So is this what they meant by for better or worse?

I am lying face down in a ditch on the side of a road in southern Spain in 40C heat, sobbing, while Jez stands over me, smoking a roll-up and signalling to the passing cars that are slowing down to see if I'm okay to carry on their way, and that despite, appearances to the contrary, I am not dead. In fact, I haven't even fallen off the bike. So really, I am fine.

How did it come to this, you may ask. (As, indeed, did I.) Only three days since we landed on Spanish soil, too.

The first two days were a breeze. We poured off the ferry in Bilbao in slashing rain, filled up with not-as-cheap-as-we'd-hoped petrol, and set off southwest to drier climes, ambling through the Spanish countryside, stopping regularly in tiny villages for refreshments and ending our day early to give us time to find a place to stay.

A career break to Timbuktu

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

No matter that we had planned to be in Morocco by the weekend. It seemed silly, un-Spanish even, to race down the motorway at break-neck speed to hasten our journey to Africa. This was supposed to be a holiday, after all.

So we chose interesting A-roads, taking in castles (we were on the Ruta de los Castillos), cutting through wide swathes of crops - grapevines, sweetcorn and sunflowers - inhaling pine in forested national parks and disturbing chubby pigs as they grazed under oak trees.

We stopped in ever-dustier villages, causing much mirth among locals as we rode up narrow streets, parking by any suitable cafe terrace, ripping off our motorbike togs before heading in to order una cerveza pequena for me, un zumo de naranja for him, and the odd tapa or two.

So far, so good. This was all rather civilised. I was a bit stiff each day, but I was thoroughly getting into the whole experience. The further south we drove, of course, the hotter it got (I know, what did I expect?) and even though we've been drinking up to three litres a day each through our Camelbaks as we ride, plus regular liquid stops en route, we are getting cooked. That's the thing about a bike.

Once you switch off the engine, you are left standing, and melting, in all your clobber. We have the most amazingly lightweight, vented, “engineered skin” with our Rev-It! gear, which makes a world of difference. (My secondhand leather jacket and ill-fitting trousers are definitely history.)

We have flip-flops immediately to hand, so the bike boots can come off sharpish. We have also taken to wearing shorts under our bike trousers for minimal disrobing time. Nevertheless, you do get hot - and bothered - pretty quickly.

Having been happy to meander thus far, the call of the sea was too great for us to resist, and on day three, we took an executive decision to high-tail it out of Extremadura (Spain's hottest region, so said the weather map) and zip down the motorway to the coast for a swim, sea breeze and cooler air. The fact that Tarifa was 600km away didn't deter me, even though it had taken us two days to cover the same distance.

We were up at 7am, but bike twiddling meant we weren't on the road til 9am. By 4.30pm, we weren't far from our destination – only 40km, it turns out. But anyone familiar with that coastline will know that not for nothing is Tarifa the windsurfing capital of Europe. I was getting tired and stiff, and that was before the wind hit us like a tornado, buffeting us and the bike from side to side across the road.

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