Marathon des Sables 1999
Introduction
The Marathon Des Sables has been described as “the hardest foot race in the world” and it certainly vies for that honour. The race distance is 250 kilometres across sand, stones, dried river beds, canyons, large plains and sand dunes. It is divided in to six stages over seven days. Competitors are required to carry all their own food, sleeping material, clothes and cooking equipment for the week as well as safety flares. Each runner is provided with water for the day which is handed out, in 1½ litre bottles, at water points about 10-12 kilometres apart. The temperature rises to 54 degrees centigrade and falls to 7 degrees at night.
Getting there
The door closed to the house and the suitcase rollers clattered along the pavement as I struggled to the car with the case and rucksack. A cool breeze danced over me as I turned the corner, passed the apartment and I reflected on how long it would be before I felt that again. This was the culmination of a year’s effort where the English team had been brought together over the internet, chatting via a newsgroup and meeting for events and training runs geared to this race. On checking in at the airport I met a group of faces, some familiar, some strange, but all with that expectant look and a running rucksack over the shoulder which was our particular form of identification. We boarded the plane and waited three hours to take off. As unofficial co-ordinator of this band I spent the time introducing people to each other and hearing comments of “Oh yes you’re the guy who does so and so” and leaving them to it. In the weeks leading up to the flight we had heard that TV companies and national newspapers would be involved with the race and now on the plane they appeared with their cameras and reporters scrap books interviewing and studying us as we chatted amongst ourselves. They would follow us for the remainder of the race.
I was not feeling bright as I had caught a virus, which stayed with me throughout the race and followed me home. I was not going to do as well as expected. Fortunately it wasn’t catching. The Atlas Mountains came into view and the green seaward plains of Morocco changed abruptly to the Salmon red sands of the Sahara in the afternoon sun.
We landed and went immediately to our hotel. The hotel architecture was Moroccan, very comfortable and gave us our first sample of North African lifestyle. An evening walk around cosmopolitan, sophisticated Ouazzazate could not hide the alien environment to the Americans and Europeans. We were in for a shock.
Morning broke and we were in our coaches and away by 9am. We travelled across arid stony plains and mountainous ravines as we travelled 5 hours to Jebel Irhs, which was our base camp. We were unceremoniously dumped in the middle of nowhere and we piled with our suitcases and kitbags into the back of two open backed lorries, which transported us for a mile to the camp site. We piled out of the lorries “frantically” bagging our tents and getting our groups together.
Here for the next two days our kit and doctors’ certificates were inspected and we prepared ourselves for the race and acclimatised ourselves to the hostile environment.
Each Berber tent slept nine. It was of the most efficient construction – black sacking sewed together, with the back and front open to the sky and held up with a lattice of sticks in the centre. The floor was covered with Berber carpets and this remained our home for the next week.
Our tent was no 44 out of 70 and consisted of myself, George, Julie, Paul, and Rob; Dick, Tony, and Andy who had all rowed for Cambridge in the boat race. Andy was also a surgeon, which we would need later…
At the start we were given a road book which detailed our route for each of the six stages. It identified compass bearings, distance, types of terrain, waterpoints and bivouac sites. This became our bible for the duration of the race.
We secretly reclaimed the land about us for the English realm. It was about time we rebuilt the Empire! We were sure that the Moroccans wouldn’t mind and that they wouldn’t even miss it. We would pay the Moroccans the going rate and were certain that they would be relieved to get it off their hands. There was nothing out there and I pondered on what it would be like if I was out here alone and not with 800 demented athletes and crew.
In the afternoon we stood for an hour in the sweltering heat before we had our equipment checked and medical certificates ratified. The top limit was 15 kilograms. Some runners exceeded this limit and received time penalties. Mine was just under the limit. I handed over my suitcase, which was returned to the hotel lock-up with everyone else’s. I returned to the tent. Rob enquired ” How much are you carrying?” “Just under 15 kilograms ” I replied. “You’ll bury yourself out there” and with sadistic glee he axed my weight to 10 kilograms, while I watched, aghast. Out went the chocolate fudge cake (save one) and medication. I felt naked without my creature comforts.
Evening came. We had speeches and were treated to French cuisine again – the last time for a week. The French really can cook. They mix and blend flavours in a way that even the dullest palate appreciates. There is a subtlety and texture quite different from British food. We ate in one of the marquee tents. The others left to get some sleep and I was the last to leave. I was told later that there was a scorpion clinging to one of the struts above us. Now that would have ruined the meal!
Stage 1
The morning broke at 6am and the Berbers tore down our tents with us in them. We stood for an English team photo and in a burst of patriotism sang the hymn Jerusalem”. Most of us sung this at a murmur knowing only the chorus, but a welling up of national pride and a overwhelming feeling of relief that we had actually arrived at the start, made it seem appropriate.
The 18 TV companies were out in force and a helicopter buzzed overhead and swirled around us getting better views as we thronged around the start gate. Patrick Bauer, the race organiser, gave a short speech, which he was to do every morning. We all shook hands with each other and posed for group photos with mixed expressions of excitement, fear and pleasure. We counted down from ten to one, which, by the end of the week was the one bit of French we mastered.
The gun went at 9.30am and we shouted as we crossed the line. The temperature was soaring as we ran across the dried stony plain to the far outcrop, which we had been looking at from our campsite for the last two days. A short climb over a minor jebel gave us a view of another flat sandy plain and pale grey mountains beyond. The road book told us that cradled at the base of the far range was our first water point. The plain was full of dunettes about six foot high and we wound our way through them looking at the terrain. I was sweating profusely and the perspiration was running down my brow and checks and cooling me with its passage across my face. By 10.30 this relief stopped as the perspiration now immediately evaporated and I felt dry again. An old well was at the side of our route, the walls of the shaft were formed of stone but it looked forgotten and forlorn in this empty place. A Berber crossed our path apparently walking to certain death, as there was no habitation in his direction for 15 miles – and we could see 15 miles. He took no notice of 590 brightly coloured runners running in Indian file across his land. His sun burnished face and strong yet thin features showed a strength and compatibility with the landscape whilst we were realising we were hopelessly unprepared.
After two hours of running/walking we saw our first water point. A collection of Landrovers and two Berber tents were nestled beneath a backdrop of mountains. Approaching the vehicles we had a choice of three collection funnels, each with a number above it. After selecting the appropriate funnel, we waited while our running number was written on both the bottle and its cap. We were checked in and one of the French angels (as they became to be known), stamped our card and wished us “bon chance” or “weal dun” before we staggered over to the tent. Julie was with me, an auburn haired lady who all grew to love, admire and respect. She remarked on the first day “I think I’ve hurt my foot”: she had in fact broken it prior to leaving the UK and despite the intense pain she must have felt, proceeded to complete the race.
We were met by Kathy and Robin from the Sunday Times at the first check point and their obvious concern and questions like “how was it?” conveyed that we weren’t the only people to feel pole-axed by the heat on the first day. We set off across the sandy dunes for the second checkpoint and trudged for a further two hours. On one section we walked through a valley of dunettes and the heat vibrated against my skull and I became light-headed. I had never experienced heat like this.
The second water point was set beneath an outcrop of rock that would have looked familiar in Monument canyon as a backdrop to a John Ford movie. We repeated our bottle routine and watched runners being chased by spirals of sand, which pirouetted and danced behind them up the dunettes. We adjusted our packs and strode on to the bivouac site.
You can see a long way in the Sahara. Shortly after leaving the second point we could see the bivouac site through binoculars. It took another 2½ hours to get there – whilst the heat kept on rising. By three in the afternoon, the heat was at its worst and it became a real struggle to get to the bivouac area. Occasionally a photographer would run to one side to get a shot of our silhouette. At times we felt despair, irritation and anguish as the finish came tantalisingly into view only to disappear behind another dune, to reappear no nearer than before.
We arrived at the finish to be given 4½ litres of water and a can of coke, which was just about impossible to carry. We walked the final 200 yards to our tent and collapsed on the carpet. They had to be joking! We’d never finish this!
The first day turned out to be the hottest and hardest in the race’s history – with temperatures in excess of 50 degrees. That made us feel better!
The funny thing about being in a tent with nine other people, is that very soon personal barriers disappear as everyone combines together to defeat the alien environment. Conversations become reduced to an in-depth analysis of snoring and other noises from other parts of the body which erupt, normally at night, amid guffaws and comments about bubble and squeak.
Here were 102 British runners, all with different snoring abilities, ranging from the whimper to the Hoover – where the sacking of the tent is sucked down to the faces of the inhabitants and the sticks bend with the strain that the vacuum is creating. These sticks suddenly spring back in the opposite direction and the tent takes on a spinnaker like appearance as the snorer’s lungs, now filled to bursting, exhale with a force akin to Hurricane Cleo. This is repeated all night and the innocents awake bleary eyed and irritable whilst the snorer awakes refreshed and vibrant.
The desert around the campsite was a mixture of sand and stone, with low scrub behind which runners would perform their toilet spurred on by the knowledge that just behind them was the eye-shaped hole of a scorpion’s den. This acted as a laxative for most people quite apart from the unfamiliarity of these now communal habits. Despite the adjustment to one’s daily routine that had been carefully arranged over decades of living in a civilised society, things went remarkably well.
So why do this? Is it a need for the Rambo image of “I ran in the world’s hardest race and finished?!” “Look at me I’m a toughie?!” Why? And more importantly why do it again? For me, achievements in these events form the catalyst for radical change in business. “If I can do this why can’t I do that?” They are tremendous confidence boosters. I think one needs frequent radical change and challenges. Real ones, scary ones. Ones that take a year or two to complete!
Its impossible to describe the beauty of the desert both by day and by night. By day the heat, the vastness of the landscape is stunning. Ours is a small-screen society and most are not able to grasp the magnitude of the landscape where plains are the size of English counties and sand dunes rise up to 3000ft. We were well protected, with water being dispensed every 12 kilometres. But what if we weren’t? We saw two wells in a week and the water, if consumed, would have produced pains and cramps in our refined intestines.
The desert is a place that sucks the life out of everything and yet remains clean and whole. Runners footprints just four metres in front would disappear in 20 seconds leaving no trace as to the make of shoe he wore . In a week the indentation would be gone.
The Sahara by night is magical. I had never seen the Milky Way before. Living in London the night sky is a dull orange changing to indigo as it must be in most cities. But the Sahara is pure and the blackness of the sky allows millions of stars to shine, lighting up the night with a dull silver glow reflected off the sand. The evenings get colder as they progress, going down to almost freezing by about 3-4am. The night sky, the atmosphere and the camaraderie create a heady mix that quickly makes one forget about home and life in the UK.
Our evening was spent looking at Miles. Miles was a blind runner attempting to complete the race, whom we had first met in Norfolk, and whose witty comments “that was so easy I did it with my eyes shut!” endeared him to everyone. Miles was in a bad way. He had fallen in a rocky area, damaging his knee; his feet already suffering from blisters. This was interesting to everyone else as at the end of the first day, we had very few blisters. We’d soon catch up.
Paul wanted to improve on his performance last year and get into the top twenty. Unfortunately he sprained his ankle on the rocks and had to be content with walking the rest of the course. This was a blow to the tent members as we realised that all the training and preparation which we had carried out could easily be for nothing.
Stage 2
We awoke, as we did each morning, to the sound of our tentmates shouting “Hallooo!” followed by an Italian imitating a cockerel on the other side of the enclosure. Why do Italians have such a poor sense of humour? No sooner has one started crowing when a whole host of others joined in. The campsite started to sound like Old Macdonald’s Farm as Italians and Spaniards crowed and brayed at the sunrise whilst the rest of us longed for a couple of shot guns to put them out of their misery. The Berber guides collapsed the tents on us once again (to their great amusement) and the carpets were pulled away from us as we prepared for the day. They had no sympathy but looked at us as if we were inmates from a mental institution on an excursion.
The overnight positions had left me 530 out of 597 and I realised I had to put in a harder effort to go up the field. The gun went at 9.30 and we started Stage Two – 32½ kilometres. After four kilometres we came to a 1,000 foot rise, a valley, another rise and we tentatively dropped down amongst the rocks and the sand to the floor of the following plain, arriving at the water point. I ran and strode on down the valley as fast as I could go concentrating on catching the man in front and then the next and so on. A further eight kilometres saw the second water point and without stopping I continued, happy that I was overtaking people further up the rankings. Another two hours and I came to the last water point on a dried river area and I was conscious that my feet were stinging. I continued on the final 8 kilometres with Steve North, a fireman whose soles had been taken away with sand and blisters. We completed satisfied with the second day and later, in the tent, the price became apparent . Nine blisters appeared on my feet and I stumbled over to the infamous Doc Trotter’s tent to get some relief.
Doc Trotter’s organisation is “manned” with angels who have a wonderful bedside manner as they remove layers of flesh from your body. I felt I was being skinned alive. The scalpel dug in and the pain travelled up my nervous system like a laser burning little holes in my brain. Having opened the wound several layers deep, iodine was liberally applied. I hadn’t experienced iodine or it’s sting before, having only read about in boyhood comics and Rider Haggard novels. The pain of iodine rattles your teeth and makes them tingle for the next hour or so. I emerged from the tent feeling weak and unable to continue and I would feel like that for the rest of the race, as did most other competitors.
Stage 3
At 37 kilometres this was supposed to be the dune day but hearing that we would travel through the erg Chebbi area it meant that this was our last easy stage. The race was just beginning to take its toll. Runners needed sticks to help them walk and the humour started to fade as each person’s world centred around everything below their ankles.
It was decided that Doc Trotter’s female physicians were an elaborate plot against the runners. Attractive women in safari jackets and with names that only a Hollywood scriptwriter would use – Claudine, Margali and VaVa didn’t just happen, it was fixed! Delirium about food set in – ranging from the succulent taste of a Macdonald’s beefburger to elaborate menus at the Savoy Grill in London.
The only thing we now knew was that Stages 4 and 5 accounted for 75 miles, or 116 kilometres, and that once these two stages were complete we could celebrate as the last 10 kilometres was a “done deal”. No one was going to stop us if we got that far. The night set in and the Berber fires in the centre of the compound licked and leaped upwards at the millions of stars above us. From outside the compound the encampment looked very inviting and the chatter and banter showed that though everyone was in considerable pain, their spirits were high. A few runners had dropped out by this time: an American unfortunately was taken ill with the heat on Stage one and the first British casualty dropped out on this stage when Marco Crispini had to retire with a broken foot.
We all lay down on our cardboard liners and snuggled into our sleeping bags and went to bed with a feeling of expectancy for the following day.
Stage 4
We awoke at six and watched the sun rise in the usual ten minutes. The sun sets at about the same speed which is strange for most of us from further north who are used to the long balmy twilight evenings of May and June. We had had a visitor in the night. A scorpion had crept into the tent and Rob had unknowingly placed his board over it and slept on it all night. The creature was flattened and Rob walked around the compound with a Sylvester Stallone sneer on his face and would only answer to Rambo. As I said delirium had now set in.
We approached the start with the other runners and as usual listened to instructions from the organisers. But today was very different and it would test the training we had carried out in February back in the UK. The race hinges on this one stage and a runner can rise up to 100 places in the rankings if he can complete this stage in one day instead of the two allowed for by the organisers. This means that one has two nights and a whole day off before attempting the marathon section that follows.
This is achieved as other runners elect to stay out and sleep, meanwhile the clock is still ticking until you cross the line.
We counted down from 10 to 1 and set off across the wide open plain with mountain ranges on either side. Over dried rivers and sandy dunettes we ran and stumbled. Before long the perspiration was running in sheets down our faces. It was obviously not 10 am yet. Soon we became dry and the mountain ranges were diverging on either side, their dramatic shapes formed by millions of years of wind and a pint of water, or so it seemed. Some of the silhouettes of the cliffs looked scalpel sharp and one felt that merely brushing them you would leave little bits of skin clinging to the rocks.
The plain turned into dune regions and we were again struggling up over and down dunes with the texture of caster sugar. The dune would start on a gradual slope of 30 degrees. The surface would be crusty and if one moved across it quickly one’s weight would not penetrate this layer. However this gradient increased, through 45 to 60 degrees and the crust disappeared leaving one to struggle up a surface that gave way on touch and forced one back down the dune. There was a sensation of travelling up a down escalator as effort was doubled and redoubled to get to the top. About 90% up the slope, when the lungs were heaving and one was about to give in, the gradient flattened and the summit was reached. Here, we were afforded the view of our comrades ahead who were already battling the next dune, and the others behind who had yet to enjoy this recent experience. The descent was relaxing and almost soporific as our feet disappeared into the soft sand, and one descended as if the dune was made of the deepest carpet pile. Unfortunately we later found that this was where the most damage was done to our feet. On reaching the bottom the experience was repeated again and again for 6-15 miles.
We approached the first water station to receive our water and to be interviewed by a plethora of American and European journalists, who took video footage of our state of health (or lack of it).We collapsed into the tents, adjusted our shoes and pack and refilled our bottles before we set forth. I bumped into Steve Broomfield, a fireman who was in good spirits. By checkpoint 3 the heat was affecting Steve. His body was approaching shock from the sun and strain etc, causing him to begin to shake and vomit, and feeling very cold he got into his sleeping. He took a courageous decision not to continue and the strength to realise the seriousness of the situation. For the rest of us it was a reminder just how dangerous this place was.
We pressed on and came to a pass between two Jebels. We climbed 200 foot up a dune and at the crest stood back and stared. Before us was a plain sprinkled with isolated outcrops of rock and mountain that stretched to infinity. To one side the mountain range formed a long flat table top and facing us in the far distance was a range of cliffs in the palest blue grey. The sky above us was the purest deep, deep blue and as our gaze descended this became paler and paler until at the horizon it was almost white. The sand was as fine as smoke and a pure golden yellow as if it had been artificially refurbished for the tourists, if there had been any tourists.
We strode down the carpeted slope of the dune and passed through an oasis where a run-down village of shoebox-like hovels made of mud walls, green wooden doors and windows awaited us. The townspeople were standing looking at the range rovers and at the runners, some of whom threw pens to the children. It seemed almost insulting to give so little help. We ran on thorough the irrigated fields, the livid green contrasting with the pale bleached sand of the surrounding plain.
The lead runner passed us by at the second check point, running like a gazelle across the salt caked floor of the flood plain. His stride was perfection and I have only seen two other athletes who matched it. He hardly left an imprint as he floated over the ground, in contrast to us lesser mortals who were now leaving a permanent legacy on the environment; our legs cracking through the salty crust and disappearing in the sand beneath.
We continued over a dried river plain that had been formed in a flash flood. All around us were grotesque twisted forms of mud, blasted into creation by a flash flood some months ago. Columns of pale grey-yellow sun-hardened earth stood sentinel around us as we crossed a disjointed land. High on a ridge to our right was a Saadian Fort from the 16th century. It was almost indivisible from the outcrop of rock on which it stood, so crude was its architecture. It seems impossible that wars were fought for centuries over the trade across the Sahara from Timbuktu, but abandoned forts and villages are the most common habitation in this desolate part of the Sahara on the Algerian border. The stone work was so crude that I needed binoculars to inspect the compound to ensure that it wasn’t a natural outcrop. The sun was at its hottest again and the thought of tribesmen manning the battlements in this heat seemed unbelievable and a sentence rather than a calling.
We pressed on with a brief stop at waterpoint 3 before pressing on across more dunettes to the 4th waterpoint. The sun was beginning to dip and the sand turned from yellow through gold to red with alarming speed. We made the next waterpoint as the sun dipped below the horizon and realised that the remainder of the 74 kilometres (some 27 kilometres) would be completed in the dark. I changed partners and was joined by Derek. Derek had a large blister on the right hand side of his right foot which was slowing him down. This developed through the rest of the race until he was forced to slit his oversized shoes to enable the blister to sit on the outside of the shoe. This he then taped up.
We set off and the twilight disappeared in the time it took me to hum five choruses of “Lawrence of Arabia”. We had been given green luminous sticks which we now attached to the back of our packs and we donned the head torches which had been chosen and tested as part of our training. Millions of stars came out and every now and then a shooting star would scud across the night sky with a purpose known only to itself.
We trudged across a landscape of broken stone which occasionally sent a searing pain up our legs as we aggravated a blister .
On arrival at Checkpoint 5 we found a number of runners already bedding down. It was now 9pm. The thought of sleeping after 12 hours of exercise in the heat and comparative chill of the desert was inviting, but we walked on as this was all we were capable of by now. On leaving the waterpoint we hit the dunes. There were no indications of which way to go. We looked at our compasses and chose a star to follow and walked forward. The night sky was cut horizontally into two halves. The upper part was covered in a dusting of bright stars, the lower half was impenetrable black. More dunes.
We kept to the bearing and walked straight up the dune; in the darkness we were unable to choose the easiest route. Several times we felt we would never reach the top. At the crest we saw evidence that the majority of runners could not read a compass as the darkness in front was punctured with luminous lights in every direction. Some were even going backwards.
We strode on over 6 kilometres of dunes and a further 5 of stony ground until we came to the final resting point. A ten minute break and we continued for the last 17 kilometres until under the starlight we saw the finish. By now the sand glowed a pale dusky silver in the moonlit sky and having seen the finish, we pressed on. An hour passed and we still had not crossed the line. The finish always seemed tantalisingly close and somehow it always seem to move further away.
Finally at two in the morning we strode across the finish line. The relief came over in waves beating on the brow like a headache. Again we received 4½ litres of water and a Coke, but by now we were adept at carrying this amount of water. We crept into our tents where we were greeted by our comrades and prepared to snuggle into our bags happy that we wouldn’t have to stir for a further 30 hours.
The drama was not quite over yet. Stumbling around in the blackness, there was a sudden scream that should have caused rockfalls in Northern Morocco. I had stood on Tony’s feet and he wasn’t amused. He developed a phobia for the rest of the race any time I came within range of his feet. He would get very protective and tell me to “buzz off ” in a polite manner.
We awoke the following morning. “Thank God the Italian cockerel is still out there! He ‘s probably crowing at a couple of camels!” In ecstasy we laid on the rugs and looked up at the blue sky through the open weave of the black sacking of the tent. Julie had not returned but a glazed eye around the tent showed that everyone else was in deep slumber. Their mothers would have been proud of them. The thought of stirring to get breakfast did not appeal and we lay there expecting to be fed by osmosis without actually having to do anything.
Slowly we were forced up by the call of nature. Behind us the great sand dunes of Erg Chebbi rose like a mountain range in the distance. We would have to traverse that tomorrow. Walking was now almost impossible and I borrowed George’s open-toed sandals and staggered across the desert to find a secluded spot. Most of the runners were in the same predicament. We staggered across the compound going hither and thither resembling extras in the “Return of the Zombies” as we each struggled with our injuries. By now some of the runners had serious problems. A brief look at the shoes of the other competitors showed me that I had escaped with about average injuries, 22 blisters on both feet but in less important areas.
During the day runners gradually came into the camp having stayed out over night at one of the water points. Miles and Jon (his sighted guide) arrived around lunch time to a rapturous applause from the camp. The French wheelchair contestants followed about an hour later. These were not the last as other, more injured athletes staggered in.
My day was largely spent attending to my feet. Four hours later I had redressed each wound, leaving the little toe on my right foot until last. Taking a closer look I felt queasy as a fly emerged from under the dressing and flew off. Cutting through the plaster I found that I was looking deeper into my body than I had ever done before without sedation. A family of flies were feeding on the open wound which had gone down to the ligaments.
“Doc can you sort this – I think this one is beyond me” I said . Andy came over
“Lets take a look” he said, and seeing the flies feasting away commented ” I’ve got something for that”. Relieved I sank back. Andy returned with a camera. “I must take a picture of this”. He merrily clicked away, whilst I was being slowly devoured. To be fair when the roll of film had run out, he did attend to me, fix the toe and I was able to run on the foot for the remainder of the race.
The evening came and the dunes turned a salmon red before changing to a deep purple in the fleeting twilight of the day.
Stage 5 – Marathon day
As we broke camp we were paid a visit by the Butcher of Fez. The Butcher was in his late sixties and was the only man to complete all 14 Marathon Des Sables. He had many grandchildren and was quite unaffected the harshness of the terrain. His diminutive figure was almost lost amongst the other runners. He had very little high tech equipment and only a small back pack but he emerged at the end of each day unscathed whilst the rest of us gradually faded away.
The gun went and we commenced what for many of us was effectively the last stage. A few minutes and we were into the dunes. These are the second largest in Africa and we were soon climbing up 3,000 feet to the top of the dunes, falling and rising for the next 13 miles. The contestants stretched to the horizon in either direction gradually diminishing to the size of ants and smaller on the ridges against the sky. I caught up with Miles and Jon who were going strongly on the sand. From time to time I would stop and take a picture, but even with a wide angle lens I couldn’t do the scenery justice. This was a cinerama landscape with a capital C. One needed a camera that panned and film that could take a picture a yard wide. Overhead, the helicopter buzzed and weaved getting sweeping shots of us in the morning sunshine. The landscape was full of primary colours dominated by blue and yellow. We came to a steep eighty foot drop and leapt over the edge. There was a sense of almost free-fall as we dropped down about 20 feet before landing in the soft sand of the down slope, the sensation was of landing on deep cushions. We continued, sometimes traversing the sides of the slopes, our footfalls creating tiny avalanches of sand cascading down to the ground beneath. The sand was continuously on the move. It was alive, moulding itself to the elements and removing any impact that the human race could make as quickly as possible. I felt that a return trip in a couple of weeks would show no trace of this event ever having taken place.
Kathy and Robin joined us for the dune section and teamed up with Mac (a soldier) who was now very poorly. As we entered, I stopped at the first ridge and looked back towards the previous night’s encampment. The group including Mac was making slow progress and I could only imagine the pain that he must have been in. Blisters were bearable, but stomach pains and nausea were far worse and to carry on for five days without any effective food or being unable to keep food down, would weaken anyone.
We emerged from the dunes with Shaun and Nic from Carlton TV running with their cameras to keep up with us. “They’ll all get back problems” commented a veteran American runner at my side I nodded sagely in reply. The water point sat on top of a small hillock and it seemed to beckon to us as it gradually came closer. The temperature in the dunes was in the high 50′s and I had no trouble in quickly drinking my share of the water.
The terrain now changed to a featureless plain of sand and stones that covered the desert like a dry grey quilt. There was nothing here, not even the semblance of tracks and the support vehicles left tyre marks everywhere as they searched for a common route to the next station. It’s funny, but given the choice everyone will take a different route leaving tracks that zig-zag across the plain in a random fashion.
I walked with Mark Dodds from Microsoft and we chatted about the race and back home. Mark’s foot was in a bad way and he struggled to keep going whilst in obvious pain. The pain however, didn’t make any difference. If you want something hard enough then nothing will get in the way of the endeavour to get it. This was certainly true of every runner there.
I pushed on across the barren stone-strewn landscape. To the right lay a deserted village of sun-dried mud caked walls. Nothing stirred that afternoon except the odd dust devil whirling the sand around as it travelled across our path. It smothered us and we closed our eyes as the sand peppered our faces and tried to find its way into our mouths. We resisted with all the force of a three year old at the dinner table. The support vehicle drivers were having fun; completely unrestrained from having to follow roads they charged across the landscape side by side. I felt envious of their speed and comfort. This crossing the Sahara lark is all very brave, but give me a four by four any day.
By the time I was coming to the end of the marathon stage the terrain became almost lunar. The sun started to dip towards the horizon and colours of the desert rapidly reddened. We came to a series of rises and small ridges that ensured that our view of the camp was obstructed. Each time I arrived a summit I hoped to see the friendly red and green hot air balloons that marked the finish in the distance, but no luck. There was another small valley followed by another rise. A medical vehicle came up beside us and the driver leaned out “Ca va?”. “Oui Ca Va” I replied. I am not sure what it meant but it made me feel that I was bilingual. “Deux kilometres! Deux kilometres!” he said, then he waved and the landrover roared off to some other runners following behind. Two kilometres! My feet hurt, my brain hurts and I want my dinner!
I spied a competitor going slowly in front. I caught up and we chatted. He came from the Lebanon and had been working in Marrakesh. This passed the time for a few minutes and then I pressed on striding across the terrain with my ski sticks treading boldly and going where no man has gone before. The Lebanese now saw the finish and had taken a different route to the right. He started to run and feeling full of national pride I looked back to see a Japanese runner trying to catch me. This was just not on. Don’t they know who they are dealing with? Probably!
I broke into a run and my feet started screaming in a chorus so loud that I almost told them to shut up. I looked up to see the balloons, before returning my vision to 12 feet in front of me on the ground. My stentourious breathing erupted and I felt the tension increase in line with my determination. “The honour of the bloody country is at stake for God’s sake. Can’t let the show down” and with stiff upper lip I cantered on. The Lebanese got across before me but a quick glance behind confirmed that my burst had been enough to shake off the Japanese runner. So much for nationalism. The British were shouting and cheering for me. As I ran to the finish line I saw Steve Broomfield and Rob to my left cheering and clapping and crossed the line into the waiting arms of one of the female organisers. Things were improving. It’s amazing how over-confident we men become. Realistically I hadn’t bathed or shaved for six days and I’m sure the organisers took some desensitising spray before they met us.
That’s it. The race was broken. I picked up my water and staggered to the tent. The feet were now getting their own back having been numbed into silence for the past hour. The evening was setting in and the tent was in jubilant mood. George and I had got our rations right. George had done all the cooking as if I had tried I would have poisoned both of us. Most of the others were not looking forward to bubble and squeak or korma curry again. We took great delight in loudly tasting our chocolate pudding with subtle references like “Oh My God that’s good”, ” Its better than Mum’s cooking!” and “OOOOH this is great!”. I could see by their faces they were going to get their own back later. Who cares?!
Paul was in terrible pain. He lay quietly in his bag and denied anything was wrong but the tent was much quieter than normal as he was a main source of the repartee. His tendons had become dislodged from his feet and this had compounded the turned ankle that he had picked up on day one.
We all went around chanting “pain is temporary pride is permanent” though I was beginning to wonder…
The camp was buzzing and very relaxed as there was now only a procession to go. One or two of the red flares were let off and they lit up the night sky and briefly illuminated the other tents in the compound . Then they would peter out and the blackness would return deeper than before.
Feeling smug, pained and happy we went to bed.
Stage 6
We got up as usual to the sound of our Berber helpers collapsing the tent. “Well at least they won’t get any more fun out of us” said Anthony. We staggered to our toilet, each step stinging and reminding us that the race was not yet over. I longed for the hotel and was comforted by the thought that by nightfall I would be in a real bed, washed shaved and fed.
We all stood euphoric knowing that in a couple of hours we would receive the medal and relax. We didn’t know how we would feel crossing the line and we started the day with mixed feelings as we regretted the end of the adventure and the inevitable return to our daily lives.
The short 9 kilometres to the finish was across a flat plain and a large oued or river bed. It was twisted and gnarled due to flash flooding some months ago. The force of the flood waters must have been tremendous as they had left a savage mark on the landscape. The ground was a crispy sandy soil that cracked under foot before one sunk into the sand underneath.
George and I decided to run together today. We always started the race together, but throughout the week he had quickly shot off ahead and that was usually the last I saw of him until campsite. We met up with Julie on the outskirts of Erfoud and decided to run in together as a team. We arrived at the outskirts of the town and the inhabitants clapped and encouraged us as we ran up the main road. It was a strange sensation to be running on tarmac again. We found more purchase and ran up the road looking for the turning which marked the final stretch to the finish. We found it, turned right and saw the semi-circle of blue. This marked the inner sanctum and beyond that some 200 yards further up the road lay the finish – we continued. The white banner over the road signified the end of this adventure to us; we checked that we were running line abreast and looked at the line. Running with arms open wide so that the photographers got a good picture of us, we ran across the finish. Nic Avery of Carlton TV shouted “how do you feel Steve?”"Fantastic!” I replied. But to be honest I was actually quite numb. I was half expecting a welling up inside. I had been wanting to run this race for seven years, but then I thought that it was far beyond my capabilities and I would have to be happy with the London Marathon. It was only when I saw it three years ago that I really thought that one day I must complete this race.
It had been two years in the conception, planning, organisation and training and now it was over. We stopped and took photographs of each other and shook hands emotionally with our friends. We were given a goodie bag with a clean white tee shirt and a medal the size of a dinner plate. A bag of French food was passed over and we made our way to the rear of the square to a shaded area where we ate our food and contemplated our achievement. Everyone became quiet as we ate our rations. Waiting for the others, we became hemmed in by a large group of small boys who were intent on scavenging our equipment and belongings. Policemen came across and scared them away whacking a few around the head with the backs of their hands. This was such a different country, miles away from the tourist belt. I found it strange to sit in the marketplace and watch grown men holding hands in public. The battered advertising were completely different to what we were used to and the only unifying world product was Coca Cola. Now that’s marketing for you.
Miles and Jon arrived; Sean and Nic swooped in with their cameras making sure that they didn’t miss the most important moment of the documentary. Miles was ecstatic. “We did it! We did it Steve!” and we shook hands as if our lives depended on it.
Leaving the compound was chaotic and we were glad to sit on the bus with our kit and medals intact. We returned to the hotel and for the next day we relaxed, received our finishers tee shirt and became human again.
Can the French throw a bash or what?!! Patrick Bauer is a very charismatic person and the prize-giving was followed by a party for us, the officials, members of the Government and some of the Hollywood set as filming was going on for a new blockbuster. We were shown previews of most of the TV companies’ programmes. “Damn they make us look good! I’m an international runner!” came a voice beside me as we watched entranced. Seeing these heroes running across the shimmering sand were definitely not us. That Hollywood plot was right. They were stand-ins from the movie.
We moved on to the party and filed down an avenue guarded on both sides by Berber tribesmen on horse back or camels. We took our seats in enormous tents and the tribesmen interrupted the excited chatter by charging in to the open central area and firing off their rifles! Women followed and with their high pitched shrilling yodel, the festivities began. Moroccan food and wine came to the large circular table and George and I stuffed ourselves as did everyone else. A German competitor drank too much and started dancing with the master of ceremonies, a sword carrying tribesman. The German was causing offence and embarrassment as he tried to dance with various players and I imagined his entrails being split across the central fire, due to a momentary loss of temper by the now obviously annoyed Maitre ‘D. Our heavily imbibed colleague went off to town where he made more of an ass of himself and damaged German-Moroccan relations further. Next day we boarded the buses to the airport. Our German friend was suffering the most dreadful hangover. Moreover no-one was speaking to him and he sat mournfully on the stairs awaiting his bus. “He’s lucky he’s still alive!” murmured Tony in ominous tones.
The flight home was uneventful and we landed at Gatwick as planned. On returning home several of the team ended up in hospital with antibiotics in order to save their feet. For the record the fastest time was nineteen hours and the slowest time was 70 hours. I finished in 45hours being placed 436 out of 597 runners. But this is not about positions or times, its about starting and finishing. For most of us, it was an unforgettable experience and an adventure that left us wanting more. We have taken a long time to get over this event, and, to date, most of us have yet to move on to other things. We have gained a lot out of the experience: firm friends, new outlets and an interest in different types of long distance event. There’s certainly more to life than just work!
