Marrakech and the man who won't leave beavers alone

"Scooter to Moscow", I said. "On a scooter. London to Moscow", I said. So how did I end up not owning a scooter and not going to Moscow? And how on earth did it end up being a ride on a cruiser down Spain and into Morocco?

I won't bore you with the details. Needless to say that I am going down to Marrakech to meet up with Rob for a bit before heading up the coast of Portugal (or something) and then flying to Moscow with Nic rather than riding there. Let's just say the thought of not being let out of Russia didn't fill me with joy.

So this weekend I did a trial run with the bike fully packed all the way down to Portsmouth where I have the ferry booked to take me to Bilbao on the 27th of July. I say fully packed, but once I had put the sleeping bag, tent, rollmat and cooking gear on, there wasn't any room for anything else. Not even space for a spare pair of pants. This is going to be one smelly ride to Marrakech. When I got back on Sunday my armpits smelt like a dead beaver's arse.