After a 6-hour journey into the desert, army trucks deliver us to our destination.

A mad scramble follows as we rush to secure both tent location and tentmates (which will then remain the same at every camp, for every stage to come)

A brief 5 minutes of self-satisfaction after this achievement, was then abruptly interrupted by a rainstorm, followed by a sandstorm that soaked and covered in grit, all items just unpacked. And then our bivouac (a sideless ‘tent’ made from sticks and sewn coffee bags) blew over. Not for the first time -or, I suspect the last, I wonder what on earth I’m doing.

The mood is lightened a little, by a Frenchman who either drunk or mad, runs through the camp, the gale and the rain, in nothing but a pair of incredibly small, black Y-fronts.
In a very British fashion we all titter and marvel at the liberal and eccentric nature of our European neighbours.

A greater alleviation came in the form of the evening supper provided where, after queuing for an hour; we were rewarded with a ridiculously generous chicken chasseur, served – to mild surprise – with a choice of either beer or wine. God bless the French.

We queue endlessly and nervously for ECG submission, pack inspection and the issuance of our salt-tabs, bazooka-sized flare and ASBO-style ankle tracking-tag.

Slow-roasting in the sunshine in each respective queue, it was a chance to get to know the other competitors ..although this often stretched to the uncomfortable extent that we would collectively end up over-sharing with one another as the queues would typically last longer than polite conversation could cover.

My hair is already disgusting. Temporarily untying it to form a tighter bun, it falls in 3 fat red dreads that I will now endeavour to avoid touching again.
The end of the day again brought redemption for the days’ discomfort as our last provided meal was not only ridiculously generous but also served with wine. God bless the French. Again.

Running time: 7h16m

Feet fine so far. The male winner of the MdS last year dropped out today.

Fiercest Sunday morning I’ve met in a while. We are woken by Gurkhas who – in order to wake us, pull the grandly-titled ‘tent’ down from above us. A pole in the head later, I am naked and freezing in the Sahara-6am, and scrabbling to find and wear, as many belongings I can lay my hands on.

Rehydrating my freeze-dried 800-calorie porridge, with the added luxury of dehydrated strawberries drew small comfort. Looking like cement and perhaps unsurprisingly, setting in my stomach like a brick, it didn’t feel like a great start. Nonetheless, without alternatives, we consume, we obsess about the science of back-packing detail to the nano degree and nth order, and then we are off.

The length of the first day caught most of us by surprise. At 37.2km, it was about 15km longer than any previous stage 1 and from about 20km in, it was not uncommon to pass guys being sick as the heat and distance started to cause problems.

Despite finding it uncomfortable myself at times, with hindsight, I am glad to have got a greater distance out the way early and it also makes the km distribution for the days to come, a little more even (‘double day’ excepted!)

No blisters to speak of but I am carrying far, far too much weight – which, after the first 10km, made it very difficult to run without quite a bit of pain. So far, so stubborn, I refuse to jettison any of my luxury items (reading book, journal, camera, Blackberry.. among others..) And have instead made the brunt of my bag reduction efforts from bailing a ridiculously large honey-roast nut collection and also disposing of dried mango, made quite wet by a mid-stage water bottle incident. Coupled with consumption of dinner portions tonight and breakfast tomorrow, this should mean I start out about 1kg lighter and (no guarantees) hopefully faster!

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 – followed 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 a series of consecutive soft, sandy and 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 this 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: 6h48

3 blisters.

Now taping my back, shoulders and hips each morning, there is, I suppose an irony in that through my participation in the MdS, I have developed what appears to be a sloth’s bedsores on every backpack touchpoint.

Flat and hard, the terrain was the most accommodating we have had yet and I had a strong start, running all the way to checkpoint 1. However after that, the wheels quickly came off. My taped torso might limit further skin chafing and the stingy ouchiness of salty sweat in my open wounds.. but it offers little protection to the existing bruising, and the pain crippled me to a lolloping walk. Which was very frustrating as the salt flats that came, not only provided the perfect terrain to run on, but also quickly became a heat trap as the sun rose higher in the sky, temperatures apparently reaching over 50C today.

The prim humour we found in the Y-fronted Frenchman on the first day is gone, replaced by the gritty realism of communal living with all the sanitary resource and privacy that the desert offers (none). And I now feel like I have seen enough parts of other people, to qualify as a doctor. Or at least a pervert. The quietly assumed ‘500-meter from anyone before anything can be done’ rule has been quickly unwound on practical grounds and there is a bizarre humour in dodging round other runners who, to answer their call of nature, simply stop and squat on route, looking like defecating Transformers in their tech running gear and rucksacks.

I literally crawl over the finish – and then had to sit for a further 10 minutes, before making the 200m walk to our tent.

Post-run, the tent has fallen into a familiar routine of comparing then dressing wounds, cooking supper and then retiring to bed. Normally by 8pm. ‘Cooking’ supper was quicker for me – and will be from hereon after I slung my 200g ‘cooker’/bunsen burner at an earlier checkpoint today, in another purge on bag weight.

Surprising nobody apart from me, my cold, half-hydrated curry was not as good as I hoped it would be.

I am now very tempted to make my Blackberry the next item that I leave to the sands of the desert – though a conviction that the day I sling it will be the day I get any sort of phone signal, keeps it with me. For one more day at least, anyway.

Running time: 17h5m

4 blisters.

The ‘Double Day’ at 75km, this was the one we were all dreading. But against odds and sense, I absolutely loved it.

Temperatures absolutely soared during the day, peaking at 54C through the salt flats, but highlights made it bearable.

The elite runners start after our mediocre, which meant that about 5 hours into the run, many of us were overtaken by their thundering herd as they stormed past. And against intelligence, I seized the chance to run 2km with the female winner from last year. However, her faster pace – and surprising chattiness, meant that I lasted no longer than that, before dropping back and, again, prematurely finishing my water ..and then vomiting.

However, as night began to fall, I really began to enjoy running in the cool air and beautiful night sky of the Sahara. The later stages of the course were dominated by deep, soft sand dunes which -contrary to their obstacle during the day, became pure pleasure at night. Without the energy-sapping heat, they became a lot more fun, and I found myself deliberately choosing to run up those that lined the course, for the pure pleasure they provided in running, full pelt, back down them. There’s not really words for the feeling of freedom that comes from running through unspoilt nature at night, not seeing or knowing of another person for miles –and having everything you need to survive (at least for a time), is in the pack you’re carrying.

While listening to Darude.
Epic.

I have a little concern that I may have done something to my Achilles as I twisted my foot awkwardly on the rocky dunes of the last section. Nothing really hurts, but my foot feels very hot.

With a time deadline on stage 4 of 32 hours, today represented a rest day for all of us that managed to make it back overnight (or before)

Having self-treated every blister so far, I was today forced to visit the travelling foot doctors ‘Doc Trotters’ after my feet crossed the cusp of what can be considered a manageable level of distortion or disgusting. Where I was then punctured, and then injected with iodine. And I would like to apologise again, in writing, to all those within earshot when it was delivered. I didn’t even know I knew a lot of those words.

Temperatures again hit extremes today, to the point where the sand became too hot to walk on and the majority of the day was spent in the relative cool of our tent trading life stories, injury woes and isotonic gels.

Running time: 8h30m

4 blisters and Achilles ugly

Awakening again to the sound – and sudden cold – of the Gurkhas pulling down the tent around us, something inside me snapped and I completely lost it, yelling in a redhead rage that –despite the language barrier– proved immediately rewarding. Which while leaving us more comfortable for the first hours of the morning routine, soon left us a slightly uncomfortable spectacle, as the rest of the camp was taken down around us. As we left the start line, our tent remained the only thing still standing. I quietly wonder if it’s still there.

Karma already had its eye on me. It has become increasingly difficult to get my Injinji socks (ingenious socks with a little ‘nano-sock’ for each toe) on over my bandaged feet and then worse, trying to fit my feet – which seem to have swelled to Yeti-like proportions, into my trainers. However today, sock-stuffing proved only half the problem as – despite it constituting one of only about 7 possessions, I have managed to lose one. Not the disaster that the temporary loss of my shorts proved yesterday (which went unmentioned for ..reasons) but one that – unlike yesterday, was not resolved. Great. Great un-comfortableness and blister juice.

Nonetheless, with the compensating benefit of a lighter pack, I was feeling strong and determined to get a good marathon time, starting fast over the soft dunes at the opening. Which lasted all of 800m before the suspected Achilles injury became a confirmed one, shooting hot flashes of truly breath-taking pain every step I took. Slowing to a stop, one of my tentmates soon caught up with me and – God bless them – basically bullied me to checkpoint 1. But by the time I arrived, I was in tears of pain and the enormity of the 32km still ahead of me felt like an impossible task.

However, after a sit-down, 2 packs of jelly beans and 2 painkillers, I felt strong enough to at least get to the next checkpoint, and we marched off. And so set the form for each checkpoint and the rest of the painful, frustrating but ultimately very, very rewarding journey on.

Others too, were clearly at the physical limit of what their bodies would tolerate: in the last 6km, we saw 2 flares go off ahead of us. Both runners had collapsed from heatstroke and had their flares set off by other passing competitors. The first was a guy from the tent next to us – but after a rest and an IV, he got up and finished it. The second, we passed about 40mins later and about 1km from the finish line. Again it was heatstroke but he was in a much worse way and there was a medical team surrounding him and a helicopter just landing, as we passed. His last 6 days -blown out by a disqualification in the last km… No words, no words.

I cried when I crossed the line and – after initial protestations that I had sand in my eye, had to confess the full extent of emotion and exhaustion when I stated hiccupping. No ‘finishers photo’ to frame, thanks.

Running time: No longer counting

Covering the distance counted but your placing did not, today. In a departure from previous years, the last day that mattered from a leader-board perspective was yesterday’s marathon – and today is one for commercial exploitation, only. Just as well, really – once equipped with our sponsor-issue blue T-shirts we assemble like a Dad’s Army of runners, to hobble off the start line. And manage to maintain only hobble pace, for the duration.

Its finish is less of a climax than yesterday’s and after the line the priority, post-camera, was finding a place on the coach next to someone less smelly, for the journey back to Ouarzazate.

6-hours of the most terrifying coach journey I have ever endured, then ensued. Commandeered by a driver who seemed to have no qualms about the side of the road to drive on – yet who would, ironically, indicate for every bend the road took us round, we had so many near misses with other vehicles, people and animals, that given the choice; I think I’d actually do the MdS a second time before getting in that coach again.

Eventually and thankfully, we arrive at the hotel. Where after showering, I was disappointed to learn that most of what I thought was tan, must in fact have been dirt and sand.

Undeterred, and determined to party, we took our pasty, patched bodies for a beer at the pool, a feast and wine at the table and then cocktails under the Sahara sky.

Two of my tentmates have already made their tribute to the sands a permanent part of them (their tattoo pictures to come).. I remain quite satisfied with my medal and roadbook remnants. Though in addition, the friends I made on this trip – and the experience I shared with them, will stay with me forever.

I’ve tried as hard as I can to put in to words what it’s like but I’m not being humble when I say I don’t do it justice. If you can find the time; all the will you need, will come from committing. Do it – you only have this lifetime.