(Daily Express, May 16th, 20067)
THE booming europop subsided, the TV chopper thundered overhead and, from atop a Land Rover, race founder Patrick Bauer began his countdown. ``Dix, neuf, huit, sept, six...'' Seven-hundred-and fifty-seven competitors tugged at their backpacks and shifted uneasily in the fierce early morning sunshine, trying to avoid eye-contact with our vast, pitiless foe - the Sahara desert. ``Cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un...allez!'' Insides churning, I shuffled forward through the giant inflatables of the startline and eased into a run that, if I was lucky, would last a week. The toughest footrace on Earth was underway.
It was the almost unfathomable sadism of the Marathon des Sables that first appealed: the equivalent of six marathons in seven days, in temperatures of up to 50C, carrying a week's worth of food and kit. It didn't sound possible. My flatmate Blake and I chanced upon a documentary on the event late one night and, in our inebriated state, sniggering schadenfreude somehow evolved into an earnest shake of hands. Neither of us were runners in the conventional sense but then, perversely, the MdS is not really about that. It is a mental battle; it just happens to resemble a run from a distance.
We had resolved to take the first day at a leisurely pace, and then quicken as we acclimatised. ``Leisurely'' proved anything but. At a fully laden 14kg, my pack took on a life of its own, thumping into my back with every stride like a novice horse-rider. Sweat soon dripped off the peak of my cap. It was a flow that never seemed to abate - and it made me anxious. During my final weeks of training, I had contacted Dr Ross Sherman, a lecturer in Exercise Physiology at Kingston University. Between treadmill sessions in his department's environmental heat chamber, he had stressed the importance of rehydration, describing the vicious cycle of heat-related exertion - perspiration to cool the body, leading to dehydration and rising core temperature. ``If you're thirsty, it's already too late.'' My water container was never far from my lips.
Sixteen miles into Day 2 came the first example of the gratuitous cruelty that is an MdS trademark - an 800m-high ridge with a 30 per cent incline, known by the local Moroccans as the ``climb that cleanses you of your sins''. It was mostly fine, spirit-sapping sand in which every step saw a net gain measured in inches. The final third was loose rock that had us on all fours, clinging to boulders, lungs heaving as our packs threatened to topple us backwards. The view from the top was spectacular, and largely ignored. My only focus was the bivouac, still a tricky descent and several miles of dunes away.
Comprised of two concentric circles of rudimentary tents, the bivouac covered as many miles as we did during the week. Taken ahead each day in trucks, it would be reassembled before the leading runners scurried in. The post-run routine was always the same: collect water allocation; collapse into eight-man tent; cook tasteless, boil-in-the-bag food; wrap up against the plunging temperatures; wait for dawn. Tent banter proved a welcome distraction, as did the nightly delivery of messages from loved ones, sent through the race website.
The crux of the MdS is the fourth day, the dreaded ``long stage'' - 45 miles. Dawn saw the usual frenzy of personal admin - packing, al fresco abluting, refuelling - but the camp was silent with foreboding. As the race resumed, Blake and I developed a strategy of slowing to a walk for 10 minutes every half-hour to snack (mostly nuts and Peperami bars, chosen for their high calorie-to-weight ratio). We made good progress. Darkness brought with it a sandstorm and the opportunity for Blake to don his hitherto-ridiculed swimming goggles. Oozing ``I told you so'', he took the lead. Eyes stinging, I followed. After an hour our head-torches illuminated the penultimate checkpoint and four miles later we stumbled into the bivouac. We'd been running for 11-and-a-half hours.
The rest day that followed was one of conflicting emotions - elation that the long day was over; shock and sadness at the announcement that French competitor Bernard Julé had died overnight from a heart attack. Emotionally drained, some competitors wept openly during the minute's silence. Day 5 (26.2miles) exhausted my remaining dregs of energy, and will-power alone got me across the final day's 7.3miles of mountainous dunes to the finish.
A month on, and the unspeakable toil and deprivation of that week are fading memories. In their place, a mounting sense of quiet satisfaction. Blake and I raised £25,000 from our efforts, but a deeper pride comes from having dragged myself out of the comfort zone and towards the realm of what is not possible. ``Finishing is forever,'' an MdS veteran once told me. For me, I fear it is just the start.
For sports science consultancy, for all abilities, contact r.sherman @ kingston.ac.uk