42.2Km, 12H00 CUT OFF
Eat. Sleep. Run. Repeat.
Our rest day served its purpose. Tail feathers plumped, bodies re-charged, energised, calorie boosted. Diarrhoea and vomiting appear to be at least under control. Doc Trotters have worked their magic, patching up our feet. Clothes smell fresh after a desert wash and sun dry cycle. As if that wasn’t enough, we have been mesmerised by a night at the Paris Opera, washed down with a can of ice cold Coke.
What’s not to like?
Best of all though, beyond the rest, we’ve looked after each other. Three remaining Sand Brothers, erasing our mutual pain and any remaining doubt, making each other laugh out loud with non-stop banter, lewd jokes and a forensic analysis of our Saharan adventures to date.
Just one and a bit more days to go.
The nights sleep had been better. Not only did we have oodles of space with just the three of us, but our nervousness and anxiety had been replaced with a sense of confidence. Cautious, but nonetheless confident. We had conquered the Long Stage. The finish line is now in sight.
Only a marathon
I had previously joked on social media and was how I’d described Stage Five to friends before travelling out.
Oh, and the final Charity fun run just for good measure.
The last official timed stage of the 35e Marathon des Sables finishes with a classic marathon, now the tradition at MDS. The Charity Stage tomorrow remains compulsory but is not taken into consideration for the overall ranking.
Only a marathon. In the Sahara. In these temperatures. After one hundred and eighty four kilometres. There is no only about this. Any marathon is hard, at least any I’ve run – which is quite a few.
Nevertheless I am determined to run more and run harder today. My 130th placing in the Long Stage propelled me to 155th overall, in-spite of my two hour time penalty for medical assistance and three litres of IV after Stage One. A wave of competitiveness is re-entering my refreshed body. Having seized one victory from the jaws of defeat, I now have my sights firmly set on a top 150 finish. Outwardly, I play this down and maintain that finishing alone is the primary goal. Which it still is. However inwardly my fire is burning, turbo-charged by the Saharan sun.
Ready to go again. Simon, Rob and I will carry the mantle for Tent 59.
The previous afternoon, a bivouac marshal brought news of our starting instructions. Simon, myself and one hundred and fifty-four others, including the elite runners, will start in the second wave at 8:30am, an hour and a half after the rest. We have the luxury of a morning lie-in, while Rob will be up early to leave in the first wave at 7:00am.
A final sand marathon stands between each of us and glory.
A brief glance at the Road Book confirms what we subconsciously know without looking. The Marathon Stage is going to be yet another brutal day. A few relatively straightforward kilometres to warm up, then BOOM. Up and down djebel Tourtit Bou Laadam and across a dune field before CP1; another dune field, followed by scattered small dunes, a sandy relief and wadi beds, through a sandy gorge then more dunes before CP2; another dune field at twenty-five kilometres, followed by scattered small dunes and sandy wadis; then a couple of kilometres of flat dirt roads to open up into a real run before CP3 at thirty-three kilometres; across another wadi, small dunes and camel grass before reaching the final djebel, Irhfelt n’Tissalt at around thirty-eight kilometres; around and over it and eventually back down, descending to a stony flat race to the finish.
There is no question about who is going to win the overall race. Rachid el Morabity has a fifteen minute lead over younger brother Mohamed. Rachid has led from the start and between them, the el Morabity’s have won every stage.
The next nearest competitor, Mérile Robert from France is a further hour behind Mohamed. Patrick Kennedy, the first Brit, is placed sixth some three and a half hours behind Rachid. That may sound a long way behind, but is truly an incredible run. For context, I am twenty-two hours behind. Nevertheless, unless you are an elite runner, MDS is not about the time you take to finish it. While I am determined to break the top 150, it isn’t really about your position either.
MDS is about the journey and about trying to overcome the challenge. No one asks you how long you took or in what position you finished.
Rob heads out for the start of the first wave, the sun already lit brightly, temperature rising rapidly into the mid thirties. Simon and I wish Rob well and start to ready ourselves. I have now jettisoned pretty well everything that is not mandatory and despite the bruising across both shoulders, my pack feels immeasurably lighter.
Happy days.
I smother on some more of Simon’s sun block and start to visualise crossing the finish line. Perhaps Patrick’s legendary hugs and kisses will be socially distanced because of COVID protocols. Socially distanced. WTF. Who isn’t sick to death of that term? For something which has dominated all our lives for well over a year, the ‘C’ word has barely been mentioned. Everyone here is vaccinated, PCR tested and relatively isolated from the rest of humanity. For these ten days in the Sahara, we have bigger things to worry about. The absence of any discussion about COVID is an incredibly welcome relief. As is the pause in digital contact with the outside world.
Tent 59 is dismantled for the penultimate time and Simon and I head to the start line. The atmosphere is once again electric. Somehow, from somewhere, after one hundred and eighty four kilometres of desert, the energy has returned. Psychologically, the Marathon Stage feels like it will be ‘less hard’. With the Long Stage out the way, we are on the home straight. Excited and full of confidence, but we have long since learned it only takes a moment with your guard down for the sand to eat you up and split you back out. Forget to take salt tablets, fatal. Go off too fast, you’ll to pay the price. Badly. Not like going off too fast in a normal road marathon (as more often than not I still do). For this marathon, the outcome really would not be good.
Reign it in Gower.
Patrick and the organisers seem determined that anyone who has reached this far will finish. In recognition of the unprecedented circumstances, he announces that checkpoint cut-offs will be removed for the Marathon Stage and extra water will again be provided. Three hundred and fifty-six participants made it to the end of the Long Stage. The first wave are long gone and the rest of us now have itchy feet. Sensing the eagerness to get going, Patrick keeps the speech uncharacteristically short. Angus Young’s instantly recognisable guitar riff blares out from the huge speakers, followed momentarily by Bon Scott belting out the legendary lyrics.
Highway to Hell 🎶🎸. Let’s do this.
Simon is still targeting a top 50 overall place, however starts the Marathon Stage conservatively. I keep him in sight for some time and as it turns out, I would finish only eight minutes behind him. It wasn’t to be his day, certainly compared to the earlier stages. The first few kilometres are a gentle warmup, flat and mainly small stones underfoot. But before we know it, we reach djebel Bou Laadam. It’s another sandy ascent, rapidly sapping my energy and curbing the enthusiasm. I can already sense the lactate building up in my glutes. Added to this, I recall from the Road Book that a dune field sits between us and CP1.
My memory does not disappoint, though thankfully the higher dunes only extend for a kilometre or so and CP1 comes into view as we summit the last big dune. By now my checkpoint routine is slick and I barely stop, other than to jettison one of the water bottles I’d collected, having necked a litre and poured the remainder over my head, arms and buffs. The brief stop, rehydration, shower and ever enthusiastic marshals, combine to revive me. Onwards.
CP2 is a fraction over ten kilometres away, nearly all soft sand and dunes including some monsters, so opportunities to pick up the pace are limited. Although I desperately want to run this stage hard, it just isn’t possible in the dunes. I manage to jog where the crusts on top of some dunes are harder and unbroken, skimming over the surface with the benefit of a considerably lighter pack. However every few metres the sand gives way completely, breaking my cadence. With the bit between my teeth, I manage to maintain focus and start to pass other runners, swapping a few friendly words and counting them off as I go.
The Marathon des Sables is a truly global event and attracts nationalities from across the world. Naturally a lot of French – in fact considerably more than from Morocco, but also a huge contingent of Brits. Of the circa 750 participants registered, no less than 36 countries are represented, despite the international travel challenges as a result of the pandemic:
- 254 France
- 239 UK
- 37 Belgian
- 27 Spain
- 21 Germany
- 21 Netherlands
- 20 Morocco
- 19 Switzerland
- 18 USA
- 16 Russia
- 15 Italy
- 14 Ireland
- 9 Portugal
- 5 Poland
- 4 Japan
- 3 China
- 2 Australia
- 2 Austria
- 2 Canada
- 2 Colombia
- 2 Denmark
- 2 Kazakhstan
- 2 Luxembourg
- 2 Malta
- 2 Norway
- 2 Sweden
- 1 Argentina
- 1 Belarus
- 1 Chad
- 1 Chile
- 1 Finland
- 1 Indonesia
- 1 Iran
- 1 New Zealand
- 1 South Africa
- 1 Taiwan
It helps that everyone has a bib front and back, not only with their first name, but also their country. Throughout the six stages, I chat with dozens of runners from across the globe, including several countries that are on my list to visit. With a race thrown in, naturally.
My most intriguing conversation takes place with a guy running in what I can only describe as flip-flops. (I am aware of two people who ran in flip-flops and one in bare feet). We run together across a flat, stony section and some soft sand. Goodness knows how he managed in the big dunes, though his shuffle action was incredible and he moved at quite a pace. As if running MDS in flip-flops wasn’t enough, he proceeds to regale his experience of climbing Everest in some detail. During his summit of the highest mountain in the world, seven people in his team died. He goes on to describe reaching a section where a body lay frozen beneath the ice they are climbing over.
I decide not to ask what he had on his feet for that particular adventure.
By the time CP2 comes into view, it is once again tortuously hot and the temptation to rest in the shade of the tents is immense. It is well known to ultra-runners that huge amounts of time can be consumed at checkpoints, often times unnecessarily. I had burnt several hours during the prior stages with repairs, refuelling and resting at checkpoints. However they ‘draw you in’ and a planned five minute pit-stop can rapidly extend into a fifteen minute break. During the Centurion South Downs Way 100 in June, my moving time was twenty-two hours, while my elapsed time – and thus time taken to complete the hundred miles was twenty-four hours and forty minutes. Almost two and three quarter hours spent in aid stations (or stopped somewhere else). Not particularly efficient.
I enter CP2, grab two bottles and exit immediately, water cascading off my head and down my arms where I’d doused myself. The dune field to CP3 seems to pass quickly, the psychological benefit knowing that I am over half way on the final timed stage, driving me forward. I start to visualise the finish again, only this time it really IS coming soon. Just thinking about it is making my heart race.
The prior evening, I took the sheet we’d been given with our start waves and drew a little picture along with a note. I plan to hold this up to the finish line web cam. Mass communication! My trusty Cancer Research UK flag is still flying high and I want to ensure this is clear in any finish line photos or videos. I start to wonder how I should cross the line. Do I punch the air? A little jump and leg clip perhaps? However I finish, it will be MY moment. My personal quest to challenge myself in a way that might truly be life-changing will have been fulfilled. Selfishly, I don’t want anyone else getting in on my pictures. I need to time my final run-in so that I’m clear of other runners. Anyway, I feel like I’ve earned the right to be just a little bit selfish about my special moment.
With CP3 in sight, I startle back to the here and now, as one foot drags and catches a small rock. Even this close to the finish, a serious injury could torpedo your race. That said, someone did finish a prior edition with a stress fracture and, if push came to shove, I’m confident I could limp-hop from here. But lets not tempt fate. My Stage One adventure was more than enough for one race.
This is it. Our final checkpoint. The marshals are bouncing like yo-yo’s, sharing in our exhilaration and pending glory. I still have some water left and when one marshal confirms there are just under ten kilometres to the finish, I decide only to top up my two soft flasks. Another salt tablet is washed down with a gulp of water, I squeeze out one of my remaining Shot Bloks and head out. Less than ten kilometres. How quickly can I run that? I perform non-stop calculations, breaking down the final stretch every conceivable way I can think of.
Two parkrun’s. Six laps of Dulwich Park. Home to Battersea Park. Albert Bridge to Tower Bridge.
When you run a lot, you get to know the distance and time taken to run between places. It is not long before I pass the ‘big tree’ referred to in the Road Book. I don’t bother to pull out my phone for a picture. My eagerness to get to the finish has taken control. There are however still some small dunes and djebel Irhfelt N’Tissalt to cross. The game is not over just yet. As we ascend the final djebel, the course loops round to the south.
Boom! There it is.
Bivouac Five and the finish line come into view. One final descent. A flat run in. Can’t be more than a kilometre. Two at most. I need to save my energy for a fast finish. I want to look good, to look strong crossing the line! As the descent flattens onto the final plateau, I reach for my little piece of paper, carefully folded up inside a zip-lock to stop it getting drenched. I pull hard on the chest straps, securing my pack even tighter to my back for the final race to the line. As I start to accelerate, I sneak a glance behind to see where the next runner is. I am well clear. Good. Plenty of photo time to myself. Ahead between me and the finish line are maybe five or ten runners. Most are well away, at least two hundred metres, but I am rapidly closing on several runners directly ahead of me. I pass the first one who is walking and shout ‘well done, almost there’. Suddenly, a few metres later, he comes back alongside me.
Seriously? Does he want to race to the finish line?
I recall he was from Germany. Franz or Marc maybe. I don’t wait to find out. For the entire race, the only person I have really been competing with was myself. Until now. Foot down flat, I break into what feels like a full on sprint (but is probably more like 5k pace). Still, pretty bloody fast after a desert marathon and an accumulated two hundred and twenty five kilometres across the Sahara. The human body is incredible. I am running close to flat out, with a pack on, in blistering heat. Without so much as a glance back, I know I’m clear. As I throttle back slightly, a rather smug look washes across my face. Well. It’s a race after all, I tell myself! I pass a couple of French guys running together and finally a British guy, George – all of us exchanging congratulatory words.
The path ahead to the finish is now clear and I push on hard, lengthening the gap behind me.
My eyes well up with tears, stinging with the heat and salt. I am thinking about my Dad and even if I’d wanted to, I can’t stop sobbing. In the distance I spot some tables laid out with medals, a couple of runners are receiving theirs from Patrick.
It is 3:35pm on Friday 8th October, 2001. I raise my arms up. Up towards the sun, which has so mercilessly roasted us all week.
Snatched from the jaws of defeat on Stage One, to the finish line and my personal victory.
The customary Patrick Bauer hugs and kisses are replaced with a handshake, though nonetheless special and heartfelt. He is genuinely thrilled for every finisher. Medals are laid out for runners to pick up, further reducing contact. COVID has to have a final say, but takes nothing away from the occasion. I pose with Patrick for pictures. Ian Corless is there and snaps another money shot for me. I proudly hold up the medal. My medal. I can hear my Cancer Research UK flag fluttering in the breeze. Ian expertly captures the moment and offers a celebratory fist bump.
I pull out my little paper message and walk towards the live cam, completely broken down in a stream of tears, and emotionally hold it up. Thank you.
Over two and a half years ago, I had taken all leave of my senses and signed up for the Marathon des Sables. I had created the opportunity for myself. Now, here I am. At the end.
I no longer feel like an imposter. I have finished what has generally become accepted as the hardest ever edition of ‘The Toughest Footrace on Earth’ – the Legendary Marathon des Sables.
My emotions are in overdrive. I try and take it all in, to stay in the moment. But it is overwhelming and becomes a blur. I don’t recall the order but I savour my sweet Moroccan tea like never before. In the shade of another gazebo, marshals cut off my GPS SPOT tracker. I collect some more bottles of water and a t-shirt for the Solidarity Stage tomorrow. The final, final stage. Even though it does not count, you have to complete it or risk disqualification. Voilà.
Back at Tent 59, Rob and Simon are waiting. Incredibly, Simon only finished a few minutes ahead of me, however right now neither our times nor positions are of any consequence. We celebrate our personal and our combined victories.
Oh for a beer!
Yet almost instantly, the finish becomes surprisingly unimportant. We are celebrating the journey.
OK, the destination is important. Of course it is. When it comes to challenging myself, I am as competitive as anyone, though invariably with myself.
The journey had been life-changing. At least for me. A physical, mental and emotional rollercoaster, with the most incredible highs and as many lows, in the depths and heat of hell. The laughter and the tears, the friendships, camaraderie. Solidarité. My purpose for doing this, a cause so close to my heart, the outpouring of love from those supporting and so generously sponsoring me. The immense challenge just to get to the start line. The heat. The sand. Even the bloody diarrhoea and vomiting.
We each had our own reasons, personal motivations for attempting this crazy. Our journeys may have differed, but our paths crossed. Whether we finished or not. In Tent 59, we became Sand Brothers.
RACE TIME: 06hr:53min:48sec
CUMULATIVE: 47hr:12min:46sec
Running All Over Cancer 