Distance: 56.05 miles

Time: 6:24:53

Elevation Gain: 6,236 feet

Average Speed: 8.7 mph

If I’d opened the curtains this morning, the first thing I’d have seen was heavy rain bouncing off the road outside, but as there were no curtains, I could already see it. Not ideal at the start of the hardest day of the trip.

I dawdled over breakfast, before ensuring to check my gears before I left. It turned out that the new style of Shimano derailleur was designed quite differently and I’d inadvertently routed it so that it was rubbing off the chain guide.

Having fixed the issue, I rolled out into the rain, the water teaming down the hill beside me as I made my way back towards the highway. Carrying on out of town, I passed through some small villages, dismayed that my higher gears were stuttering, fortunately my lower gears seemed to be working well and as I had the near 1000m Wadi Mujib to climb out of later, that was probably for the best.

Eventually the rain stopped and I made for a petrol station cafe, hoping a coffee might thaw me out a little after the onslaught from the chilling winds. The coffee was a thick spicy affair, that the owner lovingly prepared on his stove, he seemed keen that I should enjoy it, and thankfully I did.

Shortly after, the route left the King’s Highway, working its way to the top of a high ridgeline before plummeting down the other side into a complex dry arid landscape. Turning along the valley floor, passing workers’ camps along the way. Kids on their way back from school greeted me excitedly, one on a bike in particular, who pointed out the similarities of our travelling arrangements.

Back on the highway, the road climbed up and over to the start of the most challenging part of the route, the vast Wadi Mujib. The road disappeared over the edge, promising an 8% gradient on its way down. A stunning vista of the valley was revealed, the road snaking far below.

The descent was fantastic, only blighted by groups of dogs lurking alongside the barriers waiting to pounce. Luckily I was able to anticipate their assaults and get my accelerations in early, leaving them barking angrily far behind.

Down at the valley floor, just before I crossed the vast Mujib dam, my elevation dropped below 200 metres, bad news when I knew that I’d be returning to almost 1000 metres later on.

As I stood on the dam, the wind picked up once more, this time accompanied by rain, lashing down on my open panniers as I searched for some of the few food supplies I had, a packet of dates and, extravagantly, a tray of baklava. Then I reached the other side of the dam, and was stopped by the police.

It was a police check point, and he asked where I was from, and then where I was going. Karak, I replied, without conviction, given the conditions and the steepness of the opening pitch we were standing at the bottom of. I would have willed him to turn me back, but I knew that that would be just as bad…

Struggling up the opening slopes into the merciless headwind, I succumbed to the thought that there was no other outcome than cycling the last hour or so in the dark, but how dark is dark when the weather is this grim? My breathing was still laboured thanks to the cold and I was feeling more than a little concerned that it was after 3 o’clock, and the sun would set at half past 5, despite it not having been seen all day. I still had 25 miles to go, and of that, the first few miles included a 600 metre climb, and after that, the road continued to climb into a headwind that was gusting at over 35 miles per hour.

Finally, I knew the answer, I’d climbed out of the gorge at around 800 metres and was now ploughing on forlornly into the pitiless wind. As the the sunset call to prayer filled the air, the truth was it had already been dark for some time, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that I was now pedalling on into thick fog.

At the darkest possible stretch, on a blind uphill corner, under low overhanging tree cover, my front light went out and I took the first opportunity to get off the road. Resigned to hanging out for a while outside the Mutah University School of Agriculture, waiting for the light to charge, a voice called out from the small gatehouse, barely visible in the gloom.

Ahmed invited me inside his tiny booth, where he was huddled up near a small heater, waiting for some tea to brew. Pouring me a cup, I couldn’t thank him enough for his kindness, and drank it gratefully. Finishing it quickly, he poured me another and I settled back, happy to be waiting out the worst of the conditions in here.

Ahmed was the night watchman for the campus and he would be working until 8 AM, he was a father of 5, and was worried that his English skills might not still be up to scratch, having learned it at school, a long time before. He need not worry I assured him.

Soon a friend of Ahmed popped in, pouring us all another tea, before going to put another pot on. He shared out some biscuits which I accepted gratefully, but I ensured to fetch my tray of baklava before he came back with the second pot. Baklava from Madaba, Ahmed informed his friend. The friend headed off to the Mosque, for his 5th time of the day, and eventually I got back underway, eternally grateful for the ‘shai’ shared with these two men.

Back on the road the fog had lifted a little, so I was feeling more confident about the final 7 miles in the dark, but then the rain came on even heavier than before and my cadence lifted in protest.

Receiving a message from my host for the night – enquiring about my arrival time – I responded that it should be by half past 8. I only had two miles to cover, and that was 45 minutes away.

But then, as I careered down towards a bridge, a large drain cover covered the road, wide gaps much bigger than my bike tyres, lay in between the slats, there was nothing for me to do but hop as best I could, the back tyre landing heavily on the other side. Relieved to get across unscathed I slowed to lift the bike over the next one, and then realised I’d blown my back inner tube. It was absolutely pouring down, and less than a mile to go, but there was nothing else for it, than to change it.

At 9 o’clock, I rang the door of The Old House guesthouse, situated just below Karak castle on a rocky outcrop, drenched and covered with mud, I apologised for my late arrival, ‘it took a little longer than expected’, I said. Then my host uttered the immortal words, ‘would you like some dinner?’ Rustling up some delectable chicken shawarma and fries, while I was in the shower. Do you like Pespi? He enquired, before informing me that he was leaving me to it, ‘is there anything else that you need’? Thank you, no, I think I’ll be fine.

• cycle-touring