I was starting to get angry: The motorbike theory exam was already booked for the 15th of January. It was already the 20th of December, and I felt I had hardly begun with the computer lessons. I hadn't begun at all with the proper riding lessons.

I discovered I could pay for an access to the same web application that the school uses. The subscription was 200 Dirhams, about €20. I subscribed.

With a good internet connection and an obedient mouse, I started to progress. Two hours in the early morning and one or two hours in the evening, except when Bab El Atlas (Our guesthouse) had guests.

I went back to the driving school. There was still no motorbike: I started yelling.

They told me to come back in the afternoon, go to the souk (the town marketplace) at 2pm. The motorbike would be there, Insh'Allah.

I was on time. The motorbike wasn't, but the English-speaking man was there, and told me the motorbike was on its way.

They turned up and showed me the motorbike: a KTM 250cc sportsbike. I asked where the training ground was, and learned that it was the car park of the souk.

I looked at the parking and felt dismayed: it is asphalt, yes, but with blown plastic rubbish everywhere, various rocks, where people chocked the wheel of their car or ancient Peugeot pick-up. There was a school nearby, so twice a day, crowds of kids wandered through the car park and random mothers with prams, eyes locked into their smartphone walked unconcernedly through my slalom cones, even while I was using them.

The asphalt was on a slight slope, was two car-lengths wide, and about 100  long. There was another carpark the other side of the road, certainly dirtier, certainly no better.

The souk is held each Wednesday from about eight a.m. until the mid day prayer, which was around 1pm. So Wednesday was out of the question for learning to ride. The souk selling farm animals was held at the same hours, but on Tuesdays, so Tuesdays were out.Friday is prayer day, when everyone locks up at 1 pm and goes home to wash and put on a clean, white djellabah, and then to the mosque to pray. After the prayer, the men chat for a while, then go home for the weekly couscous that their wife or mother had made. 

So Fridays were not ideal.

We settled upon Thursdays and Saturdays for a lesson of one hour each time. I chose 2 pm as the best time of (winter's) day, it being warmer.

The monitor (Teacher, bloke doing nothing with his hands in his pockets) pointed at the bike and said "Go on." No explanation, nothing, not even how to start the bike or use any of the controls. I got on, they showed me the clutch, the front brake and put the bike in first gear, telling me I wouldn't need any of the others. The monitor lent me a helmet and gloves. That was the whole equipment. The gloves were just cotton winter gloves.

They pointed me at the line of cones, told me to avoid the cones and patted me on the shoulder.

I let the clutch out too quickly, which threw my weight back, which caused my death-grip on the throttle to give the motor the whole fistful. I wheelied through the line of cones and crashed into the souk building, hurting my shin. I could feel it bleeding into my (black) trousers.

The monitor picked me up and picked the bike up, asked me if I was ok. He didn't care about the bike; it has experience.

I got back on, and by the end of the hour, was doing the slalom quite well. When I got home, I looked at my hurt shin: I was bleeding still. I disinfected the cut and put on a bandage.

I