82.5Km, 32H00 CUT OFF
A man can be destroyed but not defeated.
Ernest Hemingway
For an event given the cachet of ‘The Toughest Footrace on Earth’ no amount of preparation can completely prepare you for the journey ahead. The ability to adapt is essential and there are no shortcuts in the Marathon des Sables.
Endurance athletes sometimes describe the ‘pain cave’. There is a strange juxtaposition between this and the euphoric highs, also synonymous with endurance events. Is it possible to dig so deep into this cerebral cavern and yet almost simultaneously experience some euphoric feelings from the rush of endorphins, endocannabinoids or other joy inducing chemicals flying around my anatomy?
Whatever the science, the lows take me to some very dark places and the highs are incredible. Both trigger my physical self to operate in ways as yet unknown to me. Both will leave memories which will last forever.
Arriving back to the tent after yesterday’s third stage, an unexpected surprise awaits. I last saw Kev on Sunday, lying on a field hospital bed in Doc Trotters, plugged in to his umpteenth IV, shivering with fever yet still dangerously hot. If you thought I was in a bad way…….. Craig saw Kev the following day and brought back news that he was still not out of the woods. Turns out Kev had a ton of IV’s and antibiotics, but was still too ill to go back to Ouarzazate so he travelled with the camp. [Either that or he was enjoying the company of the lovely French medics too much].
Clearly still not a hundred percent, you simply wouldn’t know it. Kev is smiling, telling stories and jokes, laughing at himself, typically generous with his wisdom and advice for the Long Stage ahead of us. Quietly inspiring his Sand Brothers. It is hard to express just how motivating this was. We were all deeply upset that Kev was out. A four times MDS finisher, forced by unprecedented conditions to withdraw on 1CP1. Not an ounce of anger or remorse. Just making the most of it. Like Kev always does.
Both Rich and Kev would head back to the hotel in Ouarzazate early the next morning. We all hoped they would still be there when we finished. Whenever and wherever our finish would be.
The heat continues to mess with my stomach and stifle any appetite but traversing eighty-two kilometres of the Sahara with a mountain thrown in for good measure, absent of fuel will be suicide. The chocolate protein shake is not gonna cut it alone. Having ditched the Spaghetti Carbonara, I decide to double up with a second chocolate shake, a couple of Rob’s pork scratchings and a bag of crushed Twiglets.
Still not enough. Getting any food down remains a gargantuan challenge and I just can’t stomach anymore.
Of all the things in my kit, a leading candidate for MVI (most valued item) is my Imodium. In preparation for the Long Stage, I had ditched anything and everything deemed non-essential. Later that evening (or rather in the early hours of the next day) my Imodium proves to be just that, gaining another nomination for the MVI award. Already dark, I grab my headlamp, pull on my shoes and rush the fifty meters towards the loo’s – hand sanitiser, brown bag and my last bum wipes in hand.
Merde! Gonna need more wipes. Quickly. Think. I have at least half a dozen face masks left and so about-turn to grab them. At this point, I’ll move on and leave the rest to your imagination 😂💩😷🙈
Simon has already popped a couple of Imodium tablets and I follow suit. No way I can run, walk or crawl unless the dam is plugged!
We have an earlier start and everyone is awake before sunrise. Kev and Rich head off and offer final words of encouragement. We joke about who Phil is going to poison next, since everyone on his side of the tent had been nobbled – Aaron, Kev, Craig…. Rich is the exception as he is on the side next to me, but Phil has an explanation for that. Rob, you’re next. Watch your back!!
The morning routine feels like Groundhog Day. Déjà vu. But the banter is brilliant. This is what it is all about. Your tent mates. Sand Brothers. Overcoming disappointments, pain, adversity. Celebrating the wins, big and tiny. Together. Stripped bare of any dignity long ago. Helping each other. Sharing anything and everything. Of all the memories I will cherish the most, it won’t be the breathtaking views from a ridge in Erg Chebbi. Nor will it be the finish line on any given day, nor the buzz and excitement screaming aloud to Highway to Hell on day one. These are all special moments.
What will forever move me emotionally, are these times together in our little tent. Pondering the unknowns ahead and sharing woes of the challenges behind us. It is hard to put into words but the French term still describes it best. Solidarité.
If there is any reason whatsoever why I would go back and do this crazy again, this is it.
Imagine the feeling when you pull on a brand new pair of socks or freshly pressed shirt. Now multiply that by a hundred. They feel so good, smell good. No sand, no sweat, no splashes of vomit or diarrhoea. Soft, clean shirt and socks. OK, the odour from my shorts isn’t so attractive but we’d all long since adapted to mask that out.
I rearrange my pack so my headlamp and spare battery are easily accessible, MP3 player and earbuds are at hand, two packs of Cliff Shot Bloks in easy reach. Black cherry with caffeine on the left, strawberry without on the right – very important to differentiate as we all know caffeine can make you 💩 and I have no desire to test just how good the Imodium is.
The tape which I’d meticulously wrapped around several toes on my left foot is still in place and remarkably is barely peeling of at all. Ditto the kinesio tape I anchored on the outside of my left foot, under the sole and up my inside calf. These two strips of tape which straddle my ankle are affording some extra support to my anterior tibialis, which has been playing havoc for months. [It still is]. Several toes on my right foot needed re-taping. Thus far I have escaped serious blisters and decide to invest extra time ensuring my trusty Hypafix Tape is perfectly applied. First a squirt or two of Benzoin Tincture to disinfect and create an extra sticky surface for the tape to adhere to. One piece over the end. Trim the ears. One piece around the toe. Joints on the top. Voilà. Rory Coleman style. Perfect.
I also have layers of kinesio tape over my shoulders and across my lower back to prevent chaffing from my pack. Thanks to the combined handiwork of Rob, Kev and Simon, the tape is clinging on (and is still there three days later when I enjoy my first shower for over a week).
I polish my faithful Oakley sunglasses and guzzle some water. Taking salt tablets is now second nature and I pop a couple with another gulp or two. I’m out of sun cream but Simon and Rob have plenty to share and I smother the few exposed parts of my skin with a thick layer. My second shirt has long sleeves so only my legs, face and hands are in the direct line of the sun’s blistering rays. The Berber’s arrive and collapse our tent in seconds as the sun rapidly creeps over the horizon.
In a matter of minutes we are under the grill once again and will remain there until the sun disappears back over another horizon, by which time undoubtedly ‘bien cuit’. With the sole exception of checkpoints, there will be zero shade. If things don’t go well, we could still be going twenty-four hours from now when the sun rises again. The cut-off for the Long Stage is a whopping thirty-two hours. As it turns out, the final participants finish the Long Stage with just forty-five minutes to spare. At seventy years young, Christine Taieb from France is the last to return to the bivouac (and she is not the oldest competitor either).
The Imodium seems to be doing its job. It is not the time for clenching bum cheeks. The plug better hold up.
I make up another smoothie style mix with ‘blueberry porridge’. It looks revolting but I know I’ll regret it later if I don’t get at least some inside me. It hasn’t fully rehydrated and the blueberries are crunchy. A bit like the sand in my teeth. Hey ho. I decant some crystallised ginger pieces into a smaller bag and eat a couple to mask the taste of the porridge. The fiery heat of the ginger combined with the sugar are just what I need, settling my stomach. My miniature tube of Colgate toothpaste has done well. Nothing beats the feeling and taste of freshly brushed teeth. I squeeze the last bead from my six gram tube and give the gnashers a good scrub. Excellent. Less weight to carry.
The stage is more than double any of the previous three days. Plus djebel El Otfal1 to climb. At night. Yet I am feeling strangely confident. Patrick’s little surprise, keeping the Long Stage description and distance secret, doesn’t really bother me. Others may have dwelled on what was to come and let it play with their minds. I kept my focus to the day in hand, checkpoint to checkpoint, not thinking too far beyond that. At times, it only stretched as far as my next step. Literally.
Rob has been participating in the daily Tai Chi classes that take place in the middle of the bivouac. The music is incredibly calming, yet somehow energising. Alas I cannot muster the energy to join in and recall Rob skips it today too, but it is always fun to watch and a bit of me now wishes I’d joined in at least once.
There are two separate starts today. The majority of us depart at 08:15am while the top-50 start several hours later. Simon has the dubious pleasure of staring with the elites. We don’t envy him, nevertheless he has run three incredible stages despite the trots and is incredibly strong and competitive. Anyone who gives up beer for six months must be. Singapore Phil, Rob and I head slowly towards the start, leaving Simon finding some shade to wait for the second wave. I clip in a couple of Rob’s straps and he helps adjust mine. Phil has not had a good night. From memory, he throws up on the start line. Once again it is not blisters, muscles, tendons, ligaments nor aching joints that play havoc. It is gastrointestinal carnage.
The devastation of heat and sickness continued to take its toll during Stage Three, throughout the night and into the morning of Stage Four. A further 68 participants have not made the start of the Long Stage:
- 1 withdrawal on departure from B2 (bivouac 2);
- 38 withdrawals at 3CP1 (Stage Three, checkpoint one – including Rich and also Anna from tent 60);
- 23 withdrawals at 3CP2 and 1 missed cut-off;
- 5 withdrawals at 3CP3 and 1 missed cut-off.
Perhaps most telling statistic of all, from the 476 participants who finish Stage Three and make the start of the fabled Long Stage, 39 withdraw on departure, before even reaching the first checkpoint.
In his now customary briefing, Patrick reiterates the extra water provisions made available and the usual reminders about salt tablets and the like. However one announcement unnerves everyone: illness and sickness has not only impacted on the runners but also the MDS staff, logistical and medical teams. There were times when this made the race feel almost like a war zone. While a significant number of MDS staff and medics remained, many had also been impacted by D&V. Patrick asks his increasingly apprehensive audience to avoid leaving a checkpoint unless you are confident of making the next one i.e. please don’t get half way and then hit your SOS button, because it will be a little more challenging to get to you quickly.
Or something like that.
It was just enough to put the fear of the Saharan Gods into anyone. Me included.
Today is a day to play safe Gower. One checkpoint at a time. Rest as long as you need. Thirty-two hours is ample time. Yet somewhere deep down I had set my sights on a top 150 ranking. At the end of Stage Three, I was placed 242nd meaning I had almost one hundred places or two hours to make up.
Stop it Gower. Finishing is your only goal. But I’m fiercely competitive. With myself. I can’t pretend I don’t want this. The rational part of my sun cooked brain reigns in the enthusiasm in. Let’s just wait and see how we feel after CP1.
In addition to the climb and descent of the biggest mountain, djebel El Otfal, the Long Stage promises more dune fields, endless soft sand and several more humps to submit and test us. Djebel El Abeth would appear before the first CP and djebel Lahnoune after CP2. There will be other sections with huge rocks, any one of which can snap your leg or leave you with a sprained ankle if you trip and land badly. Add this to the intense heat, sickness, cramping and the like and we are in for a very, very challenging day.
Well, that’s why you’re doing this Gower, right?
Kev suggested taking longer breaks during the heat off the day, especially for getting any food inside and then taking advantage of the (relatively) cooler temperatures during the evening and night to push on harder. This is the plan I will adopt. I will make up those two hours and hundred places when the sun has disappeared over the horizon.
AD/DC comes on and the energy starts too build again. Nothing like the first day, but we are here. Still. Those remaining had entered three Highway’s to Hell……. and come out the other side.
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
AGAIN!
Let’s do this. Head down. One foot ahead of the other. Very few start off running. Lesson have been learned the hard way. Me included.
It is just over twelve kilometres to CP1 with plenty of soft sand, past the tiny village of Jdaid and finally up and over djebel El Abeth. I feel strong but have long since learned my lesson and remain conservative in my pacing. Since waking up this morning, I’ve already drunk close to five litres of water. My mouth is still bone dry and I know the temperatures are going to soar between now and the following two checkpoints. The next ten kilometres to CP2 include a long stretch of big dunes towards the end and I’m ecstatic to reach the checkpoint to the cheers of the marshals.
I haven’t studied the special Long Stage Road Book in a ton of detail intentionally. I had decided that the surprise of what is ahead is preferable to the fear of what is ahead. Within reason. I know there are six checkpoints in total and that the huge djebel is after CP5. I estimate an average of two hours between each of the first five checkpoints plus between fifteen minutes and an hour at each checkpoint to replenish, repair and rest. My estimates turn out to be pretty accurate. However, I have no idea whatsoever how long it will take to ascend and descend El Otfal. I recall looking at pictures of a row of runners pulling themselves up a twenty-five percent incline by rope. In the daylight. How this going to play out at night, after three brutal days and another sixty-two kilometres I have no idea. It could take one hour or four. Before long I will find out.
Somewhere beyond CP2, after six kilometres of big dunes, the summit and sandy descent of djebel Lahnoune, the elite men trot past. They started two hours after me.
Oh. My. F****** God. How is it even possible to run that fast? How is it possible after three days and a hundred kilometres in one of the most inhospitable environments in the world?
Not only do they understand the terrain, the heat and how to deal with it, they make it look effortless. It is a pleasure watching them, albeit short-lived as they rapidly disappear into the distance. One of the French elites, Mérile Robert, is in amongst the three leading Moroccans. Brothers Rachid and Mohammed El Morabity and Aziz Yachou making up the group of four who skip past me. Matthieu Blanchard, who was ranked third after three stages, had been with them but like so many had succumbed somewhere to sickness. Mérile tagged Rachid El Morabity for a good percentage of the race, but in the end the Moroccan dominance and experience was just too great, Rachid winning comfortably, Aziz and Mohammed fifteen minutes behind and Mérile an hour after Rachid.
I reach CP3 sometime around 4:00pm. Along with my full water allowance, I am handed a glow stick and given instructions to snap and shake in order to activate. I swap a few friendly words with the marshals and scan around the checkpoint. There are a lot of people here. Bodies lying or sitting, shielding from the afternoon sun. Many in Doc Trotters, mainly getting feet sorted. A few issues looked more serious. I find a space in one of the tents on the right and wrestle my pack off, my flag catching one of the tent ropes. Relieved to be in the shade, I slump down to the ground. My shoulders scream at me. Making even the tiniest movement suddenly becomes a gargantuan effort. I pull out my dried mango and chew on a couple of pieces, trying to keep my mouth moist for more than a few seconds at a time. I don’t much feel like eating but this needs to be my dinner break. It will be pitch black long before I reach the next checkpoint, so now is the time to eat.
First I need to deal with my feet. And other bits. I open my pack and pick out what I need. My lips are cracked and blistering and I smother on more Nivea sun block come lip balm. Thus far I have no chaffing whatsoever, but you can never use too much anti-chaffing cream and I squeeze some out from the tiny tube I had so diligently decanted some into several weeks previously.
At this point I hadn’t wee’d for several days, so it was something of a celebration to water the desert. I took the opportunity to smother on some bum cream too. Along with your feet, this is one part you really must look after in the desert! With a rehydrated wet wipe, I clean my hands and sanitise them with lemon verbena scented alcohol gel, courtesy of one of the tiny sachets from The Wolseley. Knew they’d come in handy. I rip off my gaiters and carefully pull off my shoes trying not to catch the blisters. As I pull off the sock on my right foot, I’m thrilled to see the tape all still in place with only the tiniest corners starting to peel up. I flick open the scissors from my trusty Swiss army knife and trim back the edges of the tape.
Although tired, up until this point I hadn’t felt completely exhausted in the way I feel at the end of a marathon or a shorter, fast race. Right at this point however, I am exhausted. It is as if a switch has been flicked and power is no longer flowing.
The tent where I’m resting was empty when I arrived, so I manage to stretch out my legs while cowering from the sun as it dips down towards the horizon. I also have a good line of sight back to the checkpoint so can spot other runners as they come through the marshal point. As I lie back, constantly shuffling my pack which I’m now using to lie back against, I spot Simon and shout out to him. He must have been going at some pace top have caught me up, having also started in the second wave with the elites. He looks great but has cramps and sickness still. It is such a great feeling to be with a tent mate, thirty-eight kilometres into the long stage and with the realisation that we are now well over halfway through the Marathon des Sables.
Simon and I swap notes and assess strategies for the remainder of the Long Stage. As he starts his recovery routine, we notice something hitherto unseen since leaving England.
A cloud.
Is this some kind of hallucination? A mirage in the sky? No. This is an actual cloud. A real cloud. For the next twenty minutes or so, we revel at our new found friend in the Saharan sky. Perhaps the weather is changing and the temperature will fall? The answer comes within a few minutes as our visitor completely vanishes, never to be seen again.
As I layer on more sun cream I’d pinched again from Simon, we spot Rob marching into the checkpoint. We scream out to him but he is across on the other side and disappears into another tent without hearing us. Neither Simon nor I can muster the strength to get up and go over to grab him. Nevertheless we will see each other before departing the checkpoint and it is reassuring and motivating to head back out, safe in the knowledge we are all still okay. We know Singapore Phil is planning on taking longer rest breaks at each checkpoint, so don’t expect to see him until the end.
Time for food. I empty the remaining warm water from my reserve flask down my legs, washing off the worst of the sand and accumulated grime. My sachet of Hammer Nutrition Perpeutem ultra endurance fuel mixed easily with the slightly cooler water from my new rations. Even in the heat, the chocolate flavour tastes quite pleasant and I’m relieved it is going down without me gagging. Though I don’t really feel hungry, I am finding it considerably easier to nibble a few macadamia nuts and dried mango than yesterday. As I sip my endurance shake, Simon rehydrates his sachet of Expedition Food and we settle down for our dinner in the desert.
Desperately needed calories duly replenished, we retrieve our headlamps and make other adjustments ahead of the rapidly approaching darkness. Thus far I had refrained from plugging in my music playlist, saving it for this very moment. I had set my MP3 player to start with the (now well rehearsed) MDS anthem. I doubted if anyone within earshot would mind my terrible rendition of AC/DC too much. Subsequent songs have been carefully curated from my Spotify running playlist and I am certain these tunes will give me the boost I need, when I need it most.
Simon is ready to head out and wants to get going while it is still light. I have already been resting at CP3 for over forty five minutes but all I want to do is sleep. I know that would be fatal and drag myself up. Headlamp on, I head out a hundred meters behind Simon, trying to keep him in my sights as he ploughs through the dune field at a real rate of knots. It gets dark very suddenly in the desert, without man made twilight and no moon tonight. I fiddle with my glow stick but can’t seem to activate it. MDS rules state you must have your headlamp turned on and glow stick activated and attached from 7:00pm. Other runners already have theirs glowing brightly from the rear of their packs while I still try to work out what I’m doing wrong.
The marshal instructed to ‘snap it, then shake it’ but it feels so rigid I worry that I’ll use so much force it will break in two! I pass a couple of British runners and clarify the instructions. Turns out I hadn’t misunderstood, I just needed to use brute force! My fellow Brit kindly hooks my now bright green stick to my pack and on I trot. It is soon pitch black except for a trail of glowing green and beams from headlamps bouncing around in the distance. I am well practiced running in the dark, having completed South Downs Way 100 earlier in the year. However I’d forgotten the constant barrage of flies, moths and unidentified flying insects which provide an unnecessary distraction. It takes me a few minutes to adjust and stop the futile exercise of attempting to swat them away.
It is thirteen kilometres to CP4, including five kilometres of dunes. According to my prior estimates, I should reach it somewhere around 8:00pm however that now feels wildly optimistic. I am moving well but have not accounted for the moving in the dark. Despite my top end headlamp, I’m catching the occasional rock and no longer ‘aggressive cornering’. The course is marked at approximately five hundred metres intervals with luminous pink paint on a pile of rocks or similar. Beyond CP3, glow sticks are used at similar intervals, in addition to the pink paint, along with the occasional strand of tape hanging of a bush.
I used to run with prescription sunglasses as I’m short sighted but gave that up years ago. My long distance vision in the dark is not the best, even less so without glasses. Fortunately I am not moving so fast that I take a wrong route and get lost. For the majority of time, someone else’s headlamp or glow stick is in sight. However the further along we get, the more frequently other runners disappear out of range. There is something magical about ploughing through the biggest dry desert on earth without another human in sight.
It is also slightly terrifying.
I am relieved each time I see the next glow stick, luminous marker or glimpse the tiny glow from another headlamp in the distance. At last it is starting to get cooler. Not cold, just cooler. Mid thirties cool. I ask myself if it will ever get cold. Having opted to dispense with my down jacket before the administrative checks and after ditching my first shirt, I have no other layers. Will it be cold at the top of djebel El Otfal? I need not have worried. Temperatures never dip below mid twenties, even several hundred meters up a mountain.
The occasional dune buggy or Land Rover pass by, these safety and medical teams affording enormous reassurance. Occasionally one of them parks up in the distance with full headlights on, dazzling like a lighthouse beacon guiding our paths. This is what I see, or at least I think I see on the approach to CP4.
My Garmin watch had been bang on for the First Stage, however I was concerned it would run out of juice, so on Stage Two I set it to ‘UltraTrac’ mode. This setting decreases the update rate of GPS data to once a minute, providing much longer battery life. Unfortunately it significantly under-records the true distance I am covering. [For example, Garmin recorded the 82.5km Long Stage as only 69km]. This meant during the race, I don’t have an accurate measure of distance or elevation to the next checkpoint. Hardly ideal and it is last time I ever try using UltraTrac. In the event, the battery would have lasted on the standard mode, even with GPS (the US Global Positioning System that is made up of 24 satellites) plus either GLONASS (the Russian satellite system) or GALILEO (European Union satellite system) switched on too.
I lock on to the glow of headlights in the distance, pretty certain it must be CP4 and start to move faster. Since leaving CP3 I have been passing other runners and come alongside a fellow participant. ‘Evening’, I say and power past. ‘Just what I need, a fast pacer’, comes the reply in a German accent. Roland and I march on together, keeping each other company. Turns out he is Austrian and the only person from Austria participating. Up until this point, I hadn’t run or walked with anyone else for a meaningful time. Not because I don’t like being with other runners, but rather because I needed to be selfish about my pace and didn’t want to adjust to someone else’s, either faster or slower. However right now, I was glad of Roland’s company – the time and kilometres passing quicker as we swapped notes.
We remain locked on to the headlights in the distance. This homing beacon must be a sure sign we are close to CP4, however we don’t seem to be getting closer. It is almost as if the car is slowly reversing. After a some time, this becomes quite demotivating. We’ve been staring at these lights, taunting us for over an hour, yet no idea if they are several kilometres or only a few hundred meters away.
We eventually approach CP4 and can hear music and flames rising from several fire pits. Runners are scattered left and right, some already fast asleep in tents on the left, others huddled round a the fire pits chatting, some in deckchairs tending their desert wounds and others walking around zombie-like. For most of those who decided to split the Long Stage into two days, this will be home for what is left of the night, planned or otherwise. Quite a party atmosphere is building but I must resist the temptation to stay too long – and anyway, there is no beer here 😂. It is already 9:30pm and I’ve been at it for over twelve hours. Fifty one kilometres done, thirty one and a mountain to go. Before I head back out, another blister needs some quick attention. It doesn’t hurt too much but ignoring it could be fatal. Knackered feet and gastrointestinal issues cause most withdrawals, not tired legs.
Right foot again but this time the top of my third toe. The Doc Trotters tent is littered with bodies but I manage to squeeze into a small space and wait my turn as the medics hastily repair one runner after another. I don’t recall the name of the Doc Trotter who treats me, but she has the same urgency and precision as Valentine, who dealt with my prior blister during Stage Three. ‘Bon. C’est ça. ‘Merci bien’ I mumble. The tiny injection of iodine directly into my blister stings like a scorpion’s tail. I put on a brave face.
The clock is ticking and I force myself back out, bearing 28˚ NNE through wadi Mbirika. I start to wonder what djebel El Otfal will be like. How high is it? Will it be sandy or just rocks? How will the route be marked? A sharp, steep ascent or flatter one? My attention rapidly reverts back to the job in hand as I exit the wadi and enter more small dunes. I treat myself to another Cliff Shot Blok, definitely a caffeine one. Excellent! Black Cherry again. There is a short section of trees followed by more small dunes, another wadi and several sections with lots of plants. I assume there is probably a pond or some water nearby but it is too dark to see. The thought of jumping fully clothed into water suddenly consumes my thoughts. The hotel we will be staying in at Ouarzazate has a pool.
I picture the scene. Coach full of weary Sand Brothers charging like a caravan of camels, through the hotel lobby, out the other side straight towards the pool. Seven day old running kit, shoes, packs, sand everywhere….other guests are all cheering. Arms raised, screaming like kids at the seaside, we dive-bomb in, mini-tsunamis soaking the nearby sun loungers and their occupants.
Mandatory kit items include both a headlamp and a spare battery. Rob had cautioned me to get a decent one, based on his experience of getting lost in the dark during his first MDS. He went round and round in circles, only spotting a tiny glow in the distance moments before he was going to hit his SOS. My Petzl Swift lamp cast a powerful 900 lumen beam as far as 150 metres into the distance on full power, both providing proximity vision, movement and distance vision. This helped enormously with my dismal night sight illuminating the distance and also my feet so I didn’t trip over rocks. However, I had set it to the highest lighting and brightness modes and the lamp started to flicker indicating the battery was running low. I know exactly where my spare battery is but it suddenly occurs to me that I will have to replace it in pitch black. Not the kind of darkness you get in London where it never gets pitch black. As simple as it sounds, I hadn’t practiced this and although not monumentally complex, it did require certain bits to line up correctly. Under normal circumstances this would be straightforward, however my brain isn’t quite at its sharpest and my co-ordination is on a par with someone who has been on the beer all night.
- Option one: don’t risk the battery dying, do it now! Only a few seconds without light, unclip one battery, plug in the spare.
- Option two: use some remaining juice from my iPhone (if it turns on) so I can see what I’m doing.
- Option three: wait for another runner to approach and swap batteries in their headlight.
I choose option three, rapidly locating my spare battery as a pair of runners approach, headlamp in hand and poised for the exchange like a Formula One team in the pit lane. Job done. I breathe a sigh of relief.
CP5 arrives surprisingly quickly, even though it is eleven kilometres away. The atmosphere is similar to CP4 with more runners trying to get some sleep, others making adjustments, repairs and necessary preparations before embarking on El Oftal, which looms immediately ahead of us. There are plenty of free tents and I pick an empty one. It is 11:45pm and still warm, probably low thirties. I struggle to unclip the sternum strap and sprinkle water over it to help loosen the clip. My arms are no longer doing what I ask, refusing to bend properly and it takes several agonising minutes to wriggle my pack off. I collapse into the tent, turn off my headlamp to preserve battery, roll onto my side, curling into a foetal-like position and shut my eyes.
Momentary bliss. What feels like ten seconds is closer to five minutes. My body just wants to sleep and I shut my eyes again. Drowsy catnapping repeats itself and each time I open my eyes, I am staring at the tea man opposite. Wait. Tea? I thought this was reserved only for the finish of each stage?
I had taken my full allocation of water and I shuffle up against my pack to drink. Outside my tent, a marshal is cautioning one of the participants to stop and rest before ascending the djebel, but he isn’t having it. I’m pretty sure it is one of the Irish lads I’d chatted with a few times. The marshal insists he sits down and rests a while, but he retorts that he has already rested and wants to get on. They go back and forth several times, not aggressively, and finally the marshal is persuaded that he is safe to go on, after a few checks. I appreciated seeing this, reassured that the marshals are really looking out for your wellbeing, as best they could.
I pull out my dried mango, stuff a few pieces in my mouth all at once and suck on them slowly, trying to wake up some saliva but to no avail. Even as I swirl my tongue around, my mouth is still bone dry so I sip some more water to help the mango down.
Time for tea. I use one of the wooden poles holding up the tent to haul myself up and stagger across to the unexpected surprise opposite. I take my tiny paper cup of deliciously sweet Moroccan tea and relish it down, thanking the tea man several times over.
Okay, strategy to blag another cup. I put my hands together, prayer-like and try in my best French:
‘S’il vous plaît Monsieur.’
He shakes his head and smiles.
‘S’il vous plaît, s’il vous plaît, s’il vous plaît. Une petite tasse Monsieur?’
Finally he gives in and half fills my tiny cup from his Aladdin lamp like teapot.
‘Merci Monsieur’
I smile back to him. The ritual of persuading him is as satisfying as the mouthful of tea.
I know I should press on to the djebel ascent, but am debating with myself whether I should get some sleep. It is a physical feeling rather than my brain telling me I’m exhausted. I go back into the tent and ponder my next move. There is more than djebel el Otfal standing between here and a much coveted Long Stage finish. Almost twenty kilometres, including the rocky bed of a wadi, some big and smaller dunes before the final checkpoint and finally some harder sand back to B4 (bivouac four). All in pitch black darkness. Everyone is fighting to finish. If you can get over this mountain…. finish this Long Stage….. surely you will complete the final Marathon Stage and collect a 35e MDS medal from Patrick Bauer.
Those who know me well are aware I have a huge fear of heights. Over the years, a sponsored bungee jump, abseil and skydive have done nothing to cure this. Even a tall building or high bridge induces sweats and churns my stomach. Still, climbing this mountain won’t be a problem – because it’s pitch black 😂 The start of the ascent is almost immediately beyond CP5 and is soft sand at a twenty-five percent incline with occasional rocks and boulders to help get traction or leverage. A dozen or so other runners are scattered up and down this part of the ascent, wheezing as much as me, heart rates through the roof. It is impossible to see how far up the summit is, but there is a trail of headlamps which at least give an indication of the next section.
It takes around forty minutes to reach the more rocky section where you start to scramble, with hands guiding you up and round or physically holding on. I give myself a satisfying smile in the knowledge my Salomon S/Lab Ultra 3 shoes have grip like glue on rock, even with a dusting of sand, and I navigate my way along confidently. I pass a marshal sat on an enormous rock the size of a small car, observing and encouraging us. As I greet and pass him, I peer over the edge. It is a long way down already and a fall from here would not end well.
We start to bunch up a little as the route options narrow to a single choice and guide ropes are required. The rope is attached to the rock with a series of bolts or cramming devices and carabiners. Although we are not physically clipped onto the rope with harnesses and the like, it is impossible to ascend several parts without physically hauling yourself up the rope. The surface underfoot alternates largely between big rock and deep soft sand over rock. I reach a part where I can rest for a minute, my heart is pounding and glutes burning. As my headlamp illuminates the surrounds, some parts appear incredibly dangerous and I cling to the rope like my life depends on it. It probably does. Every so often, someone ahead releases another section of the the rope and occasionally it slackens suddenly. I stay cautious not to lean back too far and am conscious not to suddenly release it for fear of someone behind me jolting backwards.
I cannot believe how warm it still is – eight hundred meters up at 1:30am. The summit! Another marshal is here and a few other runners are gathered. Even though there is not much to see in the dark, I pull out my phone, take a few snaps and record a quick video. I catch my breath and let my heart rate come back down, imagining what the view would be like in the daylight, and recalling images I’d seen during my pre-race research.
Even though the most technical descent is only a hundred meters or so, it is pretty treacherous. One false step and a broken ankle or worse could easily result. I resist the temptation to go fast, even though I now just want to get back to the bivouac as quickly as possible and sleep. After a while, the climbing becomes scrambling and then back to a technical hike along a rocky wadi, before turning back into a stony plateau and something I feel more comfortable slowly running.
The second you come off the djebel, it feels like home and dry, but of course it is a false dawn. There are around sixteen kilometres still to go, including another two kilometre dune field to traverse before the final checkpoint. The dune field soon appears and I’m making good progress, still passing other runners though ever more in need of my makeshift desert bed. It is another ten kilometres of big and small dunes before the lights of the final checkpoint come into sight.
I have already decided not to stop here, other than to refill water and take another Shot Blok. Bivouac four is six kilometres from CP5 and with a mix of soft and harder sand, I estimate between an hour and ninety minutes, heading NNW. The marshals at CP5 cheer me in and check I’m OK. I dispense with the extra bottle of water, which will save weight and make it easier to run this last section. I plug my music back in and power up the volume.
The theme tune to the London Marathon comes on. This year would have been my thirteenth and I am sad to miss it, especially having gained my first ever Good For Age entry. Still, it took place on the same day as Stage One of the Marathon des Sables so I was still taking part in spirit. I pretend I’m powering along the Embankment towards Westminster, crowds ten deep screaming me on. Having completed it a dozen times, I know the London Marathon course like the back of my hand. Every Cancer Research UK cheering point. Every landmark, phone boxes, post boxes. I visualise Big Ben ahead still covered in scaffolding. Push hard. Right turn into Parliament Square. Great George Street and onto Birdcage Walk. I can taste the finish. Eight hundred metres, four hundred metres. Buckingham Palace and swing right towards The Mall and finish line.
The last mile is always for my dad, who ran the first London Marathon in 1981 and again in 1982.
I set my MP3 to repeat and listen to the theme tune over and over again. Although the MDS course is marked, it is a miracle I don’t get lost somewhere along the way. Friends at Dulwich Runners AC know I’m geographically challenged and can get lost running to the end of my road, never mind leading a group on our Wednesday night club run. I didn’t know until finishing the MDS and chatting to UK&I organiser Steve Diederich, that we were effectively running within a ‘safety corridor’ a couple of hundred meters or so wide. The latest GPS SPOT tracker technology automatically alerts organisers if runners veer outside this corridor and they will send a Land Rover or dune buggy to give a gentle ‘nudge back in the right direction’. Or so Steve told me!
The lights of bivouac four come into view, patiently waiting for our weary, sun cooked, sand beaten bodies. It’s around 3:45am and I’ve been going for close to nineteen hours, covering eighty kilometres through the Sahara. The final couple of kilometres are dead flat and very runnable. I’m jogging but want to run faster. My legs aren’t having any of it. I forward my playlist to the main theme of Chariots of Fire by Vangelis. It is my all time favourite piece of running music and was the first film I ever saw in a cinema. Incredulously my legs respond. Crossing the line, I punch the air and scream with joy.
I’ve done it! The Long Stage.
This is very special. I stop my watch timer and triumphantly walk to the live cam and gesture my delight into the lens, completely unaware that family and friends have been sat up half the night dot watching.
The bivouac is eerily silent, only the occasional moan or sounds of someone vomiting or relieving themselves can be heard. I gulp my tiny cup of Moroccan tea, collect more water and traipse back to Tent 59. In a straight line, the distance from the water collection point to our tent was probably no more than a hundred metres. However, disoriented and with my geographical shortcomings, I start walking round in circles, unable to locate our little home. The bivouac is laid out in the shape of two crescents, one inside another. Our tent is always in the same place and they are numbered, yet I somehow seem unable to find it. I make every effort not to shine my headlamp at runners who have already returned and are trying to sleep. Eventually I find a tent along from ours and follow the numbers back.
Simon is sound asleep. After he caught me up and we took a break together at CP3, I saw him again somewhere just before CP4 after he took a pit stop. Despite continued gastrointestinal issues, he must have put his foot down or skipped taking breaks at the remaining checkpoints to have got back so soon. We later find out Simon finished 64th in 16:42:41 – another incredible result. It was a further two and a half hours before I joined him in Tent 59. The rug is folded in two as there are only four of us left so we don’t need all the space.
I rip off my gaiters, trying not to wake Simon and wrench my pounding feet from my shoes. The fuel tank is completely empty. I have zero energy. Teeth will have to wait until daylight for some toothpaste. I slither down into my sleeping bag and close my eyes.
Tomorrow is a rest day. Yippee Kai Yay.
Now the waiting game. Rob and Phil, come back safe Sand Brothers.
RACE TIME: 19hr:20min:51sec
CUMULATIVE: 40hr:18min:58sec
Notes
1. djebel El Otfal – a quick Google of the images in daylight will give you an idea!
Running All Over Cancer 