Ace

As I sometimes enjoy a beer at home with Anne, after running and when all my stuff for the day is done, I am a familiar sight, still in my running gear, in the local Off Licence. In 1999 our local Off Licence was the work place of Gary Thomsen, and Gary had done the Marathon des Sables (MDS).

My only previous MDS memory was from 1992, when, as a student at Southampton training for the “Ten Tors” on Dartmoor, I was in awe of some runners from the South of England who were competing in an arduous footrace through the Sahara Desert, carrying all their supplies.

Gary looked nothing like my mental pictures of those runners.. Although fit looking, he was actually quite thick set and had a thousand yard stare — a sort of distant air about him. I thought “Was he like this before he did the MDS?” Gary told me all about his experience of the MDS over a few beers.

The thing I remember most is that he said it is 60% mental and 40% physical. From this, I gathered that completing the MDS was not only for elite athletes, but that to do so would mean drawing on mental reserves seldom used in everyday life. I’d thought that surely nobody could carry all their own water for 7 days’ running in the desert? Gary cleared this teaser for me: The MDS organisers give competitors water. They also provide a tent and medical cover. Competitors carry the rest of the equipment, including all of their food, so I would say that the MDS is an event in the spirit of self-sufficiency, with water provided. Otherwise, nobody would get far in the Sahara.

It sounded like a fantastic event, and after watching Gary’s video I was smitten. I asked Anne whether she’d let me enter for 2001, and within a 5-minute conversation she said that I could, on the proviso that it was a once in a lifetime experience.

This was very selfless of Anne, given that I would have to stump up the £1900 entry fee, and in the full knowledge of how much training I would need, and what a preoccupation it would become of mine (she knows what I’m like), so I’m a lucky chap. The same week saw the Les Croupiers gentlemen’s Christmas curry, and that was where I boldly announced my big plan.

British entries are handled through “The best of Morocco” and I made out numerous cheques between Dec 1999 and Jan 2001 to them. I was pleased to see that there two other competitors in Cardiff, but they were eventually to drop out for reasons of their own.

For much of 2000 I felt a fraud, having told everyone what I was going to do, and having done very little about it. Shelling out the instalments was difficult, and I was in a job as a nurse on a High Dependency unit, which I found stressful. However, were I not committed to the MDS I may have been tempted to jack in Nursing and look for something else- so the event which was already ruling my life perhaps kept me in a job.

On the training front, nothing happened. Nothing specific to this, that is. Most British competitors were based in the South East of England and could train together, but I felt in not-so-splendid isolation.

I had envisaged multi-day runs along the whole of Offa’s Dyke or the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, but I failed to achieve those for this reason or that. Nor did I watch “Lawrence of Arabia” or “Flight of the Phoenix” like I’d intended. Instead, throughout 2000 I did the usual runs and races for me, plus three others which must have helped me: the Barry 40, the Copenhagen Marathon and the Sri Chinmoy 100km.

Happily then, I had a sound endurance base. I wondered how I’d get on with the many military people participating, and also the numerous toffs from the Home Counties, although I did tell myself that this type of event is all about overcoming prejudice, and looking back, I was daft to worry at all.

My actual preparation began properly on 2 Jan 2001. This was the day when, still reeling from New Year celebrations, I ran to work in the snow with my gear in a bag. It was only 12 miles, but quite hard work along Llantrisant road, and at an ungodly hour. I hoped that this run once a week would make me more robust.

My other weekly fixture was a run at the weekend in the Brecon Beacons. Typically 20 to 25 miles, this was actually a run/walk, which would see me out for 8 hours or so, and coming down off the hills in the dark. Some weekends I would have a Brecon Beacons “double whammy” i.e. Sat plus Sun, whereas other Sundays I would join Terry Caveney and Mal Firouz — both of whom were heading for good times in the London Marathon — for their long runs.

The rest of the week’s training I saw as unimportant, so long as I got out for even a little while. There was no elaborate formula for my MDS training, and come March I hoped that it had been adequate.

Of course I was not the only person to note the effects of Foot and Mouth disease, but it did close the Beacons to me at a rather inconvenient time. It also caused a scare among all the competitors when we were told that we might not be able to “export” expedition foodstuffs. However, the “Best of Morocco” agent seemed to sort that one out for us.

Competitors must provide evidence of their blood group and must also have a medical by a doctor, with an ECG. Dr Julie Scholey kindly did mine as a favour, saving me the cost but also the bother of explaining it all to my own doctor.

I had chosen Diabetes UK as my charity. For a good response, it’s sometimes best to choose an emotive charity, and children’s charities are always that. I was overwhelmed by the response from people at Les Croupiers — great generosity. Thanks to you all, but special thanks must go to Paul Thomas, who rallied around on my behalf to collect from colleagues in school, and who also played a not insignificant role in a pledge from the pupils’ Lent charity. For this however, I had to nervously appear before a sea of young faces in assembly and give a quick talk on the MDS and especially, my bits of kit. Only one little boy, a lad of no more than 5, recognised my signalling mirror for what it was.

29/03/01 Time to leave Home

After about one week of frantic shopping and 48 hours of kit packing, I was just about satisfied that I could get my kit into my rucksack. Well, not my rucksack but Simon Nurse’s which had seen action already in the Karrimor International Mountain Marathon (with him, not me).

I was very much hoping to get the essential items passed as hand luggage, so that were I separated from my baggage as has happened before, I wouldn’t have a crisis the other end. I was very sorry to say goodbye to Anne at 1:15AM at Cardiff bus station (not a choice location for romantic farewells), but some comic relief was to be had from my footwear. I had glued parachute silk all around the sides of my running shoes in a bid to keep out the sand, and the evostick was barely dry. I received the odd puzzled look from other travellers and a group of lads looking for a taxi to Treorchi.

Other competitors were easy to spot when they began to emerge from the airport woodwork, all with rucksacks and some also sporting gaiters! These gaiters were neatly made though and made mine appear to be fashioned by a 4-year-old wearing Chinese handcuffs. I had the Victory of keeping my rucksack as hand luggage and began to relax a bit.

A quick look around the departure lounge showed many tall, fit people. Everybody looked capable of getting through anything. They all began to talk of who’s done it before, what went right or wrong; who’s in which team. (I was an individual and therefore had no team.) Who’s likely to be on the TV. The latter were 3 very youthful Mums, who made a team called the “Tuff Muvvers”. They had matching exped. Kit and also their own TV crew. On the aeroplane I sat next to Mike, an Army Doctor, who had a drug with him for every eventuality: most stomach bugs etc.

Prior to setting off, I was expecting people to be talking a great game and to appear better prepared than I. To combat this, I vowed that I would be the “quiet man”, to try and keep a lid on my nerves. Instead, I think I was the “worried man”, looking at people’s kit and thinking “That’s a good idea, wish I’d thought of that.”

I don’t think that Monarch fly to Ouazarzate very often, nor anyone else for that matter. Flying South brings the smallest time zone change, but the greatest change in environment. No sooner were we over the African continent that the crew decided to have a laugh, flying us through some spectacular steep turns around the atlas mountains and then some speedy flypasts near Ouazarzate Airport.

The single Passenger plane dwarfed the terminal and we got out into hot, dry air and looked at snow capped mountains, seemingly only a stone’s throw away. Elsewhere were the fringe buildings of the town, or rocky plains. Formalities were uneventful; the passport and customs people knew why we were here. There was no turning back now.

The buses only drove us one mile. Strange, I thought, that we are treated so given what lies ahead. Previous events have caused the Brits to complain because they were dissatisfied with the hotel for prior to and after the event. I couldn’t fault this one, The Belere, normally the haunt of the discerning tourist. Here I met my roommate Gerard Quinn (Gerry), a systems analyst from Dublin. He was another odd one out like me in that he had long hair, and we instantly got on well.

Our afternoon was free so we went into town to get water. Ouazarzate is the most alien place I’ve ever been to. Save for one or two hotels, there are no signs of affluence or commerce at all. The place feels very safe though, walking around the streets. Back at the hotel, Gerry lay down for a few hours rest, whilst I faffed ineffectively with my bag, adding this, removing that and generally making myself more tired and frustrated, for no benefit.

Tonight’s meal was provided, and when Gerry and I went over to eat, we were greeted by chaos. Competitors and others, hungry for scoff, were ignoring the hotel staff’s instructions and it became a free for all. Luckily there was cous cous and veg so I was fine when the fray was over. I was so tired, and as I sat down with some competitors from Belfast, I told these total strangers how exhausted and despondent I felt. They said something positive, but Eric, a Belfast Paramedic, later revealed after the race that He didn’t think I’d last a day.

The Best of Morocco staff gave us a lengthy briefing of do’s and don’ts in the race. There seemed to be so many pitfalls to penalties or disqualification, and I felt the French were presented as totally draconian. This didn’t help my state of mind and I went to bed tired, homesick and feeling that I’d bitten off more than I could chew. In fact having done the event I now have total praise for the French organisers. True, if you enter the kitchen tent or climb onto a lorry you will be disqualified. But, they are also there to help. I think the Best of Morocco were just trying to avoid problems that they’d had with chumps in the past. I didn’t notice any disqualifications this year.

30/3/01 Transfer to the Desert

I wake up a much happier fellow; it’s surprising what tiredness alone will do to you. Croissants for breakfast, over which I talk to an Army officer in the “Greenjackets”. He seems full of confidence and he may well be, as he will be the first Brit overall, Ben Knox. Although still at the hotel, people are trying to secure with whom they will share the next week, at close quarters, in a Berber tent. For some, being on TV is important, so they forge ties with the Tuff Muvvers.

Gerry and I meet some others from Dublin downstairs, namely Graham Porter (Tarzan) and Jane Walt, an Irish ultra-marathoning duo. Graham reminds me of an Irish Billy Connolly, and describes himself as an artist: a painter. When asked whether he does oil or water colours, he replies “vinyl matt, mostly”. Jane is a teacher who seems to devote all of her time to keeping Graham organised. I’m wearing my running kit so that I don’t lose it: Rhondda 10 mile (1997) T-shirt with add on sleeves by Marks and Sparks.

I also have the option of some karate trousers that Anne’s Mum made for me, should I really need to cover up in the sun, or a sandstorm. I also have a good pair of sunglasses and a legionnaire’s hat with a neck flap that I can also pin around my face. I also have a “Buff” around my neck, which could have many uses.

The bus transfer from Ouazarzate to the first Desert camp (Bivouac) is a long one. We are given our road books to mull over, a misnomer, since there are no roads save the last 2 km out of a total 243k, in six stages, of 25, 34, 38, 82, 42 and 22 km respectively. Previous race distances have varied, and I feel that we’re not exactly getting off lightly this year, which in a way, is a good thing- we are here for a challenge after all.

We are given plenty of Sidi Harazem mineral water that has a taste of its own, quite nice at the moment. Guzzling all this water makes some guys desperate for a pit stop, but the driver won’t pull over! He does bow to pleading eventually, but only after one squaddie has been forced to use a bottle, with quite an audience, it must be said.

At a sort of pasture-come-oasis we have some curious but very decent packed lunches and reflect on the scenery. Many of us have enjoyed the odd Star Wars film, and many Tatooine/Obi Wan Kanobi comments are made. It also looks a bit like the Viking pictures from Mars.

The buses finally reach their destination, a nondescript stretch of road in the desert where we jump out and wait to get onto army or cattle trucks. There are more people than spaces, so a few of us hang back whilst the trucks drive away out of sight. The buses are gone too, leaving us feeling a bit weird holding cumbersome suitcases, out in the Sahara desert! I slap on the factor 60 given to me by Stu Reeves, and after a fair wait a cloud of dust indicates that the trucks are coming back. I have a bumpy ride sat on some bags and poles, and it’s a relief to get out again and enter the bivouac, home for the next two nights.

One tent mate I’m yet to meet is David Keenan, from Cork. He was on the earlier trucks and has got us a tent, no. 52. It was all that he could get by himself, and it’s the one next to the latrines, Oh joy. Luckily though, a Tuareg guy called Ali offers to move the latrines elsewhere- what a hero! Graham Smaull is an Irish Army officer who speaks quite good French, and Ray Murphy is an Irish army Captain who I will find always helpful and sharing. The seventh guy in the tent is Tom Curran, also living in Dublin.

I already feel well at home with these people, and over the coming week, I will be impressed with the spirit of co-operation and helpfulness there is amongst us, minor frustrations aside. It would have been good though, if I had brought a Welsh flag to go with the Irish one.

We spend that evening getting our bearings round the bivouac and are issued water punch cards to wear around our necks. There are many estimates of kit weights, and mine feels heavy in comparison to others. The others explain that the 7th day is just a dash for home and so we’ll not need much food for that. I seem to have brought stacks of food.

My main bulk of food is “Reuter Travellunch”- freeze dried and vegetarian for those that wish. I also have polenta cous cous and pot noodles to supplement this, and also nutrigains, energy bars, sports drinks, figs, dates, apricots and malt loaf. Mycoup de graceis chocolate porridge as a breakfast, my own invention that I concocted when camping with Anne in New Zealand. I’d brought extra food in case veggie food was difficult to come by in Ouazarzate, or here. Competitors are fed prior to self sufficiency and I need not have worried, because when we go over to the kitchen tent for dinner, the food is excellent: several courses served with beer, wine or orange juice, all prepared on a large scale out here in the sticks. I voice my enthusiasm to the competitor next to me and he says “But of course, we are French!” We sit on carpets at little tables 18 inches or so high and enjoy the food and the night sky. It all feels like a holiday.

Afterwards I have a look at a big fire built in the centre of the bivouac, and then some of us wander over to where the Tuareg tent crew are having a party and beating drums. It sounds impressive but we don’t go too close so as not to cramp their style. I’m curious to see how cold the desert gets at night, as I’ve brought a top only sleeping bag in order to save weight. I have also got a thermarest mat, which I hope will pay dividends. It does, I’m initially hot in the early night, but a few adjustments later on when it gets chilly and I’m fine.

31/3/01 Medical and Equipment checks

I wake up at dawn feeling great. It’s near the spring equinox, so day and night are of roughly equal length (all over the World, I think). It feels healthy to go to bed when it’s dark and get up when it’s light.

The bivouac is well organised and the whole event, as intended by its creator Patrick Baeur, strives to have a minimal impact on the desert environment. There is a mobile incinerator to dispose of waste and all water bottles are numbered to each competitor, so that should they be carelessly discarded there will be a time penalty for the felon. We are also asked to dispose of loo roll in paper bags to go into bins, so that it is not left as an eyesore and health hazard.

Breakfast is just as good as dinner before, and we sit at the little table, telling jokes. Irish jokes are popular with these guys from Dublin, and here’s a nice clean one of Ray’s:

Two Irish guys are chatting up a girl in London. She asks “So what do you boys do then?”

The girl remarks “That’s a strange combination for two friends isn’t it?”

”Not at all” says the second Irish guy, “He cuts the turf and I pile it”

So far, I’m having a ball with my Irish mates. We go for a walk to acclimatise and look at the desert, and the morning temperature is not too bad: 28 Celsius or so at 9:00 AM. The air, being arid, has very little humidity, so sweat is able to evaporate very quickly, hence doing its job of cooling us down rather than gathering in big patches like in humid air. This means that much of the day is okay, but I think we’ll have to watch the spell from 11 AM to 4 PM.

At 3:30 PM I have to go over to the Designated tent with my rucksack and gear, for an equipment check. All of my food must be in the plastic bag I was issued, for a calorie check. And I must present my medical certificate and ECG signed by Julie Scholey. When I arrive there are many others, with their gear and plastic bags.

I meet Rosie, the girl who sent me the parachute silk. She looks at the gaiters and wonders perhaps, whether the mess of evostick will be worth the bother (It will be- they didn’t look like much but they were a triumph over the sand). Inside, it’s a mad rush. Race numbers are issued. Then, I’m weighed: 65kg. Then my pack and food are weighed: 13.3kg and the guy with the spring balance whistles and shakes his head in disapproval. No time to put it right now though and I hand over my suitcase until after the race. Emergency kit is issued to me: salt tablets, a foil blanket and a distress flare. I have to produce stuff of my own, difficult for me as I don’t speak French, and produce a whistle as an anti venom pump and a compass as a penknife. However the very patient lady official seems satisfied that my kit is complete, and so quickly on to a Doctor. She scrutinises the ECG and advises me to take it very slowly early on and to take plenty of salt tablets.

Back at our tent Tarzan and Jane are still there and they take some food off my hands to go away with their suitcases: 500g polenta, 500g energy drink, 200g baby wipes and also the figs, fruit and nutrigrains. I reckon the pack now is no more than 11kg and I look at it and think; “Now it’s just me and thee”.

That evening there is pure excitement everywhere as people gather for a briefing from Patrick Baeur who is stood on a jeep like ontgomery. It’s all translated for the unenlightened by a lady with a lovely voice, many of the men agree. Monsieur Baeur has boundless enthusiasm and is very chuffed that there are a record 35 countries in this year’s event. There are warnings about illicit drugs and instructions on how to survive sandstorms, with a demo on use of the flares. Today there are many more French competitors about who look very lean and Mediterranean and there are also Lahcen and Mohammed Ahansal, two local lads who have dominated the men’s race in recent years.

Dinner is again, excellent, except that this time it’s the last supper: self sufficiency begins after we leave the table, making much of the bivouac off limits to us. I have two small beers and sit for a while, mesmerised by the fire, contemplating the week ahead. I hit the sack to find all my buddies asleep-I’m a filthy stop out.

01/04/01 Stage 1: 25km

The big day-here, the waiting ends and the race begins. Everybody is up early and appears well organised, especially the Tuareg, who from 6:00 AM begin to pull down the tents and throw them onto trucks to take to the next bivouac. Even I waste no time, marking a great break from tradition, and have an early breakfast: my last one of “ready food” of malt loaf and nutrigrains. Tom has his own muesli mixed up which when added with water looks totally vile. He doesn’t’’ think much of it and perhaps unwisely ditches the lot on day one. We think it’s funny but perhaps I shouldn’t laugh until I’ve tried the chocolate porridge. We put away as much water as we can and Graham Smaull collects everybody’s ration for the first stage.

My method of carrying water is a camelback, a sort of squashy bladder with a long drinking tube. It conveniently holds 1.5l, the usual volume given, and allows for drinking little and often, as one should. On the other hand it can be difficult to stuff into a pack that’s already pretty full and it could conceivably become punctured, which would be a disaster out here. Many others opt for rigid bottles, some with tubes, attatched to their shoulder straps, which look very fail-safe.

There is piped “desert music” through loudspeakers a bit like M.A.S.H. and then we assemble for a final briefing. We are warned again to take it easy today, as this will be an easy stage compared to a much harder day on the dunes tomorrow. After a short delay Monsieur Baeur says, “Attention, tois, deux, un, GO!” and we’re away.

Today’s stage has two checkpoints (CP) with water. CP1 is 11 km directly east of here, across a long, flat plateau. We then run roughly south to CP2 at 21 km and then it’s 4 km over some dunes to bivouac 2. Navigation is easy to start with since there are competitors everywhere and the course is often marked here and there by a yellow card or red vegetable dye.

I’m buzzing to be running at last and I pass a few runners who bolted off a bit too quickly. The ground is generally good, but even the slightest patch of sand makes for very hard work-like Merthyr Mawr. There is also a headwind like a hairdryer in my face and it is getting hot. I just imagine that I’m at home running to work, and I drink regularly. A voice behind me asks “Mind if I run with you for a while Andy?” I think it’s Graham Smaull, but in fact it is David Keenan, the dark horse, who will be pretty level pegging with me all week. “Be my guest,” I say, but I’m not really that chatty and he drops back after a while, perhaps giving me up as antisocial.

My feet begin to feel hot, and we climb up a steep, sandy slope that leads to an identical plateau, but some metres higher than the last. It seems an immensely long 11 km to CP1, but I find it hidden in some small dunes. There are no tethered balloons as used in previous years, so I’ll have to be vigilant not to miss any checkpoints.

As I enter the right funnel for my number 460, I sway involuntarily and realise the heat has affected me already. This comes as a shock. “Savva?” asks the lady who hands me 1.5l water. “Oui, Savva” I reply like an articulate European.

As I struggle with the camelback, a fair few competitors rush through, including one beefcake of a British Army guy. I think I’ll have to get quicker at the checkpoints, or lose many more places like this. I drink as much water as I can and loathe to waste any, pour the remainder over my head, with some relief.

I then set about chasing Mr. Beefcake. Heading south, the ground has become much sandier and I find myself in a rutted river bed with deep channels of sand and not much of a breeze at all. The field is more spread out and I focus on the guy ahead who seems to be running unhindered. I am now suffering at 16km or so and doubts enter my mind: Did I go off too quickly? Did I not heed the warnings? Am I wrecking my feet on day one?

At 18 km I can only manage a walk/run, and I skirt the village of Tisserdimine. A local lady offers me what looks like pitta bread to eat, and I’m taken aback by this kind gesture. I say “Non, Merci” as my best attempt at “Thanks, but no thanks”. I feel embarrassed as a Westerner in such a desolate village-How can anybody live here?

Clear of the village and the awful river bed, I settle for run a large bit, walk a small bit, a strategy that will see me through much of the week, in fact. Other guys pass me of all nationalities, all running, including a lady, Tanya Pacev from Romania, now running as a US citizen. CP2 marks the entry to some massive dunes. I can’t face struggling with the camelback again, and opt instead to carry the cumbersome 1.5l bottle. A doctor shouts “Quatre Kilometre” and this spurs me on for one last push. The dunes amaze me, it is pure T. E. Lawrence country, and I even stop for a photo opportunity of some camels.

I find the dunes better to run on than I expected, and Tanya Pacev seems to be slowing up. I draw close to her, but as we get over a big dune the bivouac is 1km away across a flat plain. Tanya is quicker and finishes some way ahead. I finish the 25 km stage in 2:39:40 and 57th place. I’m pleased with this, but I’m certain that I’ve started too fast. With 550 or so competitors to come in yet, the bivouac is eerie, like a classroom without the kids. I collect 4.5l water to last overnight and also an empty box for Gerry- He didn’t bring a sleeping mat and there will be long queues for these boxes later.

This will set the scene for a week, namely collect the water, find tent 52, limp over to it and collapse inside and enjoy the shade. Today though, I have a headache, I feel sick and have to run outside with diarrhoea-not a bug I’m convinced, but just my body unaccustomed to running in the heat, even though I was out of the sun by mid day. No sunburn though, so Stu’s factor 60 does the trick. When I nip outside to forage for small, dry twigs, as these will help my hexi fuel go a bit further, Dave Keenan is perhaps 10 min behind me. We swap stories. “How are your feet Dave?” I ask, looking at a couple of blisters on my own. “Grand” he says. After some paracetamol, ibuprofen, dioralyte and some food I feel much better.

One by One people come in and the noise level rises. Tarzan comes in cursing and Jane makes him a cup of tea to cheer him up. Our last two guys come in confidently with their poles. It occurs to me for the first time that they are called Tom and Gerry. An official comes around with bits of paper: Emails from home. Dave Weeden has sent me:

The tent next to ours is full mostly of British soldiers. I got in just in front of a couple of them and we talk about the day. Even one day out here has changed my perception of them and theirs of me. I nearly joined the army but didn't. Instead I grew long hair but now I have a shared experience with the squaddies and I feel like I've exorcised a demon.

The bivouac is right on the edge of some massive dunes that change colour with the setting sun like Ayres Rock (or Ularu as I think it's now called). They look unreal as if they've been painted on as a set for “Carry on up the Khyber”. Sitting by the fire that night, I think I dare not run any faster, or I won't last the week. Also being a short leg I didn't eat anything. I'll have to re think that tomorrow.

02/04/01 Stage 2: 34 km, Dune day

I wake up feeling great. Great to be here, it beats working for a living at home. The Tuareg waste no time in getting the tents down, much to the groans of the occupants. Tarzan has begun to call them, not disrespectfully, “The Warriors”. You can see why. They live out here in such a barren place.

I wonder what they think of us, paying such a fee to come over here to do this. Whenever we ditch excess food they are keen to take it off our hands. Although tough, for us coming out here is an indulgence whereas for them it is seasonal work.

As the weather is getting hot, today’s start will be a little earlier, at 8:30 AM to give us a good start in the dunes. Today is predicted by Patrick Baeur to be the hardest stage of all. I cook my chocolate porridge on the stove, and I seem to have forgotten to sweeten it back home when I mixed it up. I’ve added not nearly enough cocoa either. I put a brave face on it so as not to suffer the ragging that Tom did yesterday. Graham has sussed that a sawn off water bottle makes a good cup for eating out of.

Today’s stage will be 2 km along flat stony ground, straight to the dunes. Then 14.5 km of pure dunes. 9 km of plateau, then more dunes to the finish. There will be three checkpoints with water for us. I’m ready just in time for 8:30. Again, the briefing urges caution. There is one official with the chore of checking that people’s numbers display the sponsors clearly. Some packs are funny shapes so that people have folded the numbers a bit. Mine will need to be put right, but rather than miss the start I evade him for now and I’ll put it right later.

Dave Keenan says that we might do well to run together for a while today. I say “Okay, but don’t wait for me if you want to go on”, really thinking that I’ll probably run at my own pace, be it faster or slower than Dave’s. I do feel this is a bit bloody minded of me, though.

I actually seem to do okay on the dunes. They are steep, but there’s always a good way through, provided you can find it. Untrodden sand is usually a good bet. I draw level with the beefcake from yesterday. He is Lawrence Williams, originally from Swansea and he’s been the first Brit to finish in the past. He doesn’t seem to like the dunes though and he’s been unable to train because he’s been in Bosnia all winter. He says to me “ I knew you were from Wales because you don’t stop talking” I leave him to his own devices. I also see Tanya Pacev struggling on the sand and she tells me that she’ll pass me on the flat later.

CP1 is right in the dunes. There is only 500ml of water here as it is all brought in by helicopter. The heading changes slightly by 4 degrees. We have been urged to use our compasses, as there are no route markers in the dunes. In practice there are many footprints, although I make the odd check in case those ahead of me are wrong. Those behind me have a clearer route shown, but then the churned sand is all the more difficult to run on. You get owt for nowt. Today I’ve actually taped my gaiters high up my calfs, making them very effective at keeping out the loose sand.

At CP2 (15km) Denise Wooley from the Best of Morocco is at the end of the Dunes. She is surprised to see me and says that I’m the 3rd Brit to come through. Today I’m quicker with the camelback and I quickly take up a heading of 165 degrees across a totally flat, rocky plain, unchanging for 10km. I see very few people, but one is a New Zealander. I tell him how much I liked Abel Tasman National park And he says “Ah yeah, wish I was there now mate”, his accent making it sound like he’s asking me a question.

Mostly, it’s lonely and hot and I’m beginning to tire. I scoff an energy bar and resort to the mind games. Run 100 paces, counting right foot only. Walk 20. Run for 100, or to that stone, whichever is further. It goes on and on and again it looks like the Americans could have sent the Viking probe here. The occasional painted stone shows me that I’m on course.

CP3 is at 25 km. I fill up the camel back and also the handy 500ml bottle. Ahead of me are the second set of dunes about 5 km away. Once into these I spot a guy wearing Union Jack boxer shorts. I think that I must check out who that is and put in an effort to draw level with him. It’s Ben Knox, the first Brit. I wish him well, but cannot keep up with him. He is running up the dunes and I’m forced to a trudge. There’s about 3km to go. I meet an Italian guy. His sister in law was from Wales and now lives in Sicily. Up one humungous dune and we see the bivouac. There are some hidden dunes yet to negotiate, but the Italian and I cross the line close together and hug and pat each other in front of a TV camera. Although my blisters feel very hot, I feel better in myself than yesterday, and my stomach is not half as bad. My time for the 34 km today is 04:00:37, putting me in 39th position in the grand scheme of things.

My major worry is my feet, which need some serious self-care; the only guy in the tent with worse feet than me is Ray, poor bloke. I daren’t go to Doc Trotter as I’ve seen that they remove all the blistered skin with a scalpel, for fear of infection. They’re the professionals, but I want to keep all of my skin ta very much, so it’s DIY only for me. I’m also able to help some of the other guys with their blisters. I get the impression that my major limiting factor for the race will be my feet. Otherwise I feel quite good, considering. The whole of the tent makes it back in the same order as yesterday. I’ve extended my lead on Dave a little, but most importantly, we are all safe and accounted for after day two.

03/04/01 Stage 3: 38km

Usual routine to start. The Warriors promptly Turing us out, doing their job well!

Today is longer again, making each day harder than the last, as I become increasingly fatigued and as my feet become more chaffed, blistered and swollen in the heat. Today’s route has 3 checkpoints, with water at 10.5, 22 and 33km respectively. So in mind games it’s largely 3x10km (and a bit) stages, and then the final push of 5km.

Early on the going is fair, skirting some high ground on our right. This takes us through a series of odd little dunes, as if 100 dumpier trucks had left a 3” high mound of sand stretching for 1 mile to the left and right. At this timeI’m running with James O’Connell. He’s an Army Officer in the Grenadier Guards, and a very modest chap. We discuss how tedious these little dunes are and then he says that he’s got to be on Guard outside Buckingham Palace next Tuesday, i.e. 1 weeks time with most of the distance ahead of us. I think that’s unbelievable. It makes me smile a bit, but not much.

Today is fiercely hot. Psychologically I try to break the distance into bite size chunks. CP1 passes, and I run across more largely featureless plains. Even these are not boring however, as the environment is so alien to that I’m used to. CP2. Then a series of plains interspersed with jebels (hills). One of these seems purely sadistic, a really steep, rocky climb to a ridge top, where 100m to the left, the hill is truncated to nothing. Given our own choice of route we could run around it, but there’s a red stone at the top. Patrick Baeur must have a sense of humour.

Soon after this hill I begin to tire again. Not a bad performance so far this morning, I’ve managed to keep running. I enter an area with pastures and a settlement to my right, namely Jdaid. There are no other competitors in sight, and I’m worried whether Jdaid has any unfriendly dogs. I’m also getting low on water and this is the hottest place I’ve ever been in my life. The track through Jdaid seems to be full to 1’ deep with slippy, dry sand, my least favourite stuff, rather like the riverbed on day one. “How can anyone run on this?” I ask myself, resorting to the most determined walk possible.

At 30km the route leaves the village and heads up to a small patch of sand at the top of a huge jebel. CP3 at33.5km is some way ahead of me. I’m not sure how far, but I’m low on water and it feels uncomfortable. It is so hot I call the place “Death Valley”. To make matters worse, as I leave Jdaid behind me and head on upwards, 3 children, aged 7-10 follow me. There aren’t any other competitors around and these kids are running with me over the sharp rocks barefoot, whilst I struggle on in my running shoes and gaiters. This again juxtaposes and contrasts my life with theirs and they are now asking in French for food. I give them half an energy bar which would have made me sick anyway, and with this the 3 of them seem content, and keen to examine rather than fight over their meagre spoil. I don’t feel very good after this encounter, but focus again on the hill and the water beyond it, rather than the inequalities of life. The top of the Jebel comes sluggishly where a T.V camera waits. Chuffed to be at the top, I’m euphoric again. A cameraman says something in French, to which I reply “Je Suis Gallois” just for the record.

The check point is some 500km down the other side of the Jebel. I make the most of the gradient and run downwards, saying “Ow!” (Or something or other) as my feet hit boulders. The water is the elixir of life and I now know there’s only 4.5km to go. The ground though, is very difficult, taking a course through another dreaded dried river bed, where I really have to beware of where I’m going and take several bearings. Finally though, just as I dig my way out of the riverbed, a Japanese lady passes me. She is Kazuko Kaihata, who is destined to be the 2nd lady and 25th competitor overall. I know it can’t be far to the finish now, and so I try to follow Kazuko. The course takes us straight over a flat, rocky plain for 3km and mercifully, the finish comes.

This feels like my highest finishing position (37th) putting me at my zenith at 34th overall. It was a very hard day though, with race organisers reporting peak temperatures of 51 degrees Celsius (I can’t verify that, though). My feet are now very bad, with serious first aid required. My strategy is to remove the fluid from the blisters in as sterile a manner as possible, and then to add compeed and tape them up, to hopefully prevent further friction.

Tonight, right in the middle of cooking my scoff, a sand flurry hits us. Not much by desert standards, but an inconvenience since it blows the tent over. In truth,the Berber tents are a Godsend by day when they provide shade, but at night, I discover, you may as well sleep outside. At least that way you’re not woken up by a load of heavy sticks and canvas falling on your face.

I have my concerns that tomorrow I’ll start the non-stop stage of 82km, (over 2 days if needed), with the top 50 men and the top 5 women. Although an honour of sorts, this would mean me starting some 3 hours behind the main field, and it troubles me. I limp over to the information tent and they confirm my fears. This means that I rub shoulders with the elite tomorrow. It also means that with my blistered feet, I’ll be trying to catch up with the entire race, which will be ahead of me. All of the other guys in my tent, including the sprightly Dave Keenan, will start with the main field at 9.00am. Never mind, it could be worse, though. In the information tent, sat on the floor are 15 or so competitors, sat forlornly on carpets, or ex-competitors, in fact. They are the people forced to retire with blisters, fatigue or illness. Retirement from the Marathon des Sables does not bring a hot bath and a comfortable bed, but rather the unfortunate souls are transported in trucks through the race, stage by stage. Their food is taken away so they cannot assist other competitors, but they are fed the good stuff 3 times daily again. They have to leave the competitor’s area and are seldom seen afterwards. To watch the race unfold, as a spectator must be tough, and the loss of £110 security deposit must literally add insult to injury! Personally I’d rather suffer in the race than out of it. Incidentally, the race organisers acknowledge that whatever the machos might say, male competitors are statistically twice as likely to drop out than females.

I look forward to my evening meal of 2x Reuter Travellunch. Comically, looking for bits of wood and cooking with my hexi stove and trangia kettle seems to satisfy some primitive hunter-gatherer urge and is quite therapeutic. Some energy bars split in the rucksack today, coating everything in chocolat goo, and some of this seemed to rub off the contents list of my travellunches. So, this adds an element of surprise to the menu, Ah, tonight sir, we have Tofu and Potato hotpot. The real chore is sorting my feet out, especially adding iodine to prevent infection. By now, there’s more tape than skin showing. The fiddliest bits are around the toes and it takes me ages.

04/04/01 Stage 4: 82km

I wake up to discover that the repair work to my feet allows me to walk, just. Blisters are strange, although they are excruciating first thing in the morning, they often settle down a bit when you get going. I hope mine will do this today as I�ve got 82km to contend with. 6.30 and down goes our tent. I’d have preferred a lie in if the truth be told, but there’s nothing for it but to get up and get cracking. I’m losing my enthusiasm for my chocolate porridge. I’m sure my recipe is wrong. I just about manage to get it down my Gregory Peck. I have more time than my tent mates, and Ray asks me to have a go at his feet. They’re in a bad way, and the raw blisters look a bit septic. I feel like a sadist putting on iodine.

Dave Keenan, who has always been right behind me looks to be in good form, and I tell him that I doubt I’ll put 3 hours on him to catch up, so I’ll see him in 82km from now. He’s starting from 85th position.

I shuffle over to see the main field start, and catch most of my pals as they head off. I see also team Dunes D’Espoir, 17 or so adults pushing two disabled children in sort of Sedan chairs, supported by a single central wheel each. Tarzan has dubbed these (again, not disrespectfully) “The Wheelies” and we are all in awe of their courage to attempt such a journey. Of all competitors, team Dunes D’Espoir seem to reply most enthusiastically to any support/applause given to them.

The bivouac is quickly very quiet again, with only 55 competitors remaining. Not the most communicative competitors either, these are the racing snakes. There a e several tents left up for us to shelter in and as I try to and park myself on a patch of shaded carpet, I’m sent packing by the competitors in the tent. “Thanks Chums”, I think to myself sardonically. This is out of sorts with my experience of MDS competitors so far. I move to the next tent and Kazuko Kaihata kindly makes room for me.

So, a long wait until mid day begins. I exchange a few words with Gerard, a Frenchman from Toulouse who I keep bumping into on the course. I try to sleep, but I’m too fidgety. Instead I grab another competitors pack briefly, to feel the weight, it’s like a bum bag: what do these people live on? I decide to ditch some stuff: alcohol hand rub, most of my toothpaste, my only clean underpants and some of my now infamous chocolate porridge. Bryan Hemmings, who’s in the parachute regiment takes some off my hands, but only manages a fraction of it. I thought a Para could take anything. Although I don’t need them all that much, I cannot part with the Karate trousers Anne’s Mum made for me.

Doing the rounds is the translator with the nice voice. She is a journalist for French radio, interviewing some of the elite field and also clowns like me. After getting a scoop from leading lady Franca Fraccioli she asks me how I’m feeling. I say a few things into the microphone and she writes my name in her book and wishes me luck.

Apart from Bryan and Myself the other Brits here are Laurence Williams and Ben Knox, making me the only civilian. We have some photo’s taken together at the start. The usual briefing is given, today warning us of an area of vegetation where we’ll have to use our compasses. I hope against hope that my feet and the rest of me will be up to the job, perhaps the hardest day of my life. We 4 Brits agree to try to stick together but at the start I flag immediately. 53 athletes go off like hares, leaving me last, but one. Behind me is Cathy Tibbetts, an American Doctor. She is going at her own comfortable slowish running pace. I’m moving only marginally faster, wincing as y blisters are twisted this way and that by the uneven ground. It is just past mid-day and very hot. There will be 6 checkpoints in all on this stage, spaced between 10km and 14km apart.

Partly for my own company, and partly out of misplaced gallantry (perhaps?) I drop back and talk to Cathy. She is good company and very talkative, and conversation takes our minds of the staggering distance as we jog along. Part of me wants to shift a little quicker, but it’s lonely back here. A landrover behind us is picking up the yellow sticks which helps mark the course.

We are the real tail end charlies. We reach CP1, and are surprised to see a real front runner lying prone, receiving an IVI. We now begin to catch up one or two other fast boys, who are beginning to suffer, and also competitors from the earlier start, going at walking pace. “We’re not doing so bad” says Cathy. Now that Cathy is no longer at the back I say that I’ll move on, “See you later” she says, It won’t be that much later in fact. For half an hour or so I’m fine. But it must be about 2.00pm and I haven’t run in this hottest part of the day before. My left foot, the more heavily taped one, has begun to throb. It feels as if it’s trying to burst out of the shoe. I’m reduced to a walk as I reach a long dry “lake” of burning, white, hard dust. An MDS aeroplane lands some way off to my left. I limp into the checkpoint and resign to stop and get the first aid kit out. Looking at my foot, there’s nothing I can do, I don’t want to take away the tape because the blisters will be exposed. I remove the insole as a desperate measure and put it in my bag. There’s a young British lad next to me who set off at 9 AM and he looks exhausted. He says he’s okay, but he will be forced to retire later on. I set off, wincing, as Cathy Tibbetts arrives to collect her water.

I feel an arrogant fool, The Prodigal Son who tried to go it alone. The Group I started with are in Marrakech by now. From CP2 there’s a steep climb, Cathy passes me on the slope and I apologise for my arrogance, “No problem” she says, and she’s away, moving at her steady even pace. I cannot keep up, I cannot run. I stride as best I can, and in a sense I’ve given up. There are now many competitors around in the main field. There is a good atmosphere amongst them. They are not as insular as the racing snakes, but they’re suffering just the same. Many of them give support as I pass them. There are many Brits, including the Tuff Mothers. I tell them the race is over for me , but the event is not, and that I must still endeavour to finish. This fact acknowledged, I feel much better and at ease with myself once more, free of much of the pressure I’d been putting myself under.

At CP3 I am issued with a light stick, as the sun is sinking, There are a group of British men and women in their 20’s resting in the tent. We swap stories and they rally me on. 32km down, 50km to go. Later I pass an Italian, I recognise him from the top 50. He is flagging and say’s it’s too hot for him. I tell him that like me he can still finish “Yes. Obligatory” he replies.

It is 13km to CP4. It takes me forever. The terrain in now like an American Desert: Cowboy and Indian Country. It’s spectacular, I’m headed towards the setting sun. I pass a middle aged Japanese man who is very cheerful, almost hysterical. Also a French guy carrying a tray with a bottle of beer and a glass. They’re not even stuck down, I’ve seen it all now.

My sense of feelgood that I enjoyed all afternoon has now left me. As I descend across a long slope with boulders in the twilight, I’m exhausted. Check point 4 is a cluster of lights ahead of me. A Jordanian girl runs past me and enters the checkpoint. As I arrive, it’s dark. An official asks me whether I’d like to stop and rest. People around me are doing so, in their sleeping bags. Many are being sick, it’s horrible. “No thank you I’m okay” I say. I get my water and get going again, knowing that if I lie down I’ll sleep for ages.

45km done, 37km to go. The route is up a steep slope to the left. Little green lights mark the way, one for each competitor, like a trail of glow ants (if there are such things as glow ants?). The lights are comforting and I head on up, only to have to stop on the hill. I get out my torch and see that my little toe nail is cutting into the next toe. I sort it out and curse my stubbornness. This would have been much easier at the checkpoint. I get going again, my swollen foot is not so bad, but I’m physically wrecked.

I walk a bit with the Jordanian girl. She’s called Dima. Normally I’d be chatty, but I’m too tired and my speech sounds incoherent, as if I’m drunk. Dima has found a way of keeping her water cool. She offers me some. I’m reluctant to accept as it seems unfair, but she insists so I have a swig. It’s nice.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll never make it. Then I hear a familiar voice behind me. It’s Tom Curran. I don’t believe it. I must have passed him at CP4. He explains that Gerry is having an IVI and neither of us reckon we will see him again tonight. Tom is moving confidently with his poles. “Come on Andy, we’ll go right on to the finish” he says. I’m not sure I can do it, but I’ll try. Tom gives me some glucose sweets and I scoff some energy bar, take on some energy drink, paracetamol and ibuprofen. Another guilt trip because I now leave Dima behind, but Tom is a man on a mission, showing great determination, and I’m compelled to stay with him. After half an hour or so, I’m more comfortable and I’m keeping up with Tom, walking with big strides. We tell jokes, and I’m enjoying the MDS again. I would not have believed that such highs and lows were possible. The ground is mercifully flat (the white “lake” stuff again) and absolutely featureless. Every so often a static light stick appears faintly to confirm we’re on course.

The darkness around us feels endless, but the temperature is comfortable. We reach CP5 in high spirits and I see some parachute regiment soldiers huddled against a landrover. “Lets not hang around Tom, we’ll get too comfortable” I say, and we move on. The check point disappears behind us and into the blackness again. There are stars and a three quarter moon. After a while our eyes are better off without torchlight. It’s 11.5km to checkpoint 6, and totally featureless. Our only way of telling distance is the time, based on about 5km/hr. Occasionally a lizard or something runs against my shoe, it’s as startled as I am.

At CP6 we have 68 km behind us. As we take on water a French doctor quizzes us. “Just tell him we’re grand” says Tom and we try to feign robustness, “Have you had something to eat, monsieur?” he asks “Yes, thank you” we say. Then we spot Tarzan and Jane, it’s like a party. Cathy Tibbetts is here too, but she’s looking very doddery “It’s good to see you Andy” she says.

Before we leave, the French journalist asks me to talk into her microphone. I say how thrilled I am to be in such a place at night. It’s very eerie, because the wind is blowing up fine dust that looks like fog in the moonlight.

Tom and I get going again. 14km to go, no more than 2 half hours of suffering, we estimate. It takes forever. The ground is very sandy now, but the “fog” is gone. It reminds me of a beach at night, but with no sea of course. We struggle through the soft sand, picking out the route lights. When we must be close to the end we see Ray Murphy- his feet held out! This spurs us on some more. We estimate no more than three sticks and then we’ll see the finish. It takes 4 or 5, but finally, there it is. A small, white banner lit up. It’s actually about 3km away and takes a good half an hour to reach, but we don’t care. It marks the end of the hardest day of my life. We cross the line and I thank Tom, promising him beers in Ouazarzate. The marshals look cold and tired. We struggle with 4.5l of water each and collapse in our tent. This takes some effort. I can hardly get into my sleeping bag. David Keenan is asleep, having completed 82km in twelve hours. Graham Smaull is there too, kipping. It’s taken me 14:27:07 to get here, making Tom’s time 17:27:07. David Keenan arrived here at 9.00pm when Tom and I were at CP5. It’s now 02:30. This puts Dave well ahead of me for the first time, good luck to him. I’m just happy to be here at last.

05/04/01 Rest Day (Stage 4)

I wake up to a full tent, everybody made it back during the night, even Gerry who needed the IVI. Outstanding! The Tuareg are not breaking the camp today because this is still stage 4, and some competitors are walking in as I blink my eyes awake. This is a blissful day of rest, to be spent eating, resting, repairing feet and sending an Email home. The notice board reveals my place at 118, a big drop from 37 in stage 1. A big shock too, since I thought that perhaps I’d do okay in an “Ultra” stage. My emails are full of praise from family and club mates. I hope that they won’t be disappointed to see me slump down the results board.

I can hardly walk now, and borrow Tom’s Poles to move around the camp. A marathon tomorrow, and a half marathon the day after that. It just goes on and on.

That evening as I’m cooking my tea there’s the sound of a Tuareg party going on in the middle of the camp. It’s a wedding party, an Italian man married a Japanese lady, after they met at last year’s MDS. I’d like to go along and look but daren’t leave the fire. I expect there’d be a hefty time penalty for burning down the bivouac! Much later on there is much clapping in the darkness as the “Wheelies” come in: team Dunes D’Espoir. I do limp over for this, and a crowd of competitors clap for ages as one of the children is assisted out of the sedan chair to walk across the line. It’s very humbling. A French reporter asks me to speak ( English will do) into his recorder about the spectacle. I try, but words do not do the scene justice.

The last competitor to come in is Katherine Hay-Heddle from the adjacent tent. She is also clapped in followed by the camel. The camel is essentially, the cut off marker: The Boss. Like the Grim Reaper, if the camel catches you, you’re out.

Correction

06/04/01 Stage 5: Marathon Day

We groan as once again the tents come down around us. This will be the second largest stage, with only 3 check points. I intend to get going at best available speed, to try to settle my feet down into a rhythm. I hobble to the start, but at the off, I clench my teeth and after 1km of jogging and cursing, my feet are tolerable, provided the ground is good. I am running, and it feels like a miracle. My rucksack is now much lighter and it helps. I run around a farming village where again, I’m amazed people can grow anything.

There are local people watching us run past and children run along side me or put out their hands for you to slap, just like London kids in the Marathon. There are also some camels wandering around. I’m having a good day, and waste little time at check point 1 at 10km or CP2 at 20km. I even pass Bryan Hemmings and Laurence Williams at different points, and exchange “Well done mate” with both of them. Their better performances yesterday put them well beyond my reach overall, though. There isn’t scope to make up time over a marathon and a half. Still, I’m content to still be running at all. I manage to run a whole 30km before fatigue and thirst forces me to a run/walk. I know check point 3 cannot be far away, but I am suddenly out of water and it does not feel good.

I’m parched. To add to this, other competitors seem to be straying off to the right, and I can see red marker stones well off to the left. I don’t doubt the stones but I feel a strange urge to follow the pack. I settle for a line mid way between the two and then I see what’s happening. The real route follows a sandy long bending track round to the left, and by accident or intent, somebody has taken a short cut, and others have followed. I don’t want to incur any penalty and so stick to the track with its horrible slippy sand. It goes up to the top of a Jebel and I hope to see CP3 at the top, it’s not there.

I ask a German where it is. He doesn’t know either. We head down towards some vegetation 1km away and to my relief there it is. I take huge swigs of water, and again I feel dizzy with dehydration. I’m really shocked that my water is gone after only 12km and I suspect the camelback is leaking. I waste a lot of time trying to explain this to the helpful officials. They’re patient, but I can’t make myself understood. Eventually I get the message across and they test it for me: no leaks. I ran out because I’ve drunk it all, being so hot. I thank them and depart, only for the chest strap to fall off my rucksack. I stash it away. I can do without that until later “Neuf Kilometre” says a doctor. I’m resorting to mind games. This is less distance than the Cardiff 10k. I can do it.

The ground is a flat, stony plain, again, going on forever. I run 100 paces, walk 20. I acknowledge that my feet aren’t my only problem, just my biggest problem. They are quiet at the moment so I’m now dogged by the other problems hiding behind: fatigue, dehydration. Finally, ahead of me is shimmering mirage. Inside it is the Bivouac. Rallied on, I reach it by running 200 paces, then 300, trying not to be passed by the guy behind. After stage 4’s disaster I feel back in the race. I cross the line, and begin to shiver and have Goosebumps. I seek shade quickly, and salt tablets. Nothing can overcome my relief though, that there is now only a half marathon between myself and the end to it all. Today, I ran 4:42:30, a personal worst for a marathon! Still, I won’t eat myself up too much over it.

David Keenan suffered more than me today, experiencing, sickness and diarrhoea. This placed him at Pos. 69 in a total time of 30:02:00 and I’m now at Pos. 70, with 30:02:15. Only 15 seconds between us. I think that both of us would rather it were 15 hours.

07/04/01 Stage 6: 22Km

I’m kept awake half the night by pain in my feet. My left foot is pounding away like a hammer. We wait for the “warriors” to come and bring our tent down, but they’re not in a hurry today because they don’t have to re-erect the tents at the other end, I guess. My body is really protesting at this late stage as I haul myself to my feet, and I can hardly face the two energy bars I’ve set aside for breakfast, even though they haven’t melted yet. By now, the sweet taste of the Sidi Harazem water has become a bit sickly to me as well. I reflect on what a mess I must look like, as I’m sporting a sort of teenager’s beard. I’ve also got a good covering of grime.

To keep the field as together as possible, the last 50 or so competitors are started half an hour early, at 08:30. Packing my bag is much easier now, as it contains so little stuff. Dave and I know that he’s 15 sec ahead of me. I tell him that if I can run, I’m going to do so, to salvage what time/placement I can. We start together, and for the last time I stamp out my blisters over the agonising first km. David is some way behind me .

There is only one check point today, at 9km, and then a 13km dash for home. I manage to maintain a decent running pace, and the ground is initially good. A long line of runners are ahead of me, going toward the Jebel in the horizon.

A helicopter whizzes along the line covering distance very fast, and blowing sand into the faces of us ground bound, creeping things. A straight westerly heading brings me, 9km later, to CP1. This has become a desperate game of hanging on in there. I do quite well getting my water into the squashy camelback, and I have to, because whilst I’m grappling with the thing a few runners pass me and every place will count on such a short stage.

I have 13km left to secure a position that I’ll probably keep forever, this most likely being my only MDS. I get going again and take back the places I lost. Everybody, like me seems to have thrown caution to the wind (or to the sand), and sweat gathering on me, rare in this dry air, shows that I’m working hard. Again, I pass Bryan Hemmings and Laurence Williams, and we give each other final encouragement’s. 13km feels like a long, hard distance at this pace, and again, I struggle with thirst.

The finish is in a town called Tazzarine, and as I reach some ruins marking it’s edge, I know that there’s only 4 or 5km to go. I’m now out of water. I am with a friendly Frenchman called Richard, we might finish together at this rate, but as we reach the tarmac road into Tazzarine, he is quicker. 2km to go now, and the people of Tazzarine are witness to the spectacle and are clapping. The increasing activity around me tells me I’m closer to the finish line with every step. Luckily there doesn’t seem to be anyone behind me trying to pip me at the post, and I need only to keep running. A British voice with a Brummie accent, that of a guy forced to retire says “Good effort mate, 300m to go”. I round a corner and there it is. The final finish line. There’s a guy stood there with open arms. It’s Patrick Baeur, the main man. He grabs me as I cross the line and says quite a bit in French. I don’t understand a word, but his tone of voice is comforting and I sob with relief that it is over. Patrick Baeur probably greets every finisher with the same warmth and enthusiasm, such is his love of the event.

For an hour or so I sit in the shade holding a packed lunch and feeling euphoric but also stunned. After a week of desert, the sound of people and traffic is alarming. I sit with a few others from different countries, speechless and dumb struck by it all, eating slowly. My time for the 22 km was 1:55:30, putting me up a little to 67th overall and 6th Briton, behind Ben Knox, Bryan Hemmings, Lawrence Williams (Who can claim 1st Welshman), James O’Connell and David Lazenby, who I can’t picture at all.- Possibly an Army chap, but I’m not sure.

In due course I’m on a bus with Cathy Tibbetts and her buddy, another American doctor, for the long journey back to Ouazarzate. They recommend a book to me called “The long walk”, which puts our small achievement in true perspective. The route back takes a different course to that of the outward journey, through some “Italian Job” style roads with massive drops.

We were warned that the hotel that we got for 2 nights in Ouazarzate after the race may not be the same one as before, but mine is. This means hot water for me and after a shower, I feel and look very different. It takes me ages to get all the tape off my feet, and I don’t like what I see underneath. A few hours later my room mate Gerry Quinn walks in. I didn’t think that I had smelled too bad, but now that I’ve had a shower Gerry seems to honk to high heaven. I phone Anne and tell her I’m fine. Gerry phones home for the Liverpool results.

We have 2 nights in this luxury. I resort for the first time to go and see Doc Trotter, because I’m worried about the journey home. The doctor is the lady who looked at my ECG a week ago. She gets out a scalpel and some pink liquid and I feel the room spin, and put my head between my knees. Some have it worse though, my upside down view of the guy across the room shows him biting on a towel in pain. Another guy will go home in a wheelchair, with bandages half way up his calfs.

We do some serious celebrating in the 3 hotel bars. It’s like a holiday again. Our bus to the airport leaves at 6.00am prompt, we are told. Many of us are boozing until late, some don’t even go to bed. I spend most of the night with my feet up on a table, as the throbbing eases a little like that. The plan for the morning is to go down for breakfast, and then pack our stuff carefully and in good time. Monday morning Gerry happens to wake up at 6.00 AM and says “Hey guys, there’s a coach outside and people are getting on it”. My eyes open slowly and there’s Tarzan, snoring on the floor. We have a mad scrabble to pack and get out. I make sure I’ve got my precious MDS medal.

The MDS was a huge experience for me. The actual event is a very intense experience over a matter of days, but all the preparation goes back nearly 18 months prior, and it dominates your life. After all the pats on the back and champagne corks at home (not least because Anne and I got engaged), I feel like it’s a hard act to follow up. People’s accounts of this event and of others like it always use many superlatives. Now that I’m home, even recalling to mind how I felt then makes me sound to myself like a histrionic Drama Queen. This feels especially true when I consider what so many other people have had to go through by no will of their own. The Marathon des Sables is often claimed to be “the toughest footrace on Earth”, Well, I’ don’t think so. After all, it is an option open to any reasonably fit person with £1900 that they might just as well spend on a car. But for me it was very tough, and it was the experience of a lifetime, and I’m chuffed to bits to have been able to have a go.