Date: Sun, 16 Apr 1995 16:26:26 -0400 From: Sdb100@aol.com To: ultra@DARTCMS1.DARTMOUTH.EDU Subject: Marathon des Sables The Marathon des Sables is a 125-mile stage race run under self-sufficiency conditions in the Sahara Desert. The self-sufficiency aspect means that each competitor carries and races with his camping equipment, sleeping bag, and a week's worth of food. Water is rationed and provided each day at the several control points and at the finish line of each stage. The stages are run daily, and this year were distances of 25 kms. (15.5 miles), 28 kms. (17.6 miles), 36.5 kms. (23 miles) , 80 kms. (50 miles) 42 kms. (26.2 miles), and 18 kms. (11.3 miles). The terrain is extremely rocky. By tradition, one of the stages includes several miles (last year it was about 12 miles) of sand dunes. This year was the tenth running. The field of 203 runners was full at 200. Each night, the competitors sleep in open-sided tents which are transported and erected each night by the Berber Helper-People who travel with the race. The material is a very open weave rough cloth. The floor of the tent is a Berber rug, thrown on the ground. Each tent sleeps about nine people, and sometimes more. Those who snore are chided and poked. Amazingly, nerves are only infrequently frayed by this proximity. Maybe I've just been lucky, but each year I've done this I've made life-long friends. Privacy is not a problem, and while I saw nobody packing it out, most runners seemed sensitive to the environment. For the modest, three single-person latrine tents are erected each night. All these involve is a shallow hole dug in the ground, covered by the tent. The trick in this race is too carry enough food to make it through the week, and a sleeping bag warm enough to allow sleep during the very cold windy nights. Last year I did everything wrong. I didn't find a suitable running pack until the last minute. I loaded it up and went out for a training run. One hundred yards into the run, I knew I was in serious trouble. So just two days before the race, shedding weight from the pack beca me my goal, and my nemesis. First to go was any extra food. I decided one freeze-dried meal per day would be sufficient to meet my nutritional and energy needs. I was wrong, and I starved. The second thing I discarded was my sleeping bag, opting instead for a light weight space blanket. This was my worst mistake. Each night at 3:00 a.m., the temperature plummeted. I tried everything to keep warm. One night I tried crawling under the Berber rug, on another night I tried burying myself in the sand. Nothing worked. This year I had a better idea of what I would need, and packed accordingly. It helped that I still had my pack from last year, and actually trained in the thing. I alloted two freezed dried meals per day. I used Mountain House, because it tastes good, and can be prepared in the pouch. Last year I traveled without any fuel, and just ate the stuff cold (I'm telli ng you, I was HUNGRY). This year I brought three sterno cans and a tin cup for heating water. I also threw caution to the wind and brought some instant coffee. Compared to last year, I felt pampered. My pack, by the way, was made by Brick Robbins, a member of this list. His packs are amazing, in that they ride better than any other packs I saw in the desert, are well padded and supported by a hip belt, and when empty, weigh a little bit more than air. This weightless quality is what makes the most sense to me, because you inevitably become so obsessed with cutting weight that each gram matters. For example, I thought I demonstrated real brilliance in eating the freeze dried meals which weighed 6 ounces before eating the four ounce versions. One runner saved weight by cutting the cardboard labels off his food (each night's meal was a surprise). You get the idea. Each competitor is issued a rough map and a road book, which describes the route of each stage by landmark and compass bearing. Last year, an Italian runner disappeared during one of two sand storms, was missing for 9 days, and was presumed dead - until he stumbled into a nomad camp in Algeria. Probably for this reason, the course this year was much easier to follow. Unfortunately, this meant suffering the incongruity of Enjoy Coke (one of the sponsors) placards marking the way across otherwise pristine desert plains. The field of runners from America this year included Helen and Norm Klein, Bob Cowdrey (CA), Steve Ochoa (AZ.) , Andy Harmon (IN), Ken Thompson (OH), Mary Gadams (MD) and me. The first stage is usually one of the least rigorous. While the stage this year was only 25 kms, the terrain was awfully treacherous, causing Norm's fall, which I've already described. I may have short-changed him. I think he broke his leg at mile four, and ended up having to walk 14 miles on the fracture. The second stage this year was the sand dune stage. I was prepared for the behomeths of last year: massive dunes with vertical walls towering three to six stories in unbroken succession for miles and miles and miles. Last year we were issued two 1.5 liter bottles of water at the edge of the dunes which we had to carry through the stage. This year the dune run was relatively tame, but still the sand, maddeningly fine, penetrated everywhere with a nasty sandpaper effect. We emerged from the sand dune portion of the run onto a plain, with the night's encampment visible on the horizon. Easy enough, I thought, just put down my head and run in a straight line. After 45 miuntes of this, the encampment was no closer, and I was starting to bonk real bad. But getting an energy bar meant stopping and taking off my pack, a frustrating halt with the finish line RIGHT THERE. So I ran another ten minutes, before giving in. I shrugged off my pack and fished around inside trying to grab a bar. Nothing. I had packed them tightly down at the bottom. Other runners streamed by. I didn't want to take the additional time of loosening up all the straps, so I gave up, pulled the pack back on, and got back into the race. Ten minutes later the camp is STILL no closer, and I'm so weakened and uncoordinated that I'm stumbling and weaving. Again I stop, but this time I tear open my pack, practically upending the thing, desparate for sugar and carb.s I bite, I think, right through the Edge bar wrapper and for one out of control minute, am standing in the middle of this desert plain chomping and smearing chocklate Edge bar like a frenzied animal. Other runners avoid me. Stage Three involved lots of just plain sand, the kind you hate to run in at the beach because you feel like you're slogging away with no forward motion. It also included route directions such as the following: "At kilometer 12.5, where the piestes cross (intersection), take bearing 205 degrees on stony and sandy grond in the direction of `Ras Khemmouna." At kilometer 16.5, at the opening to the pass between `Ras Khemmouna' and `Dejebel Mziouda', take bearing 152 degrees along stony and sandy ground. Exit this pass at kilometer 19.5, and take bearing 209 degress in the direction of `Djebel Zireg.' Stage four was the fifty mile segment, which gave many of the American ultra runners the opportunity to gain on the European speed guys, who by now were really beginning to break down. No 4:00 a.m. starts in this race; stage four, like every other stage, began roughly around 9:30 or 10:00. I don't know if the reason for this is race director's typically casual organizational precepts, or the stated reason of wanting to expose us to the full heat of the day. The plains we crossed during the stage dwarfed the plain of my great bonk on day two. These plains were totally featureless, except for the huge plateaus miles away on either side which were passed and replaced after hours of running by similar formations. The effect of running, all alone, in the middle of such vastness, is that you have nothing by which to mark your progress. At times, a lone runner is spotted very very far ahead. Depending on your pace relative to theirs, the runner either grows more distinct, or fades away. The temperature is well into the hundreds; the one change that does matter is the level of liquid in your water bottle. My approach to balancing weight and hydration was to fill one 16 oz. hand held bottle at each control point (about every ten miles) from the 1.5 liter bottle available, and drink the remaining water at the stop. I then rationed my hits from my hand held bottle to last until the next control point. I was not always successful, and flirted with dehydration more frequently than I would have liked. In this kind of a race, good judgment is essential, and we all had to strike a balance between pacing, and the effects of heat and dehydration. At long last, the lights from the camp were visible, and after running forever, I was in. Norm stayed at the finish line, waiting for Helen, and gave us each a terrific welcome. All through the night, runners straggled in and plopped down wherever they could find a space in a tent. As a number of competitors were still returning the next day, we had a day off before Stage five, the marathon stage. The marathon, like last year's, included two climbs over a small mountain range. Like the fifty mile distance, I think the climbing requirement favored most of the American runners. The final stage is always the shortest run; this year it was 18 kilometers (11 miles). The terrain, however, was the worst of the week. Opting to cut directly across the initial plain, instead of running around the plain in a sandy river bed, I chose badly. The ground was so stony that each step necessarily fell on fist-sized rock. This felt like having someone pound the soles of your feet with a ball-peen hammer. The end of the plain was the top of a cliff, which we had to climb down to reach the control point. From there, we entered another river bed, and alternately slipped through mud and deep sand as we began a four mile climb up the final mountain to the finish in a small village. After being served a lunch, and a brief awards ceremony, we were driven by bus to the larger town of Zagora. In many ways, the finish of this race is the highlight, for what occurs is an orgy of feasting and friendship. The very bastards who dogged you across those miserable plains become your best friends, and plans are made to meet at some future event. We are put up at a hotel, have our first shower of the week, and congregate at the hotel bar and pool. Shaved faces are unrecognizable. Beers are bought by everyone, for everyone; at the closing dinner, the organization provided several bottles of champayne for each table. This was my second year. I returned because I had run so miserably the previous year, and thought it would be a waste not to capitalize on my hard-learned lessons. I also returned in the hopes that some of my European friends would come back. Finally, I wanted to see some more of that magnificent desert. The Sahara is vast and timeless. A sense of the prehistoric is inevitable; one expects a winged dinosaur to soar from a plateau. I don't know that this thing is yet out of my system. Will I return next year?? Just one week back, I'm already considering it. I found this year how sharp the simple pleasures could be - hot food and warm sleep. Even better is the sense of successful competition under such severe conditions. In either event, anybody interested in next year's race should feel free to contact me, for help, information, or advice. One thing I can promise, it's a race you'll never forget. Steve, Who Still Smells Like a Camel, Benjamin Richmond, Va. Sdb100@aol.com