The Marathon de Sables (MdS) is widely recognised as
the world’s toughest footrace. Its
translation literally means ‘Marathon of the Sands’ and it’s both a name and
reputation that is well deserved. For
seven days competitors from all over the world will attempt to run over 151
miles (nearly 250kms) across some of the hardest, difficult and inhospitable
terrain on the planet. – The Sahara
Desert. Running the equivalent of a
marathon a day, the rules state that all competitors must complete the race
‘self-sufficient’ meaning that all food and equipment needed for the entire
duration of the race must be carried while running. Add to that temperatures in excess of 120
degrees, violent sand-storms, freezing nights and large scorpions and you may
ask who in their right mind would even think of competing in such an
event? It was a question I had asked
myself many times. This is what
happened….
It started just eight months before when a good friend
and someone I respect immensely, Tim Ivison, mentioned that he had decided to
enter the MdS. I had known Tim for a
long time and had even ran the London Marathon with him that year when at short
notice he had stepped in to be my ‘zoo-keeper’ helping and encouraging me the
entire way as I struggled the distance wearing a 20kg seven foot tall rubber
rhinoceros suit for charity. Having both
flown in from Australia just a few hours before the start I thought this was the
ultimate endurance test. However, listening
to Tim talk about the MdS made London sound like a picnic and before long I
found myself agreeing that this should be our next challenge. It certainly fit my organising principle on
setting goals, which states that if I have any idea HOW I am going to achieve
the goals I set, when I set them - then they’re too small! You see, even though
the event was eight months away, there is something powerful in making a
decision to do something of that magnitude, especially without having any
references of doing things even remotely that difficult. I started getting excited about the idea,
then scared, then excited again and then imagining what and how I would feel
crossing the finish line. The thought
gave me tingles. This was now definitely
something I had to do.
How do you train for something like the MdS? Great question and I guess everyone is
different, however my training guide and mentor turned out to be a friend who
had run the event three years previous and whose recent talk on it had inspired
Tim to make the leap himself. The man’s
name is David Becker and I could not have picked a better role model. David is inspirational in every sense of the
word and I would like to say upfront that I owe a lot of my success to his
words of support, wisdom and encouragement.
Although by January I think even David was a little worried by the
sparseness of my training as, due to my consistently travelling lifestyle, I
found it hard to keep commitments to a regular running schedule. Having said that, deadlines are powerful
things and I think I did more training in the three weeks prior to the event
than in the whole two months before as the realisation of what I was about to
do finally came knocking louder on the door. I certainly got some funny looks from my local gym members as night
after night I ran on a treadmill wearing ankle weights to simulate the sand, a
big woolly fleece to simulate the heat and a rucksack filled with yellow pages
and 30 pounds of gym weights which is similar to what I’d be carrying throughout
the race.
Finally April 3rd arrived and I said goodbye to my
friends and family and boarded a plane to Ouazazate along with the rest of the
British contingent (which would eventually make up nearly a third of the 650
entrants.) And off we flew to Morocco.
The first night we were to spend in a hotel, our last
bit of luxury before being transported to the middle of nowhere for 10
days. The hotel was excellent and that
night we made new friends, ate well and nervously laughed and joked about the adventure
that lay ahead. Going back for an early
night I checked and repacked my kit and as I crossed the room accidentally
kicked the coffee table instantly putting a large gash between two of my toes
that took ten minutes to stop bleeding.
Hmm, schoolboy error, I thought.
Here I am with a foot injury and I haven’t even touched the sand
yet! You have to laugh.
Next morning we boarded a coach and started the
six-hour journey to the start point.
Five hours later the terrain got so bad that for the last hour we had to
be transported in the back of trucks as the coaches reached their limit on
where they could go.
On arrival at the first base camp our instructions
were to get together in a group of eight, find a tent and make ourselves ‘at
home’. The guys I ended up with were
great and the final role call in ‘tent 68’ was as follows: Steve Chadwick, a
squadron leader from the RAF who was doing this for the second time. Simon Pressed, a trader from London who had
come 2nd in the Thames Meander and who always had a smile and
something funny to say, no matter how big his blisters were. Alastair, a solicitor from London who spoke
fluent French, Nick Jarvis from Bedford whom I’d met a few weeks before through
a mutual friend and at 39 was in great physical shape having trained seriously
for the MdS for over a year. Gary
Jackets, a triathlete from London, Edward a 49 year old veteran from Cornwall
who got stuck in and never complained once throughout the whole race and, of
course, Timbo and myself.
There is a saying that nothing bonds like common
adversity and over the next 10 days we became the best of friends, although I
have to say that as an ‘all guy’ tent in the middle of the desert, it did not
take long for the social protocol to take a back seat and before you knew it we
were proudly talking and making noises like you wouldn’t do at home.
The whole of the following day was dedicated to
compulsory kit and medical checks. All
contestants had to present a whole array of mandatory equipment as well as a
minimum 2000 calories a day, doctor’s certificate and ECG report to show that
your heart was strong enough to compete in the race. After you have been checked you are then
issued with a distress flare and some salt tablets and your kit is
weighed. Mine came in at fourteen and a
half kilos (32lbs). That night we ate
our last ‘provided’ meal and bedded down for a good night sleep in our tent
that consisted of a piece of sack cloth with no sides, propped up with sticks
that we affectionately named the ‘Moroccan Hilton’.
The next morning we awoke at 5.30am as the sun started
rising and within 10 minutes the Berbers had flattened our 5-star residence and
were busy loading it onto the trucks along with the eighty or so other tents,
ready to assemble them so they’d be ready for us when we arrived at our finish
point sometime that afternoon. The first
stage was a short 25km designed to warm us up, settle us in and test our kit
and feet for sore spots and loose straps.
We assembled on the starting point and listened to Patrick Bower, the
race founder, talk for 10 minutes about the troubles around the world and how
the race was an example of how so many nationalities could work and focus
together towards a common goal. He then
started counting down from ten to zero in French.
Although I had mentally prepared myself and visualized
this moment many times, the feeling of excitement and anticipation in those few
seconds before the race were amazing. To
me this was always going to be as much, if not more, of a mental challenge than
a physical one. Just like in
fire-walking (which I have conducted for thousands of people of the last
15 years), once the first step is taken you have no choice but to keep going. The real
test is not in completing it, but showing up to begin with. The fact that ten times as many competitors
quit before even stepping on a plane than actually dropped out during the race
was testimony to that. Mentally, I was
as strong and ready as I would ever be; there was no doubt about that. Now the only thing that mattered was making
sure my body kept up with my mind.
As expected, day one ambled out quite nicely and there
were no real problems. I kept pace with
Tim for most of the way and then decided to put my headphones on for the last
few miles as a ‘reward’. As the
carefully selected list of motivational songs started playing, my feet moved
faster and I glided in the last twenty minutes with a smile. Back at the Hilton most of the other guys had
already arrived and I mixed a rehydration drink for Tim who came in just a few
moments later. Time to cook some food,
sort out my kit for morning and settle in for some much needed recovery
time. That night, just as I was about to
climb into my sleeping bag I went to move my roll mat and my head torch caught
a rather large scorpion square on that I had inadvertently been lying on for
the last two hours. I’m not sure which
one of us was more startled. Couple that
with the ever-present threat of the infamous flesh eating camel spiders (which
are fearless predators and can run as fast as a man!) and from that point on we
all checked our shoes and hats very carefully in the morning before putting
them on.
Day two was the infamous ‘Dune Day’. We had pitched camp a couple of miles from
the Dunes and we looked up in awe as they rose into the distance like the scene
from an Arabian postcard. A spectacular
but formidable sight as the realisation that we were about to run 34km across
what turned out to be the largest Dunes in North Africa came upon us. From a distance it was hard to judge their
size but as we got closer it soon became apparent that some of these things
were hundreds of feet high. My decision
not to take gators was soon to prove a poor choice as every 20 minutes I
emptied piles of sand from my trainers and felt more grit get into the little
blisters that had started forming as a result.
Luckily my feet held out well and by noon I was passing many hobbling
people who looked like they would rather be elsewhere.
By now the main challenge had identified itself in,
not in my feet, but in my shoulders as the 30+lb I was carrying started taking
its toll. Due to following a
recommendation on one of the websites (another schoolboy error) I had opted to
wear a ‘Mole-track’ rucksack and regretted my choice from the first mile. Not only did its woefully inadequate 25ltr
capacity mean that I had more stuff strapped to the outside of it than I
carried on the inside, but there was absolutely no weight distribution on the
hips. This meant that everything was
carried by your shoulders and by halfway across the dunes the straps were
starting to feel like cheese-wire.
However I kept my spirits high and admired the breath-taking scenery as
I galloped along from checkpoint to checkpoint and couldn’t resist a cheery
little chorus of ‘Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life’ as I scaled one of
the larger dunes, much to the amusement (and bemusement) of many of my fellow
runners.
The end of Dune Day was met with a great feeling of
accomplishment as I bounced happily into camp to meet the rest of the
chaps. By now the finishing order was
becoming apparent. I would arrive to
find Steve, Nick and Simon halfway through dinner having sped the distance at
what for me was always an impressive display of stamina. Alistair and Gary would usually follow
shortly after I arrived with Edward in hot pursuit, however by the end of Day 2
Timbo was starting to develop some problems with his feet and, having arrived
with his never failing smile and ‘no worries’ trademark, would bravely limp off
to pay a visit to ‘Doc Trotters’.
One of the highlights of every day was when the
‘postman’ would come to the tent to deliver email messages that friends and
relatives could send via the official website.
(www.darbaroud.com) They were
literally little pieces of ‘tent gold’ and I would like to thank everyone who
sent words of inspiration and messages of support. It was a great boost and each night before I
went to sleep I would read every single one again and again, soaking up the
encouragement and helping to set my mind right for the following day.
At 5.30am next morning we started our usual routine
which by now began with dragging our kit outside of the tent so the Berbers
could take it down, cooking breakfast, collecting our water ration, preparing
our feet and packing our kit. In total
it was a 2-3 hour routine, the most important part of which I would spend on my
feet. First I would carefully scrape off
the ingrained sand with a knife, dress the sore spots and individually wrap
each toe, heel and arch in protective tape.
I would then apply Vaseline to the bandages to reduce the friction, put
on my socks and apply more Vaseline over the socks. It was a tip that David Becker had passed on
and the hour or so I invested each morning in this ritual was to eventually see
my feet in better shape by the end of the course than many other
competitors.
Day three was just as tough, a 38 km stretch across
open dessert but I was in good form and was surprised to finish in the top half
of the pack and feeling strong, despite a bad headwind for at least 20 miles, putting
me in good spirits for the fearsome day four: A non-stop double marathon over
some of the worst terrain yet. However,
trouble was to strike at about 4 am the next morning when I awoke feeling the
after effects of what was probably a poorly re-hydrated chicken korma. This turned out to be a bad mistake. When we got kicked out of our tents as usual
at 5.30 am I was in pretty poor shape and feeling as weak as a kitten. I couldn’t stomach any breakfast and could
barely lift my rucksack - not the best start for a 52-mile run. Oh well, I thought, if ever I needed an
opportunity to practise good state management, I guess I’m not going to get a
better one than this.
As suspected, there was no way I could run and the
first 13 miles took over 4 hours and the head wind was the harshest yet blowing
sand like a shot-blaster at gusts of up to 40 miles per hour right into your
face. By checkpoint three I was on
painkillers for the shoulders but my strength had started to return & I met
up with a couple of Americans and for the next 25 miles made good time
averaging 4-5 miles an hour over small dunes, deep soft sand, sharp stones
& steep hills. The temperature was
44 degrees (112F). I had aimed to make
checkpoint 5 (out of 7) by nightfall but because of my poor start I was about
10 miles short and now hadn’t eaten any solid food for over 24hrs. Plus my trust of powdered food had taken a
sharp downturn. It was at this point as
the sun disappeared and the darkness crept in (together with freezing
temperatures) that the last of my willpower started to ebb away. The realization that I had at least another
20 miles to run didn’t do anything to bring it back. After running over 100
miles in the most extreme conditions imaginable, I started feeling it was time
to quit. Every ounce of motivation had been squeezed out, every mental trick I
could play had been played and the last dregs of stamina were all that was
holding me upright. It was truly one of
the lowest times of my entire life. I
immediately started justifying my position with ego soothing self-talk like ‘I
should be proud of getting this far, I’ve nothing else to prove. Just fire the flare and in a couple of hours
I’ll be in a warm bed, well done’ etc. etc.
Then, unexpectedly, something amazing happened. Just
at the point where I was about to throw in the towel, I looked up through the
last of the sunlight to see a blind Korean man in his late 60’s run past me -
tied by the wrist to his guide. Talk
about inspiration. I stared in awe at
this frail old man trudging his way across the dessert without even seeing
where to place his feet. In that moment I realized something that will stay with
me forever. That no matter how hard you
think you have tried or how far you think you have come, or whatever low you
think you are at, there is ALWAYS another level. I felt a surge run through me. What kind of passion and motivation did this
man have and where did it come from? As
a student of human behavior, I had to know that answer. But in order to find out I had to catch up!
Through his guide and interpreter, I learned that this
man’s brother had died of cancer several years before and that every year since
then he had ran this race to raise money for the hospice that looked after
him. Every single year. That was all I
needed to know. This man’s unwavering
commitment to do good for others regardless of the cost or personal hardship he
endured touched my heart in a way that immediately made my legs feel lighter.
I ran for the next several hours although I now
desperately needed fuel. After a brief
stop collecting some firewood and thoroughly cooking a pasta portion I was back
on the road and pulled into checkpoint 5 at just after midnight and checkpoint
6 at around 2.30am. Quick stop to tip
another dune of sand out of my shoes, down 2 more painkillers and I set off for
the long haul home, the image of the Korean man still firmly in my mind.
Navigating through a moonless sky across the Sahara
with nothing but a head torch, compass and the occasional glow-stick is
certainly a wondrous experience and as the sun started to come up at around
5.40am I saw the finish line in the distance and felt strong enough for a fast
run, crossing the last mile in under 7 minutes with a smile of relief so big it
made my jaw ache! The benefit of
finishing that leg in under a day meant that I could use the entire next day to
recover before to preparing for the following day’s penultimate leg: another
full 26 mile marathon. However, by 6pm
that evening Tim still hadn’t arrived and by now both myself and the rest of
the tent were getting worried. There was
only two hours to go before the cut off time and if you were outside of that
you were disqualified. We all waited
nervously and 30 minutes later a familiar figure appeared on the horizon and
crossed the line with just over an hour to spare. By now Tim had been on the road for over 33
hours and even though he could only manage a brave hobble, he still had that
big smile. We were all relieved.
Having a sense of being over the worst, we set off on
day five’s marathon with high spirits, however the wind had now dropped and
today was getting hot. Very hot. By checkpoint 2 the recorded temperature was
48.8 Celsius in the shade (120F) and very uncomfortable. One of the downsides to that temperature is
that every sip of water from your bottle is like putting your mouth under the
hot tap. It does nothing to cool you
down but is vital to replace lost fluids.
After 22 miles I was seriously flagging when the unthinkable
happened. I went to take a sip of water
only to find out that the container in my backpack was empty. I had misjudged my pace and ran out. Due to the intense heat and relentless effort
I was nearing total exhaustion and with four miles left I now had to make a
choice. Do I pick up the pace and try to
make it to camp in half an hour hoping my body can stand that, or do I cut back
but risk being out longer in the heat with no water? I opted for a slightly faster pace and
reached the camp 35minutes later, elated but in a physical mess. One piece of great news was that a close
friend, Lynn May had travelled to the desert to see us finish and by now had arrived
at the camp with Tim’s Girlfriend, Alison Drummond. They were a welcome sight and demonstrated
once again that no matter how empty your tank may be, there is always something
that can pick you up in a heartbeat.
That night I hadn’t the energy to even cook so I ate
cold food and I waited by the finish line for Tim who, having played his
strategy well, came in just inside the cut off to rapturous applause and a huge
and much needed hug from Alison.
The final day was designed as the shortest, and almost
victory leg of ‘just’ 22km. However
having just run the best part of 140 miles as the crow flies, but more like
200+ when factoring in the terrain, this final stretch was still longer than a
half marathon and was still a ‘stretch’ as the temperature on the thermometer
hit its highest point yet at well over the 50 degrees C mark (nearly
130F). All around me people were drawing
on their last reserves and I felt sorry for those whose feet were in so much of
a state that their pace had been reduced to an agonising limp. Those last miles must have seemed like an
eternity to them as you could literally hear the blood squelching around in
some of the shoes and the pain on their faces said it all. I passed on encouragement wherever I could
and just kept going. The last 3 miles
wound through the town of Tazzarine and the streets were lined with locals who
came out to greet us. Lynn and Ali were
also riding along the course in Land Rovers shouting support and welcome words
to everyone in earshot. They were
great.
Around the final bend the finish line came into view
and with all the energy, adrenaline and mental stamina I could muster, I picked
up the pace and sprinted the last 500 yards crossing the line in a mixture of
emotional and physical exhaustion and elation that words simply cannot
describe. As Patrick Bauer shook my hand
and placed my finishers medal over my head, the realisation of what we had just
done started to kick in and I joined the rest of the crowd for celebratory hugs
and cheers as a few happy tears were shed.
My
final overall finishing position was 445 out of 650 with Tim crossing the
finish line on the last day a dozen or so places from the back, still with a
smile and clutching his medal with pride.
He spent three hours in foot surgery the following day. On the last night Edward made a comment that
I wholeheartedly agree with. He said
that the essence of the MdS is not where you finish but how you cope with
what’s thrown at you. To me, Tim showed
more courage, determination and mental toughness than the top ten finishers put
together and was always a real sense of inspiration for the rest of us. His pride in what he achieved is extremely
justified. Contrast that with people
who, having just completed the toughest footrace on earth, were finding excuses
to beat themselves up mentally for not getting a ‘personal best’ or for coming
outside the top 200 and you can start to understand why the MdS is not just
about how ‘physically’ fit you are. If
it were, then I for one would probably not have made it.
So
what is it about? Well I can only answer
for myself and say that for me it was a true sense of taking oneself to the
limits of what you think is possible only to find out that no matter how much
you think you can give, no matter how much you think you can take, no matter
what you thought was possible before - there is ALWAYS another level and it’s
only our thinking that stops us. I owe
that one to a blind Korean man who I will probably never meet again. Another great teacher and mentor once told me
that the essence of being alive is to keep reaching beyond our comfortable
grass and to continually keep pushing back the boundaries. I now understand what he meant. Eight months before, this race seemed
unconquerable - an impossible dream. Now
I know I could do it again if I had to.
Will
I? Never in a million years. At least until next time ;-) for the other
thing I found is that the human spirit is only truly alive when playing outside
of its comfort zone and it doesn’t take long before the mind starts to
recalibrate and wonder what else is possible.
Don’t get me wrong - it doesn’t have to be a physical challenge. It could be starting a business you’ve always
dreamed of but never dared try, or mending a part of a relationship you hadn’t
the courage to face. But beware as the
mind can be a great distraction and there will always be something we would
rather be doing than face the fear that comes with following our passion. The trick, as in the firewalk, is to take the
first step as no matter how ready you think you have to be, you’ll never get
there by standing still - but make a firm decision and there’s not an excuse in
the world that can stop you. Looking
back we didn’t have any fancy resources.
The most important thing we came with was courage. We left with medals.
Go
live your dream.
Comments
Post a Comment