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IIt’s 6:15pm in Ouarzazate, Morocco, and I’m cutting off the excess foil from a packet of paracetamol to save weight. Next to me lay a small pile of discarded tools—spare batteries, a small stove, a handful of refractory bricks, even the cut-off bottom third of a foldable foam mattress. To the uninitiated, this may look like the aftermath of a minor glitch. For those of us about to run sand marathona logical prelude to five days of voluntary suffering. When your backpack can carry everything you need to survive the environment, every gram counts sahara desert.
this sand marathonOften referred to as the toughest footrace on earth, it is famous for its 250km race – a grueling seven-day trek through some of the harshest terrain imaginable. I’m taking the shorter Morocco 120km version: Just four days, with temperatures reaching 47 degrees Celsius and enough sand to test every ounce of confidence. still far beyond frying pan and place in stove.
We started in Ouarzazate, a small town whose name comes from the Berber word meaning “without noise”. It’s a strange way station – featuring Hollywood film crews and ultra runnerbut filled with all the energy of the waiting room. The real test is five hours deep in the dunes, reached by a convoy of coaches driving through brush and dust until the horizon begins to ripple. By the time we reached the smattering of large black campsites and neon-yellow tents arranged in a circle of six with just enough room in between to light a small fire, the absurdity ahead had been resolved.
first stage
The first morning started with a certain amount of bravado. We enjoyed a final moment of ignorance before the safety briefing, first in French and then in English – most of the runners were French. After that, to a soundtrack of some truly horrific Eurotrash, we finally set off into the unknown: a trail of limbs and trekking poles fighting for space in the soft sand. Led by ten-time MDS champion and local legend Rachid El Morabity, the strongest disappeared almost immediately into the shimmering distance. I’m somewhere in the middle of the wave: part run, part slog, trying not to get caught up in excitement and overheating too early.
Within hours, the bluff turned into a bargain. The temperature reached an incredible 45 degrees Celsius, the climb ahead was 250 meters, and the sand pulled us back like a conveyor belt. Despite all my careful preparation, it was clear that I had put on too much pretense. In addition to five days of meals, I carried two liters of water, a change of clothes, a heavy battery pack, trekking poles, sandals, socks and other crap I kept out of caution. At kilometer 18, while traveling under the scorching sun, with 4 kilometers to go until the next checkpoint, I only had 250 ml of warm water left. People stop. Others collapsed. Some used their bodies to shade those who fainted. I realized the Sahara was indifferent to our struggles, so I continued on slowly.
When I finally made it to the top and saw the checkpoint below, I learned my first lesson the hard way: never leave with both canteens full. After two brutal climbs and a never-ending march, the camp finally came into view. For experienced trail runners, 25 kilometers is a manageable distance. This phase feels like something else entirely. That night there was silence. You’ll hear murmurs of conversation, the hiss of the stove, people’s footsteps, and find that even sitting hurts. The smell is that of dust, sweat and rehydrated curry.
Likewise, there is a lot of excitement around the campground. Runners share stories of their worst pain or being surprised by running farther than expected. Which checkpoint felt the longest, what hiking poles they used and how their packs held up. I realized that everyone was in this together and this was the culmination of their own long journey to the starting line.
second stage
By the morning of the second period, organizers had admitted as much. The route was shortened from 46.5 kilometers to a more friendly 40 kilometers, acknowledging that the predicted midday temperature of 47 degrees Celsius would also be punishing for them. The morning feels short and sweet: hard dirt instead of soft sand, a chance to find a rhythm. We half ran, half walked, the miles ticking by until the sun started to hit. The route has descents and ascents. Flags mark the path in the distance past a herd of camels and through fields of jagged rock. Lessons from the previous day, I was like a monk in training with water and water electrolyte mix. Still, there were clear signs of dehydration. I had an electrolyte bag ready for every other checkpoint throughout the event. In any other race this would be more than enough, but here, in such hot weather, I should have had one at every stop. Without salt, you can’t absorb water; at some point, you become a human canteen, with liquid sloshing around inside you and making you feel heavy.
At the last checkpoint at about 32 kilometers, the staff warned us to rest and replenish our energy before continuing 9 kilometers further. And for good reason: It was the hardest time of my life. First, the endless ascent: soft orange sand dotted with jagged rocks that you scan for solid footing. When you fail, you follow in the footsteps of those who came before you, whose paths were a little more determined than others. At this stage, survival is the only strategy. In the Crucible, the 211m climb feels biblical. False peaks appear and disappear. The air is filled with heat. A dead tree marks the end of the climb, and from there we descend through soft sand that swallows every step. Rounding the jagged cliffs, the campground appears ahead. It’s a little bigger than a dot, but nothing major, it’s a mirage that doesn’t come close no matter how long you move. Uphill, downhill, flat, uphill, downhill, flat. The flat terrain is undulating and the sand is softer. There was no respite, just a long spike on the tail.
Still, there are some small mercy. British volunteers scattered across the track, heading straight for their compatriots. The competition may be dominated by French and Belgian players, but British players, competitors and volunteers form the tightest group. Encouragement and brief conversations with other runners will remind you that this is an adventure, not a chore. It’s an amazing environment where suffering brings out the best in humans. When the heat sets in, close friendships are forged by the fire and you can’t help but notice your fellow campers along the way. Some in the group found themselves cooling down in ice baths for fifteen minutes at a time, bringing their core temperatures back into the human range. You are as invested in their accomplishment as you are in yourself.
rest day
By the time we had our rest days, we had learned the rhythm: ration, boil, repack, repeat. The best campsites are airy campsites, claimed by a merry band of Englishmen: doctors, lawyers, financiers, farmers, customary military types and an entrepreneur or two. The Sable Marathon attracts just the kind of carefree adventurer unique to our island. We sat cross-legged, dealt cards, and discussed the merits of different dehydrated foods like haute cuisine. Then a sandstorm hits, shredding the idyllic landscape. Some tents blew away; pop-up toilets disappeared into the distance. We crouch down, cover our faces, close our eyes, and wait quietly and patiently like delayed commuters.
The third stage
The final phase begins before dawn. At 5.30 in the morning, the air was cool enough to run freely, and my body felt the smell of the desert for the first time. The rhythm has arrived: running on the flats, marching on the dunes, extending the poles, retracting them. Confidence replaces fear. There are still fifteen kilometers before the sun rises. Somewhere between exhaustion and acceptance, I stopped fighting this place. The desert hasn’t changed, but I have. This is not a competition; It is a series of small remains stitched together. As the sun rose, the plains turned crimson, and for a moment it felt like Mars: arid, silent, surreal. The landscape turns copper, then gold. The finish line appears almost by accident: an austere arch that feels both anticlimactic and monumental. The volunteers cheered. I have a medal hanging around my neck. I was given a few hugs and the organizers seemed genuinely happy for me, one of the hundreds of people crossing the line in various emotional states.
as a result of
No time to linger. We were piled onto the bus and driven back to Ouarzazate, joyfully demobilized, sunburned and half delirious. We have been reduced to our simplest selves, and now, suddenly, we are back to civilization, laughing too loudly, discussing what we will eat and drink first, and dreaming of taking our first shower.
Back at the hotel, there’s a party going on. Runners from every continent toasted their blisters, their bandages, their survival, a mixture of triumph and relief.
A few hours later, as I lay in the comfort of my bed, the air conditioner humming, I realized I had begun to miss it: the sand, the silence, the simplicity, the fire. The desert doesn’t care if you finish. But if you do, it will never let you go.