Living Dangerously - the Marathon Des Sables 2000 by James Henderson

It’s part Petit Prince and part Bravo Two Zero, this one. On the one hand a dreamy excursion into one of the most exotic but desolate places in the world and on the other sheer brute physicality, the annual Marathon des Sables is seven days of exultation and desperation in the Sahara Desert.

During the race the runners cover 150 miles (220 kilometres) in Morocco, self-contained except for water and medical assistance. They carry their own food, bedding, spare clothing and emergency equipment. The course takes them through dunes, oueds (dry water-courses) and mountains, occasional oasis valleys and possibly even sandstorms, but mostly through the remorseless, limitless and all but barren flatlands of the desert.

It is a week of sweat on encrusted sweat, dehydration and body-weight loss, blisters growing on blisters and, worst of all, the killing frustration of a visible goal, a checkpoint or a finish line, that hovers, for hours, on the horizon like a mirage, but refuses to get any closer.

It’s five years since I ran the Marathon des Sables, but the pain is gone, my toenails have grown back and now it has a fond place in the memory - the training, running all through the winter; the preparation, assembling the requisite lightweight equipment and food, and the running itself: the heat, the smells and sights of the desert, the dunes, the open sores and hideous feet and then the challenge defeated, the incomparable relief and satisfaction of making it.

The Marathon des Sables is the purest of challenges; a running race in the Sahara, the largest stretch of barren land in the world. It (and more recently other races like it), has grown steadily in popularity over the past few years, starting with a covey of 23 lunatic pioneers in 1896 and increasing to an annual 700 runners, 150 of whom each year are from Britain.

It’s the knuckle-dragger impulse for adventure raising its head again. Now that our creature comforts are taken care of (in most of the Western World, at least), some people just want to make it hard again. It makes them feel alive. More and more people (mostly men, but about 10% of them women) want to take on physical adversity, for the sheer joy of facing a challenge and beating it.

There are six daily ‘stages’ to the race. Day one is 25 or 30 kilometres, around three hours for most competitors. Runners start off strong and keen, optimistic. Finally they can give full rein to the months of dreaming (years in some cases) and to the nervous energy that has built over the previous two days while waiting for the off. But the truth comes home in just ten minutes in the Sahara sun, as the brutal fact of the running begins. Competitors shuffle down into a plod. They are not pushing against an aerobic barrier (against puff). They must settle into a rhythm that they can keep up for hours. Endurance is the key.

Days two and three are more of the same, but longer. And the organisers throw in a sickener. Usually dunes. Running in sand is a lung-buster. Sand is the most liquid thing in the desert, splashing away from each footfall and sapping the energy, demanding double effort with every pace. Then there’s the heat, reflected inwards by the slopes like a radar dish. It’s like running in an oven.

With the total absence of actual water, even in the air, sweat evaporates instantaneously. It has to be replaced. Bottled water is distributed at checkpoints along the course. Runners dispel the blanket of heat for a moment by pouring some onto their head.

After three days the wear-down effect has begun. Meagre rations fail to replace the energy expended and runners gradually lose their strength. Rucksacks and running shoes rub, turning burns into sores. An ill-fitting pair of running shoes (which must be at least a size above normal to allow for expansion in the heat) will rip wounds into a runners’ feet. The medical tent is like a scene from MASH, with staff chatting cheerily as they tear back flaps of skin and dress blisters. The bandages will be like a mummy’s rags within hours.

Day four is fearsome. It’s between 70 and 80 kilometres long. Now it is not just the heat of the day they have to cope with, but exhaustion, loneliness, aches and cramps as they run and walk into the night. The brain begins to play tricks. In their desperation runners rant and rave (it’s a good way to keep yourself moving as it happens). Some become delirious. Others simply burst into tears with frustration. A few throw in the towel. They may have dreamed about this for months, but for about 20 runners each year it turns out to be more than they can take.

On Day five there is a rest and runners use the little of their rationed water that they can spare to wash their socks and shirts which, with all the sand, almost turn into sandpaper (I saw a dried shirt snap of all things). By the by friendships have formed. People who otherwise would never meet - firemen and lawyers, bankers and engineers - are thrown together in the tents. They develop a mutual recognition and sometimes a lifelong bond.

They would like to think that they were nearly home, but Day six is... oh, just 42 kilometres. A whole marathon in other words. And the compounded effect of the previous four days of running make it a more significant prospect than a normal marathon. Again the organisers will throw in a sickener - more dunes, or a mountain perhaps. In the humorous spirit of the event, runners joke that they will record a ‘personal worst’ marathon time. By this stage many of them walk part of the way (some competitors consciously set out to walk the whole course), but somehow they make it.

Bearded, hair shocked and skin tanned and dirty, they look a ragged and desperate bunch on the final morning. But the spirits run high. Ahead there is a (relative) sprint for home, just 18 kilometres. Barring disaster, they have made it. Even now, though, the course doesn’t pull any punches. The last few kilometres can seem like an eternity, made more torturous by the expectations.

Eventually the finish line draws into view and it is at an end: a complex surge of relief and elation floods the veins. Now there is unlimited food, water to drink and to wallow in. The senses are revitalised - baking bread smells like manna. A few feel ‘what now?’ but most runners take a simple but huge satisfaction in the challenge faced and defeated.

At the top end, the Marathon des Sables now attracts some serious competitors, including national 50km and 100km champions and some sub 2 hr 20 marathon runners. But this race is not really about them. The thing that gives the Marathon des Sables its spirit are the ordinary men and women, the hundreds of them each year, who are dreamers and foot-sloggers in equal measure.