A solo bicycle journey from the mighty Atlas mountains to the blistering Sahara desert

The journey started, like all good journeys, with an overpriced breakfast in London's Heathrow Airport. Well, it actually started with an Uber and a train ride across the city, but nobody wants to read about that. In a pleasant surprise, it worked out cheaper to fly with British Airways, who consider a bike to be part of your checked luggage allowance, than with one of the budget carriers who charge extra fees for sports equipment.

After landing, it was time to attack this polythene monstrosity

Touchdown in Marrakesh meant it was time to reassemble the bike - I'd opted to use a clear polythene bag to transport it for a few reasons: Firstly - unlike a 'proper' flight case - it's very portable, which was good news for me because I would be flying back from another country entirely. Secondly, it's transparent - so the baggage handlers can see the fragile cargo and will, in theory, be less inclined to throw it around. Lastly - and I confess that this may have been the deciding factor - it costs about £8.

However, it is an absolute nightmare to work with. Packing it up in my garage had been hard enough work, but undoing the rat's nest of zipties and duct tape outside Marrakesh airport, in 30°C heat, in jeans, nearly broke me. I'm very jealous of those with smaller-frame bikes that can leave a wheel and seatpost attached in transit.

I was so annoyed with the whale condom that I decided to throw it away there and then, and deal with the return packaging when the time came, and after another half-hour of swearing and with dusty knees, eventually I had a fully assembled (and undamaged - maybe there's some value in the transparent bag after all) bicycle.

The 7km ride from the airport into town was something of a baptism of fire - from the airport you emerge straight onto a busy highway, with all the choking fumes, gratuitous horn usage and suicidal moped riders that you'd expect from a North African city.

I absolutely loved it.