Humbert Campins and his 1990s Trek Mountain Track in Morocco

I’m late. Maybe it was the hitchhikers with their skinny thumbs, deep smiles, and dirt-brown scarves asking for photos and nudging me further down the wrong road. Maybe it was the tumbleweeds—literal tumbleweeds—tumbling down the road, tumbling lazily in the desert wind, right in my way. Or the herds and packs of loose camels bumbling down the highway, spitting and coughing and gargling, lazily standing in my way, the concept of time a silly and useless thing to them. Maybe it was the rental car place. They lost the papers and then gave me the “fancy” car with the leaking front right and the popped spare, but at least at a discount.

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Maybe it was the man at the market who ripped me off, then brought me in for tea and introduced me to his toothless father. Or maybe it was just me, coasting along these backroads, edging deeper into the Sahara, staring listlessly at the storied abyss widening in front of me. This is it, I would say, drumming on the wheel, waiting for the desert sand to wash across the dash and the jaws of the sky to open and scream.

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But regardless, I am late. Humbert is there waiting on the highway. He is a mess of dust and chain grease. He is on the ground, yet he is smiling. I apologize, and we hug. “It’s good to finally be here,” I say. The mountains stretch from his dusty mountain bike shoes, and the wind rustles a metal sign. Tata, 135 kilometers.

“No worries, man. I took a siesta. I read my book. Life is good.” Humbert’s laugh lines exercise themselves. He is a month into this journey. He is alone here in this wild desert, under this steel grey sky and this brilliant white sun. Humbert just turned 41 years old. He is alive.

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Humbert gets on his bike. He moves swiftly with it, steady and assured. He slides into place like a hand into a heavily worn baseball glove. He bends slightly—his head is up. He looks down the road. He turns his legs over, and he goes there.

We camp together. Humbert kicks the rocks off a small drainage next to the road, a bit out of the wind, the best he’ll find for miles. He pumps his multi-fuel stove and clips the plastic clips of his shelter. We sit there together. Humbert eats his bag of stale pasta with a can of tomato and tuna. Mining trucks drive by, clattering over the rocks, leaving a plume of dust behind to settle on top of us, their rattling loads of ore shattering the silence settled from the desert sky. Humbert keeps talking. He is most comfortable here, lit by the red beam of his headlamp, sitting with the hum of his stove, an agent of the desert and free to listen.

Humbert is a heavy traveler. A cyclist first. A rider who rides the bicycle for the sake of riding the bicycle. His legs are strong, and his tan lines are sharp. He’s ridden all over the world, chasing this buzz after a long day of pedaling. We sit there in the dirt, and I dig. I know this started somewhere. It always does. That moment it all clicked. That is why I am here, in this cheap rental car, sleeping in the back of it in the desert, eating my stale pasta and can of tuna.

Humbert had a very normal childhood. His dad worked in construction. His mom was a kindergarten principal. He went to university, studied programming, got a job, and went to work it. He was in his mid-20s, and everything was on track. “I was doing everything ‘right.’ Working 9-5, living for the weekend, doing it again. And I thought, ‘This is it?’ I fell into a really bad depression. And then I decided to start traveling.”

Humbert bought the cheapest bike he could find in Thailand. He put bags on it. He surfed in Bali and rode for months around South East Asia. He sold the bike for $50 in Myanmar and continued on foot into Nepal. There was wind and sun and challenge and new people and new things. It was not his life back home. How painfully obvious it was not life back home. But that’s not the point. The point is that it would never be the same again.

Since then, Humbert has picked up photography, gone to film school, and worked in the television industry back home in Spain. He’s taken time off and ridden extensively in South America and Central Asia and East Africa. He’s now quit his job to keep riding and will return to Spain to work seasonally and to keep riding around the seasons. I connected with him in Morocco, where he had just finished a month of riding from home in Spain, down the spine of the Rif and over the Atlas and down through the desert on the (soon to be updated) Route of the Caravans.

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Humbert impressed me with his photography along the way of sheep markets and beautiful people and empty dirt roads. And he impressed me with the bike he was riding, an old Trek Mountain Track he cobbled together for €100 and rode 2,500 kilometers through some of the toughest terrain around. A vintage Trek feels appropriate for the desert here, the country of the old jalopy Mercedes and military Land Rovers. In Arabic, Trek means a road. And when you set off on the bike, you’re told “Trek Salama” which literally translates to have peace on the road.

We met in the north, then camped in the desert, and sat down for an interview at the beach after Humbert finished it all. We surfed. We ate. We chilled. It was nice. He’s a good surfer, too. But riding bikes makes it a tough sport to re-enter. Find some excerpts from our conversation below.

Where did the inspiration for your first big tour come from?

I was living in Australia, working and saving up money. The idea was always to travel around Asia afterward for as long as possible. And the thing is, I hate doing normal tourism. It was never an option for me to go and see stones and museums and follow the circuit. I prefer to go to places with nothing to see but where it’s real. I like to see how the locals really live. So, I thought, what better way than the bike? It’d give me a reason to travel with another purpose. Visiting, learning, cycling. It’s perfect.

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Reflecting on your ride around Morocco, now that your time here has come to an end, how was it?

Wow. Kyrgyzstan level. Pfffff… I was saying the other day to a friend that this has been one of the best rides I’ve ever done—maybe the best. This country has it all. Stunning landscapes, canyons, mountains, and the ocean. It’s close to home, it’s affordable, the weather is good. And the people are super amazing. Very friendly. And it’s very safe. It’s the full package.

You’ve come here a few times. First in a rental car, then in your van, and now bikepacking. How is traveling different on the bike?

In the car, it’s simple. People see you as a tourist. You’re sold to all day. I didn’t really like it. You’re just a target, and it can be very hustle-y here. It was so-so. With the van, it’s nicer. You have your independence, and it’s great for surfing. But you never get to truly experience the place. You don’t understand the country. But on the bike… woah. You’re not seen as a target or a tourist. People are so friendly. It’s amazing.

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What about traveling by bike keeps you coming back?

It’s all about freedom. Transportation, eating, and sleeping. When you’re away from home, these are the three things you’re always dependent on. But when you’re tied to these things—a hotel, a rental car agency, a restaurant—you’re stuck. You lose your freedom. But the bike has it all. You have complete freedom to travel, to experience, to do whatever you want. You don’t have to rely on anyone. It’s the same in the van, but it’s too fast. Between A and B, you see nothing. On the bike, you really experience everything between A and B. It’s the ultimate.

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You’re a consistent rider. You ride fast; you ride a lot. Since you were here during the event, why didn’t you sign up for Atlas Mountain Race?

Ah, man… it just feels wrong to me to go somewhere and race through it. I’m not interested in competitive cycling, and I’m not interested in riding through places quickly. If I go somewhere new and far from home, I want to eat the food and meet the people. I want to show up in the small town where there are no tourists and just see how it is. Cycling sometimes forces you to be in these places. In the van, you can get to these unique places and then just drive 200 kilometers to somewhere else. On the bike, you’re stuck there. That’s where it’s interesting.

If you could go back to that first trip, setting off alone from Thailand for a few months, what advice would you give your past self?

Ah, man… You know what. I’m really proud of that guy for doing it. I think he did the right thing by going for it. My advice would be don’t be afraid to camp, I guess. In the beginning, I was a bit afraid. But that’s it. And maybe, go off-road,but that’s something I needed to discover myself.

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Let’s talk about this bike you’re riding. Why the old mountain bike for your tour?

I just love the style of the 80s and 90s bikes. The slim tubes, the cantilevers. I think it’s just so beautiful. I think it’s the peak of bicycle design. It’s purely because I like the way it looks. And it also speaks to the philosophy of re-using things, which is important to me. There are so many bicycles that are thrown away but could still be used for years to come. Not only do they look great, but there’s still so much they can do.

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What’s the story of this particular bike?

I’m not sure of its full story, but I was home after traveling through East Africa, and I was online looking at old bikes. It was my Tinder. I was obsessed. At one point, I had like 10 of them. I found this one complete for 20€. I had a Marin, which I got for 30€ and took the drivetrain off of, and a Mongoose for 40€ that I took the wheels from. All in, the saddle costs twice as much as the bike! I got to learn how to build the whole thing, and I loved it. And then I had to see what it was capable of. So here we are, some 2,500 kilometers later. It hasn’t had a single issue along the way.

You also have a couple of modern bikes, including a Kona Unit, which would have been great for this trip. What do you like about riding the Trek compared to your other bikes?

I like the feeling of riding something I put together with my own hands. This is the first time I’ve done that, and it’s nice to see that it works! I’ve taken it apart entirely, so I know everything and how to put it back together. It gives me a feeling of tranquility. Plus, every time I see it, I think it’s beautiful. I want to ride more when I like the way a bike looks. I also like the way it rides. It really has nice ride quality and so much personality—way more than a bike you could buy readymade from the shop. Sure, it has its limitations, but it would be the perfect bike for many places.

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Lastly, what’s next for you?

A working period back home in Spain to save some money, and then I feel like heading to the Americas next winter. We’ll see. Inshallah.

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Trek Mountain Track Build

The total price of the bike was €537, which includes the cost of buying two other complete bikes for parts. Find some rough details and highlights below.

• Frame/Fork: Early 90s Trek Mountain Track 830 (€20 complete)
• Wheels: Araya box sections from an old Mongoose (€40 for the whole bike)
• Tires: Schwalbe Marathon MTB 26 x 2.1″ (€50 for the set, one flat the whole trip)
• Cockpit: Curly bars and quill stem from the free parts bin at the local co-op
• Derailleur(s): Shimano CX400 3×7 from an old Marin (€35 for the whole bike)
• Brakes: Shimano cantilevers from the Marin
• Shifters: Grip shifters from the Marin
• Saddle: Brooks Cambium Carved C17. (€90)
• Front bags: AGU feed bags (€20 each)
• Frame bags: AGU half-frame bag (€40)
• Rear bags: Revelate Nano Panniers (€170!)
• Accessory bags: Self-made buoy bags
• Front rack: Steel no name from some internet clearance section (€12)
• Rear rack: Topeak Supertourist, left over from an earlier trip
• Camping gear: MSR Hubba Hubba 2, Primus multi-fuel stove, “a nice sleeping pad”

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You can keep up with Humbert’s travels and photography on Instagram.

Further Reading

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