Running time: 6h18m
1 blister.
Today was tough, seriously tough. And though shorter than yesterday, several times harder.
Sleep is proving evasive, as the level of snoring in the camp left me genuinely concerned that there were runners among us that were about to inhale their own head; and all the calories in my breakfast punch isn’t really compensating for that. My 800cal porridge with dehydrated mango is no better than the strawberry. And had it not been for the alarming shade of neon yellow this one commands, I suspect I never would have recognised a difference.
After the already-familiar morning obsession on packing and then assembly at the start line for race creator Patrick Bauer’s inaudible (even to the French) daily Jeep-top rally of the runners – flowed by a blast of Highway to Hell (a song I immediately hate) we are off.
After a series of relentless climbs through first sand dunes and then jebels, the descents would offer no respite, coming in the form of either gator-swallowing sand, punctuated with hard, stubborn and quite hidden rocks, or solid-stone crevasse-dances that required focussed attention and allowed you to pay no respect to the landscape around you, as your route demanded eyes down, for the duration.
I ran out of water ~2km before the first checkpoint. Having no watch-gadget to provide either altitude or km covered, I was guessing my progress by reference to the hand-drawn map in the roadbook. And it was not until arriving at the peak of one jebel climb that I realised it was just a false summit and I had in fact, two further climbs to go before the long, stony distance down to more level ground, where I could get more water. Though a fortunate cool breeze during the climb prevented me from sweating the full consequence of my miscalculation.
However, while that was uncomfortable, it was superseded by the next leg as the journey to the second checkpoint proved the longest 12km of my life (so far!). Starting with a climb up a consuming, sliding sand dune where I slid down twice – through exhaustion and lack of grippy-things (both times no more than 3m from the top), the eventual, painful arrival at the summit was rewarded with a walk along a stony ridge – in parts just 6in wide, with a sheer drop one side and on the other, precious little to grip onto, on the rock face above. It took me well beyond my comfort limit to finish it – I learnt later 17 dropped out of the race at this point – and I don’t judge a single one of them for it. Ridiculous thing to be doing on a holiday.
The stage finished with a final, brutal, 2km slide and scramble over consecutive seemingly endless dunes. My ‘reward’ in freeze-dried chicken tikka does not feel like enough to mark the occasion. If men were made of sauvignon Blanc, right now I swear I’d rip someone’s head off and drink them.
In other concerns, I am going to have to do more to reduce my pack weight. The pain in my shoulders now repeats in my hips where my rucksack sits and running has become something that is only tolerable for only 20 minutes at a time before the pain from its constant jarring, overrides the efforts of my Nurofen. Prior to the stage, I had already given away my reading book and walking poles and am now considering ‘losing’ the 1kg bazooka-flare we were issued at the start, and simply wearing the $70 charge for its use or loss, at the end. Only common sense and a healthy awareness of my own orienteering fallibility (and thus its possible requirement) are keeping it with me. Ditto the ridiculously large king-sized duvet of a survival sheet.
Will resort to seeing how much I can eat.
Running time: 6h18m
1 blister.
Today was tough, seriously tough. And though shorter than yesterday, several times harder.
Sleep is proving evasive, as the level of snoring in the camp left me genuinely concerned that there were runners among us that were about to inhale their own head; and all the calories in my breakfast punch isn’t really compensating for that. My 800cal porridge with dehydrated mango is no better than the strawberry. And had it not been for the alarming shade of neon yellow this one commands, I suspect I never would have recognised a difference.
After the already-familiar morning obsession on packing and then assembly at the start line for race creator Patrick Bauer’s inaudible (even to the French) daily Jeep-top rally of the runners – flowed by a blast of Highway to Hell (a song I immediately hate) we are off.
After a series of relentless climbs through first sand dunes and then jebels, the descents would offer no respite, coming in the form of either gator-swallowing sand, punctuated with hard, stubborn and quite hidden rocks, or solid-stone crevasse-dances that required focussed attention and allowed you to pay no respect to the landscape around you, as your route demanded eyes down, for the duration.
I ran out of water ~2km before the first checkpoint. Having no watch-gadget to provide either altitude or km covered, I was guessing my progress by reference to the hand-drawn map in the roadbook. And it was not until arriving at the peak of one jebel climb that I realised it was just a false summit and I had in fact, two further climbs to go before the long, stony distance down to more level ground, where I could get more water. Though a fortunate cool breeze during the climb prevented me from sweating the full consequence of my miscalculation.
However, while that was uncomfortable, it was superseded by the next leg as the journey to the second checkpoint proved the longest 12km of my life (so far!). Starting with a climb up a consuming, sliding sand dune where I slid down twice – through exhaustion and lack of grippy-things (both times no more than 3m from the top), the eventual, painful arrival at the summit was rewarded with a walk along a stony ridge – in parts just 6in wide, with a sheer drop one side and on the other, precious little to grip onto, on the rock face above. It took me well beyond my comfort limit to finish it – I learnt later 17 dropped out of the race at this point – and I don’t judge a single one of them for it. Ridiculous thing to be doing on a holiday.
The stage finished with a final, brutal, 2km slide and scramble over consecutive seemingly endless dunes. My ‘reward’ in freeze-dried chicken tikka does not feel like enough to mark the occasion. If men were made of sauvignon Blanc, right now I swear I’d rip someone’s head off and drink them.
In other concerns, I am going to have to do more to reduce my pack weight. The pain in my shoulders now repeats in my hips where my rucksack sits and running has become something that is only tolerable for only 20 minutes at a time before the pain from its constant jarring, overrides the efforts of my Nurofen. Prior to the stage, I had already given away my reading book and walking poles and am now considering ‘losing’ the 1kg bazooka-flare we were issued at the start, and simply wearing the $70 charge for its use or loss, at the end. Only common sense and a healthy awareness of my own orienteering fallibility (and thus its possible requirement) are keeping it with me. Ditto the ridiculously large king-sized duvet of a survival sheet.
Will resort to seeing how much I can eat.
