Running the 26th Marathon Des Sables 'The Toughest Race on Earth'

Imagine almost a thousand people from all over the world coming together to run 156 miles across the toughest terrain, through burning sand, over rock and slate up and over mountains in the worlds hottest desert. The sense of brotherhood and camaraderie surpasses any other that can be found in civilian life. Together they will sleep under rough black woollen canvas held up with roughly cut sticks, the sharp stone strewn dusty desert floor with a scrap of rug for their mattress. For a week they will eat, sleep, run, laugh, cry and endure together; their bodies already hardened from thousands of training miles become machines made for running, their only concern for themselves is not the aches and pains which they tune out but how much fuel to take on and when, are the fluids and minerals being replaced in order to carry on running? Their feet are torn and bruised and for some beyond use anymore. But the concern for others is immense as they show compassion and empathy that brings tears to the eyes of the toughest of people. People mind, not men; for women will also run in this amazing race, graced with amazing people. For this is the 26th Marathon Des Sables.
It was my privilege to be part of the 26th Marathon Des Sables, I had trained hard for almost two years leading up to the day I found myself standing in Gatwick airport, nervously and slightly surreptitiously casting around to try and see who else might be running in ‘the worlds toughest race’. To my surprise the first person I met was Kerri, who had been standing next to me holding a Union Jack bag with a bulldog on it. I had assumed that she was off on holiday somewhere as apart from her smile she was wearing a summer dress and sandals, she told me that that’s exactly what she was doing as she had four children at home as well as a full time job as a solicitor and a husband in the forces so for her the Marathon Des Sables was her holiday! Slowly the other runners began to emerge from the surrounding area and congregated around the check in desk for our Royal Air Maroc flight to Marrakesh. I was disappointed to learn that the vast majority of the British & Irish contingent (around 350) were flying on a different flight from Gatwick’s South terminal direct to Ouzzarate where we would be spending our first night. That left just sixteen of us flying to Marrakesh where we would then transfer into minivans for a five-hour drive across the Atlas mountain range to Ouzzarate. The sixteen of us were all running for Facing Africa, a charity that does amazing work to give children whose faces have been destroyed by a disease of poverty called NOMA facial reconstructions and a second chance at life.
It soon became apparent that there was an upside of being in a much smaller group and that was that we had a much better opportunity to get to know each other, and so it turned out that the Facing Africa team chose to live together in eight man tents for the rest of the competition as we got on so well.
The food on the plane was better than I had been expecting and the flight passed quickly enough as Kerri was sitting across the aisle from me and chatted away for much of the flight, partly to take her mind off her fear of flying.
When we landed we split into two groups and climbed on board two waiting white minibuses for the drive to Ouzzarate. Now I’m not a nervous passenger but the drive up and across the Atlas mountains would have been enough to raise my pulse rate slightly as the shear drops to the side of the vehicle fell away thousands of feet, often with no form of barrier between the road and the drop inches away from the wheels. What really boosted the adrenaline kick was the fact that intermittently our engine would simply cut out, that alone was worrying enough until it dawned on someone that when the power cut out so did the power steering. The bends in the road were constant and the steering wheel revolved continually first one way then swiftly back the other as the driver worked to keep the minibus on course. By the time we finally arrived outside the Berber Palace hotel in Ouzzarate my adrenal glands were exhausted.
The hotel where we’d spend our first and last two nights in Morocco was lovely; somehow the Brits and Irish had managed to secure the only five star hotel in town relegating the French and other nations to the various four star joints around Ouzzarate. It was already late when we arrived and time for dinner, I found myself sharing a room with Alun Lewis a Welshman living in Cumbria and a dedicated fell runner. He had a good sense of humour, which I’d already established earlier when I’d seen his race pack covered in sheepskin to stop it rubbing his back sore and cheekily asked him if it was a Welsh thing.
Dinner was great, a buffet with loads of hot dishes. Remembering advice that Rory had given me ages ago I avoided the rice dishes just in case they had been heated and left and reheated and left and so on. The last thing any of us needed was to start the week with food poisoning and an upset stomach. (On the return journey I did eat the rice, it was lovely and I had no ill effects). Our room had one massive bed and a small single bed, Alun kindly gave me the big bed as I’m a foot taller (and a few stone heavier) than him and we turned in for the night.
Next morning the big hotel was a hive of activity, people running around with race bags, cluttering up the entrance to the hotel with suitcases which would be accompany us to the desert for the first two administration days before being returned to the hotel for safe keeping until our arrival after the race. Old hands looked on with amusement and helped others get sorted while some newbys put on a slight air of bravo and others flapped a bit. I was a bit anxious, at dinner the night before our table had decided to share a tent in the bivouac and I hoped now to find them in the maelstrom of competitors rushing around me. Eventually I made my way outside in to the sunshine to find the others waiting in front of the hotel. On the street six massive blue and white coaches and several Landrovers covered in brightly coloured sponsors logos were parked, the coaches’ luggage compartments open waiting expectantly while race officials, Doctors and competitors buzzed around them carrying and pulling bags and cases along behind them. The sun blazed down and the morning grew hotter. Our small band decided to head for the last coach and grab some seats which turned out to be a smart move as suddenly someone realised that no one was going to tell them which coach to get on and the crowd started to surge towards the waiting vehicles. I sat next to Alun for the next six hours as we drove through the desert Southbound deeper into the Sahara, we paused a couple of times for pee stops and once for a packed lunch which we ate in the dust and sand amid the shrubs by the side of the road, the sun was fearsome and within fifteen minutes I could already see some people turning red. Eventually the coaches turned off the tarmac road bumping onto barely perceptible a dirt track, clouds of dust and sand blew up around us and in front of us as the lead coaches tore along at 40 mph. Away to our right I could see another fleet of dust-covered coaches approaching us from the other direction having already dropped off the French competitors. The coach pulled up and as the doors opened I climbed down to find the luggage compartment opening, Rory was on the same coach as me and following his lead I pulled my case out as quickly as possible and started heading across to where a convoy of faded old olive green Russian army trucks were shuttling across the desert full of runners and bags. It was chaos as people clambered up onto the returning empty trucks desperately trying to find somewhere to sit in the open backed lorries, dust blew up in the air as the lorries drove off or came to a halt. I climbed up having already thrown my bags into the back of a dusty old truck in an attempt to stake my claim. I found myself having to stand on a seat as we were so packed I couldn’t sit down and before I know it with a jolt we were moving, trundling across the desert to the bivouac a kilometre or so away. The journey was very bumpy as we drove over ruts and rocks and I was almost thrown clear off the back once or twice, the struts that would usually hold canvas up were wooden and so old that a couple broke and one almost clocked a woman on the head. No one minded though, the excitement was palpable as we strained to get our first glimpse of the bivouac. Ahead of us was a massive circle of hundreds of black Bedouin tents made from roughly stitched black woollen material and held up by roughly hewn wooden poles and rope, open on two sides to the desert. Away from these tents stood in rank and file a square of white polyvinyl tents each with its own function from communications headquarters to clinic, next to these stood a massive inflatable white and orange dome tent that would serve as a mess tent. Row upon row of land cruiser and Landrover 4x4s lined up next to each other all bedecked in stickers of sponsors such as Sultan tea and Allianz, TV Monde5 and Eurosport to name but a few. The sun glinting off their mirrors and windscreens flashing in the afternoon sun, behind them three helicopters stood one with its crew busily preparing for flight around the blue airframe.
The lorry grinded to a halt and the front cab doors opened, Soldiers coming round the back to order everyone out “Aller!” I clambered over the side and down the wheel onto the hot sand and having recovered my luggage began walking quickly towards the large circle of the bivouac, chaos reigned still and I hoped to spot my would be tent mates on the way across the 200 meters of sand and stones. Eventually I saw them slowly emerging from out of the crowd in ones and twos as we converged upon an empty tent in the British & Irish sector of the circle. I threw my kit down onto the floor in the tent and looked around. “So this is us then?” Came a question come statement from a tall man with a Cork accent who I remembered was called Tom. “Guess so” replied a young bald guy I’d met the day before called Ryan. “We’re Tent 93” called out another Irish accent as a tall moustached Daithi walked out to the back of tent. With an air of relief one by one we checked out our surroundings and made ourselves as comfortable as possible.
Our tent floor was covered in a cheap red and black rug of Arab design, it had been cast down over a sand and sharp stone strewn ground and I peeled in back to get to some of the worst offenders removed so they wouldn’t dig into my back. Now that we were in the bivouac I could see that it was made of two concentric rings of black Bedouin tents, the front of our tent looked into the middle of the bivouac while the back opened upon a walk way between the two rings and faced a identical tent full of people doing identical things to us. We reintroduced ourselves to each other and reminded one another of our names as we started making ourselves at home opening our bags and spreading our roll mats on the floor. Outside a puff of dust appeared on the other side of the camp followed by a dust cloud as the blue helicopter took off and seconds later roared towards us passing overhead only fifty meters in the above us.
There were eight people to a tent, ours was all male but that wasn’t the case everywhere, opposite us were two women in a mixed tent. I liked everyone almost immediately and hoped that wouldn’t change as I got to know them better. Luckily it didn’t and I couldn’t have asked for better tent mates. It was difficult to tell how old everyone was as they were all physically fit which can make it harder to guess, Alun I was late forties or maybe just into his fifties but looked like he was mid forties, lean and competitive a fell runner, living in Cumbria he was always going to be fit. From his bag he pulled out a Welsh flag for the tent and proceeded to tie it above his sleeping place. He had been beaten to the prime spot for his flag by the tall Daithi, (pronounced Dah,hi) Daithi was just outside attaching a large Irish flag to the apex of our tent. From that moment we became known as the Irish tent. Daithi had a novel way of preparing for the heat of the worlds hottest desert, he had just come back from the North Pole, changed planes and here he was! A 75 degree positive temperature swing, after the Marathon Des Sables he was heading off straight away to Mount Everest where he would be running from Base camp down and back up again. Full of positivity and character Daithi was also our tents French speaker, which he used at every possible opportunity. An educated man with a list of PhDs, 53 years of age and able to charm the birds from the trees Daithi must be one of Irelands foremost romantic eccentrics.
Next to me as I sorted out my sleeping position was Tom a Cork man with a dry and intelligent sense of humour in his fifties he had the air of a man you could trust in dire situations. He was a climber and has climbed many of the world’s toughest mountains including Everest, it transpired that he was currently planning an expedition to the South Pole to climb a mountain there. Tom was a real team player and showed leadership qualities throughout the race. One of life’s good guys. On the far side of the tent was Ryan, at 34 the youngster of the tent and a spirited joker he would find his feet trashed along with several of the others early on but still push himself to compete. From southeast London and working for a charity Ryan could take a joke as well as he could make one and the banter in the tent was infectious. Craig was a quite gentle giant with a Norfolk accent, a former Royal Marine and a man with a steel determination, a little older than Ryan but only by a year or two, his tenacity became legend in the tent. To my right Jon was quietly getting his kit sorted out, highly competitive in a quiet way Jon was mid thirties and physically very fit and together with Alun would lead the ranking in the tent, a high pressure management job in finance by day and a competitive athlete outside of work he was a focused individual who would be sure to achieve. Jon was also a nice guy with a good sense of humour at the same time as being a competitor.
The final member of the tent was Steve, in his forties he had lost a massive amount of weight to get to the start line, heavier than most of the competitors he was amazingly resilient and determined, the courage he would show over the next week was quite something to behold. He always had time for everyone and was a hell of a nice guy. All in all I had landed on my feet with the people I would share this experience with. The spirit in the tent was always high and most nights I could find my way to the tent simply by following the laughter as Daithi would be telling some outrageous story interspersed by comments and friendly banter by Ryan.
The first two days before the race began we were supplied with food in the mess tent, it was fantastic and far exceeded my expectations. There was a carnival atmosphere around the bivouac, a local merchant had even set up a Bedouin tent and was selling Taureg headwear, long material dyed black or shades of blue. Camels walked in line with tea boxes of Sultan tea stacked on their backs while the sun smiled down and the blue sky stretched far above us. The ground was like a drained seabed, covered in stones on top of compacted hard baked sand and dust. In the distance mountains and massive sand dunes stood shimmering in a heat haze.
That first night I fell to sleep quickly, several times. The ground was hard and the stones poked through here and there to bring me back to wakefulness. The next morning we all awoke early as the sun rose flooding our tent with light, the night had remained warm until around midnight and then the temperature had fallen sharply. The morning was cool until the sun had risen a few degrees above the horizon.
The toilet situation was a first for the Marathon Des Sables, in the past the unfortunate runners had to visit a long drop, essentially a tent built over a hole in the ground with a plank with a hole cut into it on top of which to perch. After the first day the long drops were so filthy that no one used them and would walk out into the desert to dig their own hole. This had led to all manor of gastric problems in the past, so the organisers had come up with a new solution. This year we were issued with ‘Poo bags’ these brown small bin liners were biodegradable after seven days and dotted around the outside of the bivouac were cubical like structures open at the top and on one side, each cubical contained a frame of a seat over which you placed your poo bag, sat and did your thing. After which you’d tie a knot and drop it into a big bin that was emptied regularly. It worked really very well although it always made me feel like doing a Borat impersonation. The poo bags were also very versatile, halfway through the week I decided to turn one into a washing machine by throwing my dirty running kit into one along with some detergent and half a bottle of water. I tied the top and agitated the contents for half an hour (I did get some strange looks from passers by as I threw a full tied up poo bag from one hand to the other squidging it as I sat there. Even more so when Tom declared that this was the most ingenious invention that he’d ever seen and joined me with a bag of his own. After half an hour I emptied the bag and rang out the contents, turned the bag inside out and filled with the other half bottle of water and repeated the process. I’m not sure what TV Monde5 made of it as they came to our tent to interview us about Facing Africa only to find us playing with our poo bags, the footage went out worldwide! Having emptied the bags rung out the contents and hung it all up Tom declared it to be ‘the finest!’ and we had dirt and salt free clean running kit to wear the next day.
The day after our arrival in the bivouac was admin day and was taken up with deciding what we would be leaving in our cases and what we would be running with, queues for everything from water rations to salt tablets, the French seem genetically unable to grab the concept of a queue and pushed in front of any line of people they saw as if it was their God given right, I later understood that they weren’t actually trying to be obnoxious they simply had no concept of what a queue was. This was highlighted on the return trip when two French women tried to jump a queue of about two hundred people and were told to get to the back, instead they sat on the floor to wait until the queue had gone; it was totally beyond their comprehension that other people would join the queue and so they would be better off doing the same!
Before I left for the Marathon Des Sables I had had great problems getting my ECG signed off by a Dr. I’d had an ECG taken which showed Elevated ST segment, this is usually seen in people who have just had a heart attack. It also shows in endurance athletes whose heart has physically adapted by getting bigger because of the amount of endurance training they have been doing. This led to me having a exercise ECG up to VO2 Max performed, a 24 hour ambulatory ECG and two other 12 lead ECGs before I was lucky enough to meet Dr Andrew Murray a specialist sports Dr and an Ultra-runner of distinction himself. He had just run from Scotland to the Sahara desert. He was happy to sign off my ECG and thankfully I had no problem getting the French Dr’s to accept it.
By the end of the second day in camp I had been issued with a rocket flare in case of emergency, salt tablets and was now bereft of my case and left only with my running pack. Tomorrow I would be running and all of a sudden it felt very real. Ryan joked, “well I’ve enjoyed our little camping trip, I think I want to go home now.” We all laughed with nervous anticipation and excitement as we contemplated the next day as we fell asleep that night.
The next morning we woke to the sound of a lorry pulling up at the end of the bivouac, Alun was already up and dashing about, I got up and went about my morning ablutions having first climbed into my running kit, a pair of black Skins compression shorts and an Ice skins white top which I had used the year before in Namibia. A buff around my neck, a bush hat on my head and my running shoes with long sand gaiters stiched onto them made up the ensemble. We had all been issued with transponders that would record our times as we ran over the checkpoint lines. The transponder was attached to a neoprene band which I wore on my left leg. On the way back to the tent I saw that the lorry had disgorged a swarm of blue clad locusts that were devouring the cornfield that was our bivouac. Tent by tent it was disappearing at an amazing rate under their onslaught, these were the legendary Berbers of the MdS. Every morning they would appear, each man knowing exactly what his role was and moving with amazing speed to the Arabic shouts of “Yal’la, Yal’la!” (Hurry Hurry!) They deftly disassembled the bivouac, if you were unlucky enough to be asleep still when they came they simply took the tent down around you leaving you bewildered and blinking in the sunlight. After the second day I took to letting everyone in the tent know of their imminent arrival by calling out excitedly in my best Fantasy Island ‘Ta’too the dwarf’ voice “Boss, Boss, The Berbers are coming, the Berbers are coming!” Which never failed to make Jon laugh.
On the morning of stage one, once we had our breakfast and had sorted our race packs out we slowly made our way over to where a giant white arch emblazoned in white writing on a red background declared the 26th Marathon Des Sables, this was the start line. Parked next to the start was a Landrover, on either side of the car and the arch large speakers mounted on stands blared out the song ‘Stand by me’ clusters of large brightly coloured flags flew in the light wind and above us light puffy clouds painted the blue sky, As we walked over clouds of dust swirled around the feet of almost eight hundred and fifty competitors from around the world. Together we congregated in front of the Landrover, on top of which stood a man I recognised as Patrick Bauor the founder and Race Director of the Marathon Des Sables, next to him stood a tall elegant looking woman of who appeared to be of Arab decent, her name was Sarah and we’d come to know her well over the next few days, she was Patricks interpreter and a race official. In the evenings and mornings she’d come around to visit what she dubbed as ‘the jolly Irish tent’ she spoke English flawlessly with a slight French accent and Daithi flirted outlandishly with her in French and English much to everyone’s amusement (including Daithi’s).
Patrick made some speeches that Sarah translated, read out some birthdays and the music switched to Happy Birthday in both French and English. The carnival atmosphere was in full swing now as the pent up excitement and anticipation build to a crescendo, I took some footage with my camera and over to one side noticed the blue helicopter take off and slowly circle us around 200 feet. Patrick yelled something over the sound system in French, Sarah called out ‘30 Seconds’ over the sound system the first strains of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell began to play, my adrenaline spiked as we all started to wish each other “good luck” Again with the French, Sarah calls out “ You’re wonderful and you know it!” I laugh not sure if that a compliment or not, the music cranks up and is now blaring, the helicopter is low overhead the sound as defining as the emotion of the occasion, two years of hard work are about to be tested. Patrick is shouting out in French, Sarah, “ Pace yourselves! Be careful” The crowd is calling out now straining at the leash, cheers and yells sporadically escaping along with whoops of delight. A countdown begins in French and is echoed in English ‘Ten, Nine, Eight’ all of a sudden its ‘Two, One…GO!!!!’ A massive cheer goes up from everyone as we surge forwards and through the arch! A helicopter appears low and in front of me, Highway to hell is at full volume now, fighting with the helicopter for mastery of my eardrums. All around people are cheering and running and so am I. We run past giant inflatable silver teapots, courtesy of the sponsors Sultan tea on either side, it’s so surreal I almost expect to see a giant white rabbit in a waistcoat and stop watch running from behind one. Someone has stopped and turned around to get a picture of the runners and others dive left and right to avoid him, people are shouting in Arabic and the world is bobbing up and down. I see camels to the side walking out towards the course, the emotion are almost overwhelming, excitement, pride, fear elation all at the same time. In the front the elite runners have already began to stretch out a lead. The helicopter is with them and all of a sudden it hovers in the air side on to the stream of runners only thirty feet above us then begins to slide towards me at speed roaring as its getting closer, everyone starts waving at the cameraman in the open doorway, people are taking pictures of him as he is of us as the helicopter roars over our heads and behind us filling our noses with the smell of its hot exhaust and dust, turning and passing again and again as we run on towards the distant sand dunes, the race has begun.
Within a couple of hundred meters we’ve hit our first sand and straight away I’m amazed that anyone can run on it as I sink in, my energy sapping away with every step. I motor on and eventually the ground hardens again and is covered with small stones, this is more like I am used to from the Namib desert last year and my pace increases again. Around me the field has elongated now, I can see it stretching out ahead of me and if I turn around I can see it extends all the way to the horizon. I climb a hill and as I summit it I can see the race leaders in the distance being pursued by the helicopter I run on and am passing people, after over an hour and a half I come to the first checkpoint. I have learnt my race number in French and as I approach the checkpoint call out “nerfcent cuinze” the French checkpoint race controllers seem to appreciate it and are friendly with me throughout the week, I collect two 1.5 litre bottles of water weighing three kilos and fill my water bottles, strapping the extra bottle across the front of my race pack I head into the sand dunes.
I’m amazed at the size of them its like Sossusvlei but on a grander scale, the dunes are as least as high but it seems to stretch on forever. The heat now rises dramatically and the wind has vanished, with my rocket flare and the water I’m now carrying almost fifteen kilos making my total weight around the 111Kg mark, with every step I’m sinking into deep fine soft sand. I try to run and within minutes am exhausted and am being passed by people walking, I try to do a fast walk and find I’m faster so stick with that and resign myself to the knowledge that everyone else is doing the same. I have no clue how to tackle the sand dunes and experiment with a range of techniques that leave me exhausted and frustrated. I try to climb them like I would if I were wearing crampons and kick with the toe plate of my shoes into the giant hills of sand but all this does is give me an impact blister on the front of one of my toes. Eventually I figure the best way to climb is to step into the footsteps of the person in front very quickly and use the compacted sand as a step. These sand dunes last for over thirteen kilometers and I’m determined to get over them before the sun is at its zenith, to be trapped in them when Mr. Spikes has got his hat on and is giving you his unadulterated attention would be hell on earth.
The heat is rising with every minute and I’m down to my last water by the time I crest a sandy ridge to see the second check point in the distance. I get cracking on the rest of my water and make my way as quickly as I can towards salvation. It was my plan not to spend any time in the checkpoints that I didn’t really need to and so I push on as quickly as possible having replenished my fluids and added electrolytes and carbs to my bottles. I run on over smaller sand dunes, dunettes if you like and eventually the ground firms up again. By the time I finish and cross the finish line I’m hot and tired and wondering if this is what its going to be like for the whole week its taken me six hours and thirteen minutes and after day one I’m in position 436, I know I can do better.
Jon, Alan and Ryan are back before me, we compare stories and check our feet; Ryan has already got some nasty looking blisters. The rest of the tent come in dribs and drabs, everyone hot and tired, some with blisters. People are already going off to see ‘Doc Trotters’ a team of French doctors with a fearsome reputation for debridement and merciless flesh cutting that the Gurkhas would be envious of. Slowly the bivouac fills with people some walking around in flip-flops with red stained feet from the iodine used by Doc Trotters. I’m more fortunate and with the exception of a small impact blister on the tip of one toe my feet are fine. I give them a massage with some Vaseline to prevent them from drying out and cracking. My sand gaiters that I purchased from Sandbaggers are great and have kept the sand out of my shoes completely. Some people used small ankle gaiters and weren’t as lucky.
That night the wind picked up and everything and everyone is covered in sand. By the morning the wind was howling and the large dunes that were so clear the evening before are now invisible in a sand storm. Berbers run around disassembling the bivouac and I’m forced to put on my sand goggles and pull my buff up around my face so that I can breath without being clogged with sand and dust. 4x4’s are driving around with race controllers in them, their headlights on and our belongings have to be strictly controlled to prevent them from being blown away. The sand is blotting out the sun and its cold; I throw on a micro fleece and start getting prepared for the day. I get my camera out and try to make a recording but my words are drowned out by the sound of the wind, it’s a bad move as my camera decides that its not having it and packs up in the sand storm, it takes me ages to fix it again. Where we stayed the night before looks like a moonscape devoid of all features and visibility is dramatically reduced from the sand in the wind.
The wind drops a little just before the start of the race and again Patrick and Sarah are on top of the 4x4 after the birthday list and singing comes a countdown and ‘Highway to hell’ cranks up, I’m amazed to see one of the helicopters take off and fly over to where we are. “GO!” in a replay of the day before the helicopter roars up and down the line of runners, camels are our outriders and I run forwards past the teapots that are bouncing around in the wind. Craig is to my right and we run together for a while before loosing sight of each other. The wind doesn’t stay down for long and before I know it I am running with my buff around my face and my sand goggles on under my bush hat. I’ve been going for a couple of hours when I come across Craig again, he is not having a good time of it, his feet are hurting like hell from nightmarish blisters he got the day before and its slowing him down but his determination is pushing him onwards. I decided that I’ll join him and the two of us push on together. The terrain is horrible, loads of gritty sand that gets in your mouth, ears and nose and sticks to any exposed skin, and our knees are sand blasted by the wind. When you open or close your teeth sand crunches between them and if you sniff you can feel it in the back of your throat. Even with the buff covering my nose and mouth I can feel the dust being inhaled into my chest with every inspiration. We’re going mostly through ‘Oued’ dry riverbeds, Its pretty desperate going. At one point we come across a French policewoman who is taking part in the race, Craig tells me that he recognizes her from the Doc Trotters clinic the night before where he saw she had terrible blisters. We can’t believe our eyes, she has taken her shoes off and is holding them in her right hand and is now staggering around in her socks! Sharp thorns and stones are everywhere not to mention the dangers of stinging insects and scorpions, somehow she kept going and on the last day I saw her after she made it across the finish line, this time wearing shoes. By the time we got back we were filthy, tired and hungry but happy that we had done the day, on checking my position I was disappointed to see that I was in 618 position for the day and was determined to do something about it the next day.
On the morning of day three everyone had been in good form, Craig and Ryan were suffering from nasty blisters and Steve had also found the going tough, no one really found anything other than tough. I was beginning to find out that every day in the Marathon Des Sables is a different kind of tough, day one had been the sand dunes, day two the wind and now on day three the challenge would come from a mixture of dunes, sand and Jebels (small mountains) of which we had to cross two. I was feeling good about today and love running on hills so wasn’t fazed by the Jebels, whats more I now had a good idea of how to tackle dunes and sand and cover it quickly. It had been two painful learning days but they had provided valuable lessons, which I would apply today. I got away from the start line quickly and felt strong, I was running alone, I ran strong and came in position 295 for the day, which I was much happier about.
The food I ate in the race was expedition foods high calorie meals, each one gave me 800 Kcal and I have to say that the evening meals were lovely. I was particularly delighted with the Chicken Korma dinner, just add boiling water and leave for ten minutes and hey presto! Lovely, if you are thinking of using these however avoid the porridge and sultana breakfast like the plague, honestly you’d rather have a bush dinner prepared by Bear Grylls than eat that. Tastes like wallpaper paste totally vile, in fact they should get an award for making such simple ingredients into something so unrecognizably disgusting.
I loved day three and was surprised afterwards to find that the others found it the worst day of the week. It might have something to do with the fact that mine were the only feet in the tent by now not suffering from horrendous blisters. Sure I had a silly little impact blister on a toe but that was getting better now that I had realized that what works for ice climbing doesn’t transfer to sand dunes. A couple of the guys feet had now also become infected thus complicating their suffering. One of my tent mates was given antibiotics and told that they might have the side effect of giving him an upset stomach! That night as we began to settle down our thoughts turned to tomorrow’s main event, the 82Km long day. A back-to-back marathon across three Jebels, sand dunes pebble plains, rocks and more sand. To compound matters the forecast was for the hottest day yet, it was clear that the long day would be a make or break day for everyone. I thought about the day to come as I lay in my sleeping bag side by side with my tent mates looking up at the most amazing stars in the inky sky, the night was clear a gentle breeze occasionally puffed fresh air through the open tent blowing away the scent of curry spices, hot sand, salty clothing and slightly sweetened soured milk smell of infected flesh.
The morning of the long day I awoke early and began to prepare whilst others were doing the same, some commented on how they would run the day, starting out quickly then walking quickly when the day was too hot to run, then run again when the sun started its decent in the sky was my plan. Even though the speakers blared and the helicopter did its best to cut our hair as we started there was a definite holding back among some of the runners as we started the day. I felt great, I was secure in the knowledge that I was not running into the unknown, for some they had never run a back to back marathon or even further than thirty miles. The previous year in Namibia I had learnt a lot about what I could get out of my body when I ran three back-to-back marathons across the Namib Desert in under twenty-four hours. I had made a mistake then and instead of speeding up on the second marathon I had held myself back which meant that I’d been on my feet for that much longer when I came to the third marathon which had trashed my feet with crippling impact blisters. The lesson had been clear to me go fast, I’m strong enough to do it. Get off your feet as quickly as possible, more time on the feet equals more damage to them. With another two stages of the Marathon Des Sables to go moving quickly as possible would be my best strategy. I ran solidly to the first checkpoint just over twelve Km in and pushed on through pausing only to top up my water bottles. I’d decided that anything under 13Km that I only needed to carry 1.5L of water, my water discipline was good and my body was acclimatizing fast now. If I had a second bottle offered I would always take it, drink some and pour some over my skins top, it didn’t last for long in that heat but the cooling factor as it evaporated was lovely. The day heated up really quickly and soon the temperature was 51.5 degrees Celsius (around 125F). The heat was radiating off everything: the sand, the rocks and the Jebels. It was when crossing the Jebels that I made a nightmare of a mistake, I had been speed marching with a French runner called Guy (pronounced Gee) he had run the UTMB (Ultra Trail Mont Blanc) seven times and was a bit of a racing snake so I was happy that my time was very good. I’d been pushing hard and everything was going well when we came across the Jebel. Looking up I could see a technical accent to the summit where I could see runners making their way over the mountain. In front of me I saw that there must have been about seventy runners who were making their way around the side of the mountain to climb a sandy less veritcal approach to the summit. As I later told TVMonde5 in an interview, there are times when people become sheep, I decided to be a wolf and go it alone; if I could make a quick technical accent up the rocky side of the mountain then I could jump maybe seventy places or more and save an hour of time. I told Guy what I was thinking, he looked up at the climb dubiously “Do you think it’s a good idea?” he asked. “We’ll soon find out” I replied and climbed onto the nearest rocks. “I’m going to stay on this route” Guys said, we wished each other good luck and off I climbed. As the runners are free to choose their route between markers there was nothing in the rules that said I couldn’t do what I was trying. For over half an hour I climbed hard, jumping from rock to rock pushing with my legs and pulling with my arms. Behind me I noticed a couple of other wolves had begun to climb too; the rocks were so hot that you could cook on them, in fact that evening when I inspected my shoes I saw that the soles had actually melted. My lips had begun to burn and were also painful even though I kept reapplying block to them. Eventually I reached the top of the mountain, the summit had disappeared on the accent as they sometimes do. I walked forward onto what I thought was a ridge when I suddenly stopped. The rocks fell abruptly away hundreds of feet below me in a shear drop. I looked up and about three hundred meters away from me was the summit where the climbers were, between us was a valley and the only way to cross it was to climb down the mountain I’d just climbed up and cross the hot sands below and re-climb the second Jebel. I paused for a moment and then laughed, it was a case of laughing or crying, you see although it is better to be a Wolf in life you have to accept that every Sheep has its day.
This mistake would cost me over an hour and lose me scores of positions that I would have to make up later. Slowly I climbed down and then ran across to the second Jebel and began to climb with lactate filled limbs. I wasn’t the only one to make the mistake and we all felt sheepish for a while.
By the end of the first marathon I was very tired, I felt despondent because of the lost time and places and was at risk of feeling sorry for myself. I stopped at the third checkpoint and gave myself a hard mental slapping. I had seen the race leaders blast through at checkpoint two running as if this was easy. It had made me feel even worse but also it had inspired me too. On the long day the top fifty runners start three hours behind everyone else so they get to experience running on boggy sand and past tons of people. For the rest of us we get to see them racing, its pretty cool.

Tom and Craig came into checkpoint three while I was there and within next to no time they had pushed on and were moving quickly. I could see from the looks on their faces that they didn’t think they’d see me again until the finish. I looked at myself I was sore, tired and dejected. My moral was on the floor with sand in its mouth. Either I had to sort myself out or spend a whole night and morning in misery slowly trudging through the sand. Self-pity isn’t my bag, so I thought back to all the motivation lessons and sports psychology lessons that I’d sat through as part of my MSc in Exercise for Health and the answer hit me square on in the face, it was simple what I had to do… “GET A GRIP!” I said it to myself, took a breath and then a swig of hot electrolyte filled water. I sat down on my roll mat and dug out a fresh pair of socks and liners. I brushed off my feet, gave them a quick massage with some Vaseline, got some food down my neck as quickly as I could. I took a Glutamine tablet and a vitamin pill and got on my feet. With a fresh pair of socks on my feet and a brand new attitude I tabbed away from checkpoint three having binned my negativity along with my emptied water bottles. I pushed on and said hello to everyone I passed, I was tired but was determined to be positive, to put the mistake behind me and to pass everyone that I saw. I looked for every shred and glimmer of positivity in everything around me. It was getting cooler now and that meant that I could pick up the pace.
As the sun slowly began to set I got my camera out and began filming, I also got my iPod out, this was something I don’t usually do as I like to run to the sound of the rhythm of my body and nature around me. I found myself alone now and the reddish sand of Africa was all around there was only one song that would do. I smiled as I put the earplugs in and pressed play, David Bowie’s voice began to question if there is ‘Life on Mars?’ I began to smile and as the music built so did my moral, my spirit lifted and my feet began to move. The night before my four year old niece Lucy had sent me an e-mail message it just said ‘Dear Uncle Jamile I wish I could come and help you love from Lucy xxx’ It had moved me, especially as my Mum had also sent me one saying that Lucy had written it all on her own. Now I was joined by Lucy in what had been my darkest moment I could see her holding my hand and pulling me forwards, I began to run. Tears were in my eyes and they were tears of relief and joy, I was running again.
When the song finished I found the songs that had played at my wedding to my wonderful wife Fi. They lifted me and I thought of her as I ran on, getting faster as I went. I began to see other people and pass them, the strength had returned. I didn’t stop running and after about an hour I saw Tom and Craig walking quickly up ahead of me, Craig was limping and was clearly having a tough time of it but being equally tough he was pushing on through the pain. I began to sing ‘The fields of Athenry’ out loud. They paused and turned around in amazement, I don’t think they could reconcile the sight of man they saw running and singing with the man on his chinstrap they had passed over an hour ago. After a quick greeting and a few words I ran on, with every step feeling stronger. I didn’t stop at checkpoints, pausing only for enough time to fill my water bottles and discard the empty 1.5Ltr containers. I ran on and as the night drew dark my strength grew. I ran on without a head torch on preferring to use the ambient light as I’d been taught to, many years ago in Wales. It was like running on instinct, never looking directly at anything but sensing patches of darkness or lightness with my peripheral vision moving my body unquestioningly in response I avoided rocks and a few shrubs now and then leaping over shallow depressions and bounding off rocks I ran on into the night. On my back my pack felt light and my breathing became rhythmical. Every once in a while I could see runners ahead of me. I passed everyone I saw. It amused me how the Spanish, Italian and Portuguese runners who were so macho in the day time became like frightened boys in the dark huddled together in groups of three or four they’d jump and turn shining their torches at the slightest noise. The sound of a solitary runner coming up behind them in total darkness clearly unnerved them, which made me laugh out loud which scared the crap out of them! I’d approach and they’d all shine their torches at me huddled together in a little knot. It would force me to grab the rim of my bush hat and pull it over my eyes to protect my night vision, which freaked them out even more.
In hindsight I must have been a sight, six foot four running like a loon with my face covered laughing my arse off looming out of the darkness towards them.
I kept on running and eventually I could see a green laser light in the sky. I knew that it could be seen for the last six miles and that if I followed it, it would take me to the finish line. I was now running in sand dunes again but my body was strong and my spirits high, I used the techniques that I had learnt on the first couple of painful days and ran on the sand quickly still passing everyone I saw. Before I knew it I had passed through the last checkpoint and was on course for the finish line. The last kilometer was a tough sprint. I had been hoping to get over the line before the clock tipped over into 1am. I hadn’t managed to do so but was close to the finish. I looked around and didn’t see anyone ahead of me or anyone close behind me. I decided to drop it down a notch I then slowed to a fast walk pace for a few seconds when I heard the rhythmic slap-slap of feet behind me I turned but there was no light, then I saw him. A runner was about thirty meters behind me and trying to take me, he’d turned off his light so not to alert me. I turned towards the laser and took off at a sprint, ‘no bloody way mate!’ My lungs were bursting and I thrashed my legs, it was all up hill and the finish line never seemed to get any closer but eventually it began to, I looked behind me and the runner had turned his light back on and there was no way he would be able to catch me now, I ran on regardless. As I crossed the finish line of the long day I was close to collapsing and staggered a bit, it had been a hell of a run. The day time marathon distance had taken me ten hours, I’d lost time on the mountain and the heat had been blistering, the second marathon I’d manage to do in under five hours fifty, running at night mainly in the dark across sand dunes, rocks and shrubs. I came in the long day in position 309. I collected my 4Ltr of water and found my tent, ditching my kit I stripped naked and picking up a 1.5Ltr bottle of water I walked out a few meters into the desert washing myself down in the cold water before returning to the tent, I had been sitting down for a few minutes when I wondered where my kit was, slowly it dawned on my glucose starved brain that this wasn’t my tent and I was sitting on the floor stark bollock naked in someone else’s tent. Finding my tent I climbed into my sleeping bag, I was very cold and couldn’t warm up. My whole body as it was in pain. I took some paracodomol but it didn’t touch the pain. I tried to focus on being warm but my body had used everything up and couldn’t get warm. People were slowly entering the bivouac and going to their tents, I reached into my running pack and found a viper bar, which I ate. Ryan was awake in his sleeping back next to mine. Suddenly someone in the tent next door started crying out in pain, it sounded like they were in agony. “ What the fuck?” Ryan asked looking at me quizzically. Jon on my other side was also now awake and the three of us listened as the tent mates of the person next door went and got a Dr. after a while it went quiet and the Dr left. I was also in pain, the viper bar had allowed me to warm up a bit and the uncontrollable shivering bouts I had been having had now stopped. Eventually I managed to get to sleep but the pain woke me constantly throughout the night. By the next afternoon all of our tent had made it back and we spent the rest of the day recovering, eating and recounting stories of the long day to each other. When asked Jon said that ‘the best bit was getting across the finishing line and that the rest was hell, utter hell.’
The next day was the final marathon of the Marathon Des Sables, get through that and then the final day was a straightforward 17.7 Km run to the finish line. I lined up on the starting line with Ryan feeling strong, I had a blister on my heal which had torn and was sore but otherwise I was in pretty good shape, I worked on blocking out the pain and concentrated on making as much distance as possible before Mr. Spikes got his hat on, already it was hot and getting hotter by the moment, I didn’t know it at the time but today was going to be the hottest day yet, 54 degrees Celsius, that’s about 130 degrees Fahrenheit, the world record anywhere on the planet is 57 degrees so its safe to say it was pretty damn hot. The course would see us run across three Jebels and a big hill, through dry Oueds and through quite a bit of sand. Ryan and I were quite giddy on the starting line singing along to ‘Highway to hell’ and laughing our asses off. Just before the race started there was a commotion at the back, one of the runners had simply collapsed. Minutes later he was on his feet again and started the race with the rest of us, this was a tough race for tough people. I ran fast during the morning and passed Rory a few times before he passed me again, eventually motoring on. I was running well, the heat became a furnace and would claim victims today. I listened to my iPod for a short while before it finally died on me. At checkpoint three there would be some families and friends of a few of the runners. Fi and I had looked at the package which would have meant her coming out for essentially the weekend, seeing me run for a few minutes and then spend a few minutes together in the evening before staying in separate accommodation for the night and the rest of the weekend. The prices were astronomical and we agreed it would a total waste of money. However, as I left checkpoint two I couldn’t help but think she might have surprised me and be waiting at the checkpoint as I was running. I’d spoken to Fi only a day or so ago very briefly one evening and was missing her a lot. I used the vague hope that she might be there to spur me on but then had to temper it with the knowledge that she most likely wasn’t there. It was a weird mind game that kept me running, my emotions were in turmoil and when I finally got to checkpoint three to find that she wasn’t there I was more relieved than disappointed, if she had have been there I don’t think I would have had the emotional strength to run past her, and would most likely have been a teary mess. I pushed on and ran for the finishing line. I crossed it and picking up my water ration for the evening made my way to the tent. I was exhausted both physically and emotionally and it was good to see the guys that night. The Paris Symphony Orchestra had been flown in along with the sponsors to see us in the desert. So I grabbed my roll mat and an expedition meal Chicken Tikka Masala and wearing a head torch around my neck found myself a spot at the front of the stage with Alun and there I sat eating my dinner with a spoon under the stars in the middle of the Sahara desert listening to Pucini being played by ladies in evening gowns while camels wandered silently in the background and the worlds press filmed it all for TV.
All of a sudden the finish line seemed tantalizingly close, there must be some kind of a catch we decided, only 17.7 Km to run? It must be a hellish course, we speculated that night in our tent. Tom got out his road book; a manual that we are all issued with that detail the day’s routes. It used terms such as fairly rugged terrain and deceptive slope, term that we hadn’t seen used before. We had run over hellish conditions and none of them had been described as rugged terrain, what did this mean? Then the penny dropped. Patrick had told us that on the last day some of the sponsors wanted to run the last leg with us. This was highly unpopular with the entire bivouac, if those who had started with us and shared our pain but had to withdraw due to illness, crippling injury, heart attack and heat stroke couldn’t run with us why should these Walts be allowed to do the glory leg? Clearly the road book had been written with them in mind so that they could impress people pointing to where they had run over this rugged terrain. It turned out that there was no real rugged terrain on the final day, which was hot and quick. The only thing that made the whole sponsors running with us more palatable was the fact that Patrick apparently made them pay money towards charity to do so; how much no one knows, so it came to pass that thirteen sponsors in their white clean running kit and gels in their belts joined us for the final ten mile dash. Eventually I saw the finish line 200 meters away and started to sprint for it, just then a woman passed me on my left side, ‘Charlotte GBR’ said her race number, I opened up the throttle and came along side her I looked at her and said “If you want it Charlotte, you’re going to have to work for it!” She smiled and dug deep giving it her all, I managed to keep pace with her as together we sprinted towards the finish line “How much do you want it Charlotte? How much?” She answered by opening up her reserves and speeding up, this was great, a sprint finish for a 156 Mile race across the Sahara, I found a surge of untapped energy as together we crossed the line Charlottes tag registering just a second before mine, I was happy and so was she.
I received my medal and customary kiss on the cheek from Patrick before meeting up with Mike Buss, another British runner in the tent next door to ours. It was an awesome week. I met some fantastic people and learnt some more about myself. I felt a sense of satisfaction and some quiet pride. The next two nights we spent not in the bivouac but back in the Berber Palace hotel, re-energizing and resting. One evening there was an award ceremony for the Brits and Irish, the two heroes of the evening were the fastest Brit, Tobias Mews also formally of the tent next door and ironically one of the last forty runners an Irishman from Derry. Tobias had an amazing race, it was his first ever attempt at the Marathon Des Sables and he’d come in 21st place, not only that but over the course of the week he’d turned out to be one of the most likable people in the bivouac, when he was called up for his award he had a well deserved standing ovation. The second man of the evening was one of the last forty runners; he was from Derry in the north of the island of Ireland. The last forty on the last day started an hour ahead of everyone else, it was a touching moment as on the last day everyone ran from the start line through the bivouac, the Berbers not having had to take the camp down. The last forty began their journey many hobbling with pain etched across their faces. The entire bivouac had got up from their tents spontaneously and formed two lines, a guard of honour and clapped every one of them all the way through of the bivouac, these people had covered the same ground as us but in a much longer times meaning their pain had been prolonged that much longer, they had earned our respect and our empathy. Strangely there was one man who took off like a rocket out in front; in fact he was still going like a rocket when he was the first to cross the finish line! It turned out that he was in the last forty not because he had been injured or couldn’t run fast but because he had stopped to help others along the way. As he put it that evening “You should have seen the look on their faces as I crossed the line!” We all roared with laughter and approval, this race was one full of great characters.
What do I take away with me from my experience of the Marathon Des Sables? Great memories, new friends, a better understanding of myself and the discovery of a depth of reserves that I thought I had lost and a reinvigorated confidence in my abilities.

But maybe best of all is the knowledge that because of the Facing Africa team and you our sponsors we have managed to make a difference to the lives of many of the most vulnerable children in Africa. Thank you. On a personal not I couldn’t have done this without the support of my wonderful Wife Fi, those of us who race know its not just us that make the sacrifices, thank you my love x.