Racing the World's Longest Train

Over the next couple of days I inched my way towards the inescapable decision to ride solo into the Saharan desert, guided by nothing but a lonely railway line and the odd imprint left by a four wheel drive.

Despite trying to reason it out I knew that in the end my desire to call it done would overcome my trepidation and even genuine information indicating that I should ride the other way.

I'd messaged Chris Scott via the Horizons Unlimited board for some advice on doing the crossing and he'd warned against doing it solo on a big bike. That was all the warning I needed to rebel against—I simply had to do it.

So it was decided. Over two or three days I'd head east over the sand from Nouadhibou on the Atlantic coast to the village of Choum, where I'd find a sealed road running to Atar, the third biggest Mauritanian city and a key stop for the original Paris-Dakar.

After a heartfelt goodbye to my new friends Carlos & Carla as they set off on the bitumen to the capital Nouakchott I scrambled into action getting the bike ready, changing tyres and trying to find enough empty water bottles to carry the 50 litres of fuel and 12 litres of water I'd need to have a hope of making it all the way across.

As I prepared some of the few and colorful members of staff and guests would come and interrogate me gently and supportively. I donated my original set of hardly-worn-in Mitas tyres to the chef/groundskeeper. He was really chuffed and will no doubt subsequently got a good price for them down at the local market.

A guest, Christine, a nurse from France, had her local friend (I gathered one with benefits) Salem talk me through the journey, which he knew of but had not completed himself. He also offered to be a local point of contact for my Spot tracker should anything go awry, which reassured me as I knew there would be absolutely nothing anyone from home (authorities or otherwise) would be able to do to assist me should anything go wrong.

I'd also heard from Maxi who'd successfully completed the trek with a friend in the Defender, and he felt that it was doable for me on the bike (though he'd never ridden one, let alone in sand, and we all know how different it is for a 1x2 as compared to a 4x4 vehicle).

With the decision made a calm of sorts descended. Anxiety was replaced with nervous excitement and anticipation. I was starting a challenge-within-a-challenge I'd dreamed of doing ever since I'd stumbled across the idea a few years ago. For many, crossing the Simpson Desert in Australia is the ultimate test and this felt like my Saharan equivalent, complete with the chance to visit the Mauritanian version of Uluru—Ben Amera—which ranks second in the world for height after its Australian cousin.

On departure day I set of early and in good spirits. The weather was in my favour: clear, cool and sunny. The lodge being a little out of town, I rode past the dry lagoon towards Noaudhibou and stopped to take a photo of the encroaching urbanisation on the edge of the muddy flats. I saw turbanned man on a bicycle that I'd ridden past turn around and excitedly pedal towards me. "Here we go," I thought, anticipating the impending North African sales pitch, and I tried unsuccesfully to pack my camera up in time to escape the transaction.

The cyclist, Mohammed, turned out not to have anything to sell as far as I could immediately tell but he was very keen to find out who I was and what the hell I was doing there on this huge motorcycle. His English was excellent and I gathered that he was in the area on holidays but normally lived in the capital.

After listening intently to my elevator pitch he told me of his boyhood dream to fly a plane, which he had never let die—in fact he now held his pilot's license and owned a Cessna.

It took me a little time to process the statement and re-stereotype him from bothersome tout to inspiring millionnaire (it turned out he was the director of the country's largest bank). While I attempted to do this (and keep up with the intense pace of his conversation) Mohammed convinced me to share my number with him and also take down the number of his brother in Atar, who he insisted I stay with when I arrived. By this stage I'd learned to agree now and avoid later, so I took the details and we said our goodbyes—Mohammed insisting that I take a photograph to remember him by.

I swung back through Nouadhibou central and picked my way happily through the chaos, stopping to get some supplies. The journey starts on the main road linking the border with Nouakchott, initially running alongside the iron ore railway.

As the road starts to veer south, you ignore it purposefully and dive straight into it on a rough track of deep sand that takes you through a collection of shacks and spits you out on to a sandy plateau overlooking the nothingness of the desert ahead. To the horizon all you see is low mounts of sands, dusted with rock, and the thin black line of the railway disappearing into the haze.

I made my way down the plateau, and for quite a few kilometres saw no sign that other vehicles had been the same way recently. The railway track, and a rough GPS plot I'd been sent by Maxi were the only signs I had that I was heading safely in the right direction. Of course all I really needed to do was head East until I hit the road heading South from Choum, but I was keen to stay as close to the railway line as possible so I could potentially flag down a train should anything really bad happen.

It took some time but I got used to managing the weight of the overloaded bike in the sand. Thankfully it started off fairly flat and there were hard-packed sections between the clumps of tuft-like dunes where I could catch a break and evaluate my progress.

Keeping the speed up was imperative, which was challenging when working around sand mounds, the odd clump of vegatation or wheel ruts that had been formed where separately wandering four wheel drive tracks suddenly converged to go around a large dune. I found that anything below about 75km/h was asking for trouble and that made it really difficult to control the front-end. Above that speed and the bike would "aquaplane" fairly well over the sand, but it obviously still required very active management.

After a few hours I got into a rhythm and my confidence built: I was doing it! I felt "in the zone". Although I was working up a sweat the riding was flowing and I was keeping the bike under control, letting it move and wriggle below me as it ploughed through the low, choppy dunes.

I had a few close calls coming over low crests that dropped away fast over the edge and rose up again very quickly, causing me to hit the returning face very hard (like a big ditch). Thankfully the sand was soft enough to give under the force and although it would knock me off balance there was usually enough breathing room around me to run wide of my planned course and then get back in control.

As I rode I occasionally saw—unbelievably—signs of life out there in that most remote of places. It's unthinkable to find people inhabiting conditions that rocks would barely survive in, but there they were. The odd collection of shacks huddled together near the railway line, a lone, robed man trapsing along the horizon, or a woman and child sitting cross-legged in the sand waiting for someone or something to be deposited by the passing train, where people would sit atop the raw iron ore in the open hoppers.

Well into the first day I looked up momentarily from the sandy task ahead of me and was startled by a maroon Prado careening across a flat plain towards me. Its jaunty path had me picturing armed militants hanging out of the windows screaming "death to infidels!" but it turned out to be a driven by a well-spoken Englishman in a colourful, knit cardigan and pork pie hat who pulled up to enquire as to whether I may have spotted his companions, who he'd been separated form.

The driver, Mark, was travelling in a convoy with two other vehicles. One driven by his son, Eric, and the other a Swedish friend, Jens. Somehow they'd become separated and Mark no longer knew whether he was in front of or behind Eric. I hadn't seen any other vehicles but agreed to ride ahead and if I came across them to let them know that Mark was going to head back a few kilometres and then return, and that they should wait for him.

When I did come across the next vehicle it was clear that any instruction to wait would be redundant as it (a dark green Hilux Surf) was properly stuck in the sand. Working on the problem at hand were two gentlemen of African appearance, and one of very un-African appearance (wearing large Dolce & Gabbana knock-off sunglasses) standing around taking photos while the other two dug.

"Are you Eric?" I enquired. "No," he replied.

"Do you know someone called Eric?"

"Yes."

"OK, um... is he with you?"

"No."

Despite getting off to a rough start we eventually figured it out and I was sent off to chase down Eric who was in a second, sky blue Surf. With a mission to accomplish, and completely forgetting about my limited fuel supply, I fanged it across what was now flat, open country ocassionally interuppted by long, low-lying dunes and caught up with Eric in no time at all.

"Are you Eric?" I enquired. "Yeah, mate! You Aussie?" he replied.

Mid-twenties Eric had a West Australian mum to go with (briefly, it seemed) his English dad and although he lived in England had grown up in WA. We swapped back-stories and spun our vehicles around to go and regroup with Jens and (hopefully) Mark.

Back at the digging site I learned that one of the African assisters was Abou, the group's local fixer and full-time mechanic. The other was a desert resident who happened to be there when they got stuck (again, unbelievably) and was being endowed with a few Mauritanian Ouguiya for his labour by Jens, who I would learn had no discomfort about such transactions.

We got the Hilux out of the sand using an old, steel railway sleeper as a sand latter and I decided to stay in convoy with the group, highly pleased with my efforts to get this far on my own, but happy to take the reassurance of travelling in convoy and secretly hoping to be included in what seemed like one hell of a boys' adventure.

I learned that the group was running three cheaply-bought English vehicles from the UK to Mali, where they planned to cross through a fairly remote and not-so-stringent border post and on-sell the vehicles at a profit to a local contact. If it all worked out, the profit from the sale would effectively fund their shoe-string holiday budget and cover the flights home. If it didn't the vehicles would be abandoned and the holiday would be a little more expensive.

Abou, a Nouakchott resident and an old friend to Jens, had his own little mechanic's business in the city. When opportunities arose to be part of one of Jens's harebrained trips he'd down tools, shut up shop, turn off his mobile and get ready for a wild ride. If he could keep the vehicles running and find the right local contacts to set up the sale he got his share of the profits and a break from his nagging customers (and possibly wife).

With the reassurance of three support vehicles behind me I could have a bit of fun, and of course I needed to maintain a higher speed than the cars to make the sand bearable. Every few kilometres I'd pull up for a break and wait for them to catch up. After doing this a few times I found myself waiting for an unnervingly long time on one stop. I ruminated for a few minutes and decided to double back.

I found Eric in a similar spot a couple of kilometres behind me and we agreed to go in search of the others. Lo and behold we found Jens's Surf stuck in the sand again, but this time things were a little more dire. The right front wheel bearing had siezed and detroyed the hub—the resistance from this would explain why he found himself stuck previously (and he'd also mentioned the motor running hot). The wheel was hanging off at a painful angle and Abou got to work inspecting the damage.

Though Abou had the skills there was a shortage of tools so I lent them some from my kit allowing Abou to complete the job of removing the hub (while Jens worked on his sunburn). Once we had it off it was agreed that the vehicle would be left in the desert, for better or worse, and someone would have to return to get it once a replacement hub was sourced. The planning was left for later, luggage (including the railway sleeper) and passengers consolidated to the remaining two vehicles, and we were off again.

We kept moving for a few more hours as the sun made its way steadily to the western horizon and the dunes became larger, harder and smoother. Mark had his eye on a distant outcrop to camp next to, so I followed the Prado's brake lights over the rolling sand hills to our designated home for the night. We set up camp, me with my overly-organised, high-tech gear and the others with a haphazard collection of junk-sale items that Mark had gathered together last-minute from one deceased estate or another.

Luckily I'd bought enough pasta to go around and once a few stray tins of fish were added we cooked up a satsfying if unconventional dish, enjoying a few good laughs under the stars and under the influence of some smuggled, cheap wine that had appeared from one of the cars (much to Abou's delight).

I slept well that night, woken occassionally by the deep rumble of a far-off convoy of 6x6 trucks smuggling some or other commodity through the desert at night.