VESPA RAID MAROC

Words: Sticky Photos: VespaRaidMaroc.com, RCFilms.es, Almarza Logistics

‘I’m alone on a lunar landscape, sweating as the descending African sun beats down on my crouched figure. My borrowed Vespa is on its side, in a gully cut into the track by rainwater. The only way to get going again will be to lift the scooter out and bump-start it on gravel, pushing until the motor reluctantly fires back into life. Welcome to the Vespa Raid Maroc. Only five more days of this to go.’

S THE PINK CLASSIC Vespa PX200 sits ticking over at the start line, I reflect on the difficulties of getting here. ‘Here’ being the car park of a luxurious hotel nestled between Morocco’s Atlas mountain ranges. The main issue was language. None of the event organisers are fluent in English, but all speak more than my limited Spanish. A decade ago I’d have struggled to even enter, but with the power of Google Translate and WhatsApp I was able to read the event regulations and conduct negotiations with Ferran, the originator of the Raid. Very generously, he offered the loan of his Vespa, already a veteran of three previous African raids. I guess that meant it was either very well prepared for the desert, or about to fall in half. All I had to do was find the €1100 entry fee and arrange some flights. In the scooter world, that isn’t cheap, but compared to entering any other professionally organised desert rally, it’s an absolute pittance. I took a risk and made a substantial bank transfer to somebody I’d never met. The TAG Heuer timing clock beeps another minute and the departing rider spins their knobbly-shod wheel in the gravel, leaving everyone in a cloud of choking dust. Next will be my team-mate Inigo, and a few minutes later I’ll follow. Inigo is a young engineer from northern Spain. He speaks good English and together we form Team Bastardo. I set off and, thankfully, he’s waited for me just up the road. To be honest, I don’t have a clue what’s going on. The Raid concept is relatively simple; three days riding in different looped circuits from a hotel between the Atlas mountain ranges, before moving to another hotel on the edge of the Erg Chebbi dunes for three days doing the same in the desert. Navigation is the name of the game. You climb the leader board by visiting waypoints programmed into your GPS. At each you must photograph your scooter in a pre-determined pose in front of specified landmarks. Points are deducted for missing the midway control point or for every minute you are late at the finish. Like half the competitors, I’m using a rented navigation system called Trippy II; presumably because the Belgian inventors hadn’t eaten enough magic mushrooms when they built the original Trippy. The device is pre-programmed with both a digital road book for each stage and a track – an arrowed black line on an otherwise blank screen. For anyone used to navigating with a modern satnav it seems very primitive. It doesn’t help that I’ve only had five minutes of Trippy instruction, in a language I don’t speak.

Predictably, things don’t go as planned, primarily because Inigo and I never formulated a plan. At the briefing we were told that it is impossible to visit every waypoint in the allotted time, but for some reason we’re still trying to do so, despite mechanical interruptions. A modification to make Inigo’s PX166 more reliable – a secondary air-filter in the middle of the concertina air hose – does exactly the opposite. His plastic construction falls to bits on the first bumpy section. The first lesson is that Piaggio spent decades honing the design of the large-frame Vespa before they arrived at the PX. Any component that works fine as standard is probably best left that way; certainly for an event like this. We encounter further difficulties trying to follow the track on the Trippy through a landscape of terraced quarries. I take a wrong turn, miss the midway control point (losing 35 points) and Inigo and I get separated. By the time I’ve dragged Ferran’s Vespa out of that rain gully I’m late at the finish and docked more points. I end the day with a negative total. I could have bettered my score by staying in bed. I wasn’t alone in my day one woes. One of the girls from Malaga crashed more heavily than I did in the gully and has a lump on her head to show for it. Miguel Marchan ripped the valve from his Vespa’s rear wheel on a rock. With no spare (he runs deer hide inside the tyre to prevent punctures) the only solution was to swap front and rear wheels and ride 30km (19 miles) to the finish sat at the back of the seat to keep the weight off the flat front.

Waypoint pic must match that on sheet; (opposite) Xavier Aguado on it

This route takes us into the High Atlas mountains from our hotel in Midelt. Today, Inigo and I pick our waypoints more intelligently and ride hard to avoid time penalties. Riding a Vespa at speed on bumpy gravel tracks with sheer precipices at one side turns the stage into a scary, six-hour marathon of barely-in-control riding. I expected this event to be arduous, so I spent eight weeks getting fit and losing 6kg (13lb). In the early 1990s I raced scootercross, scrambling on 10in wheels, for six years, so I know how tiring it is to ride a scooter off-road. Without sufficient stamina you’re asking for an accident, but here that could be hitting another vehicle or tumbling off a cliff. There is no run-off or guard rail. The margin for error is slimmer than a mod’s tie. Despite feeling like I’ve been tumble-dried with a load of bricks, there is no respite at the finish line. Few riders have a pit crew, so at the end of a tough stage you service your own scooter; cleaning the air filter, refuelling and making running repairs.

Our final four-hour stage in the mountains is the most spectacular, taking us through the celebrated Cirque du Jaffar canyon, littered with boulders the size of pillows, but considerably less soft. Those whose scooters run protective engine covers warn me to be careful through the rocks to avoid damaging the engine case or selector box. Even here, in the barren landscape that looks like (and is) a dried out sea bed, there are people trying to scratch a meagre living by herding goats and sheep. Inigo and I have done well today but we were tight on time. He rides for the finish while I try to find one more waypoint in a village. I show two little kids a picture of the building I’m looking for and they lead me there on their pushbikes. I reward them with some pens I bought for just such occasions. After lunch we pack up for a five-hour transfer to the edge of the Sahara. I get an uncomfortable feeling in my belly that does not bode well…

(right) Long days end with running repairs; (far right) Sticky in search of waypoints. GPS shoulder beacon for rescue location; (top right, from left) Team-mates Antonia Martin and Julia Garcia with Sara Garcia

We awake in the fantastic Auberge du Sud: a fortlike hotel facing the imposing Erg Chebbi dune formation. At breakfast I overhear a British 4x4 tour guide discussing the Vespas parked outside. Then comes the predictable moronic remark; ‘How come you aren’t all wearing US Army parkas?’ Even here in the middle of a desert, dressed like a motocrosser, I get accused of being a mod. Plum! Our route for the day does not include the large dunes – all but impassable by scooter – but we’ll still be tackling sections of sand along our track. Riding a Vespa on sand requires a new technique and a leap of faith. To shift weight back and pin the throttle open when you come to a treacherouslooking section goes against every instinct, but that is the advice given by the experienced enduro riders. For the most part it works, but for those with 3.50-10in tyres and standard engines, the scooters still bog down in the deep sections. I have an advantage here; my long legs allow me to paddle the scooter through in first gear, where others have to get off and run alongside. The golden rule is never to slip the clutch in the sand or the cork plates will fry faster than eggs.

(below right) Xavier Aguado’s PX is proper trick: high-level expansion pipe, removable fibreglass rear body and motorcycle-style foot gearchange

After an easier fourth stage to get us used to the sand, this fifth day is intended as a real ball breaker; eight hours and over 180km of mixed desert terrain. That would be hard enough if you’d slept well. Instead, I spent most of the night on the loo producing a foul-smelling Bovril concoction that overpowered even the stench of sweaty MX gear. There’s nothing for it but to resort to downing some ‘poo glue’. Today’s route is indeed a monster, but by now Inigo and I have sorted our strategy. It’s been pointed out that you do not need to follow the track, only to reach the waypoints. With that in mind we plan to cut across the middle of the roughly oval-shaped route and discard waypoints we’d never have time to reach. Riding blind across uncharted territory could lead us into an impassable section, but if we make it through then we can use the time saved to photograph more waypoints. We check the map and decide it’s worth the risk. The shortcut proves difficult, with miles of soft sand slowing progress to first gear, but eventually the Trippy’s blank screen shows waypoints on the far side of the track. We make it across and our venture pays off, shifting us several places up the points table. The difficult route found many victims. Silfredo ripped two Duro knobblies to pieces, but I lent him my spare wheel. Xavier Aguado’s top shock mount tore out of his front fork conversion, but he found someone to weld it up. Meanwhile, the only failure on my pink PX was the overly heavy navigation bracket snapping and ripping threads out of the headset. I ended the day with the Trippy fastened to the headset with insulation tape. This not only made it easier to read but also saved about a kilo of unnecessary weight. This may be a competition, but you wouldn’t know it from the group spirit. After the exhausting ride everyone mucks in to help repair scooters and we all sit down together to share beer, wine and chorizo tapas. These are not usually on the menu in Islamic Morocco, but this is the Spanish version of a picnic.

Inigo and I save the best for last. Finally, I feel comfortable reading both the terrain and the Trippy, allowing me to ride safer-looking sections in fourth gear, standing up for the bumpy bits and ignoring when the back wheel bounces high into the air. As long as you keep the front wheel straight the rear will eventually follow. No sooner have I got in the groove than the event is over. I claim 11th place, which isn’t bad for a novice. Celebrations include a group dip in the pool and an awards ceremony in the dunes followed by a feast around a campfire to the infectious beat of Berber drums. With no serious injuries and most scooters still running at the end, it was as close to perfect as any of us could have hoped for. I want to savour the celebrations into the night, but alarm bells ring in my stomach. Time to run for the bathroom yet again…