I don't race. It took six weeks to go from Nigeria to Ireland in 1982. And another six weeks to go back down in 1987. Mind you, I lost a week waiting for a visa. I rested a week after the desert. When I met someone in the middle of nowhere, I stopped to chat.
The engine is rumbling smoothely under me. The sun seems about a foot (30cm) above the horizon. That means it's about five p.m. I watch out for a suitable camping spot: Level (uncomfortable to sleep on a slope), yet near a rise (some kind of protection from night winds). Away from the 'road' (danger from night traffic), yet near the 'road' (to continue in the correct direction tomorrow).
I stop. Cook simple meal of rice, beans and sardines with coffee. By now it's dark. With the light of the bike, read some Psalms. It's getting cool. Get into the sleeping bag. No tent - even so I am carrying too many extras. Asleep by nine. Awake by seven. Too cold to get out of it. Eventually work up courage. Prepare something to eat. Prayer. By nine the day is warm enough to get on the bike. Am on my way.
With the sun was at its highest I stop. Pray. Cook and eat a meal. Then siesta while the heat of the day passes. Sometimes there is the shade of a rock. Sometimes the only shade is to lie under the precarious shadow of the bike on its sidestand!
On the first trip I had a lot of mechanical problems. A flat tyre about once a day. A persistent oil-leak. Ancient, over laden and under powered I was lucky to get 40 miles per hour up. Eventually she quit. Vainly, I searched for a new oil-seal and clutch in Tamanrasset. I left her there and continued by hitch-hiking and public transport.
I was better prepared on the 500: I had the power, complete overhaul and new tyres and tubes. No mechanical problems going down, not even a puncture!
I still fell off about once a day. Usually in the evening time, when the sand was hot and soft, and I was tired. Would I do it again. YES!
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