At our wedding, in March last year, my new husband Jez Kearns stood up and said that he looked forward to a future full of adventure with me. The feeling is mutual.

But given that he has been a student of osteopathy for the past five years, and I’ve been behind a desk at the Sunday Times, we haven’t had much opportunity to put that spirit into practice.

So when a three-month career break presented itself, I jumped at the chance. Jez was sitting his finals in June, so the timing was perfect for us to go away in mid-July. The only obstacle was that he had to pass, and he refused to discuss any kind of adventure until he did.

People take months, years even, putting a trip like this together. We’ve had five weeks. We’ve dubbed it the Portslade-Dakar, or Operation Desert Storm - we’re taking a motorbike from our home in Hove by ferry to Spain, then driving down through Morocco to sub-Saharan Africa, through Western Sahara, Mauritania, Mali and hopefully as far as Senegal. (I forgot to mention, by the way, he did pass.)

Revving up in Morocco

More used to metal roads in Sussex, John Naish takes an off-road biking tour of the Atlas Mountains and Sahara

BACKGROUND

• The rocky road to Khartoum

• A taster overland adventure

• Off-roading in Argentina

• A Saharan road trip

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BACKGROUND

• Start a new life abroad

• How to set up your own travel blog

• Lose a year and find yourself

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It’s a ridiculous time of year to go to the desert, but our (our? Jez’s) main criterion was that this had to be a proper road trip, starting and ending from our front door. Europe we can do any time when we’re both in full-time employment. This really is the trip of a lifetime - so we had to make it somewhere exotic.

Timbuktu and the Sahara conjure up all sorts of childhood images - it’s not the furthermost place on the planet in terms of mileage, but it is about as far in cultural and geographic terms as you can get from the south coast of England. In other words, it doesn’t get any more foreign.

Jez’s only motorbike experience to date, apart from cheering on Valentino Rossi on Moto GP every weekend, was his nippy Honda CBR400RR, called Cameron (I know, I wasn’t impressed either), but she was fatally wounded by a drunk neighbour the Christmas before last.

Now - as of three weeks ago - we are the proud owners of Norman (as in Stormin’), a BMW R1150GS, and a true beast of burden.

Norman has already been to Morocco with his previous owner, so we know he’s up to the task. He’s also huge, and learning to mount and dismount has been, for me, an education. (It’s not the sort of thing they teach you at finishing school, let’s say.)

While he may be on the wide side, though, his overhead luggage capacity isn’t, and I have just 45 litres of pannier space for the whole three months. The laptop has to come too, of course (that’s another pair of shoes less), but where am I going to put all my Clarins? A friend suggested shipping boxes of it out, so I could pick up extra moisturiser en route, but I’d rather not have to face the disappointment of it not being there.

That’s not the least of it — as any girl who has ever worn a crash helmet knows, it doesn’t do much for your hair. So I intend to get a helmet-shaped haircut before I go, because I imagine that’s what it will end up looking like most of the time. (“Are you going to look like a boy?” someone asked me today. I truly hope not.)

The species of male (it is usually men) to embark on a caper like this is usually a crusty fiftysomething petrolhead, who loves nothing more than getting down in the dirt and grime, and for whom there’s no better holiday than one on which he never has to shave or wash. I’m chief sub on Style magazine, and I wore Vivienne Westwood and YSL to our wedding — need I say more?

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