A point on the atlas
The Atlas Mountains stretch across more than two and a half thousand kilometres of North Africa and top out at over four thousand metres yet despite this scale and obvious majesty, they can often seem under appreciated when compared to some of the world’s other great ranges.
Providing a natural barrier between Europe and the Sahara desert, they nestle close to Mediterranean in Tunisia and almost touch the Atlantic in Morocco, a country I’ve been to regularly over the last decade to surf and fallen, at least a little bit, in love with. My first visit was with a very old friend and almost as soon as we arrived we found ourselves at Taghazout’s Anchor Point battling waves far too big for either of us to handle. My surfing has gradually improved and whenever possible I’ve taken the chance to return to a land of mild winters, mint tea, orange juice and a refreshing nonchalance.
The latest opportunity came very recently but this time I’d be packing my bike rather than my board and the first decision of many to make about the trip was who to invite as a travelling companion. In truth it wasn’t a hard choice to make.
Despite all the miles I’ve put in over the years, on some days I still struggle to call myself a ‘cyclist’ (or a surfer for that matter) but I wouldn’t hesitate to call my dad one. And I mean a bone fide, genuine, no doubt about it, cyclist. He’s never raced, never even been a member of a club and yet cycling has shaped not only his body but also whole swathes of his life.
Starting before I was born and continuing to this day, he’s averaged eight thousand kilometres a year and each and every of those kilometres has been for the pure and simple pleasure of being on his bike. Riding is how we spent a lot of our time together as I grew up and the reason I became hooked.
On countless rides in my native region of Alsace I’d return sheltered from the winds in his wheel and struggling with those endless last few kilometres. Often eating his energy bars or wearing his wind jacket, exhausted but still obsessed about staying within 10cm of that wheel.
Always totally reliant on his unerring ability to avoid potholes, make the correct turns and eventually bring me home. Without him I like to think I still would have discovered my passion for riding but who knows?
So now, on the challenging passes that reach two thousand metres and more, it was finally my turn to pay back just a little piece of that ‘debt’, to ride out front and return the favour. Replacing energy bars with delicious dates and bananas and energy drinks for that sweet mint tea.
Not that he needed me to of course but in truth that was never really the point. In reality I was simply looking forward to introducing him to a country I know well and that he was yet to discover but even that wasn’t quite as simple as I had imagined.
In contrast to Anchor Point, which when I first went there was still known for its anchor factory and relatively quiet but which is now a world renown break with surfers flying in from around the globe whenever the forecast is promising, the mountain roads and tracks we explored for our four days remain almost untouched by the outside world.
We didn’t see a single other cyclist of any description and at most saw one or two cars an hour as we rode in our summer jerseys and bib shorts in February (!) and then layered up to battle strong northern winds which made the temperature drop despite the constant sunshine.
For those who like to ride off the beaten track, who enjoy a bit of adventure and whose bikes can handle some mud and rough roads, the Atlas Mountains deserve serious consideration. For my dad it was an introduction to Morocco while for me it turned out to be a re-introduction to the more serene and unspoilt Morocco I first visited so many years ago. And it was all the better for that.
