Panerai
Putting the Luminor Submersible Through Its Paces in the Moroccan Wilderness
As I pound away at the pedals, I recall the words of George Bullard, adventurer and partner at IGO Adventures. “For me there are three things that inspire our journeys. It is important that there is an inherent and natural possibility for adventure. We try and find remote yet accessible parts of the planet that are not only connected but are also disconnected from the world so that we can truly reconnect with nature. They are obviously novel and exciting destinations, places you might not ordinarily visit with your friends or family, unless you are on an adventure. The historical significance gives the expedition a degree of place and relevance that people can relate to.” And, as I roll along the final descent to camp, my body plastered with desert dust, my muscles aching, and the Luminor meticulously keeping time, I understand George’s words with profound clarity. To have cycled through the Agafay Desert, deep in the Moroccan hinterland, is an experience like no other; but there are still three days to go. Ouch!
River Deep
Settling into the traditional Berber camp on the first night, I’m both shattered and energised for the following day. As I somewhat haphazardly take a short camel ride along the banks of the lake, I mentally prepare for what’s to come – kayaking around Lake Lalla Takerkoust, followed by a near-50-kilometre orienteer through the ever-steepening foothills.
The cool early-morning temperature dissipates quickly and I’m soon struggling as the sun burns at my neck. Luckily, I find a few competitors along the way, and we vow to stick together. Such is the nature of an IGO adventure, it is far less a competition, but more about the participation itself – the camaraderie, the friendships, the willingness to help those in potential trouble. As participant Louise Rey commented: “Everyone was amazing, I was deeply in awe of the mental strength of everyone and how nobody, despite being tired and hungry, ever snapped at anyone and kept being supportive and cheerful, no matter what.” It is in this vein that the second day ended after almost 10 hours. Our bodies felt broken and, had it not been for each other, our minds may have faltered, too. As the light faded and the temperature dropped, we settled down for a much-needed rest, with the soft whisper of an Arabic lute gently soothing us to sleep.
Mountain High
Howling hounds and crowing cockerels woke me early on the penultimate day. I forced my eyes open; my body needed more rest. Before long we were back on our mountain bikes again, this time to cycle up into the Atlas Mountains themselves. Within minutes my legs began to cramp and I knew that it was going to be a painful day. And painful it was. With numerous mechanical problems along the route, which set me back almost an hour, my body was ready to give up, and my mind almost did, too. It was only the Panerai on my wrist that kept me in check.
I crashed through the finish line on the third day, my body a mess of lactic acid and heat exhaustion. As I lay in the dirt, at 1,500 metres above sea-level on a plateau deep in the Atlas Mountains, I questioned why I chose to do this event, why I chose to put myself in a position where my body could, quite literally, give up. Yet I already knew the answer, and it was a profound moment. With each deep, uncontrollable inhalation, I knew that I had achieved something; to push oneself to the extreme is one of the most life-affirming sensations I have experienced.
I’m reminded of Panerai’s very foundations in the extreme, a notion that has become lost in time. It was on the eve of the Second World War that the original Panerai Radiomir (the younger brother of the Luminor) first came into existence, to be built specifically for the First Submarine Group Command of the Royal Italian Navy. This model, featuring a 47mm, cushion-shaped case, and a flat, wide bezel, is as apparent today as it was in the late-1930s. It strikes me that the Luminor on my wrist is a piece of military heritage in its own right. It was built for war, it was built for hardship, and it was built to last.
When I awoke, the sun lay teasingly on the peak of Jbel Toubkal, the highest summit in the Atlas Mountains. The air was fresh, and the cool mountain breeze blustered across the plateau. I hadn’t expected it to be so cold. With a renewed energy, I set off on the long climb, and as I tracked through a gorge, where vines covered the bare stone walls, where water flowed, flowers blossomed and grass grew, I was taken aback at how the scenery had changed. Just two days ago, I was in the arid desert, with nothing but sand, dirt and the unrelenting sun, yet now I was in an almost jungle-like fantasia, heading in the direction of a ski resort. “Is this really Morocco?”
I kept thinking. I checked the Luminor, one-hour down. Soon the gorge turned to loose mountain rock, and the scramble began. Rocks slid uneasily beneath my feet, and the coolness of the morning all but vanished. I checked my wrist again, two hours down. Ahead I saw the IGO flags some 500 metres away, and I pushed through the muscle burn to reach the peak, before running the short distance through the town and across a grass-filled plateau to the finish line. I depressed the push button on the Luminor, just over 3 hours it read. Those already through embraced me, and we sighed in relief at the completion of this challenge. As the other competitors crossed the line, we whooped and hollered in support. The energy was utterly electric.