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IIt’s 6.15pm in Ouarzazate, Morocco, and I’m cutting excess foil off a packet of paracetamol for weight loss. A small pile of rejected kit lay next to me – spare batteries, a small stove, a handful of fire bricks, even the cut-off bottom third of a foldable foam mattress. To the uninitiated, this appears to be the result of a minor malfunction; For those of us who run it sand marathonThis is the logical prelude to five days of voluntary suffering. Every gram counts when your backpack has everything you need to survive Sahara Desert,
sand marathonWhat is often called the toughest trek on Earth is best known for its full 250km version – a seven-day journey across some of the most inhospitable terrain imaginable. i’m attending little morocco 120km version: Only four days, temperatures up to 47 degrees Celsius, and enough sand to test every ounce of self-confidence. it’s still too far away In the frying pan and furnace,
We start in Ouarzazate, a small town whose name comes from Berber for “without noise”. It is a curious staging post – famous for Hollywood film crews and ultrarunnerYet with all the energy of a waiting room. The real difficulty lies five hours into the depths of the dunes, where a convoy of coaches arrives and hits the bush and dust until the horizon begins to shake. By the time we reach the large black bivouacs and fluorescent yellow tents arranged in a circle of six, with just enough space for a small fire between them, the absurdity of what lies ahead has hit home.
first stage
The first morning begins with a certain amount of excitement. We enjoy our last moments of ignorance before the safety briefing, first in French, then in English – most of the runners are francophone. Then, finally, and to the sound of some truly awful Eurotrash, we set off into the unknown: a trail of limbs and hiking poles vying for space in the soft-packed sand. The fittest – led by ten-time MDS winner and local legend Rashid El Morabiti – disappear into the glittering distance almost immediately. I’m somewhere in the middle: part running, part walking, mostly wondering what the hell I signed up for.
Within hours, vanity turns into a bargain. The heat reaches 45 degrees Celsius; The further climb rises 250 metres; The sand behaves like a conveyor belt that pulls us backward. Despite all my careful preparation, it was clear that I had packed more than necessary. In addition to five days’ worth of food, I’m carrying two liters of water, a change of clothes, a heavy battery pack, trekking poles, sandals, socks, and other flotsam that has been misplaced with caution. By the 18km mark, heading into the full glory of the sun, I have doused myself in 250ml of warm water, four km from the next checkpoint. People stop. Others collapse. Some people use their bodies to shade people who have fainted. The desert, indifferent and endless, keeps us moving at a slow pace.
When I finally climb the hill and look down at the checkpoint, I’ve learned my first lesson the hard way: never leave anyone without a canteen. After two brutal climbs and a never-ending journey, the camp finally comes into view. For experienced trail runners, 25 km is a manageable distance. This state feels like something else entirely. That evening, a silence prevails. You hear the low hum of conversation, the whispering of stoves, the bustle of people who feel it hurts to even sit. The smell is dust, sweat and rehydrated curry.
Step 2
By the morning of the second stage the organizers had already agreed to the heat. The route has been shortened from 46.5km to a friendly 40km, a tacit admission that the 47C is punishing even for them. The morning seems kinder for a while: hard baked earth instead of soft sand, a chance to find a rhythm. We half run, half march, the miles ticking away until the sun begins its assault. The route descends and ascends. Flags mark the route that winds past herds of camels and fields of jagged rock. Lesson learned from last day, I’m like a monk in discipline with my water Electrolyte Mixture. Still, I can tell from my urine that I’m extremely dehydrated. I packed an electrolyte pouch for every other checkpoint throughout the event. In any other race this would have been more than enough, but here, under this heat, I needed one stop per stop. You can’t absorb water without salt; At a certain point you just become a human canteen, filling you with fluids and losing weight.
At the last checkpoint, the staff warned us to rest and refuel before continuing nine kilometers further. With good reason: this is the hardest period of my life. First, the endless up: soft orange sand dotted with jagged rocks that you scan for the promise of solid footing. When that fails, you follow in the footsteps of those who came before, their paths a little stronger than the rest. At this level, survival is the only strategy. Into the furnace, the 211-meter climb feels biblical. False peaks appear and disappear. The air hums with warmth. A lone, withered tree marks the end of the climb, and from there the descent through soft sand that swallows every step. You round the jagged rock face and the camp appears ahead, barely more than a dot but not much more, a mirage that refuses to get closer to you no matter how long you walk. Uphill, downhill, flat, uphill, downhill, flat. The rolling flat, the softer the sand. There is no relief, only an extended sting in the tail.
Despite this, there are small mercies. British volunteers, scattered along the way, make way for their compatriots. The race may be dominated by French and Belgian runners, but the Brits, competitors and volunteers alike, are the strongest tribe. Encouragement and short conversations with fellow runners remind you that this is an adventure, not a chore. It’s an amazing setting and hardship brings out the best in humans. Still the heat is showing its effect. Friendships are made in the furnace and you can’t help but look out for your camp mates along the way. Some of the group find themselves in ice baths to cool down, each time taking fifteen minutes to pull the core temperature down to human limits. You become as invested in them as you are in yourself.
rest day
For the rest of the day we’ve learned the rhythm: ration, boil, repack, repeat. The best accommodation, the one with air flow, is claimed by a happy group of Britons: doctors, lawyers, finance types, a farmer, some ex-military types and an entrepreneur or two. The Marathon des Sables attracts exactly the kind of adventurous adventurers our island specializes in. We sit cross-legged, dealing cards, sharing freeze-dried meals as if they were fine dining. Then a sandstorm comes, which destroys the beauty. Some tents were blown away; Pop-up toilets disappear into the distance. We crouch, cover our faces, close our eyes, and wait for him as if stuck on a delayed train.
step 3
The final phase begins before dawn. At 5.30am the air is cool enough to move freely, and for the first time my body feels connected to the desert. The rhythm has come: run flat, march over the dunes, put the poles out, put the poles away. Fear is replaced by confidence. Fifteen kilometers pass before the sun rises. The landscape turns to copper, then gold. Somewhere between exhaustion and acceptance, I stop fighting in places. The desert doesn’t change, but I do. This is not a race; It is a sequence of small entities stitched together. As the sun rises, the field turns deep red and for a moment it feels like Mars: dry, silent, surreal. The finish line appears almost by chance: a modest archway that feels both forbidding and vast. The volunteers cheer. I have a medal around my neck. There were several hugs and the organizers seemed genuinely pleased for me and the hundreds of others who crossed the threshold in a state of emotion.
Result
There is no time to wait long. We are loaded onto buses and driven back to Ouarzazate, neurotically happy, sunburnt, half-dead. We have been reduced to our simplest nature and now, suddenly, we are returning to civilisation, laughing too loudly, debating what we will eat and drink first, dreaming of bathing first.
Back at the hotel, there is a party. Runners from all different continents raise glasses to their blisters, their stripes, their mix of survival, triumph and relief.
A few hours later, when I was lying awake in a comfortable bed with the hum of the air conditioner, I realized I already missed it: the sand, the silence, the simplicity, the furnace. The desert doesn’t care if you finish. But if you do, it never lets you go.