Our final day began in Ouarzazate. We were embarking on the shortest ride of the whole trip, the last leg to Marrakesh and the ceremonial handing over of the Super Teneres to the Riders for Health Organisation.

One more day to explore this wonderfully rich yet, staggeringly poor country. One final tank of petrol. There was no question in our minds, we’d run on fumes to make the experience last longer. After a few miles, our guide lead us to yet another utterly breathtaking view, as used in the movie Babel with Mr Hollywood himself, Brad Pitt. We could see why it was chosen. It seemed to be a real life illustration of a lost world, of the beginning of civilisation. We stood at the top of the rough ground and surveyed the land beneath, totally speechless. Until the cameras came out . . .

We pressed onwards, slicing through the switchbacks that snaked up the mountainside. The air felt refreshingly cooler the higher we climbed and it was somewhere near the summit, when we stopped for some traditional mint tea, that we encountered the comical guy looking to swap a few hundred camels for a new wife.

250 km later we hit the madness of Marrakesh. A dry river bed on the outskirts exposed the rubbish that must have been hidden in the waters some time ago. Tourists in horse drawn carriages bravely bared their pale skins in the plus 30 degree heat. Silly fools. As for the traffic. Are there any rules? Taxis, bicycles, scooters, pedestrians and lorries all morphed into one messy tangle of movement. And as we rode closer to our final destination, dozens of Swallows dived bombed through the air, squeezing into the tiny holes in the city walls. Our brains were overloaded with information, our senses strained trying to take in the sights, sounds, smells and potential hazards of such a huge city.

Finally, we arrived at our meeting point with mixed emotions. We were elated that we’d all made it bubble side up and with grins as wide as the Sahara Desert itself. But no one could hide the tinge of disappointment in knowing our fabulous trip had come to a end. And then there was the pride in knowing that we had all contributed to saving lives. Lives that needn’t be lost.

Cherno Jallow is the African representative of Riders for Health and as he was ceremoniously handed the keys to five Super Teneres motorcycles, he kept repeated one word. Amazing. Amazing. Amazing. These bikes will be shipped off to the newest program in the charity which was only launched last year. The Zambian health workers had been eagerly waiting for bigger cylinder bikes to transport patient’s blood tests the fifty km stretch from villages to clinics. It’s a journey that can often take up to five months, via inefficient public transport that often destroys the samples. Now, with a specially designed back pack, each rider can carry up to 40 blood tests at once, and provide the patient with a result in days, four at the most. Four days to find out if you’ve got HIV or TB verses five long months. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to work out that these bikes will save countless lives. Perhaps up to forty in one single journey. We’ve covered 2100 km over the last week. In Zambia, these bikes will do an average of 1000km per month in their mission to make a difference, as they ride quite literally, for life.

Today is the end of our part of the journey but it’s the beginning of a new adventure for the 5 Super Teneres. The Ride for Life in Zambia is about to begin.

 After grabbing perhaps the best night’s sleep we’ve had in ages (thanks to the desert’s absolute silence and some full on riding) we woke up to mountains of sun kissed sand. Various trails snaked over the crests. The exploring riders in our group had left their footprints next to tiny patterns and slithers from goodness knows what creatures and insects. Surprisingly, it felt as cool as shaded concrete underfoot. And although it was as soft as sugar, Dakar legend Helder Rodrigues still managed to power through it for a photo shoot on a stock Super Tenere.

Ali, our guide drew a map in the sand to show our location. Beyond the camp, the Erg Echibbi dunes stretch across thirty kilometres in width for around nine kilometres into the distance towards Algeria. While Helder was making us wonder how capable the Super Tenere could be with knobblies and a mere mortal at the helm, a bunch of kids appeared from nowhere as if by magic. Flashing their goods-to sell, we chatted, were fleeced of a few euros (they appeared to accept any currency) and we finally boarded our bikes and set off for the 350 km that lay ahead of us.

It was perhaps the most beautiful day yet. More sand dunes disappeared into the distance and endless snow capped mountains continuously pierced the horizon. Villages were lined with brightly coloured scarves for sale and locals weaved through the streets on tatty bicycles. Most of the women were covered from head to toe in black ‘Nekabs’ and a few even carried their babies on their backs, hidden away beneath the folds of the fabric.

 As we rode further and further away from the towns, it seemed all the more bizarre to pass a lone walker miles from any recognisable civilisation. The previous day’s stray kamikaze dogs (and lone monkey) hardly seemed worth worrying about when today’s hazards were scabby camels, way to big to argue with.

 The scenery appeared to change at every turn. A gorge was lined on one side with a strange rock formation, aptly named Monkey Paw (or Tiger Paw depending on who you ask.)  It looked like God had carved great fat fingers into the rock face. Further along, the earth was a deep burnt red, the colour you’d expect to find on Mars. Incredible.

But the image from day five has to this morning’s sand dunes, closely followed by the evening’s Lake Ouarzazate . It’s a stunning stretch of turquoise blue water with a fairytale city perched high on its edge. It’s magical. Just like this trip.

This day has been much like every other so far. Very, very special. The 450 km were packed with switchbacks, sweepers and long straights that divided the scenery completely in two. To the right, rich golden brown mountain ranges faded into soft yellows and purples which stretched away over the horizon. To the left, snow capped mountains with white peaks poked the pale blue skies.  And yet nothing seemed predictable. We would turn a corner to find rich greenery, bright blue lakes or colourful towns.

Children ran to our bikes when we stopped, hands outstretched, eyes hopeful for pennies and sweets. Where did they come from? How do they live? It’s a world away from our lives in Europe, whether that’s Italy, Germany, Holland, Spain . .. No matter where we’re from, we weren’t prepared for this. This is something else. We don’t wash our clothes in nearby streams as our children play in the dirt. Our grandmothers don’t carry great bundles of grass on their backs to feed our scabby family donkeys. And our men don’t hang out in bars all night. Or maybe some do . . !

The Super Ténérés feel like faithful friends now. We’ve bonded over the last few days and there’s a level of trust and companionship that’s developed. They feel like they’ll carry us anywhere, clean asphalt, rough terrain, even through the soft sand track to these cosy bivouacs.

Right now, we’re being comforted by a gentle evening breeze. A pile of fluorescent  logs glow in the bonfire in front of us as a pot of tea heats in the flames. Apparently there’s a five star hotel up the road. But we’ve got a tent each and a million stars above us. It doesn’t get much better than this.

Back on dry land and eager to press on into Africa, our group was met with another obstacle. Officialdom. The endless red-tape denied us access into the country for few hours, so we whittled away a few minutes guessing the nationalities of passing bikers. So, with our paperwork finally stamped and approved, our motley crew headed off towards the heart of Africa, each and every one of us utterly mesmerized by the stunning scenery all around.

Rolling hills disappeared into grey hazy silhouettes in the distance, a random man literally in the middle of no where (apparently wearing a rather smart suited jacket) waved at us as if we were old friends just passing through. He wasn’t the only one. So many of the roadside wanderers offered the universal thumbs up sign as we passed that we felt inexplicably linked to them all. Bikes are really quite special. They unite complete strangers just by their presence and though what they stand for, freedom, independence and adventure. As the day drew to a close, we pressed on in darkness towards our hotel in Fes. Huge puddles of gravel on unlit roads and stray kamikaze dogs jumped out at us from out nowhere. Thank goodness for traction control and ABS. Even if these hazards weren’t extreme enough to activate the technology on our bikes, it’s reassuring to know they have built in safety nets just in case . . .

And so we’ve arrived. Finally. The day’s been packed from dawn to dusk with surprises. And although we’re tired, cold and our brains feel like they’ve been liquidized, it was worth every mile and moment. We’re in Africa, on Super Ténérés, and we’re all bubble side up. What more can there be to life!

Aracena offered up lunch (more fish, the carnivores amongst us now keener than ever to reach Africa and the promise of some serious meat dishes.) But it was the scenery that really stoked our appetites. A perfect ribbon of the finest tarmac weaved through the countryside and although it’s hard to actually see a grin through a dark visor, nothing could disguise the fact that we all wore one.  Especially when Randy Mamola is part of the gang, popping power wheelies for the camera, eyes sparkling like a kid in a sweet shop. It doesn’t matter how many years you spend riding bikes, or how much you’ve achieved in doing so, each ride still brings new experiences, makes new friends and offers a different perspective. That’s why we love them.

Emerald green lakes flanked the road to Nerva and blood red rivers in Riotinto lined the base of huge mounds of earth that had been carved away in the mining process. Iron stained the exposed soil in great layers of oranges and golds, poisoning it with a beautiful toxic blend of minerals. It looked a Hollywood movie set of Mars from some kind of ‘Lost in Space’ episode.

The sweeping curves stretched out as we reached the motorway and the final leg to Jerez. 530km in a day is hardly a marathon, but it’s a fair old trek. But despite the distance covered, everyone in our newly formed family felt pretty fresh on arrival. Tomorrow we’ll ride the (relatively) short distance to Algeciras and from then on, the trip steps up a notch. Not because we’ll be riding flat out, we won’t. But we will be in a different continent, one that most of us have yet to explore. Africa. It’s where the Super Tenere was born, and we’re going to take it home.