sahara

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 35^e 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 130^th placing in the Long Stage propelled me to 155^th 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 8^th 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

---

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 242^nd 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 35^e 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 64^th 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!

37.1Km, 11H00 CUT OFF

Analysis of Stage One made for uncomfortable reading and yet the fallout from the enormous dunes of Stage Two cast an even darker shadow. Forlorn hopes for a drop in temperature hadn’t materialised. The legion of participants succumbing to the brutal conditions was as unprecedented as it was sobering.

Grain by grain, the relentless sands of Erg Chebbi claimed another 90 participants. ‘Dunes Day’ has the second highest fallout of the entire race, with 13% of the 672 original starters withdrawing.

• 4 participants had withdrawn on leaving B1 (bivouac one)
• 29 withdrawals after arrival at B2, including our 3^rd tent mate
• 19 withdrawals at 2CP1 (Stage Two, checkpoint one)
• 38 withdrawals at 2CP2.

There will be more.

Early the previous evening, Craig had returned from Doc Trotters still feeling horrendous. Within a matter of minutes he vomited again several times in succession, gripped by a gruesome combination of heat and we presumed, some sort of bug which appeared to be ravaging the bivouac. Rich had a particularly rough night too with severe diarrhoea. Everyone has been popping Imodium or anti-sickness medication. Phil had also been unwell.

This is only Stage Three. We have yet to reach the half way point and the dreaded ‘Long Stage’ is still ahead of us. Three of our tent of eight are out. The rest of us are clinging on. 

Eat. You must eat Gower. Anything!

I nibble on a Cliff Bar, washing it down with luke warm water. Grains of sand crunch between my teeth, another sound of the Sahara. The bar contains 270 calories. I am burning at least 2000 on each of the first three liaison stages, probably 3000. I pour extra water into my Expedition Foods ‘Porridge with Strawberries’ so it resembles a smoothie. Somehow I force it down, gagging with every other mouthful. Another 800 calories. Yesterday’s dinner was limited to a protein shake. Dried mango, a handful of macadamia nuts, Twiglets and some Cliff Shot Bloks will need to see me through the next 37km to B3. That and cannibalising the scraps of fat left on my body.

Thankfully I am still consuming plenty of water, another litre and a half during the night. Going for a wee became something we celebrated – except I hadn’t wee’d for ages. Every part of my body was absorbing water as quickly as I could guzzle it down.

The Berbers dismantle our tent, exposing us to the already searing sun. Craig hasn’t made it to Stage Three and Rich is putting in a Herculean effort to get to the start line. We huddle to the side of a truck, clinging to shade until the last second. Our little home is packed up and ready to leapfrog ahead to B4. 

The mood on the start line was altogether despondent. Dejected. Solemn. The excitement of Stage One is a distant memory. Yesterday, Stage Two was somewhat deflated but still had grit and resilience. 

The night had been horrific. No one had much sleep, if any at all.

A one minute silence rapidly focuses everyone.

À NOTRE FRÈRE DES SABLES.

One of the remaining 550 or so participants is a Grammy Award winning composer and the traditional AC/DC anthem is replaced with one of his beautiful compositions. Highway to Hell would hardly have been a sensitive way to start the stage.

Tent mates of our fallen Sand Brother walk out the first hundred meters, everyone including the elite runners follow solemnly behind. It is a fitting way to begin.

Once again, there is one additional bottle of water at the checkpoints. Psychologically, I somehow feel if I can get through today and start the fabled long stage, I will somehow, somewhere find the energy, resilience, determination, endurance and grit to finish this monster.

I repeat yesterday’s game plan, starting out at a fast walking pace. Today’s stage is longer with 37km of inhospitable terrain to cover, including more big dunes. At least three or four kilometres off Erg Znaïgui, several sandy valleys, white hot and stony plateaus and wadi’s with uneven beaten earth.

Optimistically, I calculate the possibility of finishing within seven hours. Less dunes than yesterday. Five kilometres longer. Cumulative effects of heat and direct sun. Missing calories. Stomach cramps. I carry on like this trying to find more positives. Lighter pack. More acclimatised by now. I’ll be half way after this stage [actually in distance that isn’t until well into the long stage, but I pretend to myself it is].

I ease into a strong cadence, sipping from the extra water bottle I’m carrying, popping salt tablets repeatedly. I perfect a technique to cool my face – pouring water onto the buff wrapped round my wrist and stretching it over my hand; the water rapidly evaporates from the buff, drawing heat away and cooling it (at least that’s what I think is happening). I dab the chilled buff over my face, wiping grains of sand out of my eyes and cooling my sun-kissed cheeks.

The first checkpoint is just under eleven kilometres away, but not until we have dealt with Erg Znaïgui. The dunes are as big as yesterday and I re-enact the technique I’d fine tuned. It feels like déjà vu – endless mountains of sand as far as the eye can see. I ascend a particularly high dune and pause to catch my breath. A few other runners are sitting on the same ridge.

I try to appreciate the occasion, reminding myself that very few people will experience such breathtaking views, the enormity of our surrounds and the savagery with which they can consume you. Yesterday my phone refused to play. Even though it is already hot to touch, it miraculously turns on and I rapidly shoot some panoramas and a quick video. I ask a fellow runner, Hannah Mary, if she would take my picture. She has a British flag on her bib but replies with an American accent. We swap a few words and she obliges with a cracking picture, commenting on my CRUK flag. I will see Hannah Mary many more times along the stage and on subsequent days – and am thrilled to see her at the finish.

As I cascade back down the other side of the dune, a new debate starts in my head. Do I stop and rest at one or several checkpoints or just push through? My decision changes several times as I think of more pros and cons for each option. Random thoughts are journeying through my mind. I ponder how Kev, Aaron and Craig must be feeling. The lactic starts to burn my muscles as cumulative dune ascents eat away at already weary legs. One more ridge and CP1 suddenly comes into view. It is another twenty minutes before I reach it.

Water replenished, buffs, hat, shirt, arm sleeves and shorts dowsed until dripping. Game face back on. I leave CP1 and scoff a Cliff Shot Blok, allowing it to dissolve in my rehydrated mouth, with a couple more gulps of water. The small dunes beyond CP1 continued to sap away and it was a further four or five kilometres until a wadi on the other side, followed by a long open plateau where you could get better traction and pick up the pace. 

My pack had played havoc since the start, digging into my shoulders no matter how I adjusted it. I had brought along several sheets of thick latex foam, with self adhesive backing. The type rugby players used to create a block on their legs for line-out grip, I had cut it to a size that would cover right over my shoulder and down over my collarbone. I started with just one pad on each shoulder, but had now doubled up and had the thickness of two on each side. In addition I had several strips of kinesiology tape over each shoulder, to add a further layer of protection and prevent chaffing. Despite these measures and a pack that was less heavy to the tune of three days food, I could still feel it digging into my shoulders.

Intermittently I reach behind my back and hold the pack up with one hand, water bottle firmly clasped in the other. Then I switch and put a thumb under the strap at the front, releasing a bit of the weight for a few moments. I alternate until the pain subsides, then readjust the straps to fractionally shift the weight until a new spot on my shoulders starts to scream at me. Other than this, my Ultimate Direction Fastpack 20 is absolute brilliant. Light, robust, pockets where you want them, strong zips, doesn’t bounce when you run. Even after training with the pack fully weighted, I wasn’t prepared for just how much it dug into my bony shoulders. The pain was excruciating at times, not rubbing or chaffing but bruising 

This was going to be a long day. I am yet to reach CP2 and had already started to recalculate my earlier estimates of a seven hour finish. The plateau and wadi’s leading to CP2 seem to drag on forever, the temperature gradually rising as the midday sun continues to cook us. I am entering another low spot. Maybe I should have rested a bit at CP1. No, then it would be even hotter now. Is that possible? Just how hot can’t it get. When I eventually review my Garmin after the race, it tells me the temperature was 41degC. In the shade. Except there is no shade. The water bottle I am carrying is now empty and I am rapidly drinking through my two chest flasks.

As CP2 comes into view, I realise I have a new issue to deal with. Thus far, both feet have held up remarkably well. In fact they have been outstanding. The time I took practicing taping toes, testing differing tapes (Hyperfix and Hapla Band), time spent decanting Benzoin Tincture into a tiny recycled hotel pillow-spray bottle, time to get the Velcro for my gaiters professionally glued and stitched on by Kevin Bradley at Alex Shoe Repairs…. all time well spent. Nevertheless I could now feel a blister. Or something equally painful under one of my right foot middle toes. I recall advice from James Cracknell, who completed the MDS in 2010 finishing first Brit and twelfth overall. Something along the lines of fixing any issues there and then, not letting them fester or get worse.

Shading from the sun in one of the tents at CP2, I carefully pull the gaiter off my right shoe, the male and female Velcro hooks ripping themselves apart. I am relieved to find only a tiny amount of sand in my shoe and doubly relieved it hadn’t penetrated my trusty Drymax sock. As I peel it off, the tension mounts. Blister or something worse? A small blister under my fourth toe. I had taped my big toe and the next two, which had always worked – including during South Downs Way 100. But this was the Sahara. Bugger. I swing across into the Doc Trotters tent opposite. Valentine, one of the medics is smiling as I lie on my back, foot up on a stool. I wonder how many trotters Valentine has treated since the start of the race. She cleans and disinfects my toes, unwraps a miniature scalpel blade from its packaging, drains the culprit and injects a squirt of iodine. I wince momentarily as the sting bites, then smile as if to say pain is good. Valentine speaks good English and asks is it OK? I reply

‘bon, c’est ça’

– an overused phrase William and I constantly say to each other at home. Good, that’s it! Valentine checks the blister is fully drained, then tapes my toe with the speed and precision of a Formula One driver through a chicane. 

The short but pleasurable time stretched out on my back, shaded from the sun is a welcome relief. I appreciated the foot repair even more. Nothing is worse than knowing you have a blister while running, in the sure knowledge that it is gradually getting worse. Valentine had clearly perfected her technique on many trotters and within a few hundred metres I couldn’t feel a thing. Naughty blister became a distant memory. I refill my water flasks, gulp the rest of my first bottle and a third of the second one. The rest goes over my head and clothing as usual. I take one swig from the final bottle to wash down a couple of salt tablets and head out towards CP3. It’s only nine kilometres with no dunes or soft sand to contend with. Happy days!

I manage a few macadamia nuts and start snacking chunks of dried mango. Calories. Any calories. I allow the nuts and mango to stick in my teeth, savouring the flavours a little longer. My stomach cramps have taken a hiatus. Relief. I reach into a front pouch and pull out a pack of Shot Bloks, squeezing one out. Tropical Punch with caffeine for an extra boost. Result. Even though the blister treatment took less than five minutes, the brief rest and recovery restores some bounce back into my lead-laden pegs. The bounce is short lived.

As I pass the village of Taouz with its mud buildings, more children approach looking for anything runners are offering up. I have nothing to spare, but smile and say hello. Further along, I cross a huge dried river bed, white in colour reflecting the heat back up. It feels like I am wedged in a combination oven and grill, heated from above and simultaneously grilled from below. Fearing the soles of my shoes might start to melt, I move across it faster, constantly throwing water over myself. [This was the hottest point I recall throughout the entire event, I’d estimate north of 65˚C. I really wanted to take a picture, but when I prised my iPhone out of my pack, it was as hot as an iron and not even close to working. The below picture I grabbed from MDS social media is what it looked like.]

Wary that I would need to stay disciplined and not let a five minute rest stretch to an hour, I start to plan a strategy for the Long Stage checkpoints tomorrow. Patrick’s mischievous plan to throw in some surprises for the 35^e MDS Edition means we haven’t yet seen the Long Stage map. However we know it is broadly a double marathon and, that at some point we have to summit djebel El Otfal – more on this later.

Tomorrow I will find myself resting, eating, repairing and even sleeping at several checkpoints, without once looking at my watch.

As CP3 approaches, I briefly doff my Sahara cap and pour the remaining water over my head and neck. Zup zup at the ready, over the timing mats and into the funnel where one marshal ticks off my water rations, another records my number and a third writes my number on the water bottles, caps and hands them to me.

Ça va? You OK? How you feeling? All is good?

The marshal’s are always friendly and encouraging, while equally efficient and disciplined. The many rules may seem harsh, but are executed with empathy. I notice a runner who has clearly decided to withdraw. In the Doc Trotters tent there are IV drips hanging down like decorations on a Christmas tree. A row of people are on their backs, legs up, medics tending to their Sahara battered feet. 

The ONLY thing I care about right now is how far. CP3 is approximately the same distance from the start as completing the whole of Stage One or Stage Two. My legs are acutely aware of this. So are my shoulders. ‘Just over five kilometres’ replies a water marshal. ‘Short kilometres’ he adds. ‘Flat’.

Thank F*** for that,

I say out loud punching the air in celebration as if I’d actually finished. OK Gower – parkrun. Three laps of Dulwich Park. I decide to dispense with the extra water. One and a half litres will see me to the end. Enthusiasm gets the better of me and I break into a slow run. It is short-lived and I revert back to a power walk. More wadi’s, more stony plateaus. I am determined to run and power up with more dried mango and another Shot Blok. Black Cherry. 😋

I run the last couple of kilometres giving myself an extra sense of achievement. No one else I see after CP3 is running. The elites and top fifty or so have long since finished. I walk to the live cam and hold up three fingers. Still here. Just.

The sweet tea tastes sublime. I repeat yesterday’s attempt to blag a second cup but Mr Tea Man isn’t falling for my puppy-eyed pleas and sends me on my way. I’ll try again tomorrow. Loaded up with my overnight water, I drag my feet back to Tent 59. 

Simon is first back once again in under six hours. Although slower than his first two liaison stages, he finishes an incredible 57^th – just two and a half hours after the leaders and is now placed 41^st after three stages. This comes after a dose of Montezuma’s revenge yesterday and running plugged up with Imodium. There are positives and negatives to finishing first in your tent. A faster finish equates to more recovery time and the tent to yourself. However the unwritten rule also affords you the unenviable task of removing the rocks and stones from under the rug.

Having run a hundred kilometres in sixty plus degrees over the past three days, possibly not the most sought after task. Simon once again does a sterling job and my back is especially grateful as I collapse into the tent, spread eagled and managing little more than grunts for the next fifteen minutes. 

I come in an hour after Simon, finishing 146^th and climbing a further 92 places – up from 334^th after Stage Two to 242^nd. Rob arrives a further hour later, still jovial but crumbles to the floor. Tension is rising as time passes with no sign of Rich or Phil. They are both hard as nails and we are certain their legs won’t fail them. Only GI issues can possibly torpedo these guys. 

Our daily post is a welcome distraction and massive pick-me-up. On day one I’d already received nine messages. By day two, this has grown to twenty and three sheets font ten A4. Today I count forty-seven messages, five sheets of A4 from friends and family across seven countries to smile, laugh and cry over. Race reports from friends who ran the London Marathon, more desert jokes, astonishment that I am still going after my day one challenges and IV, dozens of motivational messages, inspiring quotes, some brilliant sarcasm, an in-depth analysis of the latest race standings and several beautiful poems. Once again I am deeply moved by the outpouring of love and the knowledge that people took time to message me and many are dot watching or glued to the live cam. 

There is an unintended but highly beneficial side-effect. We are rapidly running out of bum wipes…. Everyone in our tent except I think Rob, has succumbed to at least one bout of diarrhoea, vomiting or both. The extra paper may soon need to serve another purpose 😬💩🙈

The cut-off time for Stage Three is eleven hours. Phil mentioned he planned on taking breaks at the CP’s and with only nine hours gone, he still has plenty of time. The peak of the heat had now passed. We are suddenly surprised as Anna comes into our tent, her expression telling all as she hugs Simon in tears. I am shocked that the Sahara has claimed such a strong and experienced runner. Anna was 2^nd women after both Stage One and Two, but the extent of GI sickness made it impossible to continue. My mind goes back to one of the speakers at the virtual MDS Expo in January: ‘Feet, dehydration, Gastrointestinal issues….’

Neither Aaron, Kev or Craig withdrew because their legs gave up or from monster blisters. We later find out that Rich has fallen victim to the D&V which is wiping out swathes of participants.

It is almost 6:00pm. Simon, Rob and I are busy managing our recovery and prepping for the Long Stage. Every so often, another participant passes our tent.

Yeeeeeeeeeesss. Singapore Phil. Get in there!

We simultaneously burst into applause and cheer Phil into our tent. Proper gutsy effort, almost ten hours since we set off.

I still can’t get anything solid down and only manage another chocolate protein shake. The banana one I had yesterday was disgusting although at least it stayed down. Just. I focus on two things ahead of tomorrow’s monster. Getting calories into me and ditching any remaining kit that is inedible or not mandatory. I offer out my Spaghetti Carbonara; as desperate as I am to eat, the risk of vomiting any remaining nutrients and calories still inside me outweigh the likelihood of success. 

My first pair of socks is ready to be burned as is my top, however rules state you must hand them in to a bivouac marshal and only in the evening! I walk across to one of the administration tents and offer up my discarded clothes, adding to the growing pile of new and used items. They will all be gratefully received by the Berbers. My tiny tube of Super Glue goes. Seven grams. A few meters of Kevlar paracord. Five grams. Ear plugs. Two grams. I continued looking for packaging and anything else that can be jettisoned, within the rules.

I want to feel clean, at least in relative terms, before the Long Stage. The difference a fresh pair of socks, running shirt and a rehydrated wet wipe can make, is incalculable. I soak one of my ‘Pits and Bits’ towels – dehydrated face cloths the size of a couple of penny coins and weighing two grams. Face my first, then feet, arms, legs. I keep it to one side in the knowledge it may be needed again for something less pleasant.

Rich arrives back at the tent, his news disheartening. He has been in Doc Trotters for the last several hours on drip after drip. Like Anna, he was forced to withdraw at 3CP1 following even more severe GI sickness, necessitating numerous IV’s. Rich had completed MDS before and we are beyond gutted that sickness has forced him to stop. 

Four of our tent are now out. Four of us remain.

The Road Book for tomorrow’s hitherto mystery Long Stage had been issued earlier. I flick it open and scan the pages. Eighty-two point five kilometres. Six checkpoints. Immediately beyond CP5 awaits djebel El Otfal. We will be climbing a mountain. At night.

RACE TIME: 06hr:55min:12sec
CUMULATIVE: 20hr:58min:07sec

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