counselling

Marathon des Sables - Mat Wilson's experience in the Sahara Desert

As I sit here at my computer I have this vague recollection that this whole adventure seemed an eternity ago.  Nevertheless, as more and more students ask, “how was it?” my memory returns to pure agony, whilst my reply gets shorter and shorter to just a grunt with a simple murmuring of “hot and sandy”.  I suppose I shouldn’t be so negative in my response, but with the Marathon des Sables being billed by the organisers as the ‘Toughest Footrace in the World’, they aren’t far wrong.  

After having such a fantastic year in 2001, both work wise and sport wise, I was somewhat disorientated to discover that I would not be an officer in the Parachute Regiment.  One month of pity parties and drinking finally ended when CRY asked my to be the lead costume runner again in the London Marathon.  Training had always been a way of life for me, but somehow it had lost its way.  Now I had a focus and set all sights on the Marathon.  To get back into the swing of things I decided to do a few cross-country races during the winter season. Whilst flicking though Runners World I came across an advert for the Marathon des Sables 2003 (MdS for short!).  A 150 mile running race across the Sahara, whilst at the same time carrying your own Bergen (rucksack).  Memories came flooding back from my few brief days with the Para’s.  Whilst going through selection (actually I was in the Mess drinking like a fish on 50p beer!), one of the Captains said that he was supposed to compete in the MdS in 2001 but had to cancel due to the difficulties in Sierra Leone.  He explained that some for his fellow officers had completed the race the year before and said it was relatively easy if you were mentally switched on.  It may sound a little cock sure to read this, but I truly believed that these guys really did find the MdS straightforward.  After experiencing a physically brutal couple of weeks at the hands of these chaps, I knew that any civilian race would be mentally undemanding for me.  How wrong I was.

I managed to find the Marathon des Sables website and found out about the entry fee for the pleasure of running this race. After trying several other websites, I discovered that UK competitors could only enter using their relevant countries tour operator. This happened to be an UK company called Best of Morocco an outfit that made sure you had paid your money pronto style, but failed to provide you with up to the minute information regarding race progress.  After the race I found out how much the race entry fees were and checked out the price of flights.  I cannot tell you how many angry competitors there were!

Nevertheless, the race fee was paid and I needed to start training.  Race day 4^th April 2003 was approaching fast.  A chap called John Dawkins who said that he was a supplier for an up and coming company called X-socks approached me, looking to see if we could help each other in some way.  The company made socks with advanced foot protection.  Since I have been running I have always suffered with the most awful blisters.  John suggested that I try a pair and see how I got on.  If I liked them, he would consider sponsoring CRY in return for publicity for X-socks upon my return.

I entered a race called the Thames Meander, held in deepest, darkest February.  A 56-mile race starting at Reading train station and finishing in Hampton, London.  Basically, follow the riverbank and don’t fall in! I got my friend Tony to drop me off in Reading at around 0900hrs.  A mass of runners who were all mostly doing the MdS 2003 had gathered and were eagerly awaiting the start of the race.  During the race I met a woman called Katharine and a chap called Ian. It turned out Katharine was a Volvo Ocean race yachts women and Ian a hardcore Northern Ultra-endurance virgin.  Both were fantastic characters who had some fantastic stories making the dark hours a little more bearable.  Upon completion we all thanked each other for the morale encouragement and departed knowing we could finish the long stage in the MdS.  All I needed now was to add a little sand and heat.  I wore the X-socks “sky runners” and did not have one blister.  I had a couple of pressure points, but what do you expect after 56 miles.

Please excuse the plagiarism, but I am including a race report from a fellow competitor, I couldn’t have put it any better.

You get the idea, when you first hear the title, of a gentle ramble across grassy towpaths, a piece of long grass between your teeth, Youth Hostel badges pinned to your knotty walking stick, content with your lot, your inner being resonating with the reassuring sounds of country life around you; the lowing of the cows and the 'tink tink' of their bells, the cries of the barge skippers as they ply their trade along the waterway, the cheerful music of a marsh warbler as it flits from stem to stem of the reeds growing in abundance by the river bank. Even a little country vole might be spotted as it timidly peeps from its cleverly disguised nest in a flowery knoll.  Perhaps you might be forgiven that on such a stroll you could stop at a country pub for a pint of real ale and Ploughman's Lunch. You can almost taste the cheese and pickle. Afterwards, lying on your back on a nearby hillock, you would watch the clouds shift and change in the fresh summer sky, transforming into wonderful shapes, and you would dream your afternoon away in tranquil bliss...

Let us not forget the Oxford Dictionary definition of the word 'Meander.' (It brings to mind the curves of an ancient river, weaving its way through meadows, until an ox-bow lake takes shape over the centuries. Time in abundance, nothing rushed, nature's peaceful, unhurried way...)

"To follow a winding course...wanders aimlessly...an ornamental pattern of winding lines..."

Well, excuse me, but !!!!

Can someone please explain to me how on Saturday 15th February, on just such a 'Meander', I found myself nearly 15 hours into the journey, in pitch darkness, caked in filth, carrying a 25lb backpack, wearing a miner's head lamp which had cut out, leaving me blind and stumbling, my knee resembling John Merrick's worst one, my blistered feet looking and feeling like bubble wrap, freezing, shivering, cursing nature and all humanity, my pain receptors screaming like a boy racer's car alarm, my endorphins having abandoned my bruised and numb body, and not even a bloody vole in sight!

The occasion was the 56-mile marathon from Reading to Hampton, along the Thames towpath. It was supposed to be in preparation for the Marathon des Sables endurance footrace. I just ended up feeling like a very lost Postie on a grim housing estate, pursued by dogs, heckled by boozers pointing the way to the caves (courtesy of my lamp and backpack) and suffering like the Messiah on his way to Golgotha to try out the latest acupuncture cure.

I was on my own for the most part, bewildered and wondering why I was putting myself through such a momentous struggle. Even now, I can hardly comprehend that this was an elementary jog compared to what we will face in Morocco in April. Substitute voles for scorpions and venomous snakes, a Ploughman's Lunch for freeze-dried grub and power bars.

I finished very late, the equivalent of an elderly parent finishing the egg and spoon race on Sports day, just in time to help the Caretaker pack away the folding chairs for the Assembly Hall, leaflets proclaiming the big day blowing around the deserted playing fields. 'Chariots of Fire' it wasn't. No slow motion and stirring anthems. It felt more like 'Platoon' mixed with 'Alien 3'. With a sadist popcorn lady beating me senseless with a Cornetto.

I felt a tad unprepared. The wind is never as harsh in your imagination. The pain is never really going to kick in. From behind the security of your Everest windows you envisage striding purposefully past other runners, even smiling a little from the corner of your mouth, your daydreaming alter ego smug and superior, and with more comfortable running shoes.

And having seen those little dancing bunnies on TV innumerable times, why the bejeebers didn't I put a couple of Duracells in my torch? I would probably have been skipping in a similar fashion, illuminating my way ahead like an angler fish after its prey, instead of staggering wildly in the dark like a bridegroom on the run after thirty pints and the threat of being tied naked to a fire hydrant.

In one way, this killer of a race, not in terms of distance necessarily but in terms of terrain and weather, did prepare me for one thing. Not the Marathon des Sables though.

Now I'm perfectly prepared as a contestant on 'Stars in their Eyes.'

"Tonight Mathew, I'm going to be absolutely brain dead. I'm performing as Ozzy Osbourne!"

So you can see from the above account that some of my fellow competitors were a little nervous.  I had completed the Thames Meander 56 miler in under-12hrs, and even went for a jog the next day.  Training was going well and things looked optimistic.  Work was extremely busy in the 2 months leading up to the event, but I kept plugging away at it, and tried to squeeze in as much as possible.

One benefit about doing the Thames Meander is that you can test the equipment you want to use for the MdS.  I had chosen a small 20-litre rucksack to carry my kit in.  The reason why I chose such a small Bergen is that it forces you to reduce the volume of your kit, and thus reduce weight. The total weight of my Bergen came to 8kg.  My kit list was quite extensive but essential. After packing and re-packing a week before the race, I had it down to a tee.  All I needed now was for the race to begin.

Please excuse me if I do not talk about the flight.  There is not much to say except there were a lot of nervous runners, all being asked to unpack their bags (again), because all our carbohydrate powder was being checked to make sure it was not cocaine! You have to give credit to airport security, I’m not sure they have seen so much white powder. 

As we flew into Morocco, we passed over the Atlas Mountains.  A beautiful landscape tapestry that gave us all a brief insight into the terrain facing us in the days ahead.  We were the only plane to land at the airport that day.  The French were due to arrive, but owing to a strike by French air traffic controllers, they were not coming.  This somewhat pleased the British, as there had been a lot of animosity towards the French within the British Press, especially with regards to the War in Iraq. 

Enough of all this political rubbish, but the British were somewhat dismayed to find out that the French organisers (AOI) were stating that this race, was a race for peace, respect and free speech.  Fair enough, but AOI showed very little respect, free voice or peace to those people who chose to opposes the views of AOI.  This did not go down well with AOI and they made sure that the UK and US competitors were made to suffer.  Could you believe I was given an hours penalty before the race had started, because I did not have my ECG stamped.  Considering that Dr Greg Whyte did it for me was somewhat troubling.  This happened to nearly all US competitors.  In fact, I know of at least 10 UK and US competitors that had a total of 6 hours penalties each even before the gun had gone off.  Most of the US and UK competitors did not take part in a peace photo either.  We duly abstained, because our view, free voice and respect were not being granted. 

We were all allocated a set of Berbers to choose from.  I had met a couple of people for the Thames Meander and decided at the airport, that we should be tent buddies. Our tent number was 63 and contained myself Ian, Gareth, Katherine, Steve, Derek, Charlie, and James. All were experienced athletes; some had raced the MdS before and were back for more, whilst the rest were here for the first time but loving it.

Race morning came and there was a significant tension in the air.  This is what the past year had been for and all sorts of uneasy notions were racing through my head.  I knew that the 1^st day would be the shortest day, essentially a break in day, but nerves were still pumping through my veins nonetheless.  We gathered at the start line and were told of the environmental conditions for that day.  Apparently, the race website was stating that the temperature was 18 degrees C, but we were told that the temperature was nearer 44 degrees C.  This seemed more in line with what I was experiencing, i.e. Sweaty pants and pongy armpits.

The gun went and a flurry to runners came rushing past me.  This was certainly worrying, as I had purposely set off from the back.  The organisers had said that the MdS was going to be seen in at least 200 different countries around the world.  So to add to the dramatic effect a helicopter was employed to regularly fly sideways taking camera and film shots of the competitors.  However, the only draw back was a recurring sandblasting from the rotors at least every 15 minutes.  At first the thought of being on TV was quite appealing but after washing my eyes out for the tenth time I had lost interest somewhat.

I set out at a steady pace and was surprised to find that the weight of my Bergen had increased from it 8kg to more like 80kg.  The first 10-km was on a sort of shale – pebble like ground that didn’t seem too bad, as long as you watched your footing.  However, we did have our first taste of hardcore sand upon reaching the 2^nd checkpoint.  Four kilometres of soft sand dunes, of which only a few caused me to slow dramatically.  I was told to try and walk up the dunes as if you were ice pointing up a mountain, but also to run down flat footed.  This way your heel does not dig into the dune and cause you to fall back.  But by running this way you can minimise the amount of sand that enters your trainers.  I got to the bivi’s in 3.21hrs, was second back within our tent, and was 248 overall.  My first impression from this initial break in was just how hot the desert is.  44 degrees C is like opening an oven door and keeping your head there for 12 hrs.  Not only is it hot but it was completely arid with no shade what so ever. 

The evenings consisted of the same monotonous routine.  Firstly, collect the ration water that would last up until the next morning.  This was generally 4.5 litres, which enabled my second task to be completed with ease.  Washing!!

A quick wash of all the vital nether regions, i.e. not poured over ones head.  Thirdly, make sure that there were no rocks or thorns underneath my sleeping spot.  Fourthly, air my nether regions, backside and feet.  This is an old army trick and by the end of the week every single person in my tent was doing so.  (It seems that the sweat-rashes people accumulated during the week were not such a pleasant thing after all, and that ones pride soon went out the window.  By day 6 we all had babies bums!) Fifthly, cook some food. Sixthly, SLEEP!

It sounds rather boring, but that is generally all that happened.  We got up, we ran, we eat and finally we slept.

There were several nervous faces at day break of day 2.  This was the dune day.  Now I hear you say, “Aren’t you in the desert? Won’t you be surrounded by sand the whole time?” Well yes, we were completely surrounded by sand the whole time.  But today we were running through the largest sand dunes in the world; most of them were over 100m high, however there were a few that topped 200m.  What was daunting about today was that we had to run directly through the centre of them for over 14 miles.  When mountaineers talk about reaching the summit only to find that there was another one starring them in the face.  That was exactly how it was, but for 14 long hot miles.  I must say that it wasn’t as hard as people made out.  If you kept you head down, focused for the 2 hours needed, you soon found yourself on the other side.  What I found difficult that day was the15km afterwards.  Everyone had built the dunes up so much, that when we came out, most thought they had already finished.  The terrain was completely flat but was on a shale surface.  I felt every single stone under my feet, which sent a pain shooting right up inside both shins.  Just to add insult to injury, there was another 4km section of sand dunes just before the Bivi.  I completed the stage in 5 hrs 37 minutes and was 266 overall.  The Bivi sight was on the most god awful terrain.  Not only had we run in sharp shale but we had to sleep on the dam stuff as well.  I spent 5 minutes clearing a spot to sleep on, but was gutted to find that no matter how much I cleared, there was always another rock digging into my one of my kidneys.

It was day 3 that things started to go badly wrong for me.  Today was a 38km stage that was more or less flat the whole way.  It was the day before the 82km stage so people were taking it a little easier than previous days.  I started off quite well reaching the first 10km in 1 hour.  I got my water ration and plodded on.  After about another kilometre, a group of us was on a ridge of a sand dune when it collapsed underneath us.  We all fell about 10-15ft, however a German and myself hurt ourselves quite badly.  I twisted my knee and the German sprained his elbow (actually it turned out to be a fractured arm).  I got up and dusted myself off hoping that the knee was going to be fine.  I prayed that the large crack I heard was just my mess tins inside my Bergen.  Unfortunately not! I tried running but had the most horrendous pain just under the knee cap in the left leg.  I couldn’t believe it; I was gutted because I knew my competitive race was over.  It sounds silly because I know a lot of people who would just like to finish the MdS, but I wanted to race.  I knew I was never going to win, but I wanted to die trying.  I walked the rest of the 28kms, feeling dejected and in pain.  What was embarrassing was having old people from France over take me.  Pride took over and when ever any body over took me I would break out into a trot for about 20 metres.  Just to let them know that I had not gone out too hard and blown. But this was to back fire even more because by the time I reached the final check point, my knee resembled a small football.  I sat down and taped it up using some masking tape (big mistake if you have hairy legs), but when I got back up my leg collapsed from underneath me.  This wouldn’t have been so bad, except one of the medical team spotted me and put me on report.  I had to check in at every check point from now until the finish of the race.  I broke out the ibruphen and took a couple hoping that the pain would disappear, but to no avail.  I finished in 6 hours 36 minutes, dropping to 407 overall.

My team mates did a sterling job at trying to cheer me up, but something deep inside was gone.  I slept that night with a new sense of ease I had never experienced before, and woke with a smile.  Every morning I would break out into song.  Primarily to piss my tent mates off, but also to try and counteract the horrific “Hey Baby, ooo arrr” sung by the bloody French every morning.  By the end of the week 600 people were swearing abusive language at any poor sole that happened to sing that song! Today’s rendition of a Red Hot Chili Pepper classic “Sir Psycho Sexy” went down particularly well, and I only got pelted with 2 pairs of stinking running pants.

Day 4 was the big one, 82km of sand dunes, 10km salt lakebeds, mountains and wadies, wadies and more bloody wadies.  For anyone that doesn’t know a wadi is, it is a dried out river bed.  Those people that had done the Thames Meander possessed a brief insight of what this distance involves physically.  But now we had the added elements of sand, 47 degree C heat, a 10km rock stage, 2 x 15 km river bed sections and for those with injuries, the benefit of running at night.

I walked from the start knowing that today was going to be a long day, and in all honesty I cannot remember a great deal of it.  I wanted to slit the stage up in my head, into 2 marathons.  After 1 marathon I would sit down, have a brew, cook some food and crack on with the night stage (marathon 2).  At check points 4 and 5, you were given the option of sleeping and continuing the stage in day light.  But I never wanted to do that.  I would rather continue and sleep whole heartedly knowing that I had finished the big day.

During this stage I consumed 15 litres of water, 40 pain killers, 3 complans, 3 boil in the bags curries and finished my sun cream.  It seemed I was a little over eager with the factor 50!  I had completed the Thames Meander in less than 12 hours, but this stage took me 24 hours and 14 seconds! At one point I was going so slow, it took me 6 hrs 30 minutes to complete 10km.  I walked through the night, not using my torch at all.  When my eyes adjusted to the night, the most beautiful night sky encompassed us.  Not one single light could be seen, meaning that the stars could come out in their full splendour.  Sometimes, I would lie down on the floor and rest for 5 minutes.  It was at time like these I thought of friends and family.  Hoping that they would not see me like this, wondering if I was alright.  I knew they couldn’t see me, but our times were regularly posted on the internet, and Camilla knowing every one of my timing splits from past races would know something was wrong.  I finished in 517^th position extremely tired, sore and very hungry.

As I sat in my Berber, I watched people coming in for the rest of the day.  Not one person walked with ease, and nearly everyone I spoke to had be to Doc Trotters in the last 24 hours.  Doc Trotters were a medical team who looked after the athletes, except they had a passion for feet.  Now I know some people to can’t stand feet.  These guys loved them; especially those feet with blisters the size of balloons.  With a scalpel, they would completely cut away the skin, cover it with iodine and dress it for the next stage.  Sometimes they would get a little over excited and cut away live flesh.  But if that didn’t add to ones pain, I knew the iodine would. 

I never suffered with one blister.  It sounds strange because the vast majority of people I knew had really bad ones.  One girl from the Royal Engineers got gangrene in her foot and had to air lifted out for emergency surgery.  But I looked after me feet.  I washed them 3 times a day, would change my socks twice a day, and tape up my toes.  Oh did I mention I pulled off my toenails to stop them catching on my socks (don’t worry they were falling off already, I just helped them along).  There were a couple of reasons why I believe my feet were in good shape throughout.  One, I looked after them for 6 months before the race started.  Every time I had a shower I would cover them in surgical spirit to harden them back up.  Secondly, I changed my socks twice-three times a day, allowing my feet to dry and cool.  And thirdly, I bought the same model of trainers for the previous 3 years.  Asics are the only shoes that fit me and I have been a loyal customer for sometime now.

Day 6 was a full marathon and was the penultimate stage before the finish.  I linked up with Ian and Charlie for the whole day and did not stop laughing from start to finish.  Charlie was a property surveyor from London who had done everything in life. Trekking in Nepal, diving off some reef in Oz, stag shooting in Peru, etc.  He told us that during the long stage he was given a 3-hour penalty because I swapped some Dextrose tablets for a loaf of bread.  A French official saw him, confiscated the loaf and had his Bergen searched for any more illegal help.  Apparently, Charlie got the swap because he said the tablets were medicine, which I feel is always fair!   

Whilst walking in another wadi, we found some shade and rested for 10 minutes.  Out of nowhere came hoards of Moroccan children, all wanting sweets and drinks.  They seemed to take a liking to Charlie and held his hand for at least a mile.  Ian and I keep shouting Michel Jackson jokes, but all of a sudden they all broke out into song singing, “I’m Bad”.  This made our jokes seem even funnier than they actually were, but we didn’t really care at this point.  We finished the stage in 9 hours 44 minutes, and shared the position of 579.

That night’s atmosphere was even more relaxed as usual.  We had only 22km to go, of which 20km was flat.  The French sang “Hey Baby, ooo arrr” one last time, whilst the British sang “Swing low, sweat chariot”.  Most people were relieved that the race was nearly over.  There had been a lot of tears, painful feet and overall discomfort, and now that the finish was near there were a lot of joyous tears.

Day 7 was long overdue in my book, but was the most fun.  I teamed up with Ian and Charlie again and even managed to break out into a trot now and again.  This was short lived and we agreed between ourselves that we should save our running for the finish line.  “We can’t be seen as walkers”, I said and everybody else seemed to agree.

One problem with today was that for the last 10km we ran through the suburbs of Tazzine.  This was quite pleasant for a while because it gave us an insight into Moroccan life; which was men smoking and sitting in the street, whilst the women worked and tilled the fields.  Then the children broke out again, and we were virtually mugged for 1 hour.  I had my flares pulled out from my Bergen and had my water bottle stolen from the side.  Ian made some valiant efforts at trying to stop them, but was so knackered, I don’t think he really cared what happened just as long as he finished.

We approached the line in a gentle trot to the rapturous apples of our fellow tent mates.  Could you believe it that waited for us at the finish line, instead of catching the bus back to the hotel.  We all congratulated each other knowing that we all had never experienced anything like this before.  I was smiling like a Cheshire cat for the rest of the day.  I finished in 3 hours 53 minutes, and was 524 overall.  When I got back to the hotel I made some calls back to the UK to let everyone know I was OK and had finished.

Well, what do you think happened next? That’s right, the Brits got together and got absolutely plastered.  It didn’t take long, one beer and I was gone but I didn’t care, I was happy and no one was going to take that away from me. 

The majority of race reports I have read in the past contain some great purpose and moral belief in mind.  As you can see I haven’t!  I ran the MdS because I wanted a new challenge, I ran the MdS because I wanted to finish something few people had done before.  I believe that what happens in life is generally down to you.  You can sit on your backside, or you can do something that no one wants to do.  I know that there are many people who completely oppose my view, especially my girlfriend.  But if ask the majority of runners, they thrive on comments such as, “Your mad!” and “Why”. It what’s makes us different from the rest all the rest of the gym bunnies.

So what’s my next venture? I hear that there is a 250-mile snow run in Alaska! 

Food preparation was essential for this race.  The Marathon des Sables required a minimum of 2000kcal per day, and I was struggling to find the amount required.  Now you may think this should be quite an easy task but when you have to carry all your own food, the weight of wet food soon mounts up.  Eventually, I found a company that sold freeze-dried food, with a calorific value of 500kcal per packet.  I made the rest up with pretzels, nuts, complain and protein powder. 

The break down of food was as follows:

My kit list (excluding my food) was as follows:

If you would like to support Mat please contact him mathew.wilson@londonmet.ac.uk

Online tax efficient support http://www.justgiving.com/matwilson/

For further information on Marathon des Sables www.saharamarathon.com

For full write ups of  other fund raising activities by CRY supporters see Past Events.

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