Today's first job: sunblock. There is a gap between my (necessarily) lightweight gloves and my shirt cuffs. I didn't notice the sun's effect on my wrists until last night. 

A fairly uneventful day ensued, on good roads but making slow progress. It got steadily hotter and I didn't like to run my little air-cooled engine for more than an hour at a time without giving it a 15 minute break. The temperature wasn't only hot, very hot, but a hot wind whipped up the hot sand and blasted it into my hot face for most of the hot day. At times visibility was down to a few hundred yards, pink sand all around - on the ground and filling the air. Disorientating, like skiing in a white-out or the scuba-diving equivalent. Consequently my breaks got more frequent and longer. 

I had determined not to have a target destination for the day. Watching the miles tick off painfully slowly is not what I came here for. I should be relishing the journey, not wishing it behind me as quickly as possible. 

At Guelim in the early afternoon, I realised that sunblock alone was not saving my wrists from potentially-serious damage. So I had to tape my gloves to my shirt cuffs (see photo). It worked, but at the expense of foregoing the air which had previously circulated up my sleeves and around my sweating torso. The sweat drips down my body until it reaches the interface between my body and my (impermeable) saddle. There it collects. Gentlemen may like to Google "Dhobi itch". Ladies probably need not concern themselves about such matters. 

My time with Hong Kong Bank gave me some small insights into Chinese numerology. The unluckiest number is 4 (it's a homophone for "death"). Again and again today when I glanced at my instrument panel I was doing 44mph in 4th gear. (St Christopher protect me!) Three unlucky numbers in a line. And triplication magnifies the effect. I have rationalised it all thus: 

It's not an admonition, it's an exhortation - to live life this one life to the full, even though death is always with us. Death is the price we pay for life. I was a weedy, timid, awkward child and doubtless a disappointment to my popular, charismatic, sporty, successful father ("the OM"). His opinion did seem to soften when I became obsessed with skydiving though. And I like to think that now, somewhere, somewhen, outside the space/time continuum which those of us still slogging through this vale of tears are condemned to occupy, he is aware of my current endeavour. And that he has found a way to remind me of an expression he often used, to encourage me to make the most of my life: "You're a long time dead boy".  

Guelim to Tantan is 80 miles. I had half a tank of petrol. Maybe a gallon and a half. No need to fill up, this engine is very economical and there will be petrol stations along the way. But there is nothing between the two towns, nothing but parched dirt. And a strip of tarmac snaking up and down and around - all the way to the horizon, with an occasional truck grinding up a long hill. I had little to look at or think about except the petrol gauge - steadily sinking leftwards, until the LCD display just disappeared. An anxious time, resolved when, with no warning, the hot little town of Tantan appeared around a bend. A lesson learned. 

I filled up and booked a hotel online, in a nearby seaside village. Arrived at 5.30pm and realised I had eaten nothing and drunk nothing but water all day long. Where can I get a beer?

Apparently there is a solution, a Korean restaurant on the edge of the village. 30 minutes walk away. The bike was already locked up (in the hotel dining room) but never mind: the temperature is finally dropping and I need to stretch my legs. 

The Korean restaurant seemed closed. I walked all around it, to the infuriation of a chained-up alsatian. 
A hatch in a wall opened to reveal an obviously-Korean lady. 
"What you want?" 
"Is this a restaurant?" 
"Closed". 
"OK"
Pause...
"You want alcohol?" (Oh thank you sweet Jesus - and St. Christopher)
"Have you got beer?"
"How many?" 
"Four?"
Four cans were wordlessly pushed through the hatch, money handed over, hatch slammed. I half-expected to hear: "If anybody asks, you have never met me".  

On the walk back a thunderstorm broke and I was soaked. On the edge of the Sahara! Wouldn't it be ironic if I was struck by lightning? Forget about the dangers of long-distance motorcycling in unstable countries: one day the final whistle will blow for us all, and we can't escape that fate whatever we do. Google "the Appointment in Samara" by Somerset Maugham. It's quite short. 

Breakfast (at 8.00 in the evening) was really good. Crispy fritto misto, fresh from the ever-audible, eternal Atlantic surf. 

Sahara tomorrow.