The No-Good Dancing Donkey

Ouarzazate, Morocco * October 11, 2008

I was up before 7 a.m., with the peacocks. The early morning was bright and warm, the thin cirrus clouds above a preternatural pink from the rising sun. The sunlight seems different here in Africa, with an almost otherworldly luminescence. I had noticed it before, and now at dawn the phenomenon was on full display. I rubbed my eyes and looked about. The colorful birds pecked about the Marrakesh campsite, looking for breakfast.

At the tent next to mine, an older French woman was making tea and feeding bread to the peacocks. I greeted her, and she smiled and offered me a cup of tea. Her young Moroccan male friend emerged from their tent.

“Tu ronfle!” she told me, laughing. She was in her 60s, a faded beauty with short grey hair and big silver earrings and a purple smock. They were camped here because their car had broken down and was being repaired in Marrakesh. The young Moroccan man laughed as well. I stood there perplexed.

“Beaucoup ronflement!” the woman declared, and they both laughed. My confused look told them I had no idea what they were talking about. I sipped the warm and sweet tea.

“Honnnnnk-honnnnnk-honnnnnk,” the French woman mimicked, inhaling and exhaling, and it was clear – they’d heard me snoring in the night. I apologized and she waved it off, and despite my nocturnal racket, gave me her business card and invited us to camp a night outside their home in Zagora, in the Atlas Mountains.

I thanked her and put her card in my wallet. We were heading that way, into the mountains, towards Ouarzazate. I was looking forward to some mountain riding and scenery, because only in Morocco and South Africa would we cross terrain of any appreciable altitude. Otherwise, Africa would be mostly, and somewhat dishearteningly, flat. We were caffeinated, fed and on the road at 9 a.m., each of us with handsome camel stickers for our motorbikes that Geoff had found at the campsite store.

The road towards Ouarzazate climbed gradually. We passed through broken-down small towns full of donkeys and men and boys who greeted us with waves or a thumbs-up. After a gradual ascent, the road corkscrewed dramatically up steep inclines and down into
foliated valleys, to rise again towards plateaus that obliged a stop for the marvelous views. The rugged multicolored canyons and flat-topped mesas were straight off a southern Utah postcard.

At these plateau pull-offs, men sold rocks full of colorful crystals, pink and blue and purple and green, a geological novelty in these parts. I tried to explain I could not afford to carry the weight of their very nice crystal rocks, but it was fruitless. They shoved the rocks in my chest, imploring a purchase, and only when I offered a few dirham for a photo did they leave me in peace.

Road conditions deteriorated as we climbed. The pavement narrowed. Tarmac was broken. Patches of sand and gravel awaited across many corners. In a hairpin turn, I would expect to encounter a bus or a car half in my lane, and indeed, numerous vehicles cornered recklessly over the center, quite rudely onto my turf.

I maneuvered the motorbike in the right one-third of my lane, eased off the throttle and kept a couple of fingers poised over the front brake lever. I recalled the mantra from my near head-on collision with a school bus around a corner on a dirt road in Honduras in 2004: Here comes the school bus. Here comes the school bus.

And I recalled the name of a story my mother used to read to me when I was a little boy -- "The No-Good Dancing Donkey." Donkeys don't ordinarily dance, but if I encountered one around a cornerand it was dancing, it would be decidedly no good. Expect the unexpected.

Ahead of me, Geoff hit the gas and took the corners hard. He would extend a foot in preparation for what’s called a power slide – the bike hits a patch of sand, and you right it by force of your heavily armored foot. In theory. It’s a technique used in off-road riding; in a tarmac corner at 65 mph, I suspect its efficacy would be considerably diminished.

I watched him with a mixture of amusement and alarm. I wondered, Why was he riding so aggressively? Was he showing off, or did he mean to power-slide his way around the world? Within minutes, he had torn past a slow-moving car and was out of sight.

Migo percolated behind me, closely. I could see him nudged up in my left-side rear view mirror. He’s not gonna … nah. From our correspondence, I had developed an idea that he would be a deliberate, even cautious rider. Yet as I took a corner, Migo ripped past, over a white line, passing both me and the truck ahead me. Imprudently …. even recklessly, I thought. I felt a flash of shock, so abrupt and unexpected was Migo’s pass.

I could not see what lurked around the corner past the truck … could Migo? In minutes, he too was out of sight.

***
On the long straightaways or rolling sweepers from Casablanca south, our riding styles were similar. We three proceeded at 70 or 75 mph … I would have happily gone faster, 80+ mph, except the motorbike’s top end with its 14-tooth sprocket is effectively 75 mph. In dense urban traffic, too, we largely rode the same aggressive pace and stuck together. In modest traffic, they would lose me, as I saw no point in weaving sportively through light traffic to gain a few minutes.

Now in these rough Moroccan mountains, I found myself considerably behind my riding partners. I began to question myself. Was I riding too slowly? Was I a chicken-shit? I watched my speedometer in the corners …. 35, 40, 45, 50, 55, 60, 65 mph, depending on the severity of the curve and how far ahead I could see. No, I told myself, I’m not riding too slowly. I’m riding solidly.

It’s different in the U.S. In Montana or Tennessee or Arizona or any mountainous terrain, you can be fairly confident that clean, unobstructed tarmac awaits you around a corner. Over the years, you cultivate a sense of speed and risk and reward. The risk is nominal, and the reward from swooping into a sharp uphill turn, carving a canyon, leaning the bike low and fast and hard into a turn, eliciting a broad grin from the thrill of it all … well, that’s a lot of what motorcycling is about.

Still, even in the U.S., you have to expect the unexpected. I was riding in Montana, north to Glacier National Park, two-up with my girlfriend on pillion and loaded with touring gear. The road was rural and the day was rainy. I leaned my big 1100cc V65 Honda Sabre into a downhill turn at probably 45 mph, and voowhooooomp! -- the front tire lost purchase, skidded frighteningly, then grabbed the road. Then the rear tire did the same thing, except by then I had corrected the bike from the first slip, counter to the slip that would follow.

Voowhooooomp! The rear tire regained its traction, and I just about soiled my Levis keeping the big bike upright and out of the ditch. Left, too much, back right, too much, argh! We careered wildly across both lanes, skirted the left side ditch, and I brought the bike under control -- it was done.

I stopped, heart pounding, suddenly damp with sweat, and walked back to assess the unexpected thing that had nearly caused a nasty crash. It had seen it, but there was nothing I could do at speed. It was a metal cow catcher, lain at the bottom of a hilly corner by a road-builder oblivious to the peril it would pose to a motorcyclist on a damp and rainy day.

In Morocco and throughout Africa, hazards would be far more abundant. Chances were good the hazard would be something wholly unexpected. Back in San Francisco, my driveway exited onto a sometimes-busy sidewalk. The exit was narrow, and only by creeping judiciously ahead could you be certain you wouldn’t hit someone.

“Gotta watch out for the old Asian lady on a skateboard,” I would tell my girlfriend. “I mean, something completely unexpected.”

It’s them, I concluded, Geoff and Migo, they’re riding too fast. Worse, perhaps they’ve begun some sort of contest, each daring the other to corner harder and faster. I worked out the acronym in my head. S.T.F.F.C. – Speed Too Fast for Conditions.

And I was forced to recall a rule drilled into the head of junior motorcyclists – ride at your own pace, not your partners’.

***
Riding at a workmanlike pace, too, I could better enjoy the splendid scenery of the Atlas Mountains. The altimeter on my GPS climbed to over 6,000 feet and the air grew cool. The tankbag thermometer read 60 F. I turned on the heated grips and ascended further. The road crested atop a plateau with that top of the world feeling that I had always found so bewitching. It was like Tibet, or the Bolivian altiplano, or the Top of the World Highway in Canada’s Yukon Territory.

A large stream ran fast and hard on the rock-strewn terrain to the left, at the base of a steep and bare mountainside of exposed rock. A hundred or more sheep grazed on the ample grass. I pulled over to don my winter riding gloves and a long-sleeve shirt beneath my riding jacket. A shepherd was walking down the other side of the road and came over to greet me. We shook hands and I asked his name. Mohammed, he said. Everyone here is named Mohammed.

He wore a maroon ski cap and a striped brown robe of coarse fabric. His tanned face was cradled in a clean white fabric. Les moutons, I said, pointing to the sheep and pleased to have remembered the word from my French study with the Rosetta Stone software. He nodded and looked at me as if to say, “Is that all this joker to say for himself – ‘the sheep?’”

I apologized for my bad French and offered him a cigarette. We watched the sheep amble past, baaahing in concert. We listened to the stream babble. I asked the distance to Ouarzazate. He shrugged. The GPS showed about 50 miles in a straight line, and I bid Mohammed farewell and found Geoff and Migo waiting for me down the road.

We set up camp at a site on the edge of town and made our way to a pizza restaurant in the center for dinner. As I sat perusing the menu, I spotted Geoff 30 yards away next to a set of motorcycles, two BMWs and an Italian Aprilia, chatting with one of their riders.

“Remember these guys?” Geoff said. “From Portugal?” Ah yes -- we’d run into four British riders bound for Morocco back at a fuel stop in Portugal. But now I saw only three motorcycles. “Where’s your fourth?” I asked the Brit.

“Ah, Jonathan,” he said. “Too bad, that. He hit a scooter guy back in Tinehir. Jonathan was OK, but the scooter guy went head over heels. An ambulance was there, the police – it shook him up pretty bad. He should be back in England … well, right about now.” Jonathan had paid 50 Euro on the spot to get out of the mess without further ado.

I remembered Jonathan. He was a short fellow with a video camera and had interviewed Geoff and I about our travels for some sort of documentary. I recalled, too, that at that travel stop in Portugal at which we’d met the Brits, Geoff told me that I’d very nearly been struck by a car.

I’d made a pass on a four-lane road. I had checked behind, and seeing a white car in the far distance, judged it safe to pass. But according to Geoff, “That boy was moving. Maybe 180, 190 kilometers an hour.” That’s almost 120 mph. “He came right up your backside. I thought he was going to slam the brakes and spin it. You almost spent your day in the hospital, mate.”

I had ridden away from that fuel stop chastened and counting my good fortune. My mirrors didn’t extend far enough for a full view of what was behind me, and I would have to take that doubly into account. I didn’t expect a car to be running 120 mph behind me. It was unexpected, improbable. From there on, I would expect it. I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

***
The next morning, we returned the same downtown strip in Ouarzazate for breakfast. I made fast friends with a shop merchant, and purchased from him a handsome silver bracelet. I’d been in the market for one, and it was a beauty, even if it was $25 USD. The merchant’s father arrived at the little shop on a weathered old scooter. The bike had a couple of stickers on it, and I retrieved an Obama ’08 sticker from my tankbag to give to him.

“Obama,” I said. “Le president suivant du Etats Unis!” Father and son nodded enthusiastically, expressed contempt for George Bush, and we ceremoniously affixed the sticker on the old man’s bike.

As we buttoned up and prepared to ride off, I decided to mention riding styles to Geoff and Migo. I liked them both, they were great and fun riding partners, and was concerned over their hellbent pace in these subpar conditions. At least I would feel better for getting it off my chest.

“You know,” I said, “I think you’re both riding too fast. Speed too fast for conditions. Out here, who knows what’s around the corner. A sand patch, a truck half in your lane, or a two-peckered billy goat. Me, I try to expect the unexpected. A cowpie, a billy goat …”

“A two-peckered one,” Geoff said.

“Exactly,” I said. “It can be something unusual, even bizarre. Migo, yesterday you passed me over a white line in corner. Frankly, I was a little pissed. Riding South America, five of my friends – count ‘em, five – went down. Most in corners. I don’t want to have to be scraping one of you guys up.”

Migo thought for a second. “I’ve been doing a lot of racing in the Alps,” he said.

I asked, “Anybody have any close calls yesterday?” In fact, they had. Geoff ended at the precipice of a cliff after his gearing stuttered while passing a truck. It was only 10 feet down, he said, but 10 feet is a long way on a bike. Migo found himself in uncomfortable proximity to a car at speed.

And that was that. I had said what I wanted to say; now it was time to ride. But regardless of what anyone had to say, the cardinal rule would ultimately prevail – ride at your own pace, be it fast, solid, or slow.

Comments

[Old Baldy]

Hi Mark

Am enjoying your RR, as I did your South America trip a couple years ago (wish you would write-up the rest of it!!! hint-hint :) )

Reading about you letting the others know of your concern about their pace....struck a chord with me. I have a dear friend who rides similarly too fast for the conditions, and assumes that everyone else will do the "right" thing. I've been reluctant to say anything to him, as he is of short temper, and I have taken the easy way out and kept quiet. Your episode has prompted me to prepare for my discussion with him, the next time we ride together and he does the crazy stuff again.

Thanks!

OB