Los Motos Locos – Morocco Madness 2025 | FEATURE

Expat scooterists, Los Motos Locos, are a thriving scooter community based in Spain.

They travel to various scooter events (you may have met a couple of them at Euro Lambretta recently as they rode from Spain to Ayr and back, raising money for charity along the way). They also make the most of the year-round sunshine by taking various scooter trips during the year.

A few weeks ago, they decided Morocco sounded like a good idea, so they hopped over to Africa. Here, Andy Wellend tells us all about it. Hopefully, it’ll inspire some of our readers to try something different.

Just do it

It’s easy to sit in the bar talking about scooter adventures. We’ve all done it. But then there’s doing it – and that’s where Los Motos Locos shine. We don’t just plan trips – we throw the plan out the window, point the scooters south, and see where the road takes us.

Seventeen scooters. Nineteen idiots. Four days. One continent. One cracking story.

Day 1: Spain fades, Africa calls

As always, it started in true Locos style – a gathering at the BP garage in Fuengirola, where caffeine mixed with nerves and the usual “Have you got your Green Card? No? Oh well, we’ll blag it” conversations bounced around.

The scooters were gleaming (for now), the engines ticking over nicely, and the banter was already flying as we swept down the coast to Estepona to collect the usual suspects. Spirits were high – until Algeciras.

The ferry crossing itself was smooth, but the Moroccan border… well, that’s where the fun started.

Cross my palm

In true African fashion, it was a mixture of form-filling, head-scratching, confused customs officials, and the odd well-timed Los Motos Locos badge handed over like it was diplomatic ID. Rob and Mike suddenly realised half their paperwork (green cards) was either missing or left at home; no worries, Boris the Mod and Scooterman are back at HQ sorting things out behind the scenes. So after apologising and with scanned copies of paperwork sorted, no more red faces but let’s just say some were greener than others.

But after a lot of smiling, pointing, and a few “administration fees” that we’ll not mention here, the barriers lifted and we were in. Welcome to Morocco.

First stop Tetouan. The Hotel Mandi became our home for the night. Beers flowed. Tagines were demolished. Day one done – but already the laughs were stacking up.

Day 2: Diesel, breakdowns & the Blue City

Morning arrived with the first minor carnage. Dennis’s exhaust had snapped overnight and became our first mechanical bodge job – some serious fettling involving cable ties, gaffer tape, and whatever else we could scavenge. Standard Locos touring kit.

Diesel powered

Just as we thought we were sorted, Hugh entered the hall of fame by managing to fill his scooter with diesel. Cue more spanners and more mickey-taking. Honestly, you couldn’t script it.

Once we were eventually rolling, the ride down the stunning coastal road to Ouad Laou was breathtaking. Crystal blue seas, tight winding bends – scooters purring (mostly), breakdowns forgotten (briefly). We pulled in for a seafood lunch that could’ve fed a cruise ship, with grilled fish piled high and the usual mix of laughs and daft stories.

Blue City

Then we swung inland, climbing into the Rif Mountains and straight into Chefchaouen, the legendary Blue City. The scooters looked surreal parked up in those vivid alleyways — Lambrettas and Vespas nestled amongst shades of turquoise and indigo.

El Capitan

That night? Let’s just say Captain Morgan arrived, and things descended from there. What happens in Chefchaouen stays in Chefchaouen but sore heads were guaranteed.

Day 3: Hitchhikers & Birthday Banter

With slightly shakier hands, we remounted for the next leg. The route back towards Tetouan, then cutting west towards Asilah, gave us a bit of everything – open roads, quiet villages, and picture-postcard views.

And that’s when Vinnie became a local taxi service.

Spotting a Moroccan lad thumbing for a lift, Vinnie pulled over, gave him a nod, and next thing we knew, the lad was riding pillion – no helmet, hanging on for dear life, with a grin wider than the Atlas Mountains. Another Locos legend was born.

We stopped for coffee by a picture-perfect lake before rolling into Asilah for the night. Time for a swim, beers, and most importantly, a full-on birthday celebration for Vicki, Locos-style food, drink, and enough laughter to wake the neighbours.

Day 4: Limping Home, Full of Memories

The final day brought us back to reality — and to the mechanical comedy of Dennis’s now legendary exhaust-from-hell, which was barely holding together with the last of the club’s entire stockpile of cable ties, rags, and swear words.

But with the usual stubbornness, we coaxed it along, rattling back towards Tangier Port, where Morocco gave us one final parting gift — a three-hour customs delay. Plenty of time for reflection, more laughs, and promising ourselves that next time we’d definitely be more organised (we won’t).

But more than that — it was a reminder of why we ride. The brotherhood. The breakdowns that become stories. The people you meet. The miles you earn. The fact that, even after four days of heat, hills, dodgy border crossings and bodge jobs, you’re already talking about the next one before you even get home.

Morocco 2026? You better believe it.

To everyone who came, helped, broke down, fixed up, laughed, swore, and kept the faith: thank you.

Los Motos Locos. Same madness. New miles…