32.2Km, 10H00 CUT OFF
Trepidation is at fever pitch. The atmosphere is electric. This really is it. The START line is in sight. Two and a half years of blood, sweat and tears. Battling injuries. Putting my family through it. Droning on to friends about this ‘MDS thing’. Well here I am.
Stay in the moment. Just for now. While I still can. Take it all in.
Everyone is awake as the Saharan sun peaks over the horizon. It is taunting us. The temperature is already hotter than a British summer. At 5:30am. Despite some strong winds and sandstorms throughout the previous night, yesterdays heatwave is still upon us. It’s gonna be a hot one.
The whole camp or ‘Bivouac’ moves each day and there is a LOT of stuff to move. A duplicate set of tents is already set up at Bivouac One where this stage will finish. Bivouac Zero, our home for the past two nights will be dismantled and leapfrog to Bivouac Two. The Berbers have a tight timeline and tents are dismantled in an instant around you, ready or not, starting from alternate sides of the camp each day. We strike lucky and have a few extra minutes shielding from the blistering sun as we complete our final preparations.
I take two salt tablets at the start line with another gulp of water. I start to worry I don’t have enough water to get to CP1. We seek a glimpse of shade, the air filled starting gantry would be the only piece of solid material between us and the sun until the checkpoint. I don’t really have a game plan. I want to finish in the top 200. I’d love to be in the top 50 Brits. But even before we’ve started, I am reassessing expectations. The cut-off times are generous and give some wriggle room for unforeseen contingencies and for the slowest competitors. And of course, you must stay ahead of the camels, who serve as tail walkers 🐫
It is hot. According to my post-race Garmin stats, the MINIMUM temperature for Stage One was 33degC.
I reflect how hard it has been getting to the START line. Here is some context:
- according to the MDS website there were 753 participants REGISTERED
- of these, there were 695 RUNNERS – I made the assumption this is the number who got to the administrative, technical and medical checks
- it then details the list of 672 STARTERS
- in April, when the race was meant to take place, there were 1,162 participants registered.
Many deferred because of COVID, because they were unable or not allowed to travel. Plenty would be injured. Too injured to run. Some would be injured but still run. Others failed the plethora of checks to get to the start; negative PCR test, medical certification, ECG. No judgements. No shame. I always said getting to the start line would be a monumental achievement. I am certain everyone here felt that way.
If anyone that Sunday morning was in doubt how hard the 35e Edition of The Legendary Marathon des Sables was going to be, it would soon be clear. By the end of this (first) stage, the Sahara will have opened wide, chewed a few times and vomited back out twenty-nine of the starters. Withdrawn. Exceeded cut-off times. Stopped by the organisation. A further four would withdraw after arriving at Bivouac One. At 32.2km, this was the shortest stage.
I do not write this to glorify my achievements. No athlete, no competitor, no runner ever wants to see a fellow participant withdraw or miss a cut-off. And lets be absolutely clear, it is not failure. I remind myself of this many, many times over the coming days.
The favourite to win is of course Rachid El Morabity. This Moroccan legend has won the last seven editions, with his younger brother Mohamed coming in second much of the time. The women’s field is more open with some big names absent. Aziza Raji, another Moroccan along with a trio of French runners and the wonderful Tomomi Bitoh from Japan, are all potential podium contestants. Also in the mix could be Anna Brown, the ultra running rowing friend of Rich and Simon, and fellow pharmacist that Rob knows. Anna is an exceptionally good runner having won or placed top three in several UK events.
Patrick’s briefing is dragging on, with everything in duplicate as his dutiful sidekick translates to English. He is reeling off stats, introducing some of the elites, issuing safety instructions, lots of about solidarité this and that. Birthdays. On comes Patty Hills ‘Happy Birthday to You’. Come on. I just want to get going now. My stomach is in knots. I struggled to get half my day one breakfast down. Rehydrated porridge with blueberries tasted fine at home, but in this heat everything changes, including your ability to stomach food.
At last. The wait is over. Never has there been a more appropriate theme tune. The MDS anthem. Turn it up. Loud. LOUDER.
Livin' easy Lovin' free Season ticket on a one way ride Askin' nothin' Leave me be Takin' everythin' in my stride Don't need reason Don't need rhyme Ain't nothin' that I'd rather do Goin' down Party time My friends are gonna be there too I'm on the highway to hell On the highway to hell Highway to hell I'm on the highway to hell No stop signs Speed limit Nobody's gonna slow me down Like a wheel Gonna spin it Nobody's gonna mess me around Hey satan Payin' my dues Playin' in a rockin' band Hey mumma Look at me I'm on the way to the promised land I'm on the highway to hell Highway to hell I'm on the highway to hell Highway to hell Don't stop me I'm on the highway to hell On the highway to hell Highway to hell I'm on the highway to hell (Highway to hell) I'm on the highway to hell (Highway to hell) highway to hell (Highway to hell) highway to hell (Highway to hell) And I'm goin' down All the way I'm on the highway to hell AC/DC - Highway to Hell
Patrick is swinging his hips on the roof of the Land Rover. Fists are pumping. Bumping. Slaps on the back. Phone off. Race face on.
672 runners from forty nationalities departing Bivouac Zero to sound of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. I will remember this forever.
Dix, neuf, huit, sept, six, cinq, quatre. Trois. Deux. Un. Zéro.
The 35e Marathon des Sables is finally underway after three postponements, first in April 2020, a second cancellation late in 2020 and a third postponement from April 2021. October was selected, in part because climatic conditions are typically very similar to April. Organisers, support crews, medics and media were all about to find out how the freakish high temperatures would impact the race. Runners were about to experience it first hand.
The very best thing about the MDS, in my opinion – to use the French term – is solidarité. In a matter of hours, I would understand the meaning a whole lot more.
Salt! Keep taking your salt tablets Gower. Slow down. This is not a sprint. This is not a marathon. This is six marathons.
By the end of the first kilometre, we have our taste of dunes. Small dunes. Do I walk these? What are other people doing? Which way is quickest? But these are only baby dunes. Mummy and daddy dunes won’t appear until tomorrow!
My race pack starts to hurt. Not chaffing. Just the sheer weight digging into my bony shoulders. I can only imagine how Aaron and Richard’s packs must feel. All those days planning, researching, cutting, weighing, trimming. I feel a fleeting sense of smugness with my pack weight. Then it hurts again.
CP1 (checkpoint 1) comes into sight at 11k. I am running well and swallow another salt tablet, suck empty a flask of water and pull out my ‘zup-zup’ check-card ready for the marshals.
‘How are you feeling? Are you OK? Good. Well done.’
The marshals are incredible and are there to keep you safe and help you succeed.
I am handed my water rations. All water comes in 1.5 litre bottles. Your race number is written on the bottle and top and time penalties imposed if they are found anywhere they shouldn’t be i.e. not in a water bin. I pour one bottle straight over my head, arm sleeves, neck and wrist buffs and drink the remainder. During training, I was worried I’d struggle to drink enough quickly enough, so practiced necking pints of water before and after a run. This one didn’t touch the sides. I refill my flasks from the second bottle, pop another salt tablet and neck the remainder. Onwards.
We pass a village en route to CP2 and I encounter the first of many children, I assume from Bedouin nomadic tribes. Originally I’d planned to bring extra buffs to give away, but they didn’t make the weight cut 😟 I smile, say bonjour and run on. CP2 is a sight for sore eyes, sore everything. I repeat the earlier routine and head out. The heat is now unbearable. It is only 21k but feels like I’ve run a marathon in a tumble drier.
You’ll be fine. It’s only day one. Just 10k to go. Take your time. OK, hike the rest. The wrong voices start creeping into my head. My lowest point was around the corner. The Sahara desert was about to engulf me, chew me up and unceremoniously spit me out.
Highway to Hell was suddenly no longer just the signature AC/DC song that blared out across the start line each day. It had become my reality. I had yet to complete the first day but had reached my hell.
Somewhere I heard the Bill Withers song Just the Two of Us, I think during the preamble at the start line. I sing it it in my head over and over again:
I see the crystal raindrops fall And the beauty of it all Is when the sun comes shining through To make those rainbows in my mind When I think of you sometime And I wanna spend some time with you. Just the Two of Us - written by Bill Withers, William Salter, and Ralph MacDonald, and recorded by Grover Washington Jr. with Withers on vocals.
I’m thinking about my dad. I know he is watching over me. I know he is proud. Tears are now streaming down my face, stinging my eyes. Suddenly 10k is a very long way. I am hurting. This is day one. I keep pushing.
Approximately 8km from the finish, my run had already slowed to walking pace and this now becomes a heavily laboured shuffle. I am still regularly sipping fluids and taking salt tablets, but by this time it is warm water with endurance fuel or hydration tabs. Almost without warning, I start to feel feint and light headed. Drained of all energy. I start counting steps – never a good sign. One, two, three…….one hundred, one hundred and one….. all the way to a thousand. Another kilometre done. I start again.
Heat alone is not the only issue but (along with D&V which I’ll talk about later) it is the main one. Forty degrees Celsius in the shade and north of sixty-five (149F) in the sun is freakishly high. This combined with just 4% humidity. Within seconds of gulping water, your mouth is bone dry, lips are stuck together. Pour water on the ground and it vanishes almost instantly. Pouring water down your arms, neck, head, buffs, shorts, legs helps increase the cooing effect as it evaporates, pulling heat away from your body. It helps, but I am fighting a losing battle.
I endure a deterioration in body and mind, in spirit and in soul. So rapid, so unexpected, I’ve never experienced. I was scarred and unsure if I would pass out, or collapse and be forced to hit my SOS beacon, ending my race and dream before finishing the first day. Everything is becoming a blur.
Within a few hundred meters, I suddenly vomit twice. Unsightly green puke, which was flushing my gastrointestinal tract (GI) of much needed fluids and electrolytes. Dehydration was now a very real risk. I don’t fully understand the science but at a certain point, your GI no longer lets you consume more water. It seems counterintuitive, but a sip can make you vomit.
I still had a lot of fluid in my main two flasks but can no longer stomach the hot, sweet energy and hydration fuel. What I crave is plain water, but I’d already drunk through my reserve flask.
Prior to the race, several of my family and friends who also knew Rob, had politely asked him to look after me. ‘Please try to ensure he doesn’t die in the Sahara….’ or something to that effect. Words which would become very profound the following day. As a prior MDS finisher, I’d been heavily tapping into Rob for advice over the past year.
I suddenly hear a familiar voice from behind. My guardian camel has arrived. MDS runners are pretty easy to identify, with names on bibs front and back. Plus I am carrying a big Cancer Research UK flag, which turned out to be brilliant for those following me back home, trying to pick me out from video clips on social media.
Rob’s timing is impeccable. It is not stretching the truth to say I probably wouldn’t have made it to the end of Stage One without him. He walks with me, forcing me to sip his plain water, making me swallow more salt tablets and constantly badgering me to keep moving. I am begging him to let me stop.
I sense my condition deteriorating by the minute. Even though this was far from the longest distance I’d run, I am now operating on fumes – a bit like our car had been all week.
As Rob continues to usher me forward, my second guardian camel appears. A two time MDS finisher, who had died and been brought back to life (see yesterdays blog or read his book, Craig brought not only strength, but reassurance, kindness and purpose.
Another torturous kilometre felt like a marathon. I vomit again two more times in quick succession. Momentarily, I feel better. Short lived.
Struggle on. Dragging feet through small dunes and soft sand. Rob feeding me occasional gulps of warm water from one side, Craig intermittently holding up my pack from the other. I become increasingly disoriented and start to hallucinate.
I hear myself apologising, then thanking them over and over again. Then begging to get me to the finish. I tell Rob I have to stop. He rightly berates me, threatening to leave me in the dunes. I’m sure he isn’t joking.
‘Stopping is not good…..if we stop you’ll be out. We need to get out of the sun.’
Wise words.
The next however long is a blur, yet I vividly remember visualising a scene from my childhood school. Broadstone Middle School had enormous sports fields which backed onto a heath where we used to run cross country, through the mud and gorse bushes. One summer, the heath caught fire and fire engines galore were spread across the fields with fire hoses criss-crossed like snakes and ladders. It was this image of a raging heath fire that was in my mind.
My cramping body now decides to jettison remaining GI contents. Time for number two’s in the dunes. Pooing into biodegradable brown sacks at the bivouac already served to erase everyone’s dignity. But I had to go there and then. Craig kindly provides a couple of tissues. Onwards – a few hundred grams lighter. Rob reassuringly informs me he has a good photo of my pit stop – but some things in the desert, best stay in the desert.
It is day one. I still have 5k to go. Just a parkrun. Not far. Must finish. Too embarrassed to bail on day one. Can’t let you down. All my friends who sponsored me. I’ve trained for years. This cost me a ton. Must finish. Keep moving. Once foot. Other foot. Small steps. Breathe.
But it is SOOOOO HOT. Each breath fills my lungs with hot, bone dry air. Is this the hottest MDS ever? Others have stopped and withdrawn already. It’s not my fault. I gave it a good go. I did my best. I can come back and try another year. It’s OK, I wont be the only one. I can just stay and have a holiday in the sun.
Don’t be ridiculous. This is once or nothing. You don’t quit. You can’t stop. What will my kids think of me? What kind of role model quits? I won’t raise the money Cancer Research UK desperately need. If Kev has done this four times…..with stage four prostate cancer. Sort yourself out Gower.
I can’t recall how long the last 5km took. On a good day in my local park, I run that in about eighteen minutes. Perhaps twenty-one with a race pack on. Today is not a good day. And it certainly isn’t my local park. This is the longest 5k of my life.
We pass Ian Corless, long time ultra running journalist, podcaster, font of knowledge and stories, who has covered MDS for many years. Ian is also my photographer so the good images are his, not mine! Not the greatest look right now. Delirious. Can’t muster up a smile. Is this really happening? Is THIS really what I came here to do?
Ian radios ahead to Doc Trotters1 giving a heads up I will be arriving soon, and will probably require an immediate intravenous drip (IV).
My two guardian camels are gracious and let me finish first. That is the measure of these guys. Thoughtful to the last despite their own pain. I stumble over the Stage One finish line, Rob and Craig by my side. No big celebrations, immediately to Doc Trotters. Several runners are stretched out having blisters treated. On entering the next tent, it resembled an army field hospital with supplies ranging from everything to treat feet with pieces falling off through to ECG machines, ice blankets and, as I was about to experience, a profusion of IV drips.
Several tests ensued: blood pressure, temperature measured in various locations, an ECG…..not really sure what else. All a bit of a blur. Still disorientated.
A kind race official had carried my four rationed bottles of water to the Doc Trotters tent. Precious cargo. One of the Doc Trotters attempts to get a sip of water inside me. She adds a sachet of magical powder, designed to help keep it down. The reaction is instantaneous. More of my GI contents flies straight back out and across the field hospital style bed.
Dizzy, disorientated, sick, cramping pain. In a matter of seconds, an IV drip is trickling into a grateful vein in my right arm.
I had made the decision. Game over.
To my right a couple of beds along, a man is having a fit. In the far left corner, a woman is lying on a bed with an IV. Another man is on the floor in front of a fan. As a Doc Trotter medic plugs in a second IV, I clock Kev on a bed opposite. No. Surely not Kev? This man has completed four of these already. If anyone is gonna tame this beast it will be Kev. But he had been really ill overnight and vomited at the start line. I am unsure if he is sleeping. He looks terrible. The man in the corner on the right is talking gobbledegook. The Doc Trotters are incredible. They are expert, kind, patient, understanding. I cannot express how impressive they are and how grateful I was for their care. They bring me an ice blanket and another fan. More tests. My temperature starts to fall but is still way too high. Another Doc Trotter picks up the water bottle and puts it to my mouth. I am too weak to hold it. I try and sip some water but gag. Another IV. By the end of the third litre, I start to feel human. I manage a tiny sip of water with the magical powder which they had poured into one of my soft flasks, making it easier to sip through the straw.
It is another hour before I can sit on the edge of the bed and drink more easily. I’d been there for almost four hours. I can’t bring myself to write everything that went through my mind lying in Doc Trotters. Some things are best left in the desert.
After final checks, the Doc Trotters allow me to go. I have finished Stage One and the medics are happy with my recovery. I am told that I can continue the next stage, although I incur a two hour time penalty.
As hard as I try, I simply cannot visualise myself starting Stage Two. I shuffled across to speak to Kev.
I’m out
was all that he said. I immediately feel an enormous sense of loss. I can see just how much my Sand Brother is hurting. More than anything I just want Kev to be OK.
The worst of the days heat has passed and I slowly drag myself back to Tent 59. I think everyone apart from Aaron and Kev were back. The next couple of hours were incredibly emotional. Slowly I start to repair, both physically and more importantly, in my mind. As much as anything, MDS is about managing stuff. Some things are beyond your control, but carefully manage whatever you can – water, food, salt tablets, hygiene, recovery, kit, rest….
The first of many hundreds of messages I received had been delivered. I cannot overstate just what a profound impact these had. Every one accompanies me to the very end, to Ouarzazate and back home. I laugh over them. I cry over them. I read out the marathon results, the rugby results, poems and jokes. Family. Friends. People I knew. Many I didn’t. Hundreds of staff at Cancer Research UK, even Michelle the CEO took the time to message me. Neighbours. Friends from Dulwich Runners, my run club….
There had been talk of it getting cooler later in the week. I wasn’t sure what ‘cooler’ meant. Anything below today’s furnace will be a bonus.
My tent mates are amazing – not only getting me to the Stage One finish line, but reassuring me that I should start the next day and that I will be fine. Solidarité!
- Philip Leckie: 583
- Gower Tan: 717
- Rob Duncombe: 664
- Craig Horton: 381
- Kevin Webber: 623
- Aaron Simmons: 634
- Richard Lear: 692
- Simon Woodfine: 725
I recall a quote from the great Eliud Kipchoge:
The moment you tell your mind: I’m not able to do this – miracles cannot happen.
By the time I hit the deck, my decision had been reversed. Tomorrow I go again.
Game on.
RACE TIME: 07hr:32min:27sec
Notes
1. Doc Trotters are the MDS’s experienced medical team, who kept us healthy and safe. They were at all checkpoints and each bivouac every evening. I have nothing but the utmost respect, praise and thanks.
Running All Over Cancer 