BikingMan X Morocco 2025

On the eve of the race, the route was finally revealed: more than 1,000 kilometers with 17,000 meters of climbing, and over 30% on gravel. Some sectors stretched endlessly into the horizon, dozens of kilometers with no water in sight. The forecast added another layer of difficulty; temperatures soaring above 40°C in the desert during the afternoons, just 12°C on the high passes topping out at 2,600 meters, and thunderstorms expected by Tuesday. The message was clear: move fast, or risk getting caught out.

That night, I sat hunched over the map, tracing the lines, marking the key sectors, weighing up the options. It was late when I finally forced myself to close the laptop and lie down, hoping for a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow, it would all begin.

Sunday morning, 8 a.m., Marrakech. The BikingMan X rolled out. The air was still mild, almost deceivingly so, but I knew the furnace would soon open. My plan was simple: conserve energy in the heat of the day, keep stops to a minimum, and use the cooler hours of morning, evening, and night to lift the pace.

The first 150 kilometers passed that way. No fireworks, no great sensations, just steady rhythm and focus. Then came the first major gravel section: 44 kilometers of brutal track. Unrideable climbs, bone-rattling descents. Yet in the chaos, I managed to reel in several riders, and by the end of it, I had moved provisionally into fourth place.

At kilometer 180, the track finally began to improve. I pushed a little harder… and was punished instantly: rear tire blown. A 4-centimeter gash; nearly impossible to repair under these conditions. The heat, the slipping morale, the thought of riding another 800 kilometers on a makeshift fix… it was nothing but an illusion. Deep down, I knew it was over.

Meanwhile, riders kept passing. Some asked me for water, others for a gel; we were in the middle of the desert, on a 70-kilometer stretch with no resupply. I gave whatever I could.

When I finally reached out to the organization, the answer came bluntly: no vehicle could get onto that track. There was only one option left: walk 20 kilometers to the nearest road.

I pushed my bike, loaded with nearly 15 kilos, my carbon-soled shoes utterly unsuited for walking. The pain came quickly: burning blisters, a toenail lifting off, every step turning into torture. For a moment I considered going barefoot over the rocks, but the insects: spiders, beetles, even a scorpion… convinced me otherwise.

Night fell, and my GPS slipped into sleep mode because I wasn’t moving fast enough. I lost the track briefly, then found it again after a small detour.

Around 1 a.m., after roughly 12 kilometers of walking, I stopped on a hill. Out of water, I lay down on the still-warm ground, the wind picking up around me. Above, the sky opened in rare purity, the Milky Way stretching endlessly overhead. Beautiful and cruel at the same time, a paradox of wonder, but I knew my race was over.

Around 2 a.m., Axel arrived with two Race Angels and David, the photographer. We loaded the bike into the 4×4 and fought our way off the track. For me, it was the end.

All of this, for that…
A year of sacrifices, a year where my family quietly shouldered the weight of my ambition. My children accepted the long hours away, the evenings when their father came home too tired to play. My future wife endured the absences, the weekends cut short, the daily rhythm disrupted. Even my closest friends were often pushed to the background. Every training ride, every choice, I carried them with me, believing that at the end I could show them it had all been worth it.

But in Morocco, at kilometer 192, it ended. Handing over my tracker was just a small gesture, but it carried the finality of a full stop. The race was gone. The championship too. And with it, the story I had imagined: crossing the finish line in front of the people I love, closing a circle that had begun years earlier.

Instead, the circle remains open. The story unfinished.

On the sporting side, it’s clear: André Fróes from Brazil was stronger on this stage. Despite his mechanical problems, he managed to recover and keep going. In that respect, my regrets are limited.

But the deeper wound lies elsewhere. This race was more than just another stage: it was a major goal. Two years after my battle with Guillain-Barré syndrome, I wanted to close the loop, to finish the BikingMan story on my own terms. I had pictured myself crossing the line in front of my future wife, who had made the trip, with the thought of my children, my family, and my friends carrying me through that final moment.

Instead, the story stopped earlier. Unfinished. And so there is still something left to write.

What endures, above all, are the encounters.
The talent and kindness of Greg Cassini and Edwige Pitel. The exemplary composure of Benjamin Bodot. The energy and youth of Marc Hamelin.

The genuine moments shared with our “roommates” at the Oasis Lodge:  Mathieu, Jean-Claude, Frédéric. Men who were simple, straightforward, and true.
And Vincent aka “Jesus”, quiet and humble, yet always precise in the few words he chose to share.

Finally, all those riders who passed me and still offered a word, a glance, a gesture of support. That compassion, that humanity: it will stay with me.

The loop isn’t closed. A chapter is missing.
BikingMan Morocco will remain an unfinished story, but also a reminder: in ultra-distance racing, nothing is ever guaranteed.

What comes next is to find out how the rest of the story will be written…