It seems all dream-like now, those countless kilometers of suffering and transcendence, but I would not change a thing except (perhaps) my cycling shorts.
The lottery for riders was extremely limited due to the Moroccan Government seizing the caravan of sag-camels when they mistook the perpetuum they were carrying for heroin. After several nights camping on the BRM’s front door I cinched a spot aided by my incredible and unbelievable RUSA experiences earned here in the US and a $1000 US donation to the post-ride snack fund.
I would have fared better if I were able to live off a steady diet of Lablabi and sheep’s milk.
This is where I lost my helmet to some heartless street urchins but luckily the ACP does not require a casque for riders. I have never felt so exposed and vulnerable.
I had a wonderful time, but I simply cannot tolerate sand on a randonnee any more than I can tolerate toe clip overlap on my randonneuse.
It was all such a hazy undefinable experience – I can’t believe it actually happened. Notes and experiences will be added as they are recalled.
I wish I could remember all of the people who offered assistance during my adventure and where I placed my bleeping finisher medallion.