My last
blog left you with the chaos of packing on the eve of travelling to Morocco. It was a late night before I got everything
sorted and to be honest I didn’t sleep much anyway with all of the nervous
excitement. But I was up early in the
morning and on my way to Gatwick for a chartered flight to Errachidia (which
even the pilot couldn’t pronounce) in Morocco.
The plane journey went without a hitch, sitting next to Danny and Bruce swapping stories about our preparation and how excited we all were!
Boris all packed and ready to go
Arriving in
Errachidia was fun – literally an airstrip, with our bags dumped on the runway
for us to find. I got my first two kisses
from Patrick Bauer, the race founder and director and met Steve, his right hand
man who would look after the Brits.
Incidentally, the Brits make up 1/3 of the competitors. Two large plane loads of us.
Errachidia runway
It
had all been smooth sailing so far but then our buses had to wait
for some other flights to come in from Asia.
Cue our first ‘3 hour experience’ (more on this later) sitting on the
bus, eating a packed lunch. Like
the weirdest school trip ever. Thank
goodness for Caz from Glasgow’s company – the time passed in a flash as we
swapped life stories amid more nervous excitement. The biggest chatter came when we spotted a guy from Japan dressed as a cow! Surely the race couldn't be all that bad if a cow could do it??!!
We
eventually got moving on the 2-3 hour bus trip into the Sahara where I would
finally meet up with my pre-arranged tent mates in Tent Teaplod. Or that was the plan. Except that we arrived in
complete darkness amid chaos. Trying to find prospective tent mates that you have never met by the light of a
headtorch was as hard as it sounds! I
had been in touch with Sally beforehand and she was able to text me the tent
number (117) she had found for us having arrived earlier on the first flight while I still had phone reception at the airport. John was on the same bus as me so that was 3. By complete fluke Tom found us as
we randomly shouted ‘Teaplod’ at all the poor homeless people walking
by. Because we were waiting for the
other guys to join us, we didn’t accept any offers to share from passersby which meant
that at the end of the night there were only 5 of us (with the addition of
another Tom). Despite us missing the
other Teaplodders (who we met as the week went on) we were pretty lucky to get
away with such a spacious tent.
Tent 117
Admin Day
After the first fitful night's sleep in our 'tent', today
was our introduction to the theme of the week
- queue for everything and, on average, it will take three hours. This was our MdS in-joke - everything takes three hours! So we were given a time corresponding to our race number
to queue for the admin stuff, which included getting our water card which
would be stamped at every checkpoint, our flare in case of emergency, salt
tablets to try and stave off dehydration, having our ECG heart exams and medical
certificates checked and having our kit checked.
Then we were ready to go. It was
a strange day as there was a lot of downtime and a lot of nervous
expectation. I think we were all keen to
just get started.
The all-important water card
At 5pm we
had a date with Patrick. Our first
experience of him atop a landrover with a microphone. This was something we were to become very
familiar with. We were treated to the
local sand rugby team’s version of the Haka and then, among other things, a
comedic description of how to use the toilet facilities (we were all given a quota of little brown bags (!), how to use a flare and a rundown
of every country participating in the race, all 44 of them. We were told that there were 1,045 people on
camp hoping to start the race tomorrow morning.
I was already starting to burn through the factor 50 P20 suncream as I
stood listening to the briefing and began to worry about how my pale, Scottish skin was
going to cope.
Day 1….
Start line of the 29th Marathon des Sables
….started
off with me having a fight with Boris. I
may have got my pack down to a relatively featherweight 8.5kg (before water) but
I had to wrestle to fit everything in.
Boris was a pretty neat pack at 20 litres compared to some other
backpacks which were 30 litres. This was
great as the week went on and I made my way through the food but for the first
day I did not think I was going to manage to get Boris shut - he was literally bursting at the seams. I also lost the safety pins I needed to fasten
my race number on to the front of my t-shirt after putting them in a ‘safe
place’. First morning and my tentmates
are all rallying around trying to pull together any spares they had to try and
scrape me off the ceiling (or tent roof).
They must have wondered who they had been lumbered with. Hopefully I improved on the stressy
front....?
Today was our first
morning of self-sufficiency. We would
become very used to the routine of boiling up water to rehydrate our expedition
food. I was enjoying my breakfast of
porridge with strawberries (to be interchanged with granola and raspberries)
when I looked over to see Tom getting started on his Spaghetti Bolognese. Not being a big fan of sweet stuff, our nightly fun
was around what Tom was having for breakfast the next morning. He had a good selection: oriental chicken
with rice, beef curry, shepherds pie, chicken tikka.
But of course the favourite was his ‘tasty’ beef stroganoff. The fact that the manufacturer felt the need
to use the word ‘tasty’ in the title did not bode well. I don’t know how he did it!
The start line ritual was super exciting on that first morning. We were told to be at the start line about an hour before anything actually happened, after which Patrick started his speech just as the sun was really starting to burn up. He gave us a rundown of what the day had in store, asked us to join him in singing happy birthday to all of those who chose to spend their birthday running around in a sandbox before the obligatory blasting of Highway to Hell out of the speakers. As we took off on the first day of the 29th Marathon des Sables to the refrains of AC/DC, the adrenalin was pumping, the excitement and nerves almost too much. And this was before the helicopters started low-flying horizontally above our heads - that was sooo cool. I have to admit that this routine got a bit old as the week went on but today, I was bursting with excitement!
This Frenchman really liked to talk.....and dance - Patrick on his truck on day one
Low horizontal helicopters - this bit never got old
So to the race itself. It became apparent very early on that this wasn’t going to be a day for posting a strong time. I laugh now at the naivety of my estimating a desert marathon time based on my average road marathon time plus a couple of hours. Or maybe at worst case, a doubling of my road marathon time. Clearly I had not factored in 100ft sand dunes, 45-ish degree heat and about 11.5kg (incl. water) on my back. Another element of the extra time was my obsessive preventative foot strapping at each checkpoint. We had been told again and again to treat hot spots on your feet as soon as you felt them. I knew that bad feet could easily take you out of the race so I was compulsive about it on the first couple of days. It cost me a lot of time but in actual fact my feet were in pretty good shape until the long day so it was maybe worth it. It took me longer than ever though as I wrestled to fit all my first aid stuff back into Boris after every stop! I was really starting to curse him at this point, especially since I was already feeling my shoulders ache with the weight.
Anyway, today
was to be the dreaded ‘dunes day’. So
about 3k in we start to hit these ridiculously high (but also achingly
beautiful) untouched sand dunes. The
first checkpoint where we would get our next water allocation was about 12k
in. I had left the bivouac (camp) with 3
litres of water (an extra approx. 3kg to add on to my backpack – this is where some
people really struggled today as it was our heaviest backpack day and some
folks started out with 12+kg pre-water.
There was even a rumour going around camp of the guy whose bag weighed
in at 30kg the day before!) So 8k of
sand dunes. Guess what, about 3
hours! I was already feeling
shell-shocked at how long this took and that was only stage 1 of day 1! Some people were in these dunes for well over 5
hours without nearly enough water, hence the relatively large contingent who
unfortunately did not make it past the first day. Brutal start!
After the
first checkpoint (‘CP1’ in MdS parlance) I thought I’d get a spurt on but I
left CP1 in the blistering mid-day heat and proceeded to ‘trudge’ (this being
my word of the week because that is really all you can do in soft sand) my way
to the next set of dunes which kicked in after CP3, on the way to the finish
line. In between times though, I did
manage to get some speed up (relatively speaking) having gone through all sorts
of strange landscapes – one part felt like the moon, another was an ancient
ruined town. And then the final dune stage
and I was home. 21.5 miles done. Much MUCH slower than I ever imagined it
could be but the injury was in check and, all in all, I was feeling pretty good.
Day 2
More
AC/DC. More sideways helicoptering. Ok, it was still pretty exciting at this
point. We were assured that although
today was longer (almost full marathon distance) it was going to be
significantly easier than yesterday. A
lot less dunes (although I’m not sure there were any days without some form of
dunery) and generally flatter. So I left
feeling good about my ability on dunes from yesterday and set off at a decent
pace, firstly with my tent mates and then, as we dispersed, getting into stride
with some other competitors. CP1
done. CP2 done. All going swimmingly (apart from the
continued focus on foot strapping). Then
the Gods decided to start really shining down on us. By mid-afternoon as I progressed through a
large cavernous valley of salt flats (which would have been an excellent running
surface), encircled by mountains so as to keep the heat in, the mercury got up
towards 50 degrees and I realised that I am just not built for sun. Between checkpoints 2 and 3 and then again
between CP3 and the stage finish line, I ran out of water and started to really
struggle. I had told myself before the
start of the event that "it’s only one foot after the other, that’s all you need
to do". It is outrageous how difficult this is
when you’re body really feels like it’s starting to shut down. I had been pretty careful to cover up my skin
and my head but I knew I was courting heat stroke and there was nothing I could
do about it – no shade for miles ahead and severely rationed water for the latter stages of today.
The last
section of this stage was just killer for me due to the heat. My injury had also not been held at bay for long - my whole left side was starting to scream, mainly isolated in the hip and knee. I found myself pretty much on my own in this
valley and I could have cried. Already? It’s only day 2, I can’t do tears yet! I also realised that I was starting to get my
nutrition wrong. Despite burning off
thousands of calories every day, the weird irony is that eating is the last thing you want to do. I turned a corner and finally out of the ground
popped some large rocky structures.
Thank God. I sat down for a rest
in the shade for a minute and managed to force down a few bites of melted gooey Clif bar. A kind Italian gentleman went past me and
said “come on, only just over 1km to go”. Really,
I thought? Wow if that’s the case,
fuelled by Clif I can do this. I picked
myself up and even got into something of a trot/desert shuffle. Low and behold, around the next corner I
could see the bivouac. I was
elated. This was to be the first of
several soul-crushing moments in the desert when you realise that just because you
can see something in the distance, it does not mean that you will be arriving
any time soon. My excitement, along with
my limited energy, began to dissipate as the minutes went past. 1km indeed.
Almost 4km in reality. I
literally thought that someone was playing a very cruel joke in moving the camp
a foot backwards for every step I took.
This was one of my toughest days and I still had more than 4 marathons
to do. Now I was starting to get
worried. And I was not feeling in the best of health - 9.5 litres
of water drank on the course today. And
still no pee stop (carrying on the general theme of Too Much Information
from last week). That can’t be good,
right?
I was very
subdued in the tent that evening. I had
been so buoyed by my slow but steady day in the dunes the day before but now
the reality was kicking in. A vicious
circle of: “I cannot run in this heat which means that I am going to take much
longer to complete the stages which means I am out in the sun for longer”. How do I stave off the sun stroke that will
undoubtedly come if this heat continues?
I didn’t tell anyone in the tent that evening (although mentioned it to
Sally later in the week) but I got really cold just after getting back and
started shivering. I didn’t realise
until later in the week that this is a sign of pretty serious sun stroke. I may have imagined it or it may have been my mounting nerves but I
crawled into my sleeping bag and seemed to get my temperature regulated. But this was a real downer for me – for the first time I really didn’t see a clear path to me getting that
finisher’s medal. I was in a lot of pain with the joints on my left leg and I was too terrified to
even think about the long day – I wasn’t sure I’d make it past tomorrow.
But at least all
tent mates were present and correct tonight.
I had a feeling of impending doom that I’d be the one letting Tent
Teaplod down tomorrow.
And this is
where the emails played the biggest part.
For those of you who emailed, some of you every day (you know who you
are) I don’t know how I will ever thank you.
I think we got a sense in the bivouac of how it must feel like being at
war, or in prison. Getting those emails
was almost like lifeblood. Reading the
daily missives which were in turn inspiring and hilarious really made our days
bearable.
Precious Email Delivery
Day 3
Ok, the morning
routine was definitely getting old by now. Tired
of my food. Tired of the people who were
going to the toilet closer and closer to our tent every day (the bivouac is
organised in a big circle with the brits making up the outer circle – as folks
got more tired and blistered, the walks to relieve themselves got
shorter). Tired of Patrick’s speeches
(although he did have one fan in our tent ;-)).
Even getting tired of the helicopters by now.
Patrick’s new thing was to get us to dance to Pharrell Williams’ Happy
song before we took off in the mornings.
I’m feeling anything but Happy.
The nerves have really kicked in and I don’t know how I’m going to
do this. I actually liked that song
before I came out here. I can tell you
that it has been ceremoniously dumped from my iPod. More doom as even more people pulled out
compared to the day before. Including the Japanese cow. It seems I’m
not the only one struggling with the temperature. How do I avoid that being me today?
Fortunately, I am impressed with the body's capacity to recover. The joint pain (old lady problems) from last night has improved a lot despite very little sleep and I'm ready to go, buoyed by the beautiful sunrise.
Fortunately, I am impressed with the body's capacity to recover. The joint pain (old lady problems) from last night has improved a lot despite very little sleep and I'm ready to go, buoyed by the beautiful sunrise.
Once I
got going, I started off much the same as yesterday. I felt better in the
cooler morning temperatures and managed to make ok time. I had been really lucky with my feet so far
with nothing but a couple of minor issues so at least that was going my way,
thanks in part to my strapping but also I think in much greater part to the
fantastic invention of Injinji socks (a bit like gloves for feet). There was also a lot of controversy among the
runners about Hoka shoes – they didn’t work for everyone, but they did a great job for me.
So we start
today with yet more sand dunes ('mini' ones this time) and following CP1 we come
across our first Jebel (mountain). Yes,
they throw some of those in too. Today’s
one seemed like fun – tomorrow would have something much more interesting in
store.
But once
again, the afternoon heat kicked in and I was in a mess. I had covered most of today with Tentmate Tom
and we managed to stick together until the final checkpoint (he was very upset
today, having dropped a big chunk of pepperami at the top of the Jebel. There were no actual tears spilled but I’m pretty
sure I saw his eyes filling up). But I was
really failing again. I had finished my
water and managed to find a spindly little tree to sit under to get some
respite from the burning sun which was sucking everything out of me. I chatted to some fellow competitors at this
tree – some of them weren’t even making any sense such was their delirium. I checked they were ok but thought that I
must be doing better since I could still think straight (at least I thought so)
so I pressed on to the final checkpoint of the day. Basically today was just as bad as
yesterday, perhaps worse. I genuinely didn’t think that
I could take much more of this oppressive, relentless afternoon heat. A commissaire at the finish line told me that
the temperature hit 52 degrees today. I
was just not prepared for this. We were told that this is as hot as the race had been for years. A lot more people didn't make it within the cut-off time today - apparently this year's race also has the highest drop-out rate for years. And we're only half way through.
Days 4 and 5
Breakfast. Mmmmm.
The day of
doom. The long stage. We have all been dreading it. 81.5km, some 51 miles, all in one go. I know it’s going to be a tough day so I
decide to take my time this morning and don’t rush off. I therefore find myself with plenty of time
to chat to some truly inspirational people, all of whom had various reasons
for pushing themselves in this way. It
was pretty bizarre to me in the beginning that everyone got on so well and how
much camaraderie there was but in hindsight, it’s a cluster of very weird (myself included) but
very likeminded individuals, many of whom had impressive reasons for being there and had really interesting life stories.
The first
half of today’s double header actually went pretty well. I can actually say that I was having
fun. The weather was undoubtedly cooler
for some of the time, allowing me to make better progress. But it did have a sting in its tail early on with the Jebel. The roadbook told us
that there would be 3km of climbing with a 30% incline at the top – in
practice, this meant a super steep ascent with some pretty technical bits at
the top which were roped up. I was
making my way up this mountain behind a blind lady doing it with a guide. Hats off to her big time!
I didn't get great photos at the top of the jebel - needed both my hands!
When I woke
up I found some Kendal mint cake at the bottom of my bag, which I had actually
forgotten that I’d taken. That did the
trick. Mint flavoured sugar. We also got a major treat that afternoon in
the form of a cold can of coke. When you
have been drinking warm water and electrolytes all week, I can’t tell you
what nectar the coke was. Perked me up
no end. Tentmate John did a great job of queueing for this for us (of
course they make you queue for it) and our water allocation but by the end of
today, despite still not managing to eat dinner (a handful of salt and pepper cashew nuts
for tea) I was feeling back to normal and starting to feel a level of
excitement that the worst was behind us and that this could actually be done!
The Teaplod Gang
We made it
off the mountain straight on to….you guessed it, more dunes. But I think I’m the weird one who
likes climbing stuff and toiling up dunes while hating the salt flats where there
is good terrain underfoot but with no shade for miles around. The big excitement for today was that they
set the top 50 runners off later than the main field so we would get to see
them run past (if we didn’t blink for long enough). This was definitely one of the highlights for
me. These guys are super human as far as
I’m concerned. The unsung heroes of the
sporting world. They were positively
dancing up those sand dunes. The first
four came running through. The history
of the MdS tells you that the runners who prevail are the local boys who have
been running up and down sand dunes in temperatures that are quite frankly life
threatening for many of us all their lives and this year was no different. But the fifth runner who went whizzing past was
a Brit. Danny Kendall, who ended up coming
fifth overall following his tenth position last year, is an awesome sportsman
but yet I’m willing to bet that most people reading this (who weren’t there)
have never heard of him. This is a real
travesty in my opinion.
Danny Kendall could probably do for ultra-running what the Brownlees did for triathlon, given half a chance. In total, there were 8 brits in the top 50 - really impressive athletes.
How the pros do it; dancing up the dunes
Anyway, my
highlight was actually number 16, Mohamed Faraj from Morocco, who came 19th in the race. I was very
lucky that he randomly grabbed my hand as he was passing and took me running
with him for a good 400m. That was
about all I could take at his pace before heart attacksville but what an
experience! I was also very interested
to note that the first lady who passed me (and who ultimately won the race) was
the loud American lady from the tent across from us who we had been
rather uncharitably annoyed by all week so far.
Oh well, now that I realised she was winning, I should perhaps be a bit
nicer!
But back to the
task at hand - still a long, long way to go. The sun started to go down thankfully and I was still feeling good. I was hoping to get
some decent running in when the dark came.
But my legs were knackered and I knew that I hadn't taken in enough calories and carbs. I had been pretty regimental
about getting food onboard but could only eat about half of my breakfast this
morning and everything I had eaten since had been little and I'd had a battle to get it to stay
down.
Sundown on the long day
I was still
making progress though as the sun went down and we attached our glowsticks to
our backpacks and donned our headtorches.
I had a great chat with Alice Out There between CP4 and 5 which really
kept me going. However, I was starting
to feel irrational angst about the night time stage even though I knew how to
use my compass and the route was way-marked with
glowsticks. There was even a laser
pointing us in the right direction of CP5 (ca. 60km in). But I really wanted to catch up with the guys
in front – safety in numbers and all of that, but I couldn’t keep up so after a while I was on my own. No headtorches behind me and I couldn’t see
any of the glowsticks up ahead either. My compass bearing was sending me in the
right direction though and I could calibrate that with the intermittent
glowsticks on the route. It was a weird
feeling being in the desert at night, seemingly on your own. Not necessarily a bad feeling but definitely
surreal being in this strange tunnel vision of your headtorch with everything
else in complete darkness. I had a real
sense of achievement at this time – I thought, "I’m really doing this"!
But then CP6. It had been going so well. I laughed out loud at an email the following
night from a colleague who had been tracking my progress – ‘cheeky snooze at
CP6’? Everything went horribly wrong
here. I had been living on adrenalin up
to this point. As soon as I arrived at
the checkpoint which seemed to appear from nowhere I knew I’d need to get some
food in as I had not eaten properly in hours.
I thought a liquid meal would do the trick since I knew I wouldn’t
manage anything else. Unfortunately my
body didn’t agree. The strawberry SIS
shake came straight back up and once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. To top it off, my hip and knee were slowly giving up on me and completely seizing up. Now seemed like the right time for some pretty heavy duty painkillers (which I of course didn't manage to keep down!). When I eventually managed to get moving
again in the glare of the morning sunrise, it really felt like the worst hours
of my life as I trudged through an endless dried up river bed of soft
sand. The sun was really starting to beat
down, while I stopped every now and again to bring up the empty remains of my
stomach (not pleasant I know – at least I’m not telling you about the
other gastric related problems of that night). I knew I was severely dehydrated by this
point but I feared that if I gave myself over to a doctor, they would pull me
out of the event. All I had to do was get
11.5km to the finish line. Then I could
see a doctor without the same concern as I knew I had about 24 hours to
recover before the next stage.
This was
easily my lowest point. This is what
they talk about when they tell you that you will learn so much about
yourself. I had no idea with every step
how I was going to get there without keeling over, giving up or having that
decision made for me by the landrovers who kept passing me and who I shied away
from so they wouldn’t see my condition.
But get there I did (even if it did take me 3 hours! Not exactly a 10k pb). That moment
of crossing the line should have brought pride and relief but instead I was so pissed off
that I had ruined what had started off as a good stage, coming in so much
later than I had hoped. And I was angry
at myself for not getting my nutrition right and allowing myself to become
dehydrated. And yet in some ways
astounded that I had actually made it through the longest three hours of my life.
Whatever the emotions were, they all came pouring out and the tears
came. I am possibly on some dodgy
foreign tv channel blubbing as some idiot pointed a camera in my face at that
point. You can imagine the look that he
got. The first thing I said to the race officials was that I
needed a doctor. Only to be told that I had to collect my 3 litres of water, walk all the way back
to my tent (always a good 0.5km away from the finish line) to drop my bag and
then queue in triage to see if my ailments were better or worse than everyone else’s. Despite now not having eaten for at least 12
hours and having covered nearly 51 miles, I made it into Doc Trotters still
standing. They took my temperature,
blood sugar levels and blood pressure……and deduced that I was severely
dehydrated. A right couple of
Sherlocks. Despite my sarcasm there, I
was actually so impressed by the medics at this event. The care that you get is second to none in a
very testing environment. They had no
idea how I was placed in the race but assumed that I wouldn’t want an IV drip
which comes with a time penalty (and more than one disqualifies you) so they
made me sit and drink 3 litres of rehydration drink and gave me anti-sickness
medication. Slowly I started to come
back to life (they said I no longer resembled Casper the Friendly Ghost). My instructions were to go
back to the tent and have something to eat within the next two hours, otherwise
I wouldn’t be able to avoid the drip.
Difficult to do what you’re told when there’s nothing in your bag of
tricks that you can imagine eating and you’re totally wrecked.
This was me
crashed out when I got back from the docs.
I literally just fell asleep as soon as I lay down. The boys couldn’t resist snapping this and
since it has already entertained everyone on facebook…… (in my defence, you get lots of sand up your
nose in the desert – you need to have your mouth open to breathe!!!)
Day 6
I’ve said
that no part of this race was easy. Hardest
dunes on day one when everyone’s packs are at their heaviest. Long day with 51 miles to cover? Let’s throw in a big mountain with a technical
climb at the top. Easy salt flats? Hit them with it at the height of the
afternoon sun with no shade for miles around.
All of this with hard living conditions (there wasn’t much sleep to be
had and the food was rank). But if
anything, today’s stage was the easiest.
I don’t know if it was psychological – nearly there. Or whether we had started to acclimatise to
the temperature/exertion. Or maybe we
were all powered by co-codamol by this point.
The temperature was certainly cooler than prior days and the terrain
seemed to suit me. More hills with nice
rocky descents (not unlike Scotland actually).
Until the last checkpoint, when they threw in more trudgy dried up
riverbed sand – my least favourite terrain of the whole trip. Still, only 11k to go. I could taste it now. I knew that as long as I didn’t break an
ankle on a rocky descent or something stupid, that medal would be mine. On and on I pushed (albeit at a snail’s pace).
The broom wagon of the desert - at least I didn't ever see these boys out on the course
A few more
dunes to go for the last few km but I could see the finish line.
I was expecting another outpouring of emotion as I crossed the line but
it didn’t come. I put this down to my
big moment being ruined by yet another bloody queue of people just across the
finish line. What the hell are we
queuing for now I wonder? Oh, we need to
get two kisses from Patrick. Now that I
could live without! Dutifully I wait
my turn, but only because he’s got my bloody medal. I get to the front and all he says is “are
you ‘appy?” in his strong French accent.
Am I? Hmmm that’s something I’m
going to have to think about!
That
evening, the prize giving ceremony in the bivouac. Beforehand, they projected footage of the race onto the side of a lorry to the soundtrack
of Coldplay. I found this really moving as it picked out the things you had seen and the people you had
shared it with over the past week. It was so hard to believe
we had actually done it, that that was how we had spent our week. Tentmate John got a well-deserved cameo role
as the world’s only Moroccan Scot. The
prizegiving was followed by what should have been an awesome treat, a visit
from the Opera de Paris in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Unfortunately we had all been sitting on the
hard ground for too long with our bruised and battered bodies and we really
just wanted to go to bed. So off we
went. And even with a distant aria being sung, still sleep didn’t come for many of us….
The Teaplod Gang
John - the world's only Moroccan Scot
Tom - he of the discerning taste in breakfasts
Sally - seeing to her poor feet
Tent 117 with our precious medals
Day 7 – the charity stage
Only
7.7km. Should be a cinch. Except it wasn’t, despite being for a very
good cause. We all wore Unicef
t-shirts, which we of course had to queue for. I still hadn’t been able to eat a proper meal so I was
feeling more than a little bit cranky.
Everyone
walks the charity stage, even the racing snakes up front, so it was quite a
spectacle looking back at hundreds of people snaking through another dried up
riverbed wearing bright blue t-shirts.
Trudge trudge trudge. My feet were
pretty mashed up by now so every footstep hurt (although I’m loathe to complain
given the experiences of some – Tony and James deserve their
medals more than most for finishing with seriously injured feet). But we made it. In time to queue for a packed lunch for the 5
hour bus journey to Ouarzazate. But my
goodness, they gave me bread. And a bit
of laughing cow cheese. I could not have
been more excited at CHEWING. All was
well with the world.....
.....Except perhaps for
the pong on this hot bus. I don’t want
to smell this bad again. Ever. Now that I am fed, the shower beckons. Following a wee snooze on the bus, we were at
our luxury hotel for the next two days.
Apparently the other nationalities are always jealous of the
British contingent because it’s the only 5 star hotel in Ouarzazate. Well it wasn’t exactly 5 star but it felt
lush. Warm running water, a toilet, a
bed. My biggest luxury was not having to
force shoes on aching feet in the middle of the night when I needed to get up
for a wee! The funniest moment was when
the waiters called time for the buffet though.
For a couple of hundred people who were struggling to walk, I wouldn’t
have believed they could have moved so fast.
You’d be
forgiven for thinking that’s the end of the story. But in true French efficient fashion, the
endurance part of the event wasn’t over yet.
The only activity we had lined up for the next day was to go down to another
hotel in the town to pick up our precious finisher’s t-shirt. Walked in the door – queue went all the way
round the building. Oh well, that’s
another three hours then. Back to our
hotel for some lunch? Waiters weren’t
coping with the volume of residents. 3
hours. A short bus trip the next morning
to the airport in time to be faced with a ridiculous check-in queue. 3 hours.
Queue for security. Queue to get
on the plane. Queue on the runway for
hours because one plane had too many people checked in and the other not
enough. 3 hours. Ok I exaggerate but only a little bit. We wondered if it had just been
one long queue across the desert!
And the drama
still wasn’t over as we were greeted by fire engines at Gatwick. We were sitting with Pete and his group of firemen at
the back of the plane so I genuinely thought they were getting some guard of
honour but it actually turned out that there had been a fault with the undercarriage of
the plane which had thankfully turned out to be ok as we landed but the pilot seemed to literally stand on
the brakes to stop the plane and they overheated so the fire engines were our chaperones to the terminal.
So what did I learn?
Looking
back, I geared myself up for finishing, not racing. My fear of failing to finish given all of my fanfare
around the event and the money you all donated made me a lot more cautious than
I perhaps would otherwise have been, hence the obsessive foot strapping and
worrying about overheating. So there is
a strange mix of the element of disappointment at not having performed better - it's hardly my finest athletic achievement - but also the biggest sense of achievement of my life at actually
finishing. This event is brutal, with all aspects of it designed to break you. So finishing is not a given and I am delighted to be one of the relatively few people in the world with this medal. But the feelings of delight were not
immediate upon crossing the line – I am only now beginning to forget
some of the horrors (including camel spiders, dung beetles and scorpions) and
as the week has gone on, I am filled with an enormous sense of having been part
of something really awesome, with the most fantastic people who I am
missing already! Despite what appears to be a lot of negative sentiment in the summary of my experience, I had a blast – an
experience that will be with me for the rest of my life. I’m stealing a quote from last year’s female
winner here (which I heard from Tom).
She described the MdS as a ‘tattoo
for the soul ‘and I can’t disagree with that!
But to the most important bit. I promised to match the final donations made (those donations matched were Psycho, Jill, Mike Parkin, Aude, Sharon Dunbar, Archie, Coach Ken, Julie, Marlene & Graham, Gladys, Fraser and Karen) so with that now done, my total funds raised (so far - there's always room for more) for the event are £11,636.15 (£13,450 incl. gift aid) for the most worthy of causes - Hope for Children. You are all AWESOME and I plan to thank each and every one of you individually for your generosity (unless you've donated anonymously in which case I'm still guessing).
I
appreciate that this has been a long one so for those of you that made it to
the end, thanks for reading!
RIP Boris :-(
