'THE CRAZIEST THING I'LL EVER DO' by Duncan Craig

(Daily Express, Dec 26th, 2006)

MY TRAINING for the "toughest footrace on Earth" began where I feared the whole enterprise might end - in Accident & Emergency. Needing to prepare for a medically inadvisable six marathons in seven days, in the Sahara, it was vital that my flatmate Blake and I hit the ground running. Blake chose to hit a car instead, cycling into the stationary vehicle with a single-mindedness that boded well for the tough months ahead. The leisurely ride had been intended to gently introduce our cardiovascular systems to the concept of exercise. But before the two could even exchange pleasantries, we were crunching around in the remnants of a rear windscreen, Blake with a bloodied arm thrust skywards in a Black Power-like tribute to some half-remembered first aid advice and me - drawing on my extensive medical training - smirking and muttering "you loser".

Having braked suddenly at a pedestrian crossing, the driver of the car felt sufficiently culpable to offer his, by now rather draughty Vauxhall as an ambulance. By the time we reached the hospital, blood had burst the dam of Blake's T-shirt bandage and formed a Nile Delta down his upper arm and torso. Prompt treatment was assured. While stitches were inserted, a nurse was dispatched to find a replacement T-shirt from clothes 'donated' to the unit. We stared at the proffered green Adidas top with its faded, deep red, seemingly random patterning, and wondered how much say the donor actually enjoyed. That night I found it folded under my pillow. Thereafter, 'Dead Man's Shirt' was passed between us, hidden in each other's possessions with ever-more invention and serving as a morbid reminder of our less than auspicious first steps on the long journey to the start line of the 22nd Marathon des Sables.

THE Marathon of the Sands was conceived by Frenchman Patrick Bauer in 1986. Two years before, this former concert promoter undertook a 200-mile solo journey across the Algerian Sahara. Moved by the beauty and brutality of the landscape, and the purging catharsis it provoked, he decided to share the experience, while tapping into the growing appetite for self-flagellatory fundraising. Today, despite steep entry costs, a less than reassuring 'corpse repatriation fee' and more than a few differences to your average week in the sun, the MdS fills its restricted annual quota years in advance and raises hundreds of thousands of pounds for charity.

The annual event is defiantly, refreshingly sadistic, the perfect antidote to our pampered world. Self-sufficient, save for a stingy daily water allowance of nine litres, 750 competitors must conquer 150 miles of bleached, wind-lashed wilderness - a third of it in a single day. Temperatures bubble around 50C, sandstorms scour the resolve and towering sand dunes plunder near-bankrupt energy reserves. At night, when the merciless sun grudgingly retreats behind the horizon, the hobbling, withered masochists drag themselves into communal tents and the comforts of weightless, tasteless dried food and fractious sleep.

Every dawn they wake to a brutal choice: strap up their gnarled feet and push on into the unyielding furnace, or surrender to the ever-lengthening 'Liste des Abandons' and outwardly forgivable, inwardly insufferable failure. Make no mistake, if you don't conquer the desert first time, it will haunt you until your return - as Sicilian police officer Mauro Prosperi will attest. When he got lost in a sandstorm in 1994, he wandered the desert for nine days, living off dead bats and boiled urine. He was found 125 miles off course, 40lbs lighter, with terrible breath. Four years later he was back. As competitors are warned, the MdS is 'the craziest thing you're ever likely to undertake'.

AS I squatted, semi-naked in a searingly hot, North London basement, fingers interlocked beneath my chin, elbows flapping in synch with my exaggerated breathing, I began to seriously question that claim. An MdS veteran had warned me that one of the greatest enemies to preparation was runner's 'burnout'. A varied training programme was what was needed, he insisted. With Blake temporarily restricted to nothing more physically demanding than trying to shower with his plastic bag-encased arm held at 90 degrees, I plunged into Google, eventually resurfacing at Bikram Yoga. I was off to the desert; Bikram is done in 40C heat. I wanted a painless start; yoga is mostly standing around posing. Perfect.

'Any beginners with us today?' the incessantly upbeat instructor chirped. I didn't need to raise my hand. I was sweating like John Prescott at an office party and we'd only done the first breathing exercise. All around me svelte bodies in swimming costumes were being effortlessly contorted into unfathomable postures. 'Push back and up with the leg, forwards with the arm. I want you to be able to see those toes in the mirror coming over the back of your head. That's beautiful, Emily, really lovely.' Emily was doing her best to concentrate but I could see she was growing increasingly distracted. Her view of her toes was being eclipsed by that of a sodden, hairy man bobbing and lurching behind her like an idiot passer-by trying to get into a TV interview. Our eyes met, the yogi and the bear, and something approaching disgust flickered across her inscrutable features. Then I fell over.

My lazy preconceptions foundered in a sea of sweat on that first, gruelling morning. I have never worked so hard. Bikram, named after its now seriously financially enlightened founder Bikram Choudhury, consists of a 90-minute sequence of 26 postures and two breathing exercises which stretch and strengthen specific muscles, ligaments and joints in turn; the heat is to facilitate a deeper stretch and to flush the body of toxins. With a growing global army of followers, it is credited with everything from improving alignment and circulation to curing chronic injuries and relieving stress. I left drenched and dizzy, but undeniably revitalised. Thereafter, I found the sessions slightly less arduous. I still looked like a dad in his daughter's ballet class, but I found my flexibility improving and energy levels increasing.

OUR aim was to be 'marathon fit' - capable of banging out 26 miles in relative comfort - four months prior to the event in March. This process itself should take months; by the time Blake returned we had only weeks. The body quickly came to expect a daily hit and would become restless if rested. Steadily my endurance began to build: an hour, 90 minutes, two hours. But distance running is as much about rhythm as fitness, and now the engine - the heart and lungs - was rarely getting out of second. I was like a pub regular drinking the same amount every night and never feeling the effects. What I needed was a weekly binge.

Which was how, via some groundless bravado, I came to be fronting up to a ring-hardened Scouser in a remote corner of a park. His first punch ripped through my flimsy guard and jerked my head back, dislodging my regrettable headband. As I pawed at the lopsided accessory with my gloved fist, he emptied a two-punch combo into my unprotected mug. 'Owww,' I felt, and possibly even said. Further punishment ensued. With my ego bruising badly, I lashed out, throwing a right hook that was more Slug & Lettuce than sweet science, but which somehow connected with the heavyweight's head. 'Gosh, sorry!' I blurted out. Tyson, clearly, I was not.

It was the first and last sparring session I had with Paul. Thereafter we returned to the pad-based, boxing-centred circuit training in which this affable former British universities champion specialises. I had approached him after witnessing the methodical beasting of a client in the park. Following an introductory session that left my lungs twitching and arms trembling, I signed up for weekly workouts. The boxing was developed gradually, from stance, movement and defence to the intricacies of individual punches. We progressed to a series of high-intensity, three-minute rounds, with nominated shots building to punishing combinations. This was punctuated by improvised circuit training in which innocuous features would take on an unspeakable menace. Trees, pitch markings, benches - all were ingeniously enlisted for his torturous designs.

Having a personal trainer for the first time was a revelation. One uncompromising hour in the open with Paul, I found, was worth ten worshipping alone in that stagnant temple of self-deception, the gym. This was no-nonsense toil, so physically and mentally engrossing that I found myself oblivious to all but the most fervent abuse from passing workmen. To my endurance and yoga-aided flexibility, I was adding reserves of explosive power, a 4x4 gear, to drive me up those dunes. For the first time I began to feel I might just have a chance in the desert. But the clock was ticking, the base of the hourglass filling ominously with sand.

• Duncan and Blake have teamed up with their local bar, Gigalum, in Clapham, South London, to raise £20,000 for Noma sufferers (www.facingafrica.org)
• Paul Carroll, personal trainer (London area): paul @ fit2be.com or 07790 210031