Jez tried to persuade me we wouldn't get blown off, and that he had no intention of dropping the bike, but I was unconvinced. I sat rigid behind him, not only petrified but barely able to support the weight of my head in my helmet against the force of the wind. I felt like one of those nodding dogs that sit on the back ledge of a car, their heads bouncing around inanely.

It has made me realise what little thought I had put into the realities of the trip. Looking back now, I had no idea what I was letting myself in for.

I spent far too much time before we left saying cheerio to friends and family, getting the house spiffy for guests while we were away, and dealing with practicalites – oh, and working until four days before departure – to really think about what lay ahead.

It has also made me realise that there is far more to sitting on a motorbike than merely sitting. In a recent Sunday Times Style interview, Liz Hurley admitted that once you hit 40, it takes more than yoga and pilates to keep in shape. Well, I have just the thing for her – a few hours' daily motorbiking, which is the equivalent of the most gruelling workout imaginable.

A career break to Timbuktu

When Alison Thomson wed last year, she was promised adventure... a three-month journey to Timbuktu by bike

I'm thinking of patenting it when I get home – Ali's Beach-Fit Bike Workout. It's not the same as driving a bike yourself, either. Imagine the difference between the person holding the steering wheel of a car and sitting in the passenger seat as you take bends at high speed. The driver is fine, it's the passenger that gets flung around.

More exercise before we came away would certainly have helped. I have had many years bent over a computer and slumped on a train to perfect the art of what I call the houch – a bone-crunching cross between a hunch and a slouch.

But that's one thing you cannot do on a bike. Every time the driver changes gear, you either have to absorb it with your abdominal muscles, or you take it in the neck and get virtual whiplash.

Ever the optimist, Jez assures me that before long, I'll be laughing my way through high winds as my rock-hard abs keep me firmly in place. I can hardly wait.

As it was, my core muscles had had enough after so many hours' exertion just to hold myself upright, unsupported, and all I could do was try to bend my neck and hunker in behind him, while supporting my helmet with my hands. Not easy when you're doing 140kph in a force 8 gale.

Anyway, back to the ditch. I have since been told by those in the know in Tarifa that sometimes, the wind gets so strong, you can't even drive a car safely. All I know is, to my shame – and not a little embarrassment – I broke down only three days into our three-month adventure.

Fear had got the better of me – not something I was used to on a bike before. (In our early courtship, Jez took me on his motorbike for a weekend to the Cotswolds, where my parents had a place, and as he let rip up a narrow and twisting country lane, I yelled in his ear: “If you're trying to scare me, it's not working.” And I meant it, I don't scare easily.)

After much pleading (”Ali, please roll over and lie on your back - people think you're dead”), I eventually sat up and got control of my emotions. I think Jez was as embarrassed as I was. “We can put you on a bus to Tarifa if you like,” he offered.

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