clicks.
After soaking in the scenery, we came across a grueling climb that quickly devolved into a hike-a-bike. The loose gravel underfoot made the going slow and frustrating. But hey, if there’s one thing I’ve learned on these rides, it’s that when the going gets tough, you gotta turn on some tunes. So, I cranked up the Sade—nothing like smooth jams to make your brain forget that you’re walking your bike up a damn mountain.
Halfway up, we bumped into Lloyd Wright, one of the photographers documenting the race. The guy had been snapping pics of us throughout the event, and I was grateful for that—his shots were impressive. He snapped a few more as we stopped to chat, and then we were back at it, pushing our bikes higher into the mountains.
Not long after, we caught sight of Mel, another key player in the race media team. She was all smiles, clearly well-rested, and looking like she had somehow found a moment of peace. She asked us a couple of questions, cracked a few jokes about my music selection (Sade, obviously), and sent us off with good vibes. We’d see her again later on.
The route from Imassine to Afra kept us on our toes. The heat didn’t let up, and the climb we’d just tackled was only the beginning. It felt like the day would never end, but we had a blast anyway. Nothing could kill our spirits. Nothing.
Eventually, we hit the final steep descent into Afra. It was like a crazy roller coaster ride, the loose rocks under our wheels making every turn feel like a dare. At the bottom of that descent, we crossed paths with a French tourer—dude was loaded down with panniers on a rigid bike, like he was on a whole different level of cycling.
We exchanged some quick words, but as soon as he was out of earshot, I turned to Eric and shook my head. “Can you believe he’s riding through all this with that much gear?” I said. Tourers, man. They're the damn sherpas of the bikepacking world. Insane.
We were getting close to Afra, and the heat was beating us down. We found a sliver of shade about five miles out of town, and took a quick break. A piece of bread with some amlou—our godsend in a jar. Amlou is this thick, rich nut butter made of almonds, honey, and argan oil. It’s as high-calorie as it is delicious, and we both needed every last drop. My left knee, though, was starting to make its presence known. I wasn’t sure if it was just the stress of the steep descents or something more serious, but I shrugged it off. A break would fix it.
Finally, we hit the town proper. The first building we saw with bikes in front of it was like an oasis. There were about five or six other cyclists there, and the little convenience store inside offered the usual assortment of snacks, candies, and, blessedly, omelettes and chicken kebabs.
Adjacent to the store was this beautifully carpeted room where cyclists were sitting, lounging on cushions around low tables. The vibe was mellow—everyone’s head down, focused on eating, too tired to chat much. But as more cyclists trickled in, the place came to life. We quickly struck up conversations with anyone who would talk to us. Eric spotted a familiar face—Valentina, a rider he’d met at the East Texas Showdown. We sat down, shared a meal, and before long, we were joined by our buddies from the river crossing: Will and Markus, two solid guys from London.
And then, as if on cue, Dries showed up—a hilarious Belgian who had a deep, undeniable love for American pop culture. He immediately recognized Party All the Time when I played it on my speaker, and next thing you know, the room was filled with his off-key but enthusiastic singing. I couldn’t help but laugh.
Eric and I decided to hang around in Afra for a few hours, hoping the heat would subside a little before we pushed on. We were in no rush. And honestly, it worked out perfectly. We got to refuel, rest up, and even gave our friend Bahadir a chance to catch up with us. When he arrived, we offered to ride with him, but he needed a little more time to resupply.
As we headed out, the pavement turned to gravel, then to dry riverbed. The next section was nothing short of hell. The knee pain flared up again, and keeping up with Eric’s pace started to feel like a chore. But I wasn’t about to slow him down. I pushed through it, hoping it would get better on its own. Hours later, I could feel the pain still nagging, so I made a change. I raised my saddle height just a hair, hoping to give my leg more room to extend. It wasn’t a miracle cure, but the pain dulled a little. Maybe I had solved the problem—maybe not. But we kept going.
Photo by Eric House
There are times when I find myself deep in thought, racing through miles of desert and mountain, only to realize later that I can hardly recall the details of those moments. It’s like I’ve been on autopilot, my body moving through the motions while my mind wandered elsewhere. And no matter how much I try to retrace those steps, some parts of the journey stay lost to me. Writing this all down helps, though. It's like piecing together a puzzle, the fragmented moments coming back together, bit by bit. But alas, some parts remain blurred, forever tucked away in the vault of memory, and that's fine too.
The track eased up a bit, and for once, my knee got a breather. Things were finally starting to look up. The sun dipped, and the coolness of the night crept in. That was our time to shine. We were in our element now, feeling a bit freer with each pedal stroke. But as luck would have it, we soon found ourselves on a stretch of highway, climbing like crazy. And not just any highway—this one had construction all over it, so it felt like an endless stretch of tarmac and gravel with no clear end in sight. My legs were starting to protest, but then, as we neared the top, a mirage appeared.
A coffee cart. On the side of the road. A perfect little oasis for the weary cyclist. Not only were we getting coffee, but we also ran into a few familiar faces—our friends from London and Belgium, Dries, Markus, and Will. It was like a little reunion on the side of the road. Dries, always the joker, cracked enough jokes to keep us laughing for a good 15 minutes. It felt like a short comedy show in the middle of nowhere. We didn't stay long, though. The road was calling, and we had to keep moving.
We were headed to Ait Saoun, a small town that was just a short ride away, but there was no telling if anything would be open when we got there. By the time we rolled in, it was well past 10 PM, and the town was quiet. We arrived at a small cafe with several cyclists eating, including Michael and Ariane, and at least half a dozen in the back sleeping. Soon, Dries, Markus, and Will arrived, and we all sat down together for a dinner of omelettes—probably the best damn omelettes I’ve ever had. These omelettes weren’t your standard fare either. They were crisped up perfectly in steel pans, stuffed with onions and tomatoes, and paired with fresh, homemade bread. There was nothing better after a long ride than stuffing our faces with that warm, hearty meal.
As we ate, another cyclist showed up—Felipe, a Colombian who now lived in Vienna. When he sat down, I couldn’t help but greet him with a grin, “Hey, I’m from Venezuela! Guess we’re neighbors!” That sparked an immediate connection, and we all laughed about the serendipity of it all. We devoured two rounds of those omelettes, each one more delicious than the last. It was the kind of meal that made you forget about the miles ahead, the fatigue, and the heat. Just a group of cyclists, sharing food and stories. As we finished eating, Bahadir arrived, having caught up to us yet again. Eric and I had our rhythm—ride hard, rest hard, and catch up with friends along the way. It felt like a weird, wonderful cycling family.
Most people were planning to crash at the cafe, but we decided to hit the road again. We weren’t about to miss out on a good night of riding, and Bahadir decided to tag along. The three of us—Eric, Bahadir, and me—were like a team now. We were the SS squad, plus one.
We didn’t expect to reach the second checkpoint until the next night, so we figured we’d camp somewhere past Ait Saoun. It was a beautiful desert dirt road, and despite the long break we took to escape the midday heat, I was still hoping to ride late into the night—maybe until 2 or 3 AM. But as the hours passed, fatigue started to creep in. By midnight, we were all feeling the wear and tear of the first few days. And we had been warned about the dry riverbeds. Flash floods are no joke out here in Morocco. Nelson, the race director, had told us a terrifying story of someone who camped in a dry riverbed and woke up to three feet of water rushing through it in less than 15 seconds. Yes, 15 seconds. Holy shit, right? So, with that in mind, we made the decision to still sleep in a riverbed. LOL.
We stumbled upon a soft patch of sand—perfect for a night’s rest. And let me tell you, that was one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had. The sand was soft, the air was cool, and I didn’t have to worry about rocks poking me in the hip. There is something innately peaceful about sleeping under the stars.
Morning came too soon, as it always does. The sound of wheels buzzing down to the dry riverbed woke me up, followed by the clattering of gear as they hit the rocks below. I felt well-rested, though, and it felt damn good to wake up beside two people I knew would soon be lifelong friends. Eric munched on an omelette sandwich as we packed up our gear and got ready to hit the road again. Our morning routine was simple: ride a few hours in the cool morning air before the heat could catch up to us. And every morning, without fail, the heat would sneak up, always earlier than we expected.
Bahadir shared some Kyrgyz lip balm with me—something he picked up during his time taking on the Silk Road Mountain Race. This stuff was incredible. It felt like a protective layer over my lips, lasting for hours. I was sold. The cheap beeswax lip balm I’d been using was no match.
We picked up the pace for a bit and eventually left Bahadir behind. But we knew he’d catch up at the next town. That was the thing with this race—people would pass us, and then we’d catch up at the next resupply. We’d see the same people again and again, and it kept our spirits high. The next town was Tazenakht, one of the bigger places on the route, and we parked ourselves at a cafe with other cyclists. We ordered omelette sandwiches and raided the convenience store next door for snacks. But the best part? The kids. Oh man, Tazenakht had the most unmonitored children we’d seen so far. They begged for candy, asked for money, and just wanted to talk to us. It was adorable for the first few minutes, but after 30 minutes of constant chatter, it started to wear thin. One of the cyclists even got so frustrated that he scared them off.
The cafe owner pointed us to his friend’s house when we needed to use the bathroom. He led each of us upstairs to a simple room, just a basic Moroccan room with a nice carpet and couches. The guy seemed so proud of it, and I couldn’t help but appreciate how kind he was to share his space with us.
From there, it was on to the next adventure. The race was a constant cycle of resupplying, eating, and riding, but what I loved about it was how much it felt like active tourism. Every stop was a chance to interact with locals, share stories, and connect with the people along the way. Who doesn’t want to talk to the grimy, gear-laden cyclist about what the hell he’s doing out there?
The 50 miles between Tazenakht and the second checkpoint flew by. We arrived to find Mel waiting for us, ready for another round of questions. The checkpoint was a flurry of activity, and we quickly got our bearings—charging our devices, ordering massive plates of food, and layering up for the night shift. One by one, our friends trickled in, each of them with stories to tell of their journey since the last time we met.
I scarfed down a tajine with chicken and vegetables, one of the best meals of the trip, along with a giant plate of couscous with chicken. I think I ate it all with my hands like an absolute savage, but it was one of those moments that made the whole trip worth it. The food, the people, the shared experience. This is what it was all about.
Asserarghe to Checkpoint 3 (Tafraout): The Night Shift
The next leg of the race was even more surreal. We descended into a beautiful canyon, the stars shining above us. But as we neared the bottom, Eric and I realized we’d taken a wrong turn. And of course, Bahadir caught up to us again, making us feel like we couldn’t get away from him even if we tried. But that was the thing—at this point in the race, I felt like I knew Bahadir’s soul. We were all kindred spirits in this strange, exhausting, and beautiful journey.
And then, the dreaded road miles. Flat and endless. The worst. But somehow, we pushed through. We found a shady, sketchy concrete building to bivy in for the night, the kind of place that looked like it had been abandoned by civilization long ago. But it worked. And let me tell you, sleep never felt so good. My secret sleep hack—Jack’s earplugs and my beanie pulled over my ears and eyes—worked wonders. That night, I was deep in sleep when a spooky tune blared through the air. I woke up in a panic, my heart racing. “What is that? What is that?!” I shouted. Eric and Bahadir were laughing their asses off. “Dude, chill. It’s just my music.” Bahadir had decided to wake us up with some eerie tunes. What was soothing for him was pure panic for me. Classic.
We packed up our stuff, still laughing, and as we were finishing, Lloyd from the media team showed up to snap some photos of our hideous, yet perfect bivy spot. We may have been dirty and exhausted, but we were having the time of our lives.
The morning started with a rhythm, a groove we fell into, like we were finally hitting our stride after days of grueling effort. Everything felt easy, smooth even, until we caught up to Max. Yep, Max—the German guy from day one. You remember him, right? The guy who seemed to have this uncanny knack for finding trouble with his bike. Well, surprise, surprise, he was once again dealing with a flat tire. Of course he was.
At this point, Eric and I were in full-on fast tour mode, no hesitation in our movements. Eric’s expertise with tubes and tires kicked in immediately. In a flash, the bike was flipped upside down, wheel removed, and it was time for some good ol' fashioned tinkering. Meanwhile, I took the opportunity to peel off some layers, grab some snacks, and enjoy a brief moment of relaxation. The wolf pack that had started as three was now a merry quartet. Strength in numbers, right? Hell yeah.
The next few hours were a combination of challenging terrain, dry river beds, and surreal rock formations that looked like something out of a geologist’s wet dream. I swear, if you're into rocks, this route is where you need to be. The landscape was both beautiful and brutal, with Eric and I thriving on the tough shit. We powered through rocky sections and some gnarly climbs, leaving the others behind as we pushed forward, eager to conquer the road ahead.
Then we hit the old colonial road. Holy hell. I can’t even describe how mind-blowing this road was. Twenty-five to thirty miles of perfect railroad-grade dirt, climbing steadily but never too steep to break us. The incline was a manageable 4-7%, just enough to get the legs burning but not enough to break us. Eric and I barely stopped. The road was so perfect for our gear ratios that it was like riding on a dream, and we climbed and climbed for what felt like forever. Fifteen miles up, and then—glory!—fifteen miles of downhill that nearly made my heart explode with joy. We passed a bunch of riders along the way, including a group of Finnish bike tourers who were more than happy to chat with us for a few minutes while the others kept their heads down, charging along. That’s the kind of freedom I love—getting to share a moment with fellow bike lovers instead of just racing past them.
This road had history, too. Built by the French during their colonial rule, it was a marvel of engineering. A dry stone wall running alongside it, designed to hold back the elements, was a reminder of the countless caravans that must have trundled their way through these switchbacks, hauling goods over the mountains. The thought of that history felt heavy and awe-inspiring. We cruised up and over the mountain, the terrain finally giving way to a funky stretch of singletrack that led us straight into a trash-strewn junction with the highway. After all that beauty, it was kind of a rude awakening.
At this point, we found ourselves in a wide valley, surrounded by these huge concrete structures—likely built to prevent flash flooding—though they didn’t quite manage to prevent the trash from piling up around them. The amount of garbage here was a stark contrast to the pristine landscapes we had passed. It reminded me of home, like riding through the Ozarks back in Arkansas, where the rural roads are often lined with discarded bottles and junk. Not sure if it’s a resource thing or just part of rural life, but it definitely gave me a moment of reflection.
A few miles down the road, we hit another town for a resupply. As usual, we found the first group of bikes parked outside a cafe. And there they were—Natalie and Valentina, enjoying some Moroccan chicken tacos. Hell yes, I was in. We ordered up and got to work on some bike admin, when—surprise—another mob of kids surrounded us. These little rascals were everywhere, eyes wide and hopeful, begging for candy and attention. Eric, ever the jokester, started teaching them how to say "Howdy," which turned into a whole game. It was hilarious watching these kids stumble over the word while Eric kept at it, giggling all the while. There’s something pure about those interactions—simple, joyful, with no real agenda other than to share a moment of connection.
As we waited for our food, I realized I had way too many snacks left—stuff I wasn’t going to eat. A boy, maybe 10 or 11, with a smile that could light up a room had asked for my name earlier, so I gave him a few of my leftover candies. Before I knew it, half a dozen kids appeared, their hands outstretched and their eyes wide with anticipation. I only had a few candies left, so I gestured for them to share. You’ve never seen kids so happy to get some cheap candy in your life. They were ecstatic, practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. In that moment, I realized just how spoiled we are. A simple candy bar or a handful of snacks, things we take for granted, were enough to make them feel like they had won the lottery. It was humbling, honestly. A moment of clarity. I felt like the luckiest bastard alive to be able to ride across these lands, experiencing the world in a way so few do.
Before long, Natalie and her partner were off, continuing their journey. As they left, who should show up again but Felipe, the Colombian dude. We caught up for a bit, chatting about the usual race gossip, when suddenly—boom—like a damn ghost, Bahadir appeared! That sweet, Turkish-Swedish prince was back to join the fun. Now, our group was a full-on posse, and our energy immediately shifted from focus to socializing. Felipe took off, zooming ahead while we continued our slower pace.
By this point, I knew if we stuck together, our chances of hitting the next checkpoint without sleeping were slim. The road ahead was rough, some stretches feeling like nothing but a dry riverbed - because that’s what it was. After about 30 minutes of this, we decided to take a break in what looked like a small, deserted town. Buildings surrounded us, but not a soul in sight. It was close to midnight, and the silence was profound. While we rested, a mother dog came wandering by, puppies in tow. I wanted to help, to do something for the poor things, but what could I do? I was in the middle of an 800-mile race, not a rescue mission. It didn’t make sense to stop for a bunch of stray dogs, no matter how heart-wrenching it felt.
That was the moment I decided—we were going to make it to the checkpoint, no matter what. We pushed forward. The terrain was tough, but we rode hard, knowing that every mile brought us closer to that sweet, sweet hotel checkpoint with its full-service restaurant, everything we could possibly want. Bahadir, ever the wise one, pulled off to bivy as he felt his energy fading, leaving just Eric and me. The road ahead was a mix of dirt and pavement, with one last massive climb between us and the checkpoint.
That climb… Jesus. It was tough. We hiked, we stood up on our bikes and pedaled like mad, but eventually, we made it to the top. Then came the descent—the cold, fast descent down into Tafraout, where the checkpoint awaited us. I stayed ahead of Eric, keeping an eye on him as I ripped down the mountain. I could tell he was starting to fade, the sleepiness creeping in. We hit the bottom and I pulled up to the checkpoint, grinning like a damn fool. Eric rolled in right behind me, telling me he was nearly falling asleep on the descent. What the hell, man? Why didn’t he tell me? I would’ve slapped him around a little to keep him awake! But we made it. Safe. Sound. And damn, it felt good.
Photo by Eric House
We’d made it through another night—together. And that’s the beauty of this shit. It’s not just the race, it’s the people you meet, the moments you share. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
It was time to hit the reset button. After our 23-hour push to make it to the third checkpoint, we had earned ourselves a proper break. The routine kicked in automatically: brevet cards stamped, food ordered, and our stomachs growling louder than our tired legs. The menu was extensive, but we decided to keep it simple—nothing too flashy, but enough to fill the hole we had dug in our bellies. I went with a burger, Eric chose pasta, and we ordered a pizza to split, knowing damn well we’d want more later. You don’t go into a checkpoint like this without knowing there's more food to come. It’s all part of the plan.
Our mission was clear: eat, check into a hotel room, crash for a few hours, and then feast on a big breakfast. Once breakfast was done, we’d hit the sack again for a little more rest before lunch. We weren’t here to race anymore. We’d pushed hard, but now, it was time to refuel, rehydrate, and reset for the last stretch to the finish line. And honestly, after all the dust and dry desert nights, we needed it. You can only sleep under the stars on rocky ground for so long before your body starts crying for a real bed.
When we woke up for breakfast, it was like hitting the refresh button. We checked our WhatsApp, and sure enough—Bahadir, our sweet prince, had made it to the checkpoint not long after us. This guy’s a maniac. He’d tried to bivy earlier, but the spot he picked was infested with thorns, forcing him to pack up and find a new place to sleep. But get this—he only slept for about 30 minutes before he got back on his bike to chase us down. What the hell kind of madman does that? Bahadir does. We had to double-check the tracker to make sure he wasn’t lost somewhere in the desert, but sure enough, he’d made it. We didn’t want to bother him, knowing he’d need just as much rest as we did, so we left him to recover for a while.
Breakfast? It was a goddamn dream. Fresh omelettes, juice, coffee, pastries, jam—basically everything we needed to keep the wheels turning. We ate until we couldn’t eat anymore. Our bodies were screaming for fuel, and this was it. The gods had blessed us with a real breakfast. And then, after our bellies were full and our spirits even fuller, it was time for round two: sleep.
We didn’t get much, but it was enough to feel like we were human again. And once the sleep cloud had passed, we were back at it. Lunch was next on the agenda. The plan was to pack up our things so we could leave right after eating, but of course, the universe had other plans. Every goddamn person we knew showed up at the checkpoint. It was like a reunion of all the faces we’d seen on the road—familiar, warm, and full of stories. I should’ve known it would slow us down, but I didn’t care. We were fast touring at this point. The race pace was long behind us, and that was fine by me. The joy of reuniting with old friends and fellow riders was worth every minute of the delay.
By the time we left the third checkpoint, it was pushing 3 or 4 PM. We had been there for nearly 10 hours, milking the place for every ounce of comfort it offered. A quick resupply at the convenience store next door, and Eric—being the wild character he is—picked up a pair of rad sequined sunglasses that he knew were going to make him look like a friggin rock star. We were ready to roll again.
Tafraout to Essaouira: The Final Push
Photo by Lloyd Wright
We left Tafraout, cruising along paved roads for several miles before veering off into smaller towns. And of course, there it was: another massive climb. Goddamn it. It was like they knew exactly how to test our willpower—10 or 15 miles of elevation just to remind us that this race wasn’t going to hand us anything. But you know what? If you’re into big mountain climbs, Morocco is the place for you. No joke. Every turn brought a new challenge, but every turn also brought a new view. As we neared the summit, we saw more racers below us, grinding away. And you know what? We couldn’t help ourselves—we had to shout down at them. There’s something about being on top of a mountain and yelling down at people that’s just pure joy. It’s the kind of freedom that makes you feel like you’re on top of the world.
The views from up there were breathtaking. A mountain range stretching as far as the eye could see, layers upon layers of rocky giants, each casting long shadows as the sun painted them golden. It was beautiful, but we weren’t here to sightsee. We were here to ride. It was a moment I’ll never forget.
We didn’t have a plan for where to sleep that night, but we knew we wanted something with a roof over our heads. After a solid 70 to 80 miles of riding, exhaustion started to creep in. We weren’t quite ready for another overnight push—hell no—but we weren’t going to stop until we found a decent bivy spot. At least we weren’t. Eric’s always down for a little more riding, but you could tell even he was starting to drag.
We weren’t far from a town called Ait Baha, so we figured we’d push to get there, but by the time we got close, we knew a hotel wasn’t going to happen at this hour. The idea of camping out again was starting to look better. We pulled into a gas station and spotted a municipal building nearby with an outdoor stairwell. It wasn’t much, but it had walls and a flat surface where we could set up our bivies, and that was enough. The wind was nonexistent, and there were no homes around to disturb us. It was perfect.
I stuffed my face with whatever food I had left and washed it down with a protein shake. Eric had a few bites of the vegetarian wrap he’d picked up earlier from the hotel. Smart move. I’d packed protein powder for the nights of the race, knowing that food would be hit or miss. I’m pretty sure that’s what kept me from feeling completely wrecked. I don’t know how I’d have managed without it. Sleep came easy, despite the hard surface, and we both crashed out under the stairs, our bikes close by, ready to face whatever came next.
Tomorrow would be another day of riding, but for now, we had rest.
I slept like a freaking rock that night. You know that deep, comatose sleep that only happens after you’ve pushed your body to its absolute limit? That’s what it was like—my body just shut down, completely and utterly exhausted from everything. It wasn’t just the fatigue from the race; it was the exhaustion that only comes from pushing yourself day after day, when sleep becomes a drug you can’t get enough of. My sleep kit, as ragged as it was, felt like the most luxurious thing in the world. I must’ve fallen asleep in under a minute because, when I finally opened my eyes, it was to the sound of Eric’s alarm at 6:30 AM. We had agreed on 5:30, but clearly, that wasn’t happening.
I rolled over, bleary-eyed, asking him what the hell was going on. He groggily mumbled something about waking up in the middle of the night and puking up the wrap he ate before bed. I stared at him like he’d just told me he’d swallowed a cactus. No! My stomach dropped as I immediately flashed back to my experience in the Canary Islands in December 2024—waking up in the dead of night, sicker than a dog, barely able to move. That sickness took me down hard, and I ended up in a hospital for meds, then took a full day off riding to recover. It had been a nightmare, and now Eric was dealing with his own puke-fueled hangover. I feared the worst.
Still, we packed up, got our gear together, and slowly made our way to Ait Baha. We needed a serious reset, and the best place to do that was with a cup of coffee and some food. As we rode through the town, we found a small café, perfect for gathering our bearings. Eric wasn’t quite ready for a full-on omelette, and I remembered the amlou we’d packed early in the trip. A little bit of that smooth, nutty spread on bread might just be the thing to settle his stomach. We ordered some bread and dug into the amlou, each of us savoring the thick, sweet goodness while we sipped our coffees.
Eric, looking like he might fall into a coma at any moment, figured he should replenish some fluids, especially after vomiting up everything the night before. So, instead of reaching for water like a normal person, he grabbed a liter and a half of Coke and two chocolate milks. I stared at him, wide-eyed. What the hell? A stomach that had just been through a night of violent puking doesn’t exactly scream “load me up with sugar and syrup,” but hey, Eric’s a grown-ass man. He knows his body better than I do, right? Maybe this bizarre concoction would do the trick.
We finished our resupply, and it was time to get moving. The sun was creeping up, and we were still climbing through small valleys between towns. Honestly, the ride was beautiful, the kind of scenic view you get lost in, only to realize you’re already halfway through it. We came out of the last valley and hit the outskirts of a town. The heat was already starting to sneak up on us, and Eric had shed his layers, ready for the day’s ride. I stopped for a break, hoping the cooler air would stick around for just a bit longer.
Eric, ever the resourceful one, had run out of sunscreen, so I handed him mine while I changed into my own riding gear. I turned around to grab my bike, and in the split second I wasn’t looking, Eric unleashed hell on the road—projectile vomiting like a goddamn fire hydrant. I mean, it was a solid 30 seconds of the most impressive puke I’ve ever seen in my life. I stood there, stunned, mouth agape, wondering if this was my cue to step in and help or just stand back and pray he didn’t die. When it was finally over, I cautiously asked if he was alright.
“I feel so much better now,” he said, with a grin plastered on his face like it was just another day at the office. He looked like he had just given the most important speech of his life. I wish I’d caught it on video, because that was some next-level puke artistry. I would’ve shown it to him later and we would’ve laughed until we cried.
At that moment, though, I figured this was either going to be the worst thing to happen, or it was the turning point where he would start feeling better. I remembered the meds I’d gotten in the Canary Islands—some liquid IV stuff that tasted like absolute ass, but was a lifesaver in dire situations. I handed him a packet, and we both hoped it worked its magic. He took the medicine, and we both sat for a few minutes in the heat, letting the desert do its thing while we gave Eric a chance to pull himself together.
After a while, he said, “You know what? I feel a hell of a lot better than I did this morning. That puke was exactly what I needed.” That was a huge relief. The race wasn’t over yet, but we had to pace ourselves. We were supposed to hit a ten-mile sand section earlier in the day to beat the heat, but that wasn’t happening now, especially after the late start and the slow recovery. We’d have to take it easy through the sand, riding in some of the worst heat of the day. At least it wouldn’t be peak heat. Still, the mental game was starting to wear on me.
And of course, just when I thought we might get a break, Bahadir showed up again. Seriously, this guy was like a goddamn shadow. He just kept catching up to us, no matter how much we pushed.
As we hit the sand section, we were immediately bombarded by a group of around 10 kids who started yelling at us, begging for money. I swear to God, it was like hitting a wall. Between trying to navigate the soft, shifting sand and dealing with these kids who weren’t taking “no” for an answer, I could feel my patience starting to fray. I made some hand gestures, hoping they’d take the hint and go away. They finally did, running back toward their village, and I sighed in relief. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but it was definitely the most irritating part of the day so far.
At that point, I knew there was no getting around it. The sand was relentless, and there was no way through without making some adjustments. I decided to lower my tire pressure—way down. Like, way more than I thought was safe. But you know what? It worked. I was able to glide through about 95% of the sand without issue, feeling like I had cracked the code.
We ran into Nils, another media guy from the team, right before we got into the thickest part of the sand. He snapped some pictures of us—good guy, Nils. He’d also taken some photos of my bike back at the hotel, and I was grateful for that. He was an absolute pro behind the camera and a genuinely nice dude to boot. After chatting for a few minutes, I felt the urge to keep moving. I was in the zone, and I just wanted to finish the sand section as fast as I could.
I ended up passing a lot of people who were walking through the sand, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they hadn’t figured out the tire pressure trick. The tracks in the sand told the story—deep ruts where people’s tires were digging in hard. Weird. It felt like I was the only one who had figured it out.
Eventually, the sand started to fade, and I found myself riding through farmland. It was a moment of peace—a rare breath of fresh air in the midst of the chaos. And then, right in front of me, something I’ll never forget: a sea of goats sitting in trees. I’d heard about this, but seeing it in person was on a whole other level. I swear to God, it was like 100 trees, each with five or six goats sitting pretty on top. Even the baby goats were up there! I couldn’t believe it. And then, just as I was wondering what would happen if one of them fell off, a little goat did exactly that. It tumbled down but landed gracefully and got right back up. It was like watching a live-action cartoon. I couldn’t stop laughing.
I snapped photo after photo, loving every second of this bizarre, beautiful experience. Finally, the sand was gone for good, and we reached a junction with a highway. Thank God, I thought. Coffee carts. Shade. The promise of caffeine salvation.
I pulled up to the first coffee cart I saw, parked my bike under the shade, and plopped down into the one chair the guy had under the awning. No hesitation, no second thoughts. I ordered a coffee and sat back, figuring it wouldn’t be long before Eric and Bahadir showed up. I ended up sitting there for 30-40 minutes, just drinking coffee, letting the heat of the day pass. When they finally showed up, I asked what took so long. Turns out, neither of them had bothered to adjust their tire pressure. No wonder you guys were walking through the sand like amateurs!
Photo by Eric House
We regrouped and set off again, but this time there was a different kind of tension in the air. We knew that there was one more town, Amskroud, where we could resupply before we hit a long stretch of nothingness—no towns, no stores, just the wide open desert stretching out under the night sky. Eric was feeling pretty drained, his body showing the wear and tear from the brutal heat and the sandy challenge we’d just crawled through. The man was running on fumes, and I could see it in his eyes. So, I suggested we stop in Amskroud, get some food, and reassess the situation.
Bahadir, that relentless machine, decided to keep going. Eric and I coasted into Amskroud, a small town that seemed to have a bit more life than the dusty, half-forgotten towns we had been passing through. We found a grill restaurant right next to a butcher with the most glorious smells wafting from the outdoor charcoal grill. It was mouthwatering, and I couldn’t wait to get in on that. We ordered Eric an omelette to get him back on track and 500 grams of ground beef for me. As soon as we sat down next to the grill, Eric pulled his buff up over his eyes, ready for a nap, looking like a man who’d just fought a battle and lost.
I wasn’t going to rush him, though. We had time. I took the opportunity to people-watch while I waited for our food. The town was busy in a way that was rare around these parts. Buses zoomed up and down the main road like they had somewhere important to be. Cars pulled in and out of the gas station next door, honking and revving their engines. The whole place felt alive, buzzing with energy—more than most of the towns we’d seen so far.
When the food finally came, it wasn’t anything fancy. Just ground beef, cooked into irregularly shaped patties, thrown onto a plate with some bread. But holy shit, the flavor. It was some of the best ground beef I’ve ever had in my life. And the bread? Classic Moroccan stuff, thick and hearty, almost like pita but a bit denser, larger, and somehow more satisfying. The beef came with good-quality salt and a handful of spices, the only one I could pick up being cumin. It was simple, yet somehow perfect. If you’re ever in Amskroud, do yourself a favor and eat the damn meat. You won’t regret it.
While Eric snored gently beside me, I took the time to make some calls. Our break ended up stretching out to almost two hours, but I wasn’t complaining. I knew exactly how Eric felt. We’ve all been there—pushed to the brink, physically and mentally. The fact that he was holding it together, without throwing in the towel, was nothing short of impressive. I let him have his time, without rushing him. He needed it. And when he finally woke up, I could see it on his face. He was in a little better shape, a little more human. He was ready to roll again.
So, we got back on the bikes, and off we went. The next stretch was a 90-mile section with no resupply. Not a damn store in sight, and we knew we’d need every drop of water and every bit of food we could carry. Luckily, we had stocked up enough to survive. The stretch was brutal, though. It had two of the last big climbs of the whole route, plus a bunch of smaller ones scattered throughout. When we got to the first major climb, the sun was setting, casting a reddish glow across the landscape. We started making our way up, and in the distance, we spotted some lights. At first, they looked close enough to touch, but as we got closer, they seemed to stretch out further and further. It took us another hour before we finally got close enough to make sense of it.
I thought it was another group of cyclists at first, but as we approached, I noticed something else—there was a table set up with snacks and drinks. No way. A local family had set up a mountain-top convenience store just for the race! They had hot coffee, tea, yogurt, milk drinks—hell, they had everything. I don’t know how they’d heard about the race, but they were there, following the tracking site and waiting for the cyclists. We were only a couple of hours out of Amskroud, but we knew the night ahead would be tough, and this was a godsend. We didn’t waste any time, grabbed a quick coffee and tea, and then we were back on our way. We couldn’t get over it. How the hell did they get up there? There was nothing around for miles. No vehicles, no houses. The nearest home was probably 5 miles away. Either they got dropped off with all that stuff, or they hiked it all out there. Regardless, it was heartwarming to know the local communities wanted us to survive the brutal stretch ahead.
The night was creeping in now, and we descended into a deep valley where we’d pass a riverside town. Supposedly, there were several restaurants there, and it was close to midnight by now, so I figured they’d all still be open. We weren’t in a hurry—we were just riding our usual pace, hoping to set up our bivies after the two big climbs and then finish up the last 100 miles the following day.
Photo by Lloyd Wright
As we neared the town, we saw it: a small fire burning on the side of the road. And no shit, it was another makeshift resupply stop, this time with just coffee and tea, but the fire made it feel like heaven. The warmth from the flames against the cold desert air was exactly what we needed. Bahadir, looking utterly wrecked by the day, was there, along with two other cyclists, Jeff and Andrew, huddled around the fire, sipping hot drinks. As we sat down, I swear I could feel my soul come back to life. It’s amazing how much a hot drink can do for you when you’re pushing through the night.
We didn’t stay too long. We knew better than to get too comfortable. Bahadir, though, was starting to show signs of serious fatigue. He hadn’t taken that big rest like Eric and I had during the hottest part of the day. He was pushing himself hard, but you could see it in his eyes—he was done. He was talking about taking a nap right there, on the side of the road by the fire. But he kept going. We all did. Eventually, though, we reached the next town, and just before we entered it, Bahadir made the decision to bail. He pulled off the track, bikepacking-style, and set up his bivy right there, off to the side, away from the town. We gave him his space, knowing he needed it. He was wiped out, and we all knew it.
We left him to rest and continued on, knowing the hardest parts were behind us, but there was still a long way to go.
We rolled into town late at night. And then, like a beacon in the night, we saw it: a crepe shop still open. It had to be the cyclists in front of us that kept them open, I figured. Hell, if I were a business owner in this place, I’d be staying up for days on end, serving all these crazy riders who kept flowing through like some unstoppable wave. There’s money in this madness, and more importantly, you meet some of the most interesting people on the planet.
Jeff and Andrew, the other two we were riding with, decided to stop for a while, thinking they’d grab some food and try to get a little sleep in at the crepe shop. But Eric and I, after a brief moment of hesitation, looked at each other and knew we didn’t need to stop. There was no point in parking ourselves just yet—we had a plan. It was tempting, the allure of food and rest at this late hour, but we both knew that we were aiming for something bigger. Tomorrow’s 100 miles was looking smoother on paper, but that mountain we were about to tackle? Yeah, that was no joke.
The Moroccan Stelvio awaited us—a towering road climb that would take us up and out of the valley. Roughly 8 miles with a brutal 4,000 feet of elevation gain. It was going to be a bastard of a climb, especially this late in the game when every muscle in my body was begging for a break. But we didn’t flinch. We had to make it up there. The night was young and we were ready for it. We were going to tackle that mountain like we had been tackling every other challenge on this ride—head-on, with a mix of grit and a dash of insanity.
It took us close to three hours to crawl up that godforsaken mountain. There was no shame in walking most of it, either. The grade was steep enough to strip you down to your last ounce of strength, and yet, somehow, that climb was also oddly beautiful. The stars above were on full display, the sky so clear, you could almost reach out and touch the constellations. By the time we crested the top, we were spent. But we weren’t finished yet.
We found a perfect spot to bivy, maybe 20 yards off the road. A flat patch of dirt with just enough protection from the wind, surrounded by tiny rock walls that whispered ‘we got you’ in a way only nature can. We threw down our bivy sacks, knowing this would be the last night we’d spend in the Moroccan desert. There was something bittersweet about it. We slept like two dead men, and by the time 8 AM rolled around, we were back at it.
The morning greeted us with the typical blazing sun. Eric was looking better than I expected—he was back to eating like a champ, riding at his usual pace, and hell, even joking around. I was stunned at how fast he bounced back after all that bullshit the day before. Charcoal grill naps must work wonders. Whatever it was, I was glad to have him back at full strength.
The final 100 miles ahead felt like they would be a breeze, and honestly, for the most part, they were. The temperature was climbing faster now, since we weren’t tucked away in the mountains anymore, and it was definitely hotter. But we were making good time, and there was one resupply point halfway through we had our sights set on for lunch. We powered through a few miles of pavement and downhill and finally rolled into a roadside café.
We were starving, absolutely fucking starving, so we ordered the standard—omelette, bread, pastry, and a hot drink. It was nothing fancy, but at that point, it was exactly what we needed. We ate, resupplied with some snacks and cold drinks, and I took a quick trip to the bathroom. When I came back, there was Eric, passed out cold in his chair, head resting on the wall behind him, napping like he’d just taken a hit of a tranquilizer dart. The man can nap anywhere, anytime, and it’s honestly a skill I’ve come to envy. It was like my brother Ian, who used to fall asleep standing up when we were kids. I swear, that guy had the ability to sleep through anything. But enough about naps.
We had 50 miles left, and damn, we were going to crush them. The goal? To make it before sundown. Our bodies had already been through hell and back, but there was this second wind, or maybe the tenth wind at this point, that had us feeling like a couple of freight trains barreling toward the finish line. We pushed through a couple of smaller climbs along the coast, the air cooling off with each passing mile.
With less than 10 miles to go, we felt it. That slow, creeping fatigue that had been lurking just behind the excitement of the finish. We needed a break, and damn if we didn’t find it in a beachside café with that laid-back, surf-town vibe. We ordered fruit juices and a fruit salad, and let me tell you—nothing has ever tasted so good. Fresh fruit and cold drinks were exactly what we needed to recharge. It was like we were recharging our souls with every sip.
We sat there for a while, soaking in the coastal air, savoring the moment, and then it was time. We got back on the bikes, our bodies still moving forward despite the tiredness trying to take hold. Most of the last 10 miles were paved, smooth sailing, except for this cruel little 50-yard section of sand. I couldn’t help but laugh. It was the final test, a little fuck-you from the race gods. Nelson, if you’re listening, that was a solid troll move. But you know what? We made it.
As we neared Essaouira, I started to feel it—the finish line was in sight, and it felt fucking surreal. There we were, cruising down the final stretch, approaching the historic walls of the old town, and all around us were people—tourists, locals, families, kids—just living their lives. I joked to Eric, “Should we turn around and go back out there? I don’t want this to end!” But we both knew we had arrived.
When we finally crossed the finish line, the sense of accomplishment washed over me in a wave. It wasn’t just about the race. It was about everything I’d learned along the way, every friendship I’d made, every ounce of energy I’d poured into this insane journey.
And there it was—the conclusion to this wild ride. But all I could think of was: "Where are the people who’ve already finished, and who the hell is about to finish behind us?" I had gained so much on this trip, but the friendships, the bonds, the moments of raw human connection—those were the things that would stay with me long after the finish line faded into the rearview. Ultra-cycling, man. It’s a whole new level of life, and I was hooked. The love, the madness, the challenge—it’s a crazy fucking ride. And I wouldn't trade a second of it for anything.
