On Four Wheels: Capturing the 2023 Atlas Mountain Race

Words and photos by Chris McClean (@chrismcclean)

As we pulled over to let a rider pass, our vehicle’s tyre gave an audible pssst. It was flat. We were miles from anywhere after a slow four-hour drive up a long gravel road from Afra, winding up into the very remote Saghro Mountains, a range that sits east of the Anti-Atlas, separated by the Valley of the Draâ. To the north of the range runs to the valley of the Dadès, separating it from the massive High Atlas Range.

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The sun was high and bright, but as the steady stream of riders stopped to chat and check in, I snapped away. Different stories started to emerge: cold nights and colder dawns, omelettes vs. fried egg sandwiches, and just how bloody rocky Morocco is.

Rui, my guide, driver, and two-time finisher of the race, had the spare on and was sipping tea from one of the many flasks he brought with him when I returned from shooting from the brow of a hill. “It gets more beautiful the further we go,” he announced as I came close. “Crap tyres. Next time we get BF Goodrich!”

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We now faced a choice. Our dilemma was that proceeding along the route—which was going to become rockier and potentially un-passable, and any rescue would be days away—with no spare was a risky move. But, going back would mean we would lose a day with a lengthy detour. There was also a rider ahead of us with a snapped frame who we’d been tasked with picking up. He was around two hours in front of us, and he was in for a long walk and cold night if we weren’t able to intercept him. As we drank the tea and opened a pack of dates, we discussed our options and pored over the large-scale map Rui had brought with him.

After much head-scratching, our hearts eventually won. We re-packed the truck and settled in for a long and rocky drive. We made a new plan to rescue the rider with the help of the local police, who would reach him much faster than we could from the other side of the pass. We’d take the risker but more picturesque option, heading deep into the Saghro Mountains with no spare tyre. High risk, but the following drive made for some of my favourite shots of the trip.

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As the sun eventually started to drop and the lunar landscapes took on a whole different feel, we rattled along paths with drops to certain death on either side. The path was only just wide enough for the truck, and we made frequent stops to navigate holes and fallen boulders obstructing the path. But, more often than not, we stopped to photograph the ever-changing topography.

We made it down slowly and safely with the spare holding out well. It was nearly midnight when we hit the tarmac—never had we been so thankful for a decent road—and made it exhausted into Skoura. Over a steaming tagine and omelette, we planned our next steps. I could hardly think past eating and a warm bed, but Rui had other ideas. If we set off right then, we could reach the town of Tata to get the tyre replaced (unlikely) or repaired and then reach the infamous Colonial Road in time to catch the first riders as they descended. Again, the heart won, and my head resigned itself to a night in the car. A quick coffee, and we were off.

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Around an hour before dawn, we pulled over under a tree for a little bit of sleep. I reclined my seat, and Rui climbed into the back of the trunk. The sky was clear and crisp, and it was near freezing. We’d been driving in the car for around 24 hours. It was the best hour of sleep I can remember in a long time.

In Tata, the stores were all setting up shop, laying out their wares as we stopped for fresh oranges and directions to a garage. The mechanic was wearing Crocs as he pulled the wheel from the trunk. We headed for coffee and breakfast as the repair happened. It was a pretty town drawn up in pink stone. The garage owner took us for thick, strong coffee at a cafe in the lively souk of Tata, once one of the main slave markets in the region. Local Berbers and descendants of slaves brought here by the famous Saharan caravan traders now trade freely, but it wasn’t always the case, even as recent as the 1950s, as our host explained.

One repaired tyre, a tank full of diesel, and a cleaned air filter later, we were back on the road. Using MAPprogress, we could see which riders were descending the Old Colonial Road. We struggled to find an entrance big enough to allow the Fiat in, and a rocky riverbed was our only option. It was sketchy, but Rui got the car into the dry river bed, and we proceeded looking for a track up onto the old road.

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The Old Colonial Road, or Piste, is a monumental feat of engineering built by the French to help them keep control in that region of Morocco. It spans a vast stretch from North of Issafn to Tagmoute, rising above the vast plain of the Sahara Desert, close to the Algerian border and the Anti-Atlas Mountains. We found a route and bumped up onto it as a few riders sped past on the fast and rocky descent. The sun was setting, and riders no doubt wanted to re-supply in Issafn before dark. We found a vantage point to wait and watch as riders on MAProgress made their way towards us. They seemed to take ages, and eventually the sun sank and our window of light disappeared. The scenery was among the most beautiful of the trip, with dusky pinks and reds over the mountains. The last fingers of sunlight touched a mosque on a rocky formation in the distance.

It was dark when the riders finally arrived, and I was cursing them under my breath as they sped past, hoping I might pick out bike lights on a long exposure as they disappeared beneath me. The first two riders to pass us both got punctures within 50 meters of each other. The fist-sized gravel made for treacherous riding.

We spent another night in the car, positioning ourselves on a flat piece of ground beside a washed-out part of the road to catch some early riders. It was around 05:30 a.m. when we were awoken by a group of three arriving around the same time, all with very different stories to tell. They didn’t see any of what they’d just ridden in the dark. I struggled to understand that logic, but that’s why I wasn’t racing.

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The old road is something that needs to be seen—or ridden—to be believed. It’s 60 kilometres of “road” carved into the mountains on top of walls created from the loose scree. The walls twist and turn as the road skirts the jebels (the name for mountains in North Africa). Most riders were in awe. I say most as there were several suffering at this point. Some had mechanicals and injuries and quite a few were dealing with Shermer’s Neck as the long hours in the saddle took their toll. Every twist in the road brought a new exclamation of awe to the truck, every rider a new perspective.

We were up there all day. As we turned around on the apex of a hairpin with a long way to fall on both sides, we were met with the exalted cries from a rider who was climbing towards us. We thought he was in danger and trying to flag us down for help, but he was simply as excited as us, calling out to the jebels, almost unable to believe that this terrain exists. I felt thankful that it does.

On the way back, we got the second puncture of the trip. It happened in a dry river crossing where the road had washed out. We’d picked our way carefully across the rocky surface, but the unmistakable pssst was impossible to miss. We made it to a safe flat spot, and Rui set to work, his Crocs poking out from under the truck. We were back on the road in no time but again found ourselves traversing and descending a perilous route in the dark with no spare.

We rolled into Issafn after dark with SD cards full to bursting and settled into a very kind cafe. The owner re-opened it, disappeared to find food, and then served us the staple of omelettes and tagine—our first meal of the day. Riders were starting to pour in and the cafe was soon rammed. As Rui disappeared to get the tyre repaired, I was ushered upstairs—to make room for the riders—into the games room where a few Moroccan youths were smoking and playing table football. I was editing away on my computer before the owner ushered out the youths and invited riders in to sleep on the floor for 40 Dirham (about $4). Bodies started stacking up everywhere, and the coughing, spluttering, sleep-talking, and snoring began. I called it a night and headed back to the car.

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We left as the riders did, shooting them eating breakfast and re-supplying. We had a long drive ahead, and Rui thought we could jump ahead of them and cut the leaders off at the gold mines of Akka. And this is how our race was run. It was a game of constant leapfrogging and long nights in the car with irregular meals. Tea was the only regular thing, and it was in plentiful supply thanks to Rui’s flasks, which rolled around the truck the entire time. In many ways, I think our experiences were similar to those of the riders: the planning and re-planning, the lack of sleep and the infrequent meals. It was far from easy in some of the remote locations we found ourselves in, even with four wheels and an engine.

From the gold mines, we headed towards the coast. It was impossible not to smell the finish in Essaouira. Morocco has always been the most accessible African country for Europeans to reach, but it is still steeped in cultural differences. It’s filled with a troubling history of colonial boundaries and modern tensions. The border with Algeria has been permanently closed since 1994 after a conflict broke out between the two countries, but from across the Atlas and into the Draâ Valley—the 8,900-square-mile oasis that runs along the Algerian border—you get a whiff of that world to which the exchange of goods and ideas has travelled.

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The drive from Afra to Skoura across the Saghro Range was hairy, to say the least. There were times when turning around seemed like the only option, only there was nowhere to do so. The only way was forward. We conducted torchlight inspections of the road ahead and moved rocks to allow passage—the same rituals many riders performed. Most participants we passed in the night were incredulous that we were attempting to drive the last stretch to the finish, but duty called. As with the Old Colonial Road, there are special places along the Atlas Mountain Race route that needed to be seen—and in my case, photographed—to believe.

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Seeing the route from the saddle would have been an incredible experience, no doubt, and photographing it was a similar undertaking. Sure, we had four wheels and a tank of diesel, but the shared experience of rationing food and water, constant planning, lack of sleep, and uncomfortable beds helped us form a common understanding. Photographing riders in these special and remote places is a gift I won’t forget any time soon.

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