“You look at where you’re going and where you are and it never makes sense, but then you look back at where you’ve been and a pattern seems to emerge.”
— Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
It was 2007 and I was at a bit of a loose end, living out of a suitcase at my friend Fiona’s, trying not to take up too much space. A couple of years earlier, I’d stepped away from the usual structures: sold my house, left my job, and worked as a tour leader for the adventure holiday company Explore Worldwide, in Egypt and Greece. When I returned, I signed up for a CELTA course, thinking I might teach English between trips. That plan quietly came apart, as plans sometimes do.
Somewhere in the mix of trying to be helpful, or maybe just less underfoot, I started lining up blind dates. After a few forgettable ones, I met Les. A car salesman who rode a motorbike and called me “Sugar” on the phone. Not exactly promising. But when we met, something about him disarmed me, and when he mentioned wanting to ride his bike to Morocco, that definitely piqued my interest. I’d had no interest in motorbikes before. In fact, I’d been quite dismissive of what I saw as grown men and their toys for boys. But Morocco? Now that sounded like an adventure.
Pillion No More
The initial idea was that I would ride pillion on Les’s bike, but a trip down to Cornwall to see some of his friends quickly put paid to that. I was cold, I was bored, I was uncomfortable. When we got back, I signed up for motorcycle lessons at Valley Bike School in Rossendale.
Straight In at the Deep End
To ride legally, I started with the CBT (Compulsory Basic Training). A one-day course in basic control and road sense, which allowed me to ride a 125cc with L-plates. That was just the warm-up.
I then signed up for the Direct Access Scheme, because if I was going to ride a big bike to Morocco, I needed a full licence to match. Normally, it would make sense to go the A1 or A2 route first, to build experience on smaller bikes and work your way up. At one point, when it looked like I wasn’t going to pass, the training school suggested exactly that. I refused. I’d committed to this path, and I stuck to it.
The school was more used to turning around learners in two or three weeks. It took me a bit longer. It was the dreaded U-turn—turning the bike in the road without putting a foot down—that was the hardest part for me. But I finally managed it on the second test, and I never attempted it again.
Enter the Honda
Up to this point, I can’t say I really enjoyed riding. But that changed the moment I got my own bike.
It was a Honda CBF 500. Often described as a bit dull. Sensible. Predictable. Not the sort of bike that turns heads in a layby. But reliable, comfortable, and forgiving enough for a new rider. It wasn’t built to impress. It was built to get you there. And in my case, there was the edge of the Sahara.
Boring? Maybe. I’d take that over flash any day.
Apprenticeship in Motion
The next few months were spent preparing—getting miles under the wheels, gaining confidence, and quietly wondering what on earth I’d signed up for. We called it practice, but it was more than that. It was a kind of apprenticeship in motion.
One memorable run took us up to Scotland (before the NC500 was a twinkle in someone’s eye). Unbeknownst to me this trip included a ride over the Pass of the Cattle, the Bealach na Bà. Steep hairpins, narrow single track, drops that demanded either nerve or denial. I went with denial. Eyes mostly closed, body tense, hoping the bike knew more than I did. It did.
We also crossed to Northern Ireland, partly to rehearse the business of ferries, and travelling with camping kit, and to explore the beautiful North Antrim coast. The riding there was sweeping and scenic, and heart-in-mouth in a different way.
Each trip was a small test, and a small triumph. I was still learning, still stalling occasionally, literally and metaphorically, but I was moving. And I loved it!
The mountains in the background are the Cuillin Hills. on the Isle of Skye,
Epilogue: The Road Ahead
The Morocco journey came together not long after that. Maps were spread out, gear was packed, ferries were booked, and I rode south with more nerve than know-how. But that was just the beginning.
Coming Soon
Crossing Lines, a Ride through the Balkans is the story of the last of my motorcycle trips.
That journey to Morocco and the adventures in between will follow:
- Into the Dust: Motorcycling to Morocco
- Solo in the Sun: A Greek Motorcycle Journey
- Trail and Error in the Pyrenees
- Rock, Ruts and Rain: Off-Roading in Yorkshire and Wales
Travel & Routes:
Recommended Reading
Free Ride, Noraly Schoenmaker – the inspiring true story of Noraly Schoenmaker, who turned heartbreak into a solo transcontinental motorcycle journey of self-discovery, resilience, and freedom.
No Route Map: Still Learning, Still Looking 