The Marathon des Sables is probably the toughest footrace on the planet. Brendan Sainsbury knows why

The hot Saharan sun beats down ferociously. Exhausted and semi-lucid, I take a sip of sugary electrolyte drink and stagger on through the desert wilderness. Little by little, I feel as though I am being roasted in a giant microwave oven. In front of me lies over 160km of precipitous mountains, arid salt flats and undulating sand dunes stretching out like an inky mirage into the distance. Traversing them on foot with a hefty backpack stuffed with a week’s worth of food and supplies feels like a particularly gruesome form of torture. Except this is a torture of my own making.

In March 2008, I arrived apprehensively at the former French garrison town of Ouarzarzate in Morocco to enroll in the legendary Marathon des Sables. Dreamt up by an ebullient Frenchman named Patrick Bauer in 1986 and set in the stark but eerily beautiful landscapes of southern Morocco, this 245km, seven-day, run across the desert is billed as the toughest footrace on the planet. Yet, despite searing temperatures, rationed water, and the kind

of conditions that make training for the special forces look like a holiday, over 800 participants from three dozen countries sign up for the annual pain fest.

Which begs the question: why?

For most runners there are no simple answers. Some take part to raise money for charity, others harbour romantic Lawrence of Arabia delusions; more still arrive looking for adventure and their own little Mount Everest to conquer.

My personal reasons were similarly ambiguous. Pricked by curiosity and inspired by the notoriously extreme conditions, I had long viewed the race from afar and wondered how I might fare. I was not the only dreamer. Reinhold Messner – the first man to summit Everest without supplementary oxygen – once suggested that each new generation has to invent fresh challenges rather than repeat old ones; to fantasise and be creative, to approach things in a different way.

Out in the desert and halfway up a backbreaking mountain ascent, Messner’s words quickly took on a harsh new meaning. Day one had taken us through 35km of barren moonscape. Day two was more of the same with the added complication of blisters. By day three (a gruesome 40km), I felt as if I had gone seven rounds with Mohammad Ali and still had another eight to go.

And then came day four, Bauer’s pièce de résistance, the much-feared ‘long stage’, a harrowing 80km Homeric odyssey that juxtaposed vertiginous mountains with debilitating sand dunes and reduced most participants to a geriatric shuffle.

Lining up for the 8:30am start, I heard a couple of race veterans declaring grimly that this was the make or break, the point at which the marathon really began. What had gone before was merely a warm up. Day four – I ascertained with a growing sense of foreboding – was the Marathon des Sables’ raison d’être.

To my deadened senses, such gungho pronouncements sounded faintly ridiculous, sadistic even. But, as Bauer launched into his customary pre-race countdown and we jogged nervously under the fluttering start banner, a rush of adrenalin filled my tired legs and miraculously fired me forward.

And so followed what was possibly the longest day of my life, 10 and a half hours of jolting epiphanies, hazy hallucinations and multiple crossings of the pain barrier. Despite losing all track of time, I stumbled home in 72nd position just as night was falling, beyond exhaustion but feeling as Messner must have done when he first sighted the summit of Everest. Bagging the world’s tallest mountain would surely be a breeze after this.

The next day, as we hungrily devoured our insipid, freeze-dried food in the Spartacus-like camp where we slept in open-sided, sack-cloth tents, a spirit of wartime camaraderie took hold among the surviving contestants. Some nursed hideous blisters, others sat catatonic, while a few brave souls ventured out to cheer home the weary stragglers who were still limping in after almost 30 hours on the course.

The respite was only fleeting. The next morning we were awoken by the familiar posse of Berber race marshals taking down our tents as we remained huddled on the hard ground in our sleeping bags. Day six was a standard 42km marathon, though with no fixed paths and temperatures nudging 48°C, there was not anything ‘standard’ about the conditions.

It was a hardened group of survivors that gathered at the penultimate starting line, our unwashed and unshaven faces a million miles from the bright-eyed adventurers who had sallied forth six days previously. Rather worryingly, the opening pace was recklessly fast as the top 100 runners bolted boldly from the bivouac and headed ambitiously across a scorched plain of stony nothingness. Undaunted, I clung with them as if my life depended on it and tenaciously edged up one place in the rankings: 71st out of 801 starters.

The reward was the world’s most unlikely music concert. With customary French aplomb, Bauer had flown in the Paris Opera that night to perform for us live in the middle of the desert. Too tired to stand, I flopped down on a thin Moroccan carpet and stared up at the night sky as the orchestra serenaded us with Vivaldi.

The final day was a comparative breeze, a 17.5km victory parade into the small desert town of Tazzarine and a welcome return to 21st-century comfort. Spurred on by thoughts of post-race cheeseburgers, we ran like escaped prisoners into the dusty suburbs of the small Moroccan settlement where curious locals had come out of their mud-bricked houses to cheer us on.

I had long fantasised about the deluge of emotions I would feel when – or indeed ‘if’ – I crossed the line. But as the finish banner beckoned and I rounded the last corner like a ragged British soldier in sight of Dunkirk, I found I had little energy left to laugh or cry. In the blur that followed I remember outstretched hands, multi-lingual congratulations, a medal around my neck, and a ravenous hunger.

And it was only at that moment, for the first time in over a week, that I was able to pause momentarily and decipher exactly what I had been through.

The Marathon des Sables is far more than just a race. It is a long and sometimes painful dissection of the human spirit. Wrestling with nerves, discomfort, exhaustion and self-doubt, competitors push themselves to their physical and mental limits and, in the process, pull off feats which, under normal circumstances, would seem impossible. Then there are the fleeting friendships made en route, the feisty camaraderie exchanged in the bivouacs, and the hostile yet haunting beauty of the desert – barren, desolate, and humbling.

For a precious interlude in the days that followed my life took on a new intensity. But, while the blisters quickly healed and the injured muscles recovered sufficiently to run another day, the Marathon des Sables left a curious legacy. It is almost as if I had opened up an imaginary door in my subconscious mind and caught a fleeting glimpse of a brave new world glittering invitingly on the other side – a world where the only limits are the limits of imagination.

How to take part

Entry fees start at around $3,500 excluding flights to Morocco. The race is run annually in late March or early April. Places fill up fast.

Runner beware

The Marathon des Sables is not for the faint-hearted. Participants are required to run 240km over seven days carrying all their own food and equipment (in a backpack weighing approx 11kg).

The organisers provide only water (10 litres per day), open-sided Berber tents and an emergency flare.

Training plans

A good running background and up to a year of specific long-distance running training are strongly recommended. Body nutrition/hydration and decent race equipment are two other vital considerations.

More information

Mark Gillet www.darbaroud.com