When dirt riding and adventure biking novice Gary Inman decided to cross the Sahara by motorcycle, he ignored knobbly tyres in favour of semi-slicks, and ditched relative ease for crashes by the dozen.
It doesβ¦. I knew the idea of crossing the Sahara on a road bike was ambitious, but I had no idea how hard it would actually be. I soon learn that this term defines every surface that can be travelled on β from smooth dirt road to rugged wilderness.
I ride slowly, paddling with my feet when the sand is deep. Locals give me dead-eyed, zombie-like stares. The architecture is Mogadishu-chic. In among the madness my bike has become invisible.
Nothing gives me an inch. Sanctuary is found in a walled campsite full of Europeans. I hook up with two Dutch guys driving to Gambia. The guide will travel in their car and I can follow. There may be some tarmac here, but the riding is hot, dusty work demanding concentration. After 55 miles the car turns right, off the piste and into the Sahara desert. My mouth dries in an instant. Now I know I need to relax and just keep the front wheel pointing in the direction I want it to go and the rear will follow.
I know I should try standing up. I know I should grip the bars lightly. But I sit down and hold on with white-knuckle ferocity. I have little faith in myself and close to none in the road tyres. After four hours we make a proper stop and Mr Abba brews a pot of mint tea. But I feel remarkably upbeat. The next morning I crash within five miles of an mile day on the sand. My last night in the desert is spent in a tent on the beach with the Atlantic crashing a few feet away.
