Event report: 2007 Marathon des Sables, Sahara Desert, Morocco
Pre-race:
We had known we were running the 2007 Marathon des Sables for at least 18 months. It was entirely natural, therefore, that we found ourselves scouring London for compulsory equipment the night before our departure. Anti-venom pumps were finally tracked down in Canada Water and Kew; then, mad dash around London done, it was back to the flat to sort the pre-ordered food (well, the two-thirds of it that had actually arrived) into separately bagged daily rations. The shortfall in the week's calories requirement was made up with Super Noodles, bought during a rapid trawl of Tesco. The worrying gulf between the size of our backpacks, and the pile of supplies and equipment that had to go in them, was temporarily ignored as we scooped everything into a holdall.
The check-in queue at Gatwick was full of the distinctive Raidlight backpacks that are virtually standard issue for the MdS. It was interesting to listen to the conversations going on around us which varied between willy-waving claims of covering vast distances in training wearing backpacks loaded with bricks, to chat from those who appeared to have done most of their training on the Internet. After months of training in relative isolation, we were at last able to see who we would be sharing this week-long ordeal with. I was half expecting a plane full of chisel-jawed supermen and women, but this was not the case. Statistically speaking, something like one in ten MdS competitors is over 50, and the average age hovers somewhere around the late 30s. This was certainly reflected on our plane. Although the majority looked fit, there were a few who looked incapable of even a fraction of the distances and conditions we were about to take on. Apprehensive of how we, too, would fare, we said nothing.
After landing in Ouarzazate, we were transferred to our hotel. Smug grins had followed the announcement that the Brits were to take over the only five-star hotel in town, while the other nationalities languished in lesser accommodation. These disappeared when we saw dinner. Moroccan stars are clearly different. That evening was spent checking equipment and trying to shoehorn our week's supplies of food and equipment into backpacks that seemed to take on reverse-Tardis qualities.
Of all the nervous questioning we'd encountered in the build-up to the event, `how heavy is your bag?' was foremost. A few runners had boasted of getting their weight down to 7-8kg through ultra-light, ultra-expensive equipment and extreme measures such as chopping the handles off toothbrushes.
Considering my food alone weighed this amount, and I was only just over the minimum calories requirement, I had no idea how they managed it. The top 50 athletes were clearly in on the secret though, as their bags were no larger than an average handbag.
Coaches left for the desert at 6am. Months of MdS talk and training were over; there was nothing more to do but sit back and endure the lengthy journey (made longer by an en masse pee stop 10 minutes in - a combination of nerves and frantic hydration). During the journey we were issued with our MdS roadbooks - our bibles for the week. They showed the course, which had been secret up to this point, and the rules for the week. There was initial surprise that the race would be 138 miles, rather than the expected 150. Any relief was quickly replaced by concern at the terrain, however. We had expected a `dune day'; instead we appeared to have dunes every day, to a lesser or greater extent, and some pretty horrific climbs. The MdS's reputation as `the toughest footrace on Earth' is clearly one that race director Patrick `Jack' Bauer treasures.
An interminable six hours later the coaches pulled off the road and we transferred to Army lorries for the short journey to the bivouac. Here, we took possession of Tent 77, our home for the week. Our tentmates were to be Susie Wheeldon, Pete Davies, Phil Mott, Murray Campbell, Neil Johnson and Edward Callaghan. Closet perverts to a man (and woman). The frankly astonishing amount of porn bore testament to this - that said, it was to come in very handy throughout the week in persuading unwilling berbers to help make our tent sandstorm-proof - an ongoing challenge. The rest of the day was spent settling in, and enjoying a multinational game of cricket in the centre of the bivouac, which was arranged in a large double crescent with nationalities grouped together. It was to be taken on and reassembled in exactly the same form each night so that weary runners could find their tents with ease.
That evening the organisers fed us and, being French, the food was good, and accompanied by a demi-bouteille de vin rouge - luxury indeed. Then it was back to Tent 77 to attempt our first night of desert slumber. The rock-hard ground and a lively sandstorm conspired to prevent this, bidding welcome to `Would you rather?' a less than family-friendly game imported from Edinburgh. The rules were simple - faced with two equally unpalatable choices, you had to pick one. Dot Cotton came up a lot. She was normally frisky. I still pity the vicar in the neighbouring tent who is unlikely ever to recover from what he overheard during the course of the week.
The following morning was spent in the now desperate attempt to cram everything into our packs. The regionally famous MdS veteran Rory Coleman deigned to visit the lowly mortals in Tent 77. His shedding-weight advice? `Bin it. Bin it. Bin it.' The kettles Duncan had speed-purchased reduced him to embarrassed silence; ridiculously bulky, they would not have looked out of place on an Aga. With the bare minimum in my bag, it still came in at around 15kg. This was heavier than I was expecting, but Duncan and I had planned to walk the first day so, if necessary, I knew I could shed more weight before the running began.
Organisers' scrutineering was not as zealous as feared. Far from being required to empty my swollen bag all over the floor, I was simply asked to confirm the number of calories I would be carrying, whether I had everything on the compulsory list and then issued with a rocket flare for use in an emergency. Medical checks were slightly more involved. A trio of doctors studied my ECG in silence, leaving me standing there waiting to be told that I had some horrific heart condition. In the end, all I got was a firm lecture on the importance of salt tablets. Others were not so lucky - a cruel time to be pulled out. Surplus, non-race luggage was deposited and then it was back to the tent. Nothing could stop us starting now. A final meal was provided - beer rather than wine - before the race and `self sufficiency' began the next day
Day 1 - Dist: 18.31 miles - Temp: 41C
The day started at 6am with the Berbers unceremoniously removing our tents. In truth, we had all been awake for some time. I knew the desert would be cold at night; I had not imagined it would be this bad. Even with a sleeping bag designed to cope with sub-zero temperatures, I struggled. Duncan had brought the sleeping bag he'd used for his last trip to Nepal and, at some stage on his return leg, some Nepalese wag had stolen the down filler. This managed to slip through his pre-race checks. Consequently, for the first night, all he had for warmth was its waterproof bag. For the rest of the week he made do by sleeping in whatever clothes he could scavenge (strangely from the Dutch tent that hosted the only attractive girl in the race).
The race was not due to start until 9am but the three hours passed in a frenzy of activity - abluting, eating, re-packing backpacks, binding up feet, sorting out snacks and electrolytes, and generally getting ourselves in the right frame of mind. There was a universal feeling of relief that the wait was over, but also nervousness that the factors we had not really trained with - the heat, the sand, the greater weight of packs - would cause problems.
Arriving promptly at the start line, we milled for some time. M Bauer addressed us at length in French from the roof of his Land Rover and then insisted on us singing Happy Birthday to each competitor, in turn, whose birthday fell on that day (three). After some morale-raising Euro-pop came the countdown and, finally, we were off. Runners steamed away from the start and it took a considerable amount of determination to let them go and stick to our Day 1 strategy of walking - especially with the Eurosport helicopter making repeated passes.
Although my pack was heavy, the going was firm and we made good progress for the first 5kms, at which point we crossed a series of passes. There was only one route up these, so our pace was dictated by others. The going was not difficult (think Cornish coastal path) but being restrained from a normal pace was slightly wearing. This continued to the first checkpoint at 12km. Here, the route widened as we encountered our first dunes, stretching for 4km. Although not particularly big, they took a remarkable amount of energy to cross. If the larger ones were as hard work, we were in trouble.
Although it was hot, the humidity was low and there was a good breeze - so we felt the temperature was not really a problem. Others begged to differ. As we exited the dunes, we found a French competitor retching, incomprehensible and desperately trying to crawl into the shade of a small bush. Duncan tried to make him drink some water, but he just threw it back up. Resisting the urge to fire off his safety flare, we left him with a growing crowd and went on to report his plight at the next checkpoint. It was a sobering moment that highlighted the importance of keeping ourselves hydrated.
When we finally got back to camp, I stripped off my shoes with some trepidation to assess the day's damage - two very small blisters, one on each heel. I pierced these with a needle and thread and left the thread in overnight to drain them. Of greater concern was the fact that the entire top half of my head had turned an alarming blue. Further investigation revealed that this had been caused by a combination of sweat and the coloured turban I had bought at the start, in a Lawrence of Arabia moment. Darkness descended, ushering in another night of searching for a comfortable sleeping position and pondering the merits of Dot Cotton. When sleep was eventually attained, the Sahara kicked in with a playful sandstorm that flattened our tent on top of us, and removed a few others entirely. A long night.
Day 2 - Dist: 21.87 miles - Temp: 43C
Our first running day. With my pack-weight cut by the consumption of the previous day's food, and by limiting carried water to 1.5 litres, this proved just about possible. Duncan and I had devised a run-20-minutes, walk-10-minutes strategy, and so set off at a canter. The going was flat for the first 5km, followed by a series of climbs and descents. I felt strong when the first walk interval came up and continued to run; Duncan slowed to the pre-arranged walk. My exuberance proved a mistake as, over the day, Duncan was faster, thereby vindicating the strategy.
We ran across flat ground of varying consistency, and through valleys, culminating in a 9km stretch across a dried lake bed towards Jebel El Oftal. It looked benign to start with; it was only as we closed in on it that we began to appreciate how understated our route book was with its warning of a `difficult climb'. It was a beast. The first two-thirds was soft sand - think two paces forward, one back. This then became a steep scramble over boulders while trying to avoid small falling rocks dislodged by competitors above. Near the summit, the incline was so steep that the organisers had been forced to attach ropes.
As I approached this section a shout for a doctor came from below, followed by a flare. The competitor directly in front of me was a medic and went back down to help. His companion and I struggled to the top with his pack, a further challenge to an already unpleasant climb. The view from the top was stunning, but largely ignored. The focus was the day's bivouac, visible through dunes 4 km away. With the end of the stage in sight it was just a question of gritting it out. Never had an eight-man tent looked so appealing. Everyone in Tent 77 was home within an hour or so of one another, and the discomfort of the day was rapidly forgotten as feet were patched up, food devoured and the banter begun.
Day 3 - Dist: 20.18 miles - Temp: 38C
We planned to continue with the 20/10 strategy and our attitude was that Day 4 was going to be a killer, so we just had to survive the day uninjured. Following morning announcements and sing-alongs - the Europop was beginning to grow on me - we were off. There was the customary Eurosport chopper-fuelled sprint start, followed by a gradual steadying in pace. By Checkpoint 1, the field was relatively spread out. The stage proved relatively straightforward. With the exception of one climb, the first 20km was fairly flat. My backpack was now comfortable and the 20/10 meant we could sustain our pace when running. We found ourselves moving up the field.
In what was becoming standard practice, the route planners upped the ante for the final 10km with a series of dunes, a long soft sandy climb and then a final stretch into the camp which seemed to go on forever. However it was a good day, and everyone in the tent was back in reasonable time.
It was interesting to see how unfair the blister fairy had been with her attentions. Of Tent 77, five were fine, the other three hit hard. Susie had become a regular in the medical tent - indeed there were French mumblings about pulling her out, which she ignored - and Cally and Neil were also reasonably damaged. Despite this, morale was high, helped by our increasingly depraved conversational therapy (David Jason and various farm animals were now featuring). As game initiator Murray pointed out, the lower the morals the higher the morale.
Day 4 - Dist: 44.06 miles - Temp: 37C
This was the biggie - the crux of the race. Race officials appeared to have thought that by chopping a couple of miles off the regular `long day' distance, they could get thoroughly carried away with the terrain - and that they did. The first 20km was over flat but rocky ground, 20km to 27km was a series of dried watercourses, 27km to 29km took us through some very grown-up dunes, and 29km to 34.5km was a long and steep climb (25%). Then it was 10km of the most unpleasant dunes yet encountered - depressingly soft and just too high to scale in one go. This was followed by 8km of soft lake bed, 5km across a rocky flat stage, and then a final 5km of dunes and into camp.
Duncan and I did the entire stage together. Around the marathon mark, I started to struggle. It was the first time that tiredness (rather than strategy) had forced me to walk. We finally exited the dunes and stumbled into CP4. It was here, while lying in the shade of a Land Rover and trying to work out how to get another two litres of water into me, that the elite runners sped by. So as not to spread the field out too far, the top 50 competitors at that point in the week were delayed at the start for two hours. The eventual race winner Lahcen Ahansal, from Morocco, would finish that day's stage in a staggering 5hr 50mins, sustaining an average speed of 12kmph.
Having rested for a while, we set off again. As a treat I got my iPod out for the first time, and Morning Runner kept me going through the next couple of miles before once again I slowed to an unscheduled walk. I had no energy left. Despite appeals to the contrary, Duncan remained with me, while I crammed jelly babies, nuts and Peperami bars down in a desperate attempt to refuel. An hour on, these eventually hit the bloodstream and we were off again. The 20/10 became very elastic, but we seemed to make good progress.
We dragged, walked, and stumbled our way across a large dried lake bed and, just as it was getting dark, encountered a sandstorm. At last I could get out my much-maligned swimming goggles. With an internal avalanche of `I told you so's', I lead a visually impaired Duncan through the dunes and on to the final checkpoint. From here we knew it was just 9km to the final bivouac - after what we had achieved that day, a breeze, one would have thought. But no - the dark hid rocks, which we stumbled over with virtually every pace. Running was out, and walking was combined with a constant stream of expletive aimed at the rocks, the desert and each other. This stretch went on forever until, finally, we saw the bivouac glimmering in the distance. We crawled past the officials on the line and used our last remnants of energy to remove sweat-soaked kit before collapsing into our sleeping bags. Over the next couple of hours, the rest of Tent 77 trickled home. We had survived the long day.
Day 5 - 'Rest Day'
The joy of not having the tent removed at 6am was exquisite. We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and desperately pretended that a lie-in on rock-solid desert floor was in fact comfortable (all our hugely expensive Thermorests had punctured within the first couple of days). Mid-morning, we were all asked to congregate in the middle of the bivouac. With his customary verbosity, M Bauer told us that a competitor had died of heart failure during the night. A minute's silence was held and we returned to our tents somewhat subdued. However, it was not long before banter resumed. Dwelling on it wasn't going to help anyone. Late afternoon, in what has become an MdS tradition, every competitor turned out to clap the final few runners home. Last place was taken by an American woman who had been on the go for 34.5 hours for the stage. She would not have the benefit of a rest day. One could only admire her grit.
Day 6 - Dist: 26.3 miles - Temp: 41C
Marathon day. We were told by Jack of his pride that so many of us had completed what had been one of the toughest long stages in the race's history. The tentmates of the deceased competitor, Frenchman Bernard Julé, were moved to the front of the start line. In another fitting tribute, competitors placed rocks on the spot where his tent had stood. As we lined up, there was a general feeling that having got this far, nothing would now stop us. The terrain further buoyed us - no large dunes and relatively flat - as did our lighter backpacks.
With little need to keep anything back in reserve, many competitors started to push the pace. I encountered four members of Tent 77 and we ran together for a while, settling into our stride and enjoying the lack of obstacles. The checkpoints passed quickly and soon Pete and I were working out whether we might finish in under five hours. We decided we could and hammered the last 10km - although `running it in' rapidly became 20/10. Our kick at the finish left five competitors wondering where we had come from.
We arrived back at the tent to find Duncan and Phil already there - Duncan having finished in 4 ˝ hours - a time that would have been considered respectable for the London Marathon. Everybody made it back, but the injuries were beginning to show. Neil's, Susie's and Cally's feet looked like something out of a horror film and Murray had damaged his knee so severely that he had to use his poles as crutches. But at this stage we did not mind - there were just seven miles left (admittedly, over sand dunes so large they are a tourist attraction). Barring catastrophe, this toughest of races was in the bag, and there was a general last-day-of-term feel. The organisers even shipped in an orchestra to entertain us for our final night. Lying in the middle of the Sahara, admiring the incredible array of stars and listening to the music, was quite a special feeling.
Day 7 - Dist: 7.31 miles - Temp: 40C
The dunes loomed large, but rumour had it that they were pretty firm and the direct route missed the largest ones. Duncan had been hit hard by a combination of giving his all yesterday and a stomach bug. He desperately forced energy gels down in an attempt to get some energy into his system - he looked pretty spent, but frankly everybody did.
Following `Jack's' final morning talk, we were off. The pace was good and runners stayed clumped together, making overtaking difficult. As the 20-minute point came up, Duncan slowed to the pre-determined walk, but I spotted a rival for my position up ahead who was making good headway, and we decided to part. I entered the dunes which were indeed firm, and settled into a routine of walking up and running down. Despite protesting legs, the proximity of the finish spurred me on, and it was not long before the finish was in sight. Pete and I finished together. Jack stood on the line handing out the medals and kissing anybody within reach.
We stood at the finish and cheered in Tent 77: Phil, who was still talking to his video camera, Neil, who was losing multiple toenails, Cally, whose blisters had merged, Murray, who came in on one foot and two poles, Duncan, who had spent the morning `stopping' in the dunes, and Susie who had completed the majority of the race - without complaint - on feet missing huge chunks of skin.
We were bussed back to Ouarzazate for a night of serious celebration. The seven-hour journey gave us time to consider the week we had just been through. Despite, or perhaps because of the demands, the MdS is an extraordinarily positive experience. It was in part due to the support of the unpaid organisers and medical teams, and the beauty of the landscape through which we had run. But, mainly, for me, it was due to the cameraderie and humour of the other competitors - and specifically the occupants of Tent 77.