 
P J G Robbins

824

By P J G Robbins

Copyright 2013 P J G Robbins

Smashwords Edition

Discover other titles by P J G Robbins:

Dreamweavers: Awakening
6th June 2008

My finger hovered over the mouse button for a fraction of a second. Not really long enough for any second thoughts to emerge. I pressed down and a few moments later the transaction went through.

I sat back in my office chair and savoured the adrenaline flowing around my body. I smiled stupidly, not caring if anyone around me noticed. Sure, my bank balance was lighter to the tune of five hundred pounds, but I'd just committed to running a hundred and fifty miles through the Moroccan desert and I was going to have to get used to suffering the occasional odd glance.

Introduction

This text is an expression, and at times an explanation, of my love affair with running. It focusses predominantly on a three year period leading up to and including my participation in the 26th Marathon des Sables. It is in equal parts memoir, training record and, hopefully, source of inspiration to others.

The first part, _Beginnings_ , lays the foundations for the rest of the tale, detailing the sporting achievements (or lack thereof) of my younger years up until the point that I took up running. _The Honeymoon Period_ , charts just that: those first few years when everything was new, the learning curve was steep, but progression was quick. _The Marathon Challenge_ details my preparations for my very first marathon, while _Going Beyond_ looks into how I approached training for the MdS. _The Sands_ is a blow-by-blow account of the race itself, delving into the crushing lows and soaring highs experienced during my time in Morocco, and finally _Reflections_ takes a philosophical look at ultra running and is ultimately a summary/justification of where I am at the moment.

I have been in the business of pushing myself to extremes for long enough now that I feel able to impart a little wisdom and will do so at various points throughout the text. However, it is important to bear in mind while reading this that I am not a fitness professional, that every person is different and that in all cases what I'm describing is what has worked for me. It is imperative that you listen to your body and separate the pains of hard training from the pains of over-training and, if appropriate, consult with a professional (my first piece of advice and something I probably should have done earlier on in my running career). I have made many mistakes, some many times over, but most I have learned from and I feel it is only right that I pass some of this on so that others have the opportunity to skip these, sometimes painful, steps in the learning process.

Ultimately I want this to be an enjoyable experience (for both of us) so the narrative will wander between factual accounts of training runs and races I've entered, tips for training and coping with injuries, insight into what goes on inside the mind of an ultra runner (well, this particular ultra runner) and observations of running as a hobby, sport and social vehicle. If you are a runner and feel that I am wide of the mark in any of these aspects then no hard feelings. They are, after all, based on the experiences of one man. I welcome other viewpoints and I'm always open to debate, so feel free to get in touch so we can compare notes.
BEGINNINGS
An Inauspicious Start

This is a story about a man with a passion for running. Not a boy, as one might expect. Let's get that one straight from the start: I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a naturally gifted runner. My secondary school years were littered with painful memories of cross country runs where I struggled through the streets of my home town, Abingdon (just south of Oxford), cursing my PE teacher and hating every minute.

For me, running was the worst possible use of a PE lesson. I was never any more than okay at sport – I played rugby for the school (usually in the three quarter line, but not managing a single try in seven years) and got half decent at badminton and basketball – but I always looked forward to PE and it always came as a crushing disappointment when our teacher broke the news that we were going out for a run.

But I'm jumping the gun slightly. For my first ever running-related memory we have to go back to the late eighties, when my years on this earth had yet to reach double figures. There was some kind of summer fête down on the banks of the Thames in Abingdon and I took part in a fun run. I can't remember how far it was, only that, not for the last time, I'd horribly underestimated the challenge.

My mum deserves an extra special mention for her part in this tale. Not for bringing me into the world (although I'm thankful for that too, Mum), but for proving to be the inspiration that got me into marathon running. In 1988, four years after giving birth to her fourth child (my sister – I am the second), she and her trusty Brooks Chariots completed the London Marathon in a time of 4 hours 53 minutes. An exceptional effort at a time when marathon running was not nearly as popular as it is now. Mum, I take my hat off to you.

Okay, so we've established that I was not house captain material at school – something that was proven once and for all in the only other running-related memory I have of that time. It was our annual sports day and, with no other willing participants from my house, I put myself forward for the 800 metres, never having trained at that or any distance. I was up against guys competing at district and county level and, unsurprisingly, I came dead last. By quite a margin.

I don't wish to labour the point, but I feel it is important to establish a frame of reference because everyone has to start somewhere, and if you are new to this sport or struggling then it may be comforting to know.

It is also worth noting that I do not look back on my memories of secondary school particularly fondly (800 metre thrashings aside). I had low self esteem (mainly impressed on me by others) and was lacking in confidence. I also had a very short attention span and a tendency to give up on things when they got too hard.

So you can see that of all the traits most commonly associated with distance runners – determination, commitment, mental strength, fitness and a smattering of talent – I was in possession of precisely none.

A Period Of Growth

University was the best thing that could have happened to me when I reached the end of my schooling. It was an opportunity to start afresh and leave to one side the demons that had clung to me through most of my time at secondary school. I enrolled at Swansea University, open minded and eager to try new things.

During fresher's week I was like kid in a sweet shop, spoiled for choice by the selection of activities on offer. I'd always wanted to try a martial art (having dabbled in karate very briefly at school – before quitting, naturally) and settled on Tae Kwon Do as my sport of choice (there were others, but they quickly fell by the wayside).

Training three times a week (regardless of how inebriated I had gotten myself the night before) I began, at last, to develop some focus and mental discipline. There were times when I was unable to negotiate a flight of stairs on anything other than my backside after a heavy training session, but for the first time ever I found myself enjoying the pain, even looking forward to it – to this day there is nothing like the ache of intercostal muscles after an excess of sit-ups and leg raises.

I made some truly wonderful friends at the club, and as the months and years wore on we continually beat, cajoled and abused one another into bettering ourselves, gradually working our way through a succession of gradings in our quest for that holy grail; the black belt.

At the start of my third year things took an even better turn. The association we were affiliated to started merging elements of kickboxing into the style and we reinvented ourselves as the Tae Kwon Do/Kickboxing club. The result was astounding. What was once a typical martial arts club, with perhaps a dozen regulars, instantly became _the_ sports club of the moment.

Such was its success that by the end of my fourth and final year, by which point I was its longest serving member and, against all probability, club captain, we won Club of the Year at the annual athletics union ball (a first for a martial arts club). And that was not the only success. I'd fought in a number of semi-contact tournaments over the years and had several first and second places to my name (usually, but not always, losing to a long time drinking and sparring partner).

It seemed I'd found my calling; something that had finally awoken some fight and determination in me, not to mention given strength and fitness, neither of which I had possessed before. Three weeks after my graduation I held the holy grail in my hands.

A Painful Homecoming

I walked away from Swansea with a degree, a black belt and a girlfriend (in ascending order of importance). I had also taught myself to play the guitar (much to the latter's continuing chagrin), so all in all I felt I had used my four years well.

After a year spent travelling I entered the world of work. I continued to maintain the flexibility I had developed during my Tae Kwon Do training but I missed my old club and the countless friends I'd made there and was reluctant to start training afresh.

However, I had not long been in full time employment when my oldest school friend called me up and told me he was joining a local Tae Kwon Do club. I was back in Abingdon living with my mum and commuting to Watford on alternate weekends to see my other half. I decided to go along with him to try and regain some of the fitness I'd lost during our year away. It did not go down the way I'd hoped.

The martial arts attract all kinds of people: those who wish to get fit, those looking for something spiritual around which to focus their lives and those who want nothing more than to take their petty frustrations out on others. The club we joined was a mix of all three.

We were asked upon registration whether we had done anything before, and though it was tempting to lie and keep a low profile I came clean and was told I could dust off my black belt.

Maybe it was the fact I was new, or, more likely, that the Welsh colours of my suit (bright red, to be fair) stood out too much against the sea of white. Either way, the instructor took a disliking to me. During one particularly gruelling session he singled me out to spar with right at the very end. It was all I could do to keep my arms up and when the last ounce of energy left me I turned and dropped my guard. He kept coming, and his shots nigh-on dislocated my jaw (for those of you not familiar with it, Tae Kwon Do is not a full-contact sport – there are places you go for that sort of thing, nowadays MMA).

Disgusted, I hung up my belt, walked away from the club and began searching for something that would keep me in shape while still allowing me to eat the following morning. And this, friends, is where our story begins.
THE HONEYMOON PERIOD
Genesis

The best bit about running is it is free. All you need is a pair of shoes – if that – and you are set. This makes it accessible to almost everyone. The lack of compulsory kit, an instructor, a membership or – dare I say it – the need for friends also mean that it can be very hard to find excuses not to; almost impossible once the bug has bitten.

I had run a handful of times at university. I would estimate that the most I ever managed was about five miles, but I never really measured the routes. At the time I had a good level of fitness and a 'pain is good' mentality, so I had managed to overcome the memories of my childhood and treated it as a top up to my cardiovascular fitness. Therefore when I took my black belt off for the last time I had the makings of something to turn to. It was the autumn of 2003, I was 24 and weighed in at approximately 80kg (which for my height – a smidge over six foot – was just plum in the ideal band).

Abingdon has a chain of roads that circumscribe its northern half. My mum's house is about a quarter mile from this artery, which has a wide footpath and cycle lane running next to it for its entire length; the perfect place to get started.

When I set out for the first time, dressed in a simple vest and shorts combo, I hooked up with the footpath at its nearest point: the roundabout at the north end of the Oxford Road. At this point I knew nothing about the sport. I was a total and complete novice, so the concept of adopting a run/walk strategy to ease me into it could not have been further from my mind. Besides, I was still a black belt in Tae Kwon Do (albeit licking my wounds) and thus I figured that some of my fitness should be readily transferable. I didn't even have the right shoes either. Not that I knew that at the time. Trainers were trainers.

I headed anticlockwise, following the gentle (but at this point challenging) incline as the path tracked the long, sweeping curve of Dunmore Road, before enjoying the modest downhill section as it straightened out past Tilsley Park (the start/finish point for the famous Abingdon Marathon). When I reached the roundabout at the Wootton Road I turned left, past the house of my friend who was still persevering with the Tae Kwon Do classes and left again on to Northcourt Road. Feeling comfortable, I first cruised past Fitzharry's School (one of two rivals to the one I'd attended), then my former primary school, before meeting back up with the Oxford Road about a mile down from the roundabout. From there it was a relatively short distance back to my mum's.

I felt good. I'd devoured around three miles in under twenty-five minutes, setting a respectable benchmark for future runs. My mum seemed suitably impressed when I told her, and I suffered no ill-effects the next day. When I went out for the second time a week later I was already ready to up the ante.

I followed the same route as before, but when I reached the Wootton Road this time I continued straight on, heading out towards the retail parks on the western edge of the town. This is the first time I experienced the monotony and sense of loneliness associated with long distance running. I was about two miles into the run and had reached a point where there were no longer any buildings around me; just the road to my right and a line of fir trees to my left. Even though I knew a housing estate lay no more than ten metres to one side the quarter mile stretch of path that led to the fringes of the retail park took an age to pass.

Looking back on it now it seems ridiculous to have been so affected by such a short stretch of road. I have long since embraced the solitary nature of the sport, but at the time it was all I knew. Part of the feeling can probably be put down to the fact that I was still heading away from home with over half the run remaining. Psychologically both getting to that halfway point and turning for home are massive milestones, and many of the runners I've met over the years have mentioned that they get a sense of going downhill when they pass them.

Once I'd negotiated that particularly grim strip of tarmac I headed left and before long was in sight of the McDonalds and the police station that sit opposite one another where the 'ring road' joins the Marcham Road. Another left I began heading towards the town centre, taking a slight dog leg to skirt Albert Park on a quiet side street. At its end I slalomed between a pair of metal bars and joined up with the (then) one-way system.

Aside from the initial rise and fall of Dunmore Road the route up until this point had been dead flat. But after a short stretch of the one-way system I reached the bottom of what is known as the Vineyard and there I had my first hill to tackle. I call it a hill, though it makes me chuckle to recall how much trouble it caused me in those early years. There is a reason the Abingdon Marathon is one of the fastest in the country: it's very, very flat. And the route passes very close to this molehill I was making a mountain of. Still, it didn't break me and at the top I took two right turns in quick succession and was allowed to reap the spoils of my efforts as I joined Audlett Drive (the opposite end of the supposed 'ring road').

The downhill was short and not particularly steep, but it was a pleasant relief and set me up nicely for the final two and a half miles to home. Audlett Drive and the Twelve Acre Drive are both long and pretty monotonous. A footpath/cycle track runs alongside the road and a brick wall separates you from the adjacent housing estates. It has been a while since I stepped out onto either but during the years I trained on them neither seemed to get any shorter. And yet I made it back to the top of the Oxford Road and the short distance to my mum's passed by in the blink of an eye.

I had clocked up six miles (my first 10k or thereabouts) in only my second run. And now, perhaps, you understand why building that frame of reference was so important. I'd hazard a guess that that level of progression is the exception rather than the rule. While fitness can build quickly when you are starting out, I wouldn't expect everyone to be up to 10k in a week. That said, a friend of mine ran his first half marathon two weeks after taking up running, and the Paris Marathon a few weeks after that, but previously he had been an obsessive rower and is made of some pretty scary stuff. We'll meet him properly later on.

Over the next few months my weekly routine was made up of two runs: the six and the three mile routes. I am a creature of habit and the repetition allowed me to gauge my progress as I slowly ground the times down. The running itself got easier, but the isolation I felt on certain parts of the six mile route did not go away and eventually the spectre of going further began to loom.

But then I made one of the best decisions ever: I bought some running shoes. Proper ones designed for running, rather than trainers that had simply become the shoes I ran in. And the difference was phenomenal.

I don't remember whether I went to a specialist running shop to get them, but I suspect I did given that most of the high street 'sports' shops stock more Converse All Stars than they do proper sports shoes. What I do remember, very clearly, is the sensation when I first put them on of being almost propelled forwards, step after step, with surprisingly little effort required on my part. If I could get the same feeling with every new pair of running shoes they would probably become single use items. However, I put it down to the difference between using a generic trainer and a bespoke running shoe, and if you are new to running then I urge you to get a pair. I know I said at the beginning of this section about running being free, but you'll thank me in the long run, trust me. It doesn't have to be a top of the range pair, and I wouldn't necessarily recommend getting your stride analysed in a running shop if you are buying your first pair. Just go for a running shoe that feels comfortable. You can get technical about it later on.
At The Races

Armed with my shiny new shoes I continued my routine and experienced a step improvement in my times over both distances. Feeling like a proper runner, it seemed like as good a time as any to look at entering my first event.

One of my work colleagues, who had also taken up running of his own volition, suggested the Town and Gown run to me – a 10k that winds its way through some of Oxford's oldest streets and starts and finishes in one of the university parks. Being nice and local, it sounded like the ideal place to start. I had my six mile route down to about fifty minutes and was confident of putting in a good performance.

Race day dawned bright and sunny and I got my first taste of start line nerves as we waited to set off. I stuck with my friend for most of the race, maintaining a steady pace but struggling mentally with the unfamiliar surroundings. Having gotten so used to my training routes and where I should expect to be at what time, the course threw me completely. Despite each kilometre being clearly marked I simply couldn't get my head around it, and after a consolation sprint finish I struggled round in a shade under an hour.

It was a disappointment, but not the end of the world. Hardly the glorious début I'd hoped for, but a foundation laid nonetheless.

I started to turn my attention to the prospect of going longer. For someone who was also writing his first novel at the time, my lack of imagination was criminal. Rather than come up with a new route to provide an easy stepping stone to the realms beyond 10k, all I could think of was adding a little bit on to the longer of my two routes. And of course I didn't think to just take one of the numerous footpaths through the housing estates off Dunmore Road. Like a model train set I was stuck on the main thoroughfares, which basically meant tagging the shorter route onto the longer. Mentally this was a real barrier as reaching the roundabout at the top of the Oxford Road from Twelve Acre Drive had become prelude to a glorious sprint finish. The prospect of carrying straight on did not appeal in the slightest.

When I finally plucked up the courage I made up my mind before I headed out, figuring that if I tried to do it off the cuff I'd always bottle it at the roundabout. It turned out to be remarkably straightforward. Six miles was now well within my comfort zone and I ate up the extra three without much difficulty. It was such a success that a week later I went out again and continued for an entire second lap, essentially doubling my range within a week.

It was at this point that the bug really took hold. And by the bug I mean those little endorphin fellas who hoist you on their shoulders after (and sometimes during) a run and parade you through the streets while their mates shout and sing your praises. It is rare for me to get such boosts nowadays. They are usually confined to PB-smashing performances, which is a shame because those don't come as often as I'd like. Maybe the little guys have become harder to impress, but at that time, after a couple of years with little to shout about, they were giving me the royal treatment after every run.

I ditched the three mile loop shortly after that first twelve miler, which took its place as the second of my weekly runs. I was now up to eighteen miles a week and feeling good.

So far, aside from investing in my shiny new running shoes, I had stuck with the same kit that I started out with – a singlet and shorts combination. The former was working just fine, but as I ramped up the distances I began to experience some discomfort in my gentlemen's area. After a small amount of deliberation I forked out for some Lycra shorts. Oh the relief! Even though I wore nothing underneath them all my discomfort issues vanished with that one small change.

I really cannot stress what a difference this made and I urge anyone experiencing similar issues to follow my lead. If the prospect of slipping into a scrap of Lycra leaves you feeling a little self-conscious, just stick a pair of lightweight flappy shorts over the top (I never bother – in my head I look awesome in Lycra).

One evening, while I was out negotiating that horrible stretch of road with the fir trees for what must have been the hundredth time, a rather weird thought crossed my mind: _I could run the London Marathon_.

_Could I?_ I thought.

Yes, why not?

Really?

Mum did it, so why not you?

Good point. Seems like an awfully long way though.

Yeah but you're up to half distance or thereabouts.

True. But really? Do you think we're up to it?

Yeah, stick your name down. What's the worst that could happen?

We could get in!

I thought we were past all this wussing out of challenges.

We are.

So.....?

I entered.

Things were getting serious. And not just for me. An open challenge had been issued in my office for anyone wanting to enter the Reading Half Marathon the following spring. A handful of us were running regularly and after a great deal of banter had been exchanged we had a group of seven of us signed up.

And then it started to get competitive. I had been running for about a year and was the only one who had actually completed the distance in training. Several of our number were starting from scratch, both from a running and a general fitness standpoint. They had six months to train for it – a challenging but perfectly achievable target. However, some of the other lads were getting into their training quite seriously and were laying down what seemed like inordinately fast times on the treadmills in their local gym. Eight miles in an hour became the target to reach and I hit the road in earnest in an attempt to keep pace with them.

Then came the news I had been half dreading, half hoping for; I hadn't made it through the ballot for London. A magazine arrived from the good people at Flora with the word 'Sorry!' splashed across the front and a picture of a dejected looking runner with his head in his hands.

I wasn't sorry. Not really. Running a marathon was still just a fantasy; something other people did. I didn't feel ready for it.

I flicked through the pages and was astonished by the number of charities still offering places in exchange for a certain amount of sponsorship. It was clear that the challenge was still there if I wanted it, but I have been fortunate in my life not to be touched by much in the way of tragedy. At the time there was still a scheme in place whereby if you failed to get through the ballot on five consecutive occasions then entry was guaranteed the following year. I could wait.

I kept up my training through the depths of winter, only breaking from my 6 mile/12 mile routine on one very significant occasion. Having gotten used to my two lap route by now, and despite my failure to secure a place in London, I became curious as to what it felt like to get up towards the 20 mile mark.

However I didn't feel man enough to tackle a third lap on my own and I roped in a school friend for the 18 mile challenge. He was a rugby player – at one point in our school careers we had both ended up in A&E after one particularly brutal encounter with a rival school (he with a broken collarbone and I...... well I don't really remember but I'm told it was a concussion) – and he had no running experience whatsoever.

This was the first time I had ever trained with someone and without his presence urging me on I would have failed miserably at the attempt. The first two laps went as expected; we kept a steady pace and I was surprised that my friend was looking so fresh as we neared the half marathon mark.

It was well past sunset as we headed into the unknown, and despite regular street lighting around the entire route, darkness began to creep into the corners of my mind. Our conversations became shorter and more pointed, focussing mainly on how far we had left to go. The distance was taking its toll on both of us but neither wished to let the other down.

This is the benefit of training with others, something I didn't truly appreciate until I was several years further down the line. Running with someone, in particular someone of similar ability, I'd say is essential to really getting the most out of yourself. It doesn't have to be every time you go out, but mixing it in occasionally will prevent complacency from setting in and keep you out of the dreaded rut that it is so easy to drop into.

By mile 16 we were both in a rut, but by that point we were just happy to be on our feet. And probably quite lucky to be. No thought had been given to nutrition prior to setting out and we'd taken no fluids with us (I had never needed them before so why start now?). I had a major case of tunnel vision going on and it was all I could do to focus on the white line separating the footpath from the cycle lane as we staggered along the last few yards of Audlett Drive and headed onto Twelve Acre.

It was only now that I knew we were going to finish, and inexplicably my friend seemed to be in better shape going into that final stretch. My mind started writing cheques my body was in no state to cash. I wasn't going to be beaten by a non-runner. I sensed that he was thinking similar things: that I was there for the taking. So when we reached the roundabout at the top of the Oxford Road for the final time, with less than a quarter of a mile to go, we took off.

I'll never forgive him for what he did to me. He didn't win by much but to get beaten by someone with no running experience, albeit one of my best friends, was a little humiliating. He has always been a natural competitor and would probably have thrown a bigger tantrum had he been on the receiving end.

Ultimately we made it; utterly broken, but 18 miles achieved. The endorphins did their little dance and I felt better about things. However the prospect of completing a marathon seemed as unattainable as ever.
Back To School

The spring of 2005 came around and the excitement and banter in our office grew. One dark horse had emerged: the oldest member of our team, who it turned out had some past running experience. He played it down but he was of slight build and I knew I was going to struggle to keep up with him. The question was whether I could overcome my other two rivals.

The day dawned and I was in a confident mood as my mum drove me to Reading. I'd done the distance probably a dozen times in training and had it down close to the 1 hr 50 mark. No one else in my group had run nearly as far and I was satisfied that at the very least second place in the office challenge was assured.

It was a chilly morning and the nerves kicked in as soon as I got out of the car. There was yet more banter when I located my colleagues, and it continued as we posed for some group photos and then headed to the start line. We were penned in together around the two hour mark. For some of us that was a dream – getting round was all that mattered – but for others it was the bare minimum we expected to achieve. Anticipation grew as the start time approached and I tried to settle my mind as I hopped up and down on the spot to keep the cold at bay. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting the horn sounded and the challenge was on.

The Reading Half Marathon is a pretty flat race. It is well supported with good PB potential and is held roughly three weeks before London, which makes it popular with entrants looking to hone their race craft or for a confidence-boosting performance.

I set off at a brisk pace, swept up – as so many often are – in the excitement of the event. I had no target pace by way of minutes per mile, but I had started to develop a strong internal metronome with which to judge my speed. After a mile or so that kicked in and I settled down into a nice rhythm, my slightly older colleague a dozen yards ahead and my other two rivals on my shoulder. Then at around the three mile mark I hit the first incline.

Okay, so I did say Reading is _pretty_ flat. But there are three gradients around the three, five and seven mile marks that are worthy of note. The first is a short but surprisingly steep incline that comes after a very shallow descent and a sharp right-hand turn. And it came as a real shock.

Suddenly my thrice-weekly toils up the Vineyard were put into perspective, and though I made it to the top without the ignominy of resorting to a walk, it took a huge amount out of my legs that they weren't ready to give. Fortunately the race organisers had been thoughtful enough to place a drinks station about a quarter mile further on, but this presented me with something of a dilemma; I'd never taken drink on the run before and I'd no idea how it would affect me. In the end, though, there wasn't really a choice to the matter; I was gasping and gratefully took a bottle of water.

For the next mile or so I attempted to take fluids on board while maintaining my pace. This gave me a stitch and I slowed and breathed deeply to try and get rid of it. By the time I was done with the drink and the stitch was under control another problem had reared its head. I was now in third place in my group and the next guy up the road was a belligerent bugger would run himself into the ground just to spite me. I had to get a wriggle on.

The second significant gradient, at mile five, is a long, straight descent into Reading town centre. It's by far my favourite part of the course; enough of a slope to really let your legs run free, but not so much as to risk injury. I free-wheeled down it feeling much improved.

When I reached the bottom the course took the first of numerous twists and turns as it threaded its way through the centre of town. The bands were out, as were a great number of supporters, and I slipped through the 10k mark almost without realising, in around 55 minutes. I felt exhilarated, but the spectre of the second incline had started to make its presence felt – this one I had heard about – and I needed to prepare myself.

I rounded a left-hander at mile 7 and there it lay before me: a long, gradual incline up a residential street lined with cars. My heart sank, but then was lifted almost immediately by cheering to my left. I looked over and saw a number of people outside a small pub, standing behind a trestle table lined with half-full cups of ale. A nearby runner had just taken one and necked it in a single swig. I was gutted. Anything for a boost at this point, although it did at least take my mind off the hill for short while.

I never really recovered after that. None of my training had prepared me for the inclines and my metronome was veering around wildly in an attempt to steady the ship. It was only when I got to mile 9 and caught one of my colleagues that I realised I'd slipped to fourth in the group, with my belligerent friend still somewhere up ahead.

I put my head down for the last four miles, pushing hard in an attempt to salvage some dignity. The Madejski Stadium (where the race finishes) passed agonisingly close with three still to go, and after a demoralising lap of Green Park I crossed the line with a chip time of 1 hr 58mins, utterly spent and with my ego crushed. The guy I'd been trying to catch was a minute and a half ahead.
Running Nowhere

It's fairly evident where I went wrong at Reading, but bear with me while I list the mistakes because they were not in short supply.

1. My race strategy was 'beat my colleagues'.

2. I knew there was a hill but decided I'd deal with it when I came to it.

3. I'd never taken on water while running before.

4. I then decided it was a good time to try taking on water while running.

5. I was overconfident.

It was a humbling experience, but a good one to have so early on in my career. Suffice to say there was a significant amount of smugness emanating from various corners of the office for a while.

Still, I chucked my name into the hat for London again and set my sights on another major change in my life.

In April 2005 I moved in with my other half. We found a flat in Watford and I proceeded to commute to Oxfordshire daily for work. What followed was a period where running had to very much take a back seat. I was working longer hours and travelling an hour each way, so only on occasion would I step out of the front door during the week.

I did, however, have a whole new landscape to explore, with hills and everything. When I did train I trained hard, building distance and getting to know my new surroundings without the pressure of any races in the calendar.

I hadn't been living in Watford long when I had my first encounter with what is very much akin to Marmite for runners: the treadmill. As part of our new life together my girlfriend and had I embarked on a joint fitness regime and joined a local gym. This gave me the opportunity to have a proper stab at the 8 miles in an hour benchmark that my work colleagues had been on about for so long.

I'm not going to lie; treadmill running is an acquired taste. I'd suggest it is only really suited to two kinds of people: those who are committed to making serious gains to their fitness and those who are ultra self-conscious about running outdoors (as far as my girlfriend and I are concerned we are split evenly between the two camps). If you are just planning to climb on board for a plod, then yes it is going to be tedious.

The word 'opportunity' has cropped up a number of times in this text so far, perhaps due to the positive outlook I have developed when it comes to training, and I'm about to use it again. The treadmill gives us the opportunity to push ourselves beyond what our body believes its natural pace to be. Out on the road it is possible to push yourself to your absolute limit, but it requires a huge amount of discipline to keep yourself there for any period of time.

The treadmill allows you to find that limit and then pass over control to the machine while you get on with the job of hanging in there for dear life. Detractors will point to the forgiving surface and the lack of elements to deal with as reasons why it can never replace the need to run outdoors. But it's not supposed to. The treadmill is a tool; another weapon in your training arsenal for keeping your body guessing, to be used as part of a holistic approach to training.

I've noticed that the plodders steer clear of me when I'm on the treadmill. If there is an alternative to the empty machine next to me then they'll normally take it. I think they find the speeds I run at intimidating – typically 13-15 km/h (sometimes more depending on the type of session). This just encourages me to go faster and harder. I love it. If you are hopping on the treadmill to get away from the guys in their muscle tops over by the free weights, it would be worth checking first to make sure I'm not around.

If this all sounds a little egotistical to you then rest assured that was the intention. I become a different animal when I'm on the treadmill. Maybe it is because I see so few people using it to its full potential, but while I keep my thoughts and ego to myself, I develop a bit of an alpha dog mentality when I jump aboard.

I know that this is hardly going to encourage those new to the discipline to give treadmill running a go, but in my own way I'm trying to highlight the benefits that are there waiting to be reaped. I've long since left that 8 miles in an hour benchmark in pieces; that is now my target marathon pace! But I'm getting ahead of myself again.
THE MARATHON CHALLENGE
If At First...

I succeeded in getting a ballot place in the London Marathon at the fourth attempt. By this time I had switched jobs (leaving the painful memories of Reading behind), bought a flat in Hemel Hempstead with my other half (after seven years things were getting serious) and was in the process of reawakening my love for the martial arts (through a wonderful local kickboxing club, now sadly closed down).

I remember vividly the moment when I pulled the magazine out of the post box and turned it over, fully expecting to see the word 'Sorry!' and a picture of yet another dejected runner. It had become something of an annual ritual and I was resigned to the fact that I was destined for a default entry into the 2010 race.

When I saw the word 'Congratulations!' my heart sank and my balls shrank. I sat down on the stairs and turned the magazine over a few times, almost expecting 'Ha ha! Just kidding!' to appear in its place. But this was it. The marathon gauntlet had just been thrown at my feet. Time to man up and get moving.

It didn't occur to me until much nearer the time how significant the timing of my acceptance was. I would be running on the twentieth anniversary of my mum's completion of this, the greatest of all marathons. I was determined not to let myself or her down, so for the first time ever I set about constructing a detailed training plan.

Over the years I have become acutely aware of my current level of fitness. So much so that I have become able to predict with a high degree of accuracy where I could expect to be in, say, three months time, or what time I could expect to cover an uncharted distance in. It's not down to any mathematical rule or online calculator; it's something I'm just able to do.

Even in 2007 this ability was quite well advanced and I set myself the target of 3 hours 50 minutes for the marathon. Getting round was obviously my first objective, but having this target in mind would help me focus in the run-up to the big event.

My training programme officially started in January 2008. Being still very much a lone wolf when it came to running I had no-one to turn to for advice. I therefore consulted the 'Congratulations!' magazine and discovered it had three ready-made plans for different levels of runner. I took the intermediate one and tailored it to my own perceived needs at that time.

The theory was to run twice a week and build the distance gradually, with the key milestones of 14, 17 and 20 miles separated by a mixture of treadmill and road runs. Somewhat naively I ignored the suggestion of interval or fartlek training, neither of which I had encountered before. I figured that it was more important to run consistently and continuously, and I would make up for it by reaping any cardiovascular benefit from my weekly kickboxing sessions.

Since my move to the Hemel area I had mapped out a number of routes of various distances up to 10 miles; a mixture of country lanes and main roads with numerous split points at major intersections. I had already begun logging my times on a spreadsheet and I kept this up as my training progressed, as evidence of my improvement. I steered clear of the country lanes in the evenings, having aggravated an old skateboarding injury (an extreme pronation of my left ankle) on a particularly dark stretch during the Christmas period.

One route swiftly became my new benchmark, primarily because the majority of it was on one, well-lit road: the A4251 that ran past my flat in Hemel and took me to the town of Berkhamsted, 5 miles to the west. It was a fairly gentle out and back that tracked the Grand Union Canal and the Euston to Birmingham train line.

Over the three months or so that my training plan covered I knocked fifteen minutes off my time for this route. The 14 and 17 mile targets were both met without any trouble and my confidence grew. I began to amass sponsorship for the endeavour, having selected a small charity working with street children in Peru as my cause for inspiration.

The day of my first 20 miler dawned... or at least seemed to. I opened the curtains to see why it was still so dark and immediately wished I'd stayed in bed. It was mid March and it was snowing. Up until that point I had stuck to my plan rigidly, and had I not done so it would have been all too easy to put it off until the following weekend. But I had been psyching myself up for it all week and couldn't face having to go through that internal tussle again, so for the first time ever I pulled on a long-sleeved top over my vest and set out.

Man it was cold. I'd never run in anything like it before. It wasn't the sort of Christmassy snow that falls slowly in big fluffy flakes and gives everything it touches a serene air. No, this was the thinner, wetter variety driven out of the north on a gilt-edged wind; the type that nullifies any attempts you may have made at shielding yourself and gets to your skin in seconds.

I swiftly determined that there was no way of plodding this one. It was a case of get the heart-rate up or prepare for a bout of hypothermia. My choice of course could have been better too, at least psychologically. I had gone for a 'double Berko' – two laps of my standard 10 mile out and back. I knew that when I reached halfway it would be a major wrench to turn around and face doing it all again, with the warmth of my flat just metres away.

After about two miles of effing and blinding at myself and pretty much everything around me I had a pleasant surprise. I spied another crazy fool up ahead toiling against the elements. I already seemed to be gaining on him but I upped my pace and soon drew alongside.

Somewhat predictably 'Nice day for it' was the first sentence to escape my lips – I think there's some unwritten law forcing people to come out with such inanities when faced with adversity.

He didn't seem to mind and we got talking. I should have figured that he would be another marathon entrant. Only someone that committed would have eschewed the alternative of a comfortable treadmill session for the sake of 'sticking to the plan'. He was maybe five miles into a 17 miler and was planning to head to Berkhamsted and beyond.

For three miles we exchanged notes, dreams and expectations, and by the time I turned for home for the first time I was gutted to leave him, but buoyed by the knowledge that someone else was going through the same trial-by-ice that I was. It was his presence that gave me the strength to resist bottling it at half distance, and it was his presence that kept me going as the weather continued to deteriorate and the horizontal sleet set about chilling me to the core.

I don't remember his name, but I owe that guy a debt of gratitude, for I believe he finally helped me vanquish my life-long nemesis – the quitter. I had never failed to complete a training run up until that point, and after completing twenty gruelling miles in atrocious conditions my dark places had been well and truly swept clean.

Now is as good a time as any to impart my next piece of wisdom. If you set out with a specific distance in mind, make sure you do it; nothing more and nothing less (barring injury, of course). The reason I recommend this is because it will help to manage your expectations. If you get into a habit of changing your plans en route then you will rarely get the most out of yourself as you will not be prepared for the distance you actually end up covering.

You also need to appreciate that there will be good days and bad days. And this is not just a mental thing. Sometimes you will head out ready and committed to giving your absolute best, but your body will just say no. There is a certain amount of coaxing that can be done, but ultimately you'll find yourself unable to perform at your optimum level.

That's not to say you should quit when such days inevitably crop up. Do the distance (no less, no more) and move on. Don't dwell on it. Conversely, should you go out and feel absolutely brilliant (regardless of whether you were up for the run in the first place) make the most of it. Push hard. Smash that PB. But don't add on any more miles, no matter how tempting. If you are still feeling fresh at the end of it you haven't pushed hard enough.

This is a philosophy that has developed over the years and it just seems to work. Maybe it won't for you. But give it a go and see. If you want to be anything other than a plodder (and there's nothing wrong with being one) then you're going to need to build some mental fortitude.
London Calling

Okay, so it's not the most original chapter heading, but it's what I posted as my Facebook status when the big day finally arrived.

But before that came registration day and I took the morning off work to head down to the London Marathon Expo in the Excel Centre. As soon as I alighted from the DLR my heart began to pound. Already there were people on the return platform armed with bags full of goodies and I knew that very soon I would become one of them.

I headed into the Excel and picked up my goody bag, race number and chip from the various kiosks spread throughout the registration area. It felt good to finally have it all in my hands, and with the buzz going round the centre and the race only days away it was impossible not to get caught up in the moment.

With my registration complete I went and browsed the numerous stands erected by the race's sponsors. I didn't buy anything, but simply wished to savour the atmosphere for a while before leaving. When my attention inevitably began to wane I headed out and was immediately confronted by a chap from a local radio station. He asked me about my motivation for running and I told him something or other, but took particular care to mention the street children I was running for. He wished me luck and we went our separate ways.

The night before the race my girlfriend and I headed across the road for a cheeky drink to calm my jangling nerves. It wasn't so much the race itself but the getting there that had me all wound up. I'd checked the train times and realised there were none from Apsley (my local stop – 50 yards from my door) that were remotely early enough and my only option was to drive to Watford and take a replacement bus service. I was most indignant of the prospect – of all days, how could they!? In what was to become a pre-race ritual I sank a couple of pints and headed off to bed.

The beer failed to do the trick. I had a chronic lack of sleep that night, too worried about all the things that could go wrong with the journey. Being so close to London it really shouldn't have been such an issue, but it bugged me until the early hours when, too exhausted to fret further, I gladly passed out.

My alarm clock went off far too early for a Sunday morning. Normally I have some built in snooze time, but no such luxuries today. It was probably about 6am – four hours before the start, which is the latest I would dare eat anything substantial for fear of developing a stitch mid-run.

I showered, checked my race bag and kissed my girlfriend goodbye (she would be coming to cheer me on at a sensible hour). The drive to Watford was swift and uneventful and I was soon on the bus heading for Euston, surrounded by many other wide-eyed runners. I kept the lone wolf act going and didn't speak to anyone.

My fears over the journey turned out to be unfounded. I reached Euston without a hitch, successfully negotiated the tube to Waterloo and before I knew it was on a train heading towards Greenwich, crammed shoulder to shoulder with dozens of fellow runners. Still I kept quiet.

The whole experience was becoming deeply personal and, despite my elation upon catching sight of the hot air balloons looming next to the start line, I still couldn't bring myself to exchange words of encouragement with those around me.

It's not until you enter a race of such magnitude that you fully appreciate how much of an individual sport running is. Sure, there's no shortage of camaraderie and some events allow teams to enter, but as I looked around at the thousands of participants preparing themselves the diversity of people's get-ups was just mind-boggling. And I'm not referring to the costumes or club or charity T-shirts here. I'm talking from the waist down; the bits that do most of the work.

If you can find two people with the same combination of shoes, socks and leg attire at any given event I'd be hugely surprised. And it's not just the clothing. Everyone has their own little warm up routine, even if it changes race to race.

For a novice showing up their first event it can be more than a little intimidating. Before you know it you begin doubting all the preparations you have made and questions start to arise.

Have I got the right shoes?

Why is she wearing those things on her calves?

What's with all the Vaseline?

Why is everyone wearing bin bags?

Should I have brought some sunglasses?

What about a hat?

Is the weather really going to be that hot today?

How am I going to cope if it is?

What about a warm up? There are a lot of people running around but I want to save my energy.

How about some food instead?

But won't that give me a stitch?

Just a pee then. Oh, god the queues are massive.

Aaaaaaaarrrrggghhh I'm going to fail!!!!

This may sound a little over-dramatic but I doubt I'm the only one who has gone into a race with those kind of worries. It's just another facet of the sport that gets easier with time and repetition. The more you race the more comfortable you become with your preparations and eventually you find yourself looking around and critiquing other peoples' choices rather than your own.

But this was only my third event, and my first marathon, so understandably I was a bundle of nervous energy. I occupied myself with some light stretches – something I'd never bothered with on any of my training runs (this is a consequence of my early Tae Kwon Do days where the act of running would be considered a warm up in itself). I tried my best to look the part and it helped keep me on an even keel as the hour approached.

I made at least three trips to the toilet before heading to my pen. This was not down to nerves but due to the fact that I have a bladder the size of a peanut and I had to drain every possible fluid-ounce before starting out. Only when I reached the pen did I drop the lone wolf act (hard to keep up when you're being herded like sheep) and started engaging in some banter with my fellow runners.

By this time the elite women were already under way and with minutes to go I heard the horn sound to herald the start of the wheelchair event. I jiggled up and down on the spot, grinning inanely at those around me. We began shuffling forwards as anticipation grew and I cast around and saw people still funnelling into the pens, climbing the barriers and discarding bin bags and old training tops. I was about to become a marathon runner!
An Experience Like No Other

The blast of the horn sent a huge cheer rippling down the pens like a Mexican wave. The elite men were off and in moments we all would be too. I'd heard that the start could be a little frustrating – it had taken my mum nearly fifteen minutes to cross the line when she had run the race. Bloody hell, my mum!

_This is for you_ , I thought as I approached the start line, finger hovering over the button on my stopwatch. Suddenly the crowd began to stretch out and there was clear tarmac in front of me. I broke into a jog as I crossed the line, whooping loudly and waving at any camera pointed remotely in my direction.

Almost before I'd started, I ground to a halt. The cattle up ahead were negotiating a traffic island and a bottleneck had formed. I stuck to the fringes and hopped up onto the pavement when space permitted, but the stop-start shenanigans continued for the first mile preventing me from getting into any kind of rhythm.

I knew I needed sub-9 minute miles to have any chance of hitting my 3 hours 50 target, but as a large sign and a chorus of bleeps from the GPS community signalled the first mile I looked down at my watch and realised it had taken me over ten minutes. This I had not been expecting, so when the first opportunity presented itself I hit the gas.

It was tough work weaving in and out of the traffic, even though everyone was heading in the same direction. It surprised me how badly some had overestimated their abilities and I nearly tripped a few of the slowest as I steamed up behind them and attempted to pass.

I was still ducking and weaving by time I reached the three mile mark and cruised round the long left hander that marks the easternmost part of the course. We were heading towards central London now and I enjoyed a couple of minutes heckling the runners from the other start zones who were about to merge with the rest of us.

It took a few more miles before the field had thinned out sufficiently to maintain a steady rhythm. I still needed my wits about me but there was less ducking and weaving required, and I had managed to recoup the time I'd lost during the opening mile.

Now I could relax and really appreciate what a phenomenal event the London Marathon is. The support was unlike anything I'd ever seen, with hundreds of thousands lining the streets cheering us on. Actually, cheering everyone else on. My lone wolf training philosophy meant that I had been unaware of the tip to write your name on the front of your shirt so that people can call it out as you pass. Occasionally I would hear a 'Go Phil!', which gave me a boost until I realised that 'Phil' was about three paces behind me.

About 7 miles in I realised I was going to need a pee or else endure an uncomfortable latter half of the race. For me this was unheard of mid-run, but unavoidable, and it was frustrating because I'd worked hard to get myself back on schedule. When the next set of portaloos appeared I veered off the course, but was gutted to find that they were all taken. Unwilling to soldier on or stand around waiting, I did what I needed to on the side of one of them and cracked on, hoping that no-one had noticed (unlikely!).

Feeling well relieved I picked up where I left off and settled into a nice groove. Then as I neared the Cutty Sark I noticed the noise from the crowds growing louder. This was puzzling as I'd heard that the old tea clipper was still undergoing refurbishment and room to spectate was limited. As I rounded the ship the noise became deafening and moments later I could see why: the Masai Mara were just yards ahead of me.

Dressed in their traditional garb with old bits of tyre tread strapped to their feet, they were whipping the crowds into a frenzy. I cannot begin to imagine how alien the experience must have been for them, but as I drew alongside I notice how calm and focussed each of them looked, in spite of the clamour. To this day I've never felt anything like the electric atmosphere they generated, and I allowed myself a mile or so to ride the wave of noise as it surged towards Tower Bridge. Even a swift downpour failed to dampen the mood.

It's not until you reach that fabled crossing that you get a proper sense of being in the London you see on postcards. You catch glimpses of Canary Wharf and possibly even the O2 Arena when you are rounding the Cutty Sark, but it's only when you get out onto Tower Bridge that so much of London's iconic skyline is suddenly there before you. It's hard not to be affected by it, and the knowledge that the halfway point is almost within reach is a real boost.

By now I was also reaping the benefits of sensible hydration. I still hadn't got around to working drinking on the hoof into my training runs, so I was still learning on the job. However, I'd found a new best friend in Mr Lucozade, who was providing me with a tremendous boost every time he popped along to lend his support.

I hit 13 miles and was feeling good. Moments later I passed the halfway mark in 1 hour 54 minutes; bang on target. I exchanged words with a girl whose shapely posterior had been distracting me from the scenery for a hundred yards or so, then kicked on towards Docklands where, I hoped, some of my own support would be waiting.

The route takes an underpass as you bear south towards the Isle of Dogs and moments after re-emerging into the sunlight my mum was there, standing on a relatively quiet stretch of pavement, waving frantically. Without any conscious effort I veered towards her and snatched an embrace, noticing out of the corner of my eye that some of my local relatives had also come along to show their support.

My mum hurriedly mentioned something about crossing to the other side and seeing me soon, then I was away again, chuffed to bits that in all the mayhem our plans had worked out.

The Isle of Dogs stretch of the marathon is, well, a dog. Even though there are less interesting parts of the course that you pass though, these tend to come earlier in the race when you are feeling more chipper. Somewhere between miles 16 and 19 I began to feel the effects of my efforts. I did manage to see my mum again shortly before passing Canary Wharf, but this time the boost it gave was not nearly as significant, as the first signs of fatigue set in.

The route zigged and zagged and despite much enthusiastic support it seemed like I was passing through a never-ending labyrinth of concrete and glass. When I eventually dragged myself clear of the maze there came a long left-hand bend that sloped downwards to join a wide stretch of road. This was the turn for home. Still seven miles to go but the wretched twists and turns were behind me and the Mall was waiting. Two miles later I hit The Wall.

People often find it difficult to explain the feeling of hitting the dreaded Wall, but here's my attempt: shit. Technically what happens is the muscles and liver, having used up all their glycogen, are forced to turn to stored fat for fuel. In practice, as I discovered, your muscles seem to go rock solid and there is a persistent ache that at any minute could turn into a bout of cramps. When this happens you are unable to speed up and become unwilling to slow down for fear of not being able to get going again.

It was my first encounter with The Wall and I hit it hard. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other and for three miles I battled to keep going as I became reacquainted with my dark places. All I wanted was for Mr Lucozade to come and carry me the rest of the way, for I knew that if I stopped I'd had it. This was backed up by the increasing number of casualties sitting inconsolable by the wayside, or stretching against railings to stave off the cramps. I willed myself on, determined not to become one of them.

By some miracle I reached the Tower of London, then by some further miracle I heard my voice called out above the din. This time it wasn't 'Phil' behind me, whom I'd left for dust around the halfway mark, but my girlfriend and her mother who, despite their diminutive statures, had managed to elbow their way to the railings.

A high-five was all I could manage as I passed, but it was exactly the lift I needed with a little over two miles to go. I crashed through any remaining mental barriers, absolutely stoked to have seen them and knowing that I would be home and hosed inside twenty minutes.

Another couple of underpasses came and went as I tracked the embankment, their shallow gradients claiming yet more victims to cramps. I paid them no heed because up ahead a familiar shape was looming; Big Ben in all his glory.

Turning that corner into Westminster is one of the greatest feelings I've had as a runner. The support there is unbelievable and in your head you know you're going to make it. Before I knew it I'd reached Birdcage Walk and passed a sign saying 800m to go. Hero time.

My old PE teacher always told us that if we had enough left for a sprint finish at the end of a run then we hadn't tried hard enough. Well, screw him. Feelings don't come much better than this! I was surrounded by the walking wounded but my legs had been returned to me and I just kept getting quicker and quicker.

I didn't even acknowledge Buckingham Palace as I rounded the final corner, adrenaline kicking me into a flat-out sprint as the finishing line came into view. As the knowledge that I'd made it flooded through me I raised my fist to the sky and released my emotions in an almighty bellow.

Glory!
In Retrospect

There were many things I took away from London: lessons, memories, aches, emotions – I had bagfuls of each. But one thing that really stood out was how accurately I'd managed to gauge the level of fitness I would have on the day, all those months before the event. My target had been 3 hours 50 and after giving everything I crossed the line in 3 hours 49 minutes and 8 seconds.

Okay, so you could say that I had trained to achieve that target, but bear in mind that I did it without the likes of tempo runs in my armoury. In every training run I tailored my pace according to the distance, working as hard as I could at a level I knew I could sustain. No fartlek sessions, no intervals, simply a long run, a short run and a kickboxing session each week for three months.

Nowadays I always approach a new distance with a 'just get round and worry about the time at the next attempt' attitude. In the back of my mind I know what I should be aiming for and providing I don't make any silly mistakes I'm not normally far out. However my ability to do this in the run up to London, even with so little experience, remains something of an unsung success of that day.

Maybe I'm being over generous and it's something other people naturally do well too, but it would have been easy to just call it 4 hours and give myself a little bit in hand.

After the race I took the train home with my girlfriend and my mum and then the three of us went out for dinner. We headed to a local pub that was doing a carvery and I hardly came up for air as I devoured a sizeable roast dinner. Just as dessert was arriving my body crashed and I almost ended up with a face full of sticky toffee pudding. I think my body was saying 'Right then, that's enough. You switch off while I get to work repairing all the damage you've done today. Idiot.'

It probably had a point.

In the days that followed the sponsorship started rolling in and there was no need to send the debt collectors round to obtain all the money pledged. In all I raised about £1,000 for the street kids in Peru; a respectable amount that would make a big difference to the work of the charity.

As an experience I can't recommend the London Marathon enough. It is something that I would urge everyone to give a go at some point, regardless of whether or not they are interested in taking up running as a hobby long-term.

For me, the inevitable feelings of 'never again' did not last long and the question of 'what next?' began loom large. Naturally I stuck my name into the ballot for the following year, but what I did next took even me by surprise.
GOING BEYOND
The Call Of The Sands

I opened my emails and it was there waiting for me: conformation that I was, quite simply, mad. I stared at it for a while wondering whether my balls had grown too big after London. But then again the race wasn't until 2011 and that was three years away; plenty of time for me to come up with an excuse not to.

I plugged in my headphones and listened to the song Sahara by Nightwish, which carries a strong Middle-Eastern vibe, and I dreamed of the glory that awaited if I was man enough to rise to this new challenge.

It was less than six weeks from inception of the idea to entering the race. A couple of weeks after London I happened to catch the tail-end of a documentary on the Marathon des Sables (possibly the one by Ben Fogle) and it got me thinking.

I'd heard of the race through snippets of another documentary I'd seen a while back, but at the time it was such a pie in the sky idea that I'd quickly wiped it from my mind. With a marathon now safely tucked under my belt it all made sense. The answer to the question of 'what next?' was to go long. Very long. In the sand and the heat.

In truth there were other ways to answer that question, such as do it again and do it better, or do it in a silly costume (more on that to come), but at the time, to someone still relatively inexperienced, the marathon was a notch on the bedpost that didn't need to be revisited for a while.

The day after seeing the documentary I went online to find out more about the race. I located the Best of Morocco website which did a poor job of dissuading me from such foolishness by saying and I quote:

'There will be many times during the race when you will feel like shit and you will think of throwing in the towel, but with self-motivation, the help of other competitors, those depending on you at home and the charity will all help you get to the end.'

By now that sort of talk was like a red rag to me, and when I discovered that the entries for the 2011 event would be opening in a matter of weeks the decision was made. I put a reminder in my Outlook and counted down the days, never mentioning to anyone the crazy thing that I was about to do.

Entries opened at 10am on 2nd July 2008 and I was online five minutes beforehand to be sure I was first in line. After fifteen minutes of frantically pressing the refresh button I was worried that I'd somehow contrived to miss the boat already. But suddenly the screen that had been popping up every few moments changed subtly and the link I'd been waiting for was there.

Within ten minutes I had my place in the legendary Marathon of the Sands and I figured I had at least two years to rue my impetuousness before I had to consider training for the thing.
The Waiting Game

Less than six months after London I completed my second marathon. My best friend from university had challenged himself to complete the Nottingham (Robin Hood) Half Marathon and when I discovered that the organisers were running a marathon concurrently I offered to help him round. Already I felt experienced enough, at least over half distance, to offer advice and assistance to anyone who asked (after all, I had been a runner for nearly five years now), and knowing that I would be running at a slower pace initially made me confident that the marathon would be a cinch.

I was already back into my standard, lone wolf training pattern of long run, short run, kickboxing, and I now knew where I needed to be fitness-wise in order to complete the race. I didn't bother with a training plan, but simply racked up the miles as necessary and by the time the day came I was comfortable I had done enough.

I drove up to my friend's house in Derby on the Saturday and we spent the evening chilling out and catching up, not wishing to over-exert ourselves prior to the event. With the race taking place on a Sunday morning (as is typical) I had taken the Monday off work so I didn't have to drive home the same night with my legs in bits.

We were up early the next morning and I scoffed a decent sized breakfast leaving, I hoped, enough time for it to settle. He drove us to the start in good time and we were able to find a parking spot just metres from where we were due to set off. I did my usual round of the portaloos and we lined up to get going. It was a sunny September morning and the mood among the gathered runners reflected it.

Within minutes of starting I discovered I hadn't done a good enough job of wringing out my bladder and had to stop. My friend carried on and I was soon back alongside him, chatting freely while he concentrated on maintaining a steady pace. The course took us up through the university grounds and had some surprising gradients that I hadn't been expecting. By now my training in the Chilterns was paying off and I was more concerned with motivating my old pal as he began to feel the effects.

It took some dogged determination on his part, but eventually we hit the half marathon in a very respectable 2 hours 8 minutes. By this point our courses had diverged (although it was a matter of a hundred yards or so) and it was time for me to get selfish and start thinking about my own race.

The course dropped down to the River Trent and headed out towards the National Watersports Centre. I knew from the race map that the second half was dead flat, and having conserved so much energy cruising round the first half I hit the gas in a big way.

I was way down the field from where I should have been. Those around me were probably heading for somewhere around the 4:20 mark and I proceeded to carve up the field as made up for lost time. The route was, frankly, pretty dull, but I was revelling in the ability to pick off other competitors at will with no-one behind me likely to mount any sort of challenge.

Then I reached the rowing lake at the Watersports Centre and what a god-awful bit of route planning that was. We joined about halfway up one side, headed to one end, then turned round and went all the way up to the other before rounding the top and coming back along the other side. All told we must have traipsed for over three miles around that accursed lake, which at the pace I was doing took probably twenty-five minutes. And twenty-five minutes of being able to see exactly what's in front of you is pretty soul destroying. Fortunately I'd stuck my mobile in my back pocket so I passed the time by calling my girlfriend.

When I finally left the lake behind the 20 mile mark had already come and gone. It wasn't until I hit 24 miles that I began to reacquaint myself with my old friend The Wall. This was a definite improvement on London, although by this time there was never any question of a PB. That didn't stop it being another extremely uncomfortable experience, and when I called my friend with half a mile to go I could barely get any words out.

My sprint for the line was somewhat less glorious than London, and I was disappointed not to be able to claw my way under the four hour mark, finishing as I did in 4 hours 2 minutes 12 seconds. Still, not a single person had passed me during the second half of the race and that was a feeling I could live with for a while.

There's a lot to be said for running a negative split. Starting steadily and speeding up later on feels great if you do it right, but I wouldn't recommend leaving yourself with as much to do as I did on that day. Still, it was mission accomplished for both of us and we nursed our aches and pains over a couple of cans of lager and a pizza that evening.
Slaying The Demon

About a month later I received yet another 'Sorry!' magazine from the people at the London Marathon. I was disappointed that I wouldn't be able to return and revel in the atmosphere of that great race in 2009, but as I flicked through the pages I discovered that my rejection guaranteed me a place in the Edinburgh Marathon instead. I'd only been there once as a child, but I'd heard good things about the city and the idea appealed, especially after I read that it was one of the fastest marathons in the UK. My other half didn't need much persuading for a weekend away, so I booked myself in.

At about the same time I received a call from one of my old work colleagues and was delighted to hear that she was still very much bitten by the running bug. She informed me that few of our former group were returning to Reading for another go in the spring and were wondering if I wanted to join them. My half marathon times had been steadily improving in training, but sadly the two guys I'd failed to overcome the first time round had moved on and would not be there for me to try my luck against. Nevertheless the semi-reunion appealed and I stuck my entry in, figuring I needed a sighter before my trip to Scotland in May.

During our communications I made mention of my next challenge and was surprised to hear a week or so later that a couple of them had signed up too (one of them is a Scot and had also failed in her bid to get into London). For both it would be their first marathon and I was happy to pass on what knowledge I'd gained from my first two outings to assist in their preparations. There was no rivalry this time (at least, not on my part) and I set about focussing on making the most of Edinburgh's speedy course.

By the time March came around I was running well, having chipped away at my half marathon time for the past few months, including an encouraging sub-1 hour 40 at Berkhamsted, I headed to Reading aiming for a finish of 1 hour 35 minutes.

I met up with my former colleagues in the starting village – Reading being a big enough event to warrant one – and we had a brief catch up before heading to the start, the location of which had changed since our previous outing. That was the last I saw of them, as my expected finishing time warranted a place in one of the front-most pens.

My plan was to locate the 1:30 pacemaker – Reading being big enough to warrant these too – and stick with him or her for as long as I could, building up a buffer that would allow me to achieve my target. I hopped up on a railing at the side of my pen and looked around to see if I could locate them. Everyone was rammed in but I failed to spot any of the flags they were due to be carrying, so I gave up and passed the time with a few lunges.

It was another good day for racing and I set off at a sprightly pace, keen to locate the pacemaker before I settled into too much of a rhythm. Within half a mile I spotted one up ahead and I kept the pedal floored as my body made the transition into race mode. Within a couple of minutes I caught him, but was annoyed to discover that he was racing for a time of 1 hour 35 minutes. All that effort and I was only just where I wanted to be! Still, it could have been worse and I resolved to stick with him the rest of the way and guarantee myself a shining new PB.

Within a mile of the revised start we were back on the course I knew and after a couple more we hit the short sharp hill that had ambushed me several years earlier. My hill practice paid off and it posed no problems this time around, and I even engaged the pacemaker with some light banter as we gobbled it up.

I was enjoying having someone else think about the pace for me, but as we swept through the first water station I couldn't help wondering how I was going to keep it up for the remaining ten miles. By the time we hit mile 4 I was starting to feel like I was hanging on; my only solace coming from the knowledge that my favourite bit of downhill was approaching and would offer some respite.

About a quarter mile before we hit the hill my pacemaker admitted, to my relief, that he had made a bit of a balls-up and needed to throttle back a bit. I had suspected as much and it was music to my ears. He had inadvertently given me the buffer I'd intended to build and all I needed to do was keep him behind me and success was assured. By the time I had calculated the minutes per mile I now needed I was staring down the hill and the opportunity to put even more daylight between us.

I scorched into town and kept pressing even when the course flattened out again. I sensed blood and the local support was once again excellent. The adrenaline was surging and my body suddenly felt alive and responsive. It took a conscious effort not to get over-excited; I still had the longer incline and the grim drag back along the dual-carriageway to the Madejski Stadium to endure.

As it turned out I didn't have to endure the incline so much as chew it up and spit it out. This is where the inadequacy of my preparations for the previous attempt really hit home. What I remembered as an arduous grind turned out to have nothing on the hills I'd been training on and before I knew it I was back on the flat and heading past mile 8, only briefly lamenting having missed out on the beers at mile 7 for the second time.

The course made another deviation from what I remembered, the organisers having sensibly decided to scrap the Green Park loop that had proved so demoralising previously. I was now cruising at what I considered to be a compromise between overeager and too conservative. I even found the opportunity to compare notes with a fellow runner, who it turned out had a 1 hour 28 PB but was recovering from an injury.

Despite the pang of jealousy for having surpassed the 1 hour 30 benchmark I now craved, I figured that he was a good chap to know and resolved to keep step with him for as long as I was able.

Thus I learned another useful piece of race-craft: get in step with someone slightly better than yourself and allow them to drag you round. This takes a bit of practice and judgement to get right, and after a couple of miles I think it's good form to at least exchange a few pleasantries. And if your unwitting pacemaker happens to have a nice derrière (ladies this works both ways) then you'll be astonished how pleasantly the miles pass by.

Anyway, I was well poised as I hit the long drag back to the stadium, and despite the pace starting to take its toll my PB was within touching distance and I was not about to let it slip away. With less than a mile to go there was one last detour up and down the road we had started on (if the organisers can find a more natural way to work this into the course it would be better) and at this point my 'pacemaker' wished me luck and kicked on.

The finish in Reading is truly the highlight of the event. When you enter stadium you descend to pitch level and then it's just a half lap sprint for the line. By the time I made it inside it was no longer a question of 'if', but 'how much?'. On my ill-fated first attempt I was out of the stadium almost before I knew it, shattered, disoriented and crushingly disappointed. This was the time to right those wrongs, to create the memories I'd hoped for back then, and I fired up the afterburners and headed for glory.

Crowds love to see a bit of healthy competition and if you have the energy to put in a sprint, and are able to goad someone else into taking you on (usually the sight of you stealing their place is enough), then I'd recommend putting on a show. Even if you end up losing it's always smiles and handshakes all round.

No one was catching me on 14th March 2009. I had demons to expunge and grabbed myself a good half dozen positions in the process. Elated, I crossed the line in 1 hour 33 minutes and 12 seconds, a full seven minutes quicker than my previous best in training. It was the sort of moment you dream of as a runner, and I owe it all to a screw up by an official pacemaker.
A Numbers Game

Further glory awaited in Edinburgh. Despite un-expectedly fine weather tipping temperatures into the mid twenties I took advantage of the initial downhill stretch to the coast to put in some quick, easy miles while I was nice and fresh. I was targeting a sub-3:45 finish, hoping, if all went well, to get close to the 3:40 mark. For this I was looking at a pace of 8 minutes 30 seconds per mile. I missed the first few mile markers and by the time I finally clocked one at mile 4 I was pleased to discover I'd built up a healthy buffer. As I hit the coast I chatted briefly with a heavily-tattooed man before cracking on.

Over long distances the mind can wander down all manner of obscure avenues. I've written songs, chewed over book ideas, toyed with different life philosophies and set the world to rights on some of my more sedate training runs (the latter becomes even more appealing the more of you there are). However, when I'm pushing hard my mind loses its ability to rove and instead passes the miles by working out the mathematics of achieving my specific goal.

This can take on one of two forms. The first is to calculate the pace needed to achieve a particular time, achieved by subtracting the elapsed time from the target value and dividing the remainder by the number of miles left. This gives me a pace in minutes and decimals, which I then convert to minutes and seconds, only to realise that another mile has just passed and I need to go through the whole exercise again.

The second thought process is much simpler; dividing the number of miles left by the overall distance, giving as a fraction or a percentage the proportion of the run completed or left to go (depending on my mood).

It's surprising how difficult simple arithmetic can become when your heart is preoccupied with pumping blood to the parts of the body with, frankly, more serious issues to contend with. This serves to string out the calculations, allowing more time and distance to pass, but can also lead to frustration.

Whenever the maths gets a little too much it's time to start breaking out the motivational talk. I can usually tell whether I'm in for a tough day by recording the time taken for the first 'Come on Phil!' to involuntarily escape my lips. Other favourites include 'You can do it!', 'Not far now!', 'Less than XX miles to go!' and more recently (and more disturbingly) 'Only a marathon to go!'

In Edinburgh the course takes in a long stretch of coastline and then doubles back and takes in about half of it again as you head for the finish. There is a large power station part way along that can be seen from an awfully long way off, so believe me when I say that I was number crunching like a supercomputer that day. And when that failed to make it approach as quickly as I would have liked I quickly dipped into my bag of motivational one-liners.

Now I'm going to say something pretty inane, but bear with me. When you run quickly it's surprising how swiftly the mile markers come and go. Yes I'm stating the obvious, but in Edinburgh I was acutely aware of how they kept appearing almost before the memory of the previous one had faded. This served to nullify the effect of the ever-present power station, and as the morning wore on I continued to feel sprightly and in good spirits.

By the time I turned for home I was locked into a very strong pace and the prospect of a 3:40 finish had gone from possible to probable. There was still the inevitable Wall to negotiate, but I felt I had enough in the bag to see me through. And then against all expectations my painful nemesis failed to put in an appearance. In spite of the conditions, which were far from ideal (the temperatures prompted one charitable local to make off with a crate of water from one of the drink stations), I seemed to have finally nailed my nutrition, my taper, my nerves; everything.

It came as quite a shock to my girlfriend when I rang to say I was finished. She had seen me off at the start and then headed to Princes Street for a spot of retail therapy. I told her I was surprised too. I'd completed a Wall-less marathon in 3 hours 36 minutes and 29 seconds and was on cloud nine.

I could have floated all the way back down to Hemel. It's not every day you knock thirteen minutes off a PB and my mood was sky high for the whole of the following week and well into the next, until I was suddenly sent crashing back to earth.
Square Nothing

It's time to tell you about another of my loves. In 2003, prior to my induction into the distance running fraternity, I discovered possibly the one sport that I have a natural flair for. It was winter in New Zealand and despite an unseasonal lack of snowfall in the mountains around Queenstown I decided to give snowboarding a go.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I love snowboarding more than I love running. There, I've said it. After all we've been through so far I appreciate that could come as a bit of a bombshell, but it's true. You know those feelings I've described of the all-too-rare occasions when everything comes together and you decimate a PB? Well I get those feelings all the time when I'm snowboarding. I'm still only average at it. If I'd learnt when I was younger and had no sense of self preservation I have the feeling I could have been pretty good. But regardless of this there's really no sport I enjoy more.

Unfortunately snowboarding is both expensive and frustratingly seasonal, and since racking up a new PB every run is unsustainable I needed to find another way of getting my kicks in the off season.

My university buddy – the one whom I provided emotional support to during the Nottingham Half Marathon and with whom I share my love for snowboarding – presented me with an alternative: downhill mountain biking.

For one reason or another I had shied away from the saddle since university, back when biking was a necessity. I was getting plenty of exercise with the running and kickboxing, so cycling any great distance seemed a bit redundant when I had a car at my disposal.

My first dabble in the world of downhilling came in 2007 and I absolutely loved it. It turned out that I had a downhill site about twenty minutes' drive away and after the first couple of runs I was hooked. It didn't become a weekly pastime, but when the opportunity arose to indulge in a bit of gravity-assisted silliness I found it hard turn down.

However, I did appreciate that any injuries incurred while riding could have a detrimental effect on any running aspirations I had, so I would usually avoid it in the run up to a race. Following Edinburgh I had nothing in the schedule aside from the MdS, and that was way into the future, so about ten days after that glorious pain-free day I headed out for a ride.

It's amazing how very small margins can turn out to have a very large effect on things. The jump was small; just a little practice kicker built out of earth. I'd spotted it on the way back to the car and was taken by the urge for 'just one more'. The landing was clear and flat. A little too flat as it turned out. Outwardly there was scarcely any drama, but as the bike and I soaked up the impact I felt the tiniest twinge in my lower back. It was all very innocuous, but that moment of impulsiveness ended up costing me five months off training.

I have suffered from intermittent back issues for a long time. I reckon they originally stem from some removal work I did between semesters during my uni years, but they have rarely laid me up for any significant period.

I had pulled my back earlier that year while out on a snowboarding holiday and having been given a bit of physio the issues had gone away. When I humbly returned after my mountain biking escapade nothing the physio did could resolve the problem.

I had excruciating pain in and around my left butt-cheek (I think gluteal might be the correct terminology), as well as pain in the lower back and down the right side to a lesser extent. At times I couldn't even get my hands to my feet to do my shoes up. The physio had told me that I had a long back in relation to my legs (a point that I sullenly conceded after some debate) so I was always likely to be susceptible to lower back issues.

A couple of times I tried running the problems off and a couple of times it worked for a short while before the pains returned in earnest. I also tried stretching them away – I had a great deal of flexibility from all the martial arts – but again this only gave temporary relief. For two months I tried everything I could think of to sort the problem out, but after an exceedingly uncomfortable round trip to Indonesia on holiday I had had enough and sought help from an osteopath.

I was recommended a chap who lived a couple of miles up the road (no, I didn't run there!) and he talked me through all his postulations as he prodded and twisted and at some times violently manipulated my legs and back (if you've never had your back clicked then there's nothing quite like it). But after about a month of fruitless experimentation (and eventually an MRI scan) the only course of action was to rest up until the inflammation around what turned out to be a bulging disc in the L4/L5 region of the spine went away.

I'm not very good at being inactive. I like to know that if I've been indulgent over the course of a weekend I can go out and burn it off with a good hard run during the week. I didn't get fat, but that didn't stop me worrying about getting fat as the weeks went on. Even more frustrating was sitting around while the months and years I'd poured into my fitness continued to seep away. Internally I was hopping from one foot to the other waiting for the moment when I could release all my pent up energy, but it took a further six weeks from the decision to do nothing before I could finally start to think about making a comeback.

At first it surprised me that inactivity was all that was needed. It was unnatural to me and in the past I'd found that most aches and pains could simply be stretched out or loosened off. It is something will always live with and I have learned to manage it to a degree that allows me to continue to do the things I love (though I haven't touched the bike since – but it's getting awfully tempting).
Among Friends

It was November 2009 when I went back to the drawing board. Over the six years since I'd started running I'd become adept at managing my expectations and at that point my expectations had never been lower. I was simply glad to be able to head out training again.

I started slow and short. There was really no other way of going about it. The last thing I wanted was a relapse and another four or five months with my feet up. My period of recuperation had, naturally, required me to drop the kickboxing too, and when I returned I was devastated to find that a lack of interest was forcing the Hemel club to fold. I could still train in Watford if I wanted to, but I had made some good friends locally and couldn't bring myself to start from scratch yet again.

Fortunately another opportunity was soon to present itself.

It was a Thursday night and I was heading to the gym to spend an hour on the treadmill building my pace up. My first few runs had gone okay and I was keen to progress as swiftly as my body allowed.

On the way in I noticed a group of people in brightly coloured attire heading out of the sports centre into the gathering darkness.

_Looks a bit like a running club_ , I thought.

I went and did my session, then lo and behold they were hanging around outside when I was done. My interest piqued, I got chatting to them. They weren't a club as such, but a group who met up on Thursday nights for social run and on Mondays at the local running track for a more intense fitness session. This seemed to dovetail very nicely with the fact that my Monday nights were soon to become available, and when they invited me along (with the proviso that I didn't put them to shame – _unlikely_ , I thought, _for the time being at least_ ) I jumped at the chance – a decision that has to rank up there with buying proper running shoes and switching to Lycra.

I started out with the Thursday evening sessions as I still had a couple of kickboxing classes remaining that I wanted to attend. The group was a nice mix of sexes and ages and everyone was very welcoming. Being the winter months we were limited to pounding the streets of Hemel Hempstead, but this still provided plenty of challenging hills to get stuck into.

The first few runs were spent at a pace that was comfortable enough to permit continuous conversation. I was very much fresh from injury and was grateful for the distraction as it prevented the competitive part of my brain from slipping into gear and doing something stupid. There was never any onus on cranking out a ridiculous pace; no-one saw any point in organising a group run only for everyone to shoot off on their own. Nevertheless the challenge of a new route each week was welcome, as was the opportunity to explore parts of the town I'd never seen before.

When the kickboxing club finally folded I joined my new friends at the running track at the first opportunity. The fee for attending the session was modest, saving me a princely four pounds on what I was used to paying for my martial arts, and I was eager see what this new experience had to offer. There were a number of familiar faces from the Thursday nights in attendance, along with quite a few others, some of whom were also members of some of the local running clubs (Gade Valley Harriers and Dacorum and Tring).

I kept things easy for the first couple of sessions, keen not to show my hand too early and uncertain as to what my hand actually held over the shorter, faster distances. It soon became clear that the good mix of ages and sexes also covered a good range of abilities too, and as I began to recover my fitness I started gravitating towards the sharp end of the group.

Running on the track proved an absolute joy, the surface providing the give of a treadmill with the enjoyment (when the weather behaved) of being outdoors. Finally I was exposed to the delights of interval and fartlek training, as well as numerous other sessions in an ever-changing schedule that kept my body guessing as the weeks drew on. It seemed that, after six or so years, I now had most pieces of the training puzzle at my disposal.

And not a moment too soon. I had just received my second 'Congratulations!' magazine and would be returning to London for my fourth marathon in April.

My return to fitness came on in leaps and bounds as the new decade dawned. In January I entered the Watford Half Marathon in order to gauge where I was, then followed it up with the Berkhamsted Half Marathon in March. Neither were personal bests, both being on courses with significant undulations, but I was surprised to put in sub-1 hour 40 times in both. Thus as London approached I was satisfied that the woes of mid 2009 were well and truly behind me.
The Marathon Year

Between the Aprils of 2010 and 2011 I completed the marathon distance on no less than 14 occasions, although a dozen of these were incorporated into longer distances as I dipped my toes into the murky waters of ultra running.

It started in London, and what a day it was. This was probably the first time I really took all that I'd learned from previous events and put it to good use. I was running well again, but I knew I was nowhere near the condition I had been in for Edinburgh. That, coupled with the knowledge that a PB in London was never going to happen due to the stop-start nature of the first mile or so, led me to explore other ways of approaching the race.

I remembered all the people with their names on their kit getting cheered on by complete strangers, but as I wasn't going to be pressing for a PB there didn't seem to be much point in this. There was always the option of just cruising around and soaking up the atmosphere, but that didn't cut it either. There was only one thing to do: costume.

I headed into Watford one Saturday and found a party shop on the high street. At the back of my mind I knew what I was looking for, but as I searched through the racks a lot of awfully tempting options reared their heads; Big Bird, He-Man, Jack Sparrow, Scooby Doo. But then I saw it. The one I'd been hoping for. Bananaman. Game on.

As I picked up my running number at the Expo a couple of days beforehand, I couldn't suppress a wry grin as I looked at all my fellow participants, most of whom would be taking the event very seriously. I even succumbed to the urge to get some fresh kit, heading over to the Saucony stand and picking up a top, more Lycra and a pair of proper race shoes (in bright yellow, naturally). Despite the fact they matched my costume I resisted the urge to make the ultimate marathon faux pas and break them in on race day.

I slept well the night before, having sunk my customary two pints down the boozer, safe in the assurance that this time around transport was not an issue – I'd managed to secure a place on a bus organised by the Gade Valley Harriers and all I needed to do was walk the mile or so to the pick-up point and the rest would be done for me.

No-one knew about the costume. In fact very few of the runners knew me at all. There were a couple of ladies from the track sessions but no-one from the Thursday night social run. As we cruised past the Olympic park (still under construction, it being 2010) my grin returned as I contemplated the monster I was about to unleash on the world. I knew it wasn't original, but people would definitely be cheering me on this time.

It wasn't until a few of us were sat around in our designated starting zone that I revealed my plan, much to everyone's amusement. I had never run in the costume, but had tried it on and figured out what was needed to keep it from becoming a real pain in the arse (some elastic under the shoe and some pins to stick through into the side of the sole. The rest of it seemed fine and there were smiles all round as I dropped my baggage off.

It was a cold morning, with a sprinkle of rain in the mix, and most people, bereft of their possessions, were trying to huddle together for warmth or find some shelter. Not me. I was wearing the equivalent of a duvet and was plenty warm enough.

The start neared and with many nods of approval I headed to my pen. The elite women were already under way and as the customary shuffling forwards started I was all smiles. Five minutes to go and the wheelchairs went. Then it was our turn.

I took a sly leak on the roundabout before crossing the start line, then got under way. I had no real target aside from pure enjoyment, although at the back of mind I knew one of my friends had just broken four hours for the first time at the Brighton Marathon and I thought it would wind him up if I managed to sneak inside his time.

My costume more than made up for my lack of support on my previous outing (family and relatives excepted). All along the course, and indeed throughout the field, there were cries of 'Come on Bananaman!'; so many in fact that as the race wore on it became harder to acknowledge them all. And I wasn't the only one revelling in such support.

A few miles in I happened upon a long chain of runners joined together to create a huge caterpillar. At its head was Sir Richard Branson, this being the very first London Marathon sponsored by Virgin. I shouted some words of encouragement, to which he grinned rather perplexedly (as they were coming from a man in a blue and yellow muscle suit).

The miles ticked past and the weather cleared up. The sun never came out fully but it became warm and slightly muggy; just what I needed under a thick blanket of fabric. I also had another problem to contend with. The Bananaman suit has its 'cape' attached to the mask, which naturally tends to pull it up off your face as the whole thing jiggles up and down. I hadn't been expecting this, so I had to keep pulling it down every couple of minutes when I simply lost sight of the road ahead. This happened so often that my yellow gloves were tinged with blue (making a nice green colour) by the end of the race.

I reacquainted myself with The Wall in the last few miles, which prevented me from breaking the four hour mark. However, having refused the offer of oranges on the way round I was given a banana as I approached Big Ben and this spurred me home in a time of 4 hours 1 minute and 57 seconds.

What was a truly joyous day turned even better when I watched the highlights show later that evening and saw myself running past, prompting a few words of encouragement from the commentators. I immediately went online and used some third party software to grab the clip from the iPlayer (the BBC wouldn't give it to me), which remains my best memento from the day. I kept the costume for a while, but never figured out how to wash something that was yellow and blue and full of sweat, so when the smell become unbearable I ditched it in the knowledge that if I ever ran London again I'd do something similar.

I took a couple of other things from London. That banana was the first thing I'd eaten on the move aside from the odd handful of jelly babies, and I had also discovered what it was like to be really, really hot when running. Both experiences were just a taste of what was in store as my thoughts turned to the sands of Morocco.
A New Way Of Thinking

London was just the start; a light-hearted step into a year of serious training. I needed to come up with a plan, but after browsing the MdS forums online there didn't seem to be any bespoke training plans for running the race. There was plenty of (often conflicting) advice about events to enter, kit to buy and all the rest, but the message I was getting was 'You know what works best for your body'.

_Fine_ , I thought. And I set out the following three-step plan that I figured would get me roughly where I needed to be:

1. Run an ultra. Any ultra. Just something beyond marathon distance.

2. Run a 50-miler. If you've done it once it won't seem so daunting when you get to 'The Long Day'.

3. Run a multi-day ultra. Running back-to-back marathons is what this is about, so get to it.

It sounds simple and to be honest it needed to be. There was no way I was going to set out a week by week plan for the entire year. The only time I'd ever had a schedule of any description was for my first marathon and I'd done all right since then. All I needed to do was to space out these goals and do the necessary miles in between to achieve them. However, I had no intention of meeting my targets with training runs (who runs ultra distances in training anyway?). I therefore headed online and booked the following:

1. June – Northants Shires and Spires Ultra. 35 miles seemed like as good an introduction as any to ultra racing.

2. September – London to Brighton. Running the 56 miles would surely piss off anyone who saw cycling it as a challenge.

3. November – The Druid Challenge. I've lived most of my life within ten miles of the Ridgeway so this was my opportunity to see a bit more (all) of it.

The spacing was perfect. A couple of months between each milestone and another four to tweak things before heading out to the desert. Each one would also act as a long training run for the next, so the build-up of fitness should, in theory, progress smoothly. I was happy, but as it turned out I still had a fair bit to learn.

Six weeks separated London and my first ultra, which meant that I was already in a position to taper for the race. I filled the time with sessions up at the track and some half marathon distance runs on the weekends, as well as the usual social run on a Thursday evening. It's rare that I run more than three times a week. I've always had some other form of exercise (be it climbing, kickboxing or the gym) to mix things up with and I figure that any more than that will lead to a steady decline in outright performance as my recovery suffers.

Anyway, the time passed quickly enough and I was soon heading up to Northampton for my first ultra. It was a misty morning, and certainly a bit early for my liking, but as I parked my car in the grounds of Lamport Hall I felt ready for this new challenge.

As I listened to the briefing and waited for the start I looked around nervously at the handful of other competitors and wondered how many of them were 'going ultra' for the first time. I relaxed slightly when one overeager individual asked about the deviation between magnetic north and true north – if we needed to break compasses out we would be in big trouble.

There seemed a general reluctance to be the first up to the start line so I took it upon myself and the rest soon followed. Moments later we were under way; cruising out of the grounds apace as child-like eagerness took over.

My intention was to run the whole thing. 35 miles felt like a feasible target and I trusted that my training in the Chilterns would take care of any undulations. Obviously marathon pace was out, but something a little slower would probably work for me. Oh foolish Jedi!

The route quickly took us off road, skirting fields of crops for a few miles before hooking up with a country lane. There were a few ups and downs, but none I couldn't handle, and after a little while I struck up conversation with a girl whose pace I had been matching since the start. Our chit-chat revealed her to have a marathon PB approaching the three hour mark and it was then that I first wondered if I was over-cooking things. Clearly she was a better runner than I, but perhaps I was just having a good day. The thought didn't stop me nailing the first two decent inclines of the day, gleefully bounding past those who had sensibly chosen to walk. By the third I was starting to feel it and things started to unravel.

The weather had improved by this time, the sun having burnt off the mist that had shrouded the morning, and I found myself increasingly looking to my Camelbak for hydration. This was my first event using it. I had done some trial runs beforehand and it had proved to be reasonably comfy, but as I was forced into a run/walk strategy it was clear that without it I would have been in trouble. By the second checkpoint at about 16 miles I had even resorted to music for motivation.

It was only once I discovered the wonders of treadmills that I ever felt the need for music when running. Prior to that I had coped just fine, despite covering the same routes time and again. Without music I would find treadmill running as tiresome as any of its detractors. But with it I find myself able to zone out for minutes at a time as I let the machine do the work and my body just hangs on.

Taking the tunes outside has also helped over the years, although I generally find that if I am looking for a fast time over a particular course then I'm better off without it. It can become easy to slip into the rhythm of what you are listening to and this is rarely your optimum running pace. However, for seeing you though your dark places there is nothing better.

For the majority a bit of pop or dance or even rock music tends to be the preference; anything positive and upbeat that can lift you and drive you on. For me it's heavy metal. People who don't listen to this type of music can struggle to understand this, as the perception is often one of lots of anger and negativity in the music. In many respects they are right, but it's what you do with these feelings that matters. Almost any feeling can be derived from listening to metal music and the diversity across the genre is far greater than for, say, dance or R&B. I don't like it in all its forms, but most of what I like would still be all but unbearable to most ears. Yet I find myself able to condense and distil all the spit and vitriol into a pure running fuel that can carry me for miles after my body has begun to unfurl its white flag.

So with nearly twenty miles still to go I was paying for my over-exuberance. There was a chap with whom I had been trading positions with for quite some time so I struck up a conversation. I was particularly interested in his choice of footwear, for he was wearing what looked like neoprene gloves on his feet. These I discovered were Vibram Fivefingers, which are designed to encourage the more natural forefoot style associated with barefoot running. They looked pretty cool but I wouldn't have fancied them on some of the stonier parts of the course. Also, as the route took us across a number of farmer's fields I noticed that his progress was hampered by stuff getting stuck between his toes.

Nevertheless he soldiered on, as did I as the weather went from sunny to thunderous showers and back again in a matter of minutes. An unwritten agreement to see one another through to the end had formed and we plodded along trading stories and future ambitions.

This was the first run I had done that required any sort of navigation. This shouldn't have posed a problem as being the son of a Venture Scout Leader I'd rate my map reading skills as up there with the very best. The problem was – and this has been a recurring theme in my ultra career – is that an inherent laziness often leads me to follow those ahead or around me, to my detriment. It transpired that my new acquaintance had already added two miles to his route through an earlier detour, and by the time we finished two more more had joined them.

In the end we crossed the line just inside the seven hour mark, drenched by a sudden, final cloudburst and absolutely exhausted. The drive back home was long and uncomfortable, and I could barely bring myself to eat the nice dinner my other half had kindly prepared for me. I had met my first goal, but it had been a stern lesson and one that did not fill me with confidence as I looked ahead to the next.
Ramping Up

That summer I spent two wonderful weeks in the Maldives. On an island barely any bigger than the running track I had all the hours of the day to recuperate and relax.

But that's not my style. Much of the time I spent snorkelling around the island; one of my favourite pastimes when I get the chance. There was also a gym that was all but deserted, so, with half an eye on the looming spectre of London to Brighton, I spent half an hour every other day just keeping my legs in motion and compensating for the copious amount of all-inclusive beer I was consuming.

I came away from the Indian Ocean feeling relaxed and recharged, though the prospect of a 50+ mile run was no less daunting. The event was a real make or break for my MdS aspirations. There had never been any doubt that I could complete a 'short' ultra, although my trek through the countryside around Northampton had been anything but the confidence-builder I had hoped for.

It was the first weekend of September when I boarded the train at Apsley and headed into London. It was a pleasant Saturday afternoon and I was heading to my aunt and uncle's house in Forest Hill, so that I would be well placed for the 6am start the following morning.

Most of my belongings were packed into a hold-all, but this race was more than just a test to see how I coped over very long distances. The MdS is also about self-sufficiency, which means running with a pack. In the weeks running up to L2B I had browsed the MdS forums and analysed all the conflicting accounts of everyone's experiences with the various bits of kit on offer. Raidlight packs seemed a popular choice, though were frequently criticised for their lack of durability (though quite why I thought I wanted something that would last longer than the trip to the desert is anyone's guess).

After much procrastination I settled on the Aarn Mountain Magic pack. At 33 litres it would provide ample room for the kit I needed, but there didn't seem to be any way for me to 'test drive' a variety of models, so really it was just a punt.

The third important thing I needed to trial was nutrition. Throughout my running career I had never given much consideration to what I ate and drank and was rather proud of having got so far without making any compromises to my lifestyle. But with the prospect of being on foot for upwards of ten hours I needed start taking it seriously or risk my first DNF.

In Northampton I had gained my first fleeting experience of ultra running nutrition. The checkpoints had been stocked with snacks both savoury and sweet, and I used this as a basis for my choices. I love jelly babies, so plenty of them came along with me. I also brought along a couple of sandwiches – a ploughmans and a BLT if I remember correctly. For hydration I had a bottle of water and my friend Mr Lucozade to start off with, then sachets of Dioralyte to help top up my electrolytes later in the race.

That evening I ate a pasta meal while trying to filter out my uncle's story about a rather grim stint in hospital he had spent recently. After dinner I retired to the lounge. It was still relatively early and I needed to try and block out thoughts of coming challenge before heading to bed. I recall quite vividly watching a documentary on the making of Jaws. I was channel-hopping when I came across it but it hooked me in and did a fabulous job of keeping my mind from going to dark places.

Yet as soon as I headed to bed I was fretting again, and endured a sleepless night. At midnight I turned on the light and flipped through the road book. I had already perused it at length and had a vague idea what to expect, so rather than dwell on it I spent a few minutes writing words of encouragement on each page before heading back to bed. In the early hours I got up and forced down some breakfast, then a few hours later I was up for good and in my aunt's car heading to Blackheath.

The streets were all but deserted. A couple of foxes were all we saw until we reached the wide open space and came across a couple more cars just parking up. There was too much high-viz and Lycra on display for them to be there for any other reason, so with my aunt's words of encouragement ringing in my ears I headed for registration.

It was half five in the morning and already there were a good number milling around the TA centre. I signed in and found myself a chair at the side of the room. I don't know whether it was a spur of the moment thing, but something prompted me to spend the next few minutes applying Vaseline to my toes and gentlemen's area. Little did I know what a good choice this would turn out to be.

Nerves were now giving way to excitement. While the rest of London slept we, the intrepid few, were about to set out on an epic journey. The pre-race briefing was short and to the point, highlighting a couple of areas where the navigation could get tricky, then with moments to spare before the clock struck 6am we headed outside to the start.

It's hard to describe the feeling I had as I negotiated those first few miles. Anyone with the commitment to get up in the wee hours and squeeze in a run before work will probably know where I'm coming from, but to be running through suburbs that would normally be teeming with life, as part of a phalanx of hardened endurance athletes, with the sun just creeping up on a clear morning; well let's just say it was a little bit special.

I was determined to learn from my first ultra experience and immediately adopted a strict run/walk strategy, with nine minutes on and one off. I chatted casually with those around me as our surroundings turned greener. The route undulated but it was nothing I couldn't handle, and after not much more than a couple of hours I found myself staring down at the snaking line of the M25.

I couldn't believe it. In my mind this was the ultimate boundary beyond which I was officially outside of London. It was not yet nine o'clock and already I'd passed half marathon distance and the highest point of the course. 'M25!? Must be nearly there...' read the page in my road book, only to be followed by '... or not. Sorry mate.' on the very next one. At that point I still had a sense of humour, so I cracked on.

I don't remember much of the next stretch except a golf course and lots of stiles. Lots and lots of stiles. I think the route had over forty in total, something that really began to grate as the race wore on. Still, as I descended to the halfway checkpoint in a shade under five hours things were looking promising.

I took some time to eat one pack of sandwiches, which I enjoyed immensely – jelly babies were already starting to get a bit sickly. I also checked out my feet and reapplied some Vaseline. They were in remarkably good shape and I took comfort from the fact that my experiences in Northampton had aided my preparations for this race greatly.

I remember even less about the next twenty miles or so, but two things stick out. Firstly, the line of the South Downs appeared on the horizon and then spent the next few hours failing to get any nearer. Secondly, Dioralyte is rank. Between leaving the halfway checkpoint and standing at the bottom of Black Cap, staring up at the ridiculous path with 48 miles on my legs, all I have are alternating memories of 'Fucking hills, why aren't they getting any closer?' and 'Eeeuurrgh! This stuff is nasty!'

And so to the South Downs and the short, steep climb that some joker thought it would be funny to send us up. Already this was easily my longest run, both in distance and duration, but my mind was now treading some very dark paths. I was struggling to take food on board, the electrolytes were making me wretch with every gulp and I was hating myself for considering such a ridiculous endeavour.

My only solace came from the fact that those around me seemed to be in a similar state and that at no point had I deviated from the prescribed route. I was feeling low, but then at the one point I actually expected to get a lift things got even lower.

I reached the top of the path and could see for miles. It was simply breathtaking. And in the far distance, at last, was the sea. I was over ten hours in but now the end was in sight. Spurred on, I set off, then immediately ground back to a halt. Cramp. In both legs.

I'd never been troubled by cramps up until then. The climb brought it on, but it had been my failure to force sufficient nutrients into my system that was probably the root cause. Both hamstrings had it, making it impossible to stretch them individually. I was on a wide open trail with no trees or walls or cars to lean against, so all I could do is bend forward from the waist and stretch them both at the same time, not knowing whether I'd be able to straighten up again.

Several runners went by offering words of encouragement, and as the last one passed I hauled myself upright and hobbled gingerly after them. It took a while, but eventually I got to the point where I could actually run again. I was living in my map by now, counting down every quarter mile and making absolutely sure I didn't make any unnecessary detours. Unlike those in front of me.

I had only been moving for about half a mile when the group who had passed me seemed to deviate from what I thought the route to be. I checked the road book and was certain I was right. I called out half-heartedly but had little breath to spare and my throat was dry. A cynical part of me also spotted the opportunity to win back a few places so I did my own thing and felt a glow of satisfaction when I was proved right.

With barely four miles left, having just passed the double marathon mark, my girlfriend rang. She and her parents were having trouble finding the finish line and wanted some help with navigation. As if I didn't have enough to deal with! I'm normally fairly placid, but after 11+ hours on my feet I couldn't help snapping at her as I toiled up what I hoped would be the final incline.

Then suddenly it was there: the run in to Brighton. And in that moment all the effort seemed worthwhile. I was going to make it; not far inside the thirteen hour cutoff, but I was going to achieve my second goal. I felt nothing but relief as I descended into town, running continuously now on God-knows what fuel my body had left in reserve.

I turned on to the promenade, rounded an ice cream van and finishing line was right there. Then suddenly I was aware of a kid beside me, prancing along with a stupid smile on his face. _Little git!_ I thought. _You're not spoiling my moment of glory_. And I took off.

The human body is an amazing machine. After 12 hours and 7 minutes I crossed the line at almost a sprint, riding one final surge of adrenaline and rinsing every last ounce of effort from my shattered limbs. And I didn't stop there. Having embraced my girlfriend and her parents I felt I owed my feet a quick dip in the sea. I took my shoes off and was astonished to find not a single blister for my troubles.

As I hobbled back up the beach all I wanted was to go home. We'd planned on fish and chips but the prospect of eating was one I simply couldn't entertain. What I could still entertain was the dream of heading to the desert. The pack had rubbed in a couple of spots on my shoulder blades and, weirdly, my belly button, but on the whole I was satisfied with it. Nutrition was an issue but I had time to sort that out. And generally the prospect of a multi-day marathon didn't seem nearly as ominous as it had done.
Day In, Day Out

The weekend following L2B I spent eight hours in the tattooist's chair. It wasn't a memento of the race, just something I'd been planning for a while, and with a few weeks off running to recover it seemed like the ideal time.

I hardly ran for the rest of September. I had a couple of events planned for the following month but I was in complete control of my training now and knew exactly what I needed to do for each. It was nice to have the pressure off for a little while and I made the most of my recovery time.

In early October I ran my first formal 10k since the Town and Gown all those years ago. I approached it with virtually no training, yet still hoped to get close to the 40 minute mark. I planned to stick close to a lightning-quick lady from our club for as long as possible, which, as it turned out, was not that long at all.

The 'race' was organised by Cancer Research and held at Hatfield House in Hertfordshire. A dozen or so from our club entered and the atmosphere was good as we headed over. My mood, however, was in stark contrast. Suffice to say I had some personal issues to deal with that were completely unrelated to running, but as I lined up my mind was far from where it should have been.

I set off at a fair lick and was well into the top ten for the first mile, but the pace quickly took its toll and I began to fall back. By the third mile I was struggling with the undulations and by the time I crossed the line nearly 43 minutes had passed. It was officially a massive PB over the distance, but I was deeply disappointed by my performance and my mood was grim as I contemplated the prospect of my hometown marathon the following week.

By the time I lined up at the start of the Abingdon Marathon all the woes of the previous week were gone and forgotten. I had two chaps from my club for company and a good night's sleep behind me – my mum's house being about a mile from the start. My performance at Hatfield had blown away all expectations I had of the race, so I just set out to enjoy a good run with my mates.

The weather was perfect. The year's first frost had come early and by the time we settled into our stride it was only a few degrees above freezing. The sun was out, wind was non-existent and I had the pleasure of my mum's support at various points along the course.

At the back of my mind was the 3hrs 30 milestone I craved, and the three of us set off at the target 8 minute mile pace and held it metronomically up to half way, aided by a course that had very little change in gradient whatsoever. There was plenty of banter and I pointed out some of the local 'sights', and I was pleased as we hit the half marathon mark barely a minute outside 3.30 pace.

Then suddenly both my friends veered off the course for a comfort break, which threw me as I wanted to run with them, but being so close to yet another milestone I didn't want to let it slip away. The dangling carrot was too much of a temptation and I accelerated into the second half of the race.

And I didn't stop accelerating. To my utter amazement my body had energy to burn. I had used some carb-load powdered drink before the event but that can't have been the sole reason for my boundless fuel reserves. Not a single person passed me during the second half of the race, as I set about picking off my competitors and crushing my previous PB.

The ambient temperature never reached double figures despite the sunshine, which helped to keep my body cool as I continued to crank up the pace. On the flattest sections I clocked a couple of 7:18 miles, getting close to my half marathon pace.

The race finished around the Tilsley Park running track and by that time 3.30 was never in doubt. I now had one eye on 3.25, but was careful not to undo all my hard work and settled with a finishing time of 3hrs 25mins 31secs. I was made up. After the disappointment of the previous week my expectations had been non-existent, so my body had been able to run free from any pressure. Cloud nine. Now on with the big stuff.

Abingdon was the perfect prelude to my first foray into multi-day racing and all I did for the next few weeks was tick the miles off with a gentle taper. I bought some similar trail snacks to those I'd used on L2B and, naively, more Dioralyte. I say naively because having since found far better ways of putting electrolytes into my body I feel foolish stomaching the stuff for so long.

The Druid Challenge takes place over three days in November. Starting at Ivinghoe Beacon, not far from the town of Tring, it follows the ancient Ridgeway trail for 84 miles, finishing at Barbury Castle in Wiltshire. On the Friday it started I took the train to Tring (a mere three stops away from Apsley) and hopped on board one of the shuttle buses laid on by the organisers.

The first day's start was staggered based on anticipated performance and I had hedged my bets and placed myself in the middle group due to head off at 11am. By the time I reached the car park – a short walk from the beacon – the first group had already set off. I picked up my race pack and was surprised to find it contained an exclusive Buff. I had never come across such a garment before but it had been on the recommended kit list and I was glad to have it with me. Little did I know that it would soon become an indispensable part of my long distance attire.

It was overcast and breezy as we climbed the beacon to the starting point, and with rain forecast and 30 miles to cover it promised to be a challenging day. Still, spirits were high and I chatted to other MdS entrants about training plans and kit as we set off along the muddy, undulating trail. The previous week had seen some pretty horrid weather and within a few hundred yards there was a slippery ascent to negotiate. Nevertheless I covered the relatively short stretch back to Tring station without too much hassle, sticking to my 9 minutes on 1 minute off run/walk strategy as and when the terrain allowed.

There was then a long climb up and over the A41 bypass and it was at this point the first spots of drizzle began to fall. The first checkpoint was in the small town of Wendover, approximately 10 miles in, but by the time I reached it I had covered more like 12. This was down to a number of factors, the principal one being that I had reverted to a 'follow the leader' mentality and had been happy to chat away to other runners and let those ahead navigate.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. By the time I realised something was wrong it was too late, and while a group of half a dozen runners stood around to debate what had happened I threw my toys out of the pram and set off using my own internal compass. Within a mile I was back on track, but my mood was dark as I ceaselessly berated myself for unlearning one of the lessons from Northampton.

The terrain got worse heading out of Wendover and I went for a tumble on the very next ascent. My pride was dented more than anything, but it was just a taste of what was to follow as the next five hours were spent slipping and wallowing along muddy trails. The first overnight stop was due to be in Watlington in Oxfordshire, right on the fringes of the Chiltern hills. I knew it well, being on a route I used to drive quite regularly. In fact the entire first day tracked that road relatively closely, which made it all the more frustrating when the landmarks I knew crept by achingly slowly.

The worst offender was the M40 motorway, the crossing of which would leave only a handful of miles to the relative comfort of my sleeping bag. However, each ridge I negotiated failed to reveal the snaking lines of traffic I longed to see, and by the time it did appear, almost without warning, darkness had fallen and I was navigating by head torch.

This led to another problem: my head torch was shite. I had borrowed it from my mum and it barely gave enough light to navigate while walking, let alone at a run. What made things worse was other runners coming up behind me with far superior devices, illuminating all around me except where I was looking to tread.

By the time I shambled into Watlington nearly seven hours had passed and I was thoroughly pissed off. I was sick of the mud and had spent two hours longer than I'd hoped for out on the trail. As I wallowed in my own misfortune I noticed a stall in the welcome area. This was manned by Rory Coleman; ultra runner extraordinaire and organiser of the ULTRARace series of events, who was due to give a talk on the MdS during the second overnight stop. He gave me some advice on kit and my mood lifted somewhat.

After that I forced down some of the pasta put on by the organisers, had a quick shower and headed to bed, casting envious glances at the participants who had arrived early enough to secure crash mats to sleep on in the school's sports hall.

I slept fitfully, waking at regular intervals and needing to head to the bathroom. My legs were aching and I had no idea how I would go about rousing myself when the morning arrived.

Somehow I managed it. Breakfast was served and I hobbled over to eat my fill. The weather forecast was looking better for the day, however the forecast for my legs was not so great. They were aching like crazy and as we set off it was all I could do to manage a gentle jog out of the town.

I quickly knocked that idea on the head, having mentally stripped my expectations back to 'just get round.' As we rejoined the trail I settled into a steady walk and began to soak in the fresh, country air. I jogged when I was able, and after about half an hour I could feel things starting to loosen up a little. I was in unknown territory, having never attempted back-to-back runs of any great distance, but as the aches from yesterday's exertions died away I began to feel myself again. Not wishing to waste the opportunity, I set about recovering lost ground.

For an hour or so I had a whale of a time, ripping along the narrow trails, through woodlands and across open farmland. The sun was out and amazingly I was full of energy. I picked off a number of places and eventually settled into my run/walk rhythm. Skirting the town of Wallingford I met up with a girl with whom I had exchanged a few words the previous day. She wasn't an MdS entrant, but she seemed to have the bit between her teeth and together we pounded out the remaining miles.

The second overnight stop was in Wantage, some way southwest of Oxford. The route didn't pass directly through it, rather shuttle buses were laid on between the amusingly named Skutchamer Knob, where the stage ended, and the leisure centre in town. This was as close as the Ridgeway got to my old stomping ground in Abingdon, and the finish was exactly where my family used to come for walks on a Sunday afternoon. Accordingly, my little brother had made the effort to pop up and see me cross the line. I was already pumped up from having a much stronger day, but I was still over the moon to have him there to support me.

That evening I got the use of a sauna and swimming pool, which I feel made all the difference to my recovery. I also attended Rory Coleman's lecture and picked up a few tips on preparing for the desert. The one other thing that stood out to me from that day was how nice cocktail sausages were as trail snacks. I'd been wolfing them down at the checkpoints and never seemed to get bored of them. I filed away a mental note as I got my head down for the second time.

Day three promised full marathon distance, passing the famous White Horse hill figure. I was aching again, but knew that if I kept it sensible to start with I would be okay. I started out jogging along with the same lady I'd spent most of the previous day with, but before long the aches disappeared and I felt ready to do some damage to the field. I said my goodbyes and put the hammer down.

My energy levels that morning were truly astonishing. Even continuing my run/walk strategy I was averaging inside 4 hour marathon pace. The weather was decent and I ploughed through the first ten miles without any problem. Even the next five went by relatively easily and I was glad to be making amends for my troubles on the first day.

Then came a long climb. The final checkpoint before the finish wasn't far off and I was about to cross the M4. With barely ten miles left I hoped to be finished inside an hour and a half. I reached the top of the hill and, remembering my experiences on L2B, gingerly broke into a jog.

No cramps. Outstanding! No, wait. What's going on with my knee? Ooowww!

I was less than a hundred yards from the checkpoint and hobbled in. Rory Coleman was there and I mentioned it to him. He swiftly diagnosed a problem with my IT band, probably as a result of all my sliding around on the Friday. The pain was acute, but I had come too far not to finish. I soldiered on.

The last ten miles were miserable. The weather turned and I was beset with drizzle. I found the pain lessened after a few minutes running, but the course continued to undulate to such an extent that I couldn't run continuously. Every time I started and stopped it was excruciating. I had no idea what damage I was doing and I could see my MdS aspirations slipping down the pan. However, I concluded that if this was the end of my running career I would make sure I had a multi-day ultra in the bank.

The miles crawled past. I felt a great sense of injustice at having been gifted copious amounts of energy only to have any means of expending it snatched away. When the finishing line was within sight I put in a half-hearted sprint for it, knowing that the damage was already done. It was a bittersweet end to a great event and even the presence of my mum at the finish could not entirely lift my mood. Once again my MdS dream was under serious threat.
In The Balance

The run-up to Christmas was agonising. Not only was I out of action for six weeks, but shortly after the Druid Challenge I also developed the IT band problem in my left leg. I was pretty certain the damage wasn't terminal, but what worried me was whether I could recover in time to make my final preparations for the desert.

During this period I paid a trip to Rory Coleman for one of his MdS brain dump sessions, where he critiqued not only my choice of gear, but my posture and why I was experiencing the problems in my legs. His affiliation with Raidlight led him to recommend a much smaller, lighter pack (the Olmo 20 litre) as well as a number of stripped down essentials such as the compass, whistle (built into the pack) and signalling mirror.

I went away to consider his recommendations and the first thing I did was purchase a new pair of trail shoes. Putting my trust in his experiences with the Brooks Adrenaline ASR I ordered a pair to try out, with a view to getting a second for the desert, which would be modified with attachments for gaiters. I also picked up a foam roller so that I could hammer away at my IT bands in the hope that at some point the discomfort would ease sufficiently for me to resume my training.

I set myself some further milestones in the form of ultra events that would tell me whether or not I was in any shape to continue pursuing my dream. These incorporated a 45 miler, back to back 45 milers (the following week) and then back to back 30 milers a month before the MdS. The latter, part of the ULTRARace series, also offered the chance to get my medical form and ECG sorted before heading out to the desert, providing I made it that far.

I managed a small amount of training over the Christmas period, but not nearly enough for my liking. In the end I called up my running coach, who had just gained his qualifications in sports massage, and made a plea for help. It was the first week of 2011 and I had barely ten days until my next ultra, the 45 mile Country to Capital.

I'd never had a sports massage before and at times the pain was something else. There were all sorts of popping and clunking sensations as he worked my muscles around, the most excruciating of which came when he dug his thumbs in and peeled apart the two muscles in my calves. Still, I went away feeling like a new man and with the aches from my IT band injuries greatly reduced. The next morning I got up and promptly put my back out.

I can only speculate that over the years my body had built up its own convoluted method of providing support and protection to my back, which somehow the massage had dislodged. I was gutted, and now faced a real race to get fit before my next event. If I didn't make it to the start then it was pretty much game over. Fortunately I managed to, but there was still the matter of 45 miles to negotiate.

Country to Capital stands as one of the best events I've participated in. The concept is great: run from the far side of the Chilterns all the way into central London. The route is an interesting mix of trails, country lanes and towpath, while the scenery varies from rolling hills and woods, to dead cats floating in the Grand Union Canal. It also starts relatively close to where I live and passes even closer to where I used to work. Wrap this all together with decent organisation (by the same folks who put on my infamous Northampton run) and you have an event that I wouldn't hesitate to recommend to others.

I was on damage limitation, so set out from the start in Wendover in a cautious fashion. I had not yet received my Raidlight pack, so once again I took out my Aarn and filled it with a modest amount of kit. My back was tender but not prohibitively so, and the straps on the Aarn did a good job of wrapping me up and gave me confidence that nothing was going to suddenly slip out of alignment.

The weather was decent, although the wind did get up as I tracked along a hilltop near the M25, just before dropping down to the canal. Nevertheless my pace was solid and once I hit the canal I knew I had 'only' a marathon to go. At this point I did briefly question my sanity – since when had only having a marathon left become a source of encouragement?

The hours ticked by but I continued to maintain a good pace, knowing all the undulations were done and dusted. I passed a few runners and a few passed me, but my competitive streak was kept well in check by the knowledge of having to do it all again the following weekend. What I didn't realise was that the chap who finished just ahead of me, perhaps three minutes inside my time of 7hrs 43mins, would turn out to be one of my tent buddies on the MdS.

As I scrambled onto the train back to Wendover, making it by a matter of seconds, I was satisfied with my performance and knew that the desert was still there for me if I was sensible. That night I went out drinking until two in the morning.

There was little time to reflect on what had been the first ultra marathon I had thoroughly enjoyed from start to finish, for the very next weekend I was up in Northampton (eek!) for the start of the ULTRARace 90.

This two-day event follows the Grand Union Canal all the way to Tring, before turning and heading back again after an overnight stop-off. I had entered both days, but with a view that I would err on the side of caution and ditch the second day if it meant preserving my chances of competing in the MdS.

It was the first time I'd met up with Rory since our little one-to-one and he said he would have a box of kit waiting for me at the end of the first day. We set off from a hotel near the centre of town and strangely no-one seemed keen to guide everyone down to the canal. Therefore, for the first and only time, I led an ultra marathon for all of two hundred yards.

Once we hit the canal the faster runners began to migrate past me, and after only a minute or so a chap next to me struck up conversation. It was the guy who had finished Country to Capital just ahead of me. It turned out he was a fellow MdS entrant and we resolved to make contact at after the event to discuss the formation of tent groups. He then proceeded to shoot off into the distance, leaving me with the warm feeling of not having to worry about finding people to share with on the flight to Morocco.

It was nice to have something to think about because the course, quite frankly, was dismal. Running towpaths is not everyone's idea of a good time, and though I normally find it perfectly agreeable, after four hours or so it starts to get a bit old. There was plenty of countryside to enjoy, plus the occasional aqueduct and suchlike to break things up, but by and large it was a long slog with water on one side and fields on the other. I barely even saw Milton Keynes as I passed through it (although most would agree that that was a good thing).

I spent little time conversing with others on the 8 hours plus I spent completing the route. Mentally it was a feat of endurance and while I was satisfied to make it to the end, I had absolutely no inclination to run the reverse the following day. I settled for completion of the ULTRARace 45, picked up my box of kit and headed for Tring station.

It was on my way there that I bumped in to the chap who had introduced himself at the beginning of the race, Richard. He was heading home to London, having finished nearly an hour ahead of me, and as we shared the train back as far Apsley he mentioned that he knew of a few other MdS entrants who might be up for getting a tent group together. We exchanged numbers and emails before parting ways and I went home to chew over the lessons learned from the day.
Final Preparations

A few weeks later I found myself on a train into London. An email chain had formed between myself, Richard and a number of people he had met from other events, and we had decided to get together to suss one another out and talk about all things MdS. As far as I knew there were five of us heading down, with a couple of others on the periphery hoping to make it along.

I rocked up to the Pitcher and Piano in Bank in scruffy jeans and a leather jacket, and immediately felt under-dressed. It seemed that every person in the bar was wearing a suit, so I was fully expecting the bouncers to turn me away. Happily they didn't and after a bit of searching around I managed to locate Richard at a table downstairs. Three others were already there, and introduced themselves as Matthew, Mark and another Richard.

I can be a little awkward around people I don't know, but beer tends to loosen the wheels and after half a pint I was chatting away about training plans, kit and expectations from the event. Richard (the one I had met before, hereafter referred to as Richard G) had brought along a pair of sand goggles and passed them around. They were exactly the same Sundog ones that I had bought from Rory Coleman, and it soon transpired that he had also attended a one-to-one session and would be taking similar kit to myself – a relief.

It was while the goggles were doing the rounds that two more chaps came over and introduced themselves as Steve and (another) Phil. I'm not sure exactly how coincidental this meeting was (they may have been copied in on some of the emails), but they had seen the goggles, made the connection and all of a sudden our tent group numbered seven. In fact it turned out that a friend of Matthew's had been unable to make it, so there were actually eight of us, which was the maximum number of entrants in a given tent.

Job done. In that one evening we had managed to resolve the issue of tent groups – one less thing to worry about in the run-up. I left the pub buzzing, and with a further meet-up arranged a week prior to the race to get to know one another a bit more before heading out.

I was going now no matter what. It was going to take a catastrophic injury to prevent me from competing in the desert. I had just paid the remainder of my entrance fee (taking the total to over £3k) and I wasn't about to see that money go to waste.

I had one more event lined up: the ULTRARace Grantham. Another of Rory's races, this was a two day out and back covering just shy of sixty miles in total. During the layover in Grantham a doctor was on hand to conduct pre-MdS medical checks and Rory would have his stall of kit available for entrants to pick up any last minute bits.

There was now less than a month until I flew out to the desert and I took the opportunity to visit my friend from university in Derby on the Friday night.

The race started in the small town of Cotgrave and followed yet another stretch of canal towpath. This time, however, the canal was all but non-existent for the first few miles, leaving little of any note to enjoy when it came to the scenery.

However, I had a new backpack to get to grips with, which was full to bursting with kit. I also had another little milestone at the back of my mind that I wanted to see if I could achieve: running an ultra non-stop. Okay, so each leg was just shy of thirty miles (not much more than a marathon), but I was keen to get one in the bank if I could.

Once again the course was a bit of a snore-fest; possibly even more so than the ULTRARace 45. I remember a path with hedges to one side and high reeds to the other. It's all very well being out in the countryside but it's nice to have something to look at. Anything. Please?

By the halfway checkpoint my non-stop challenge took a bit of a knock as the trail turned from gravel to soft grass and mud, which sapped the energy from my legs. I dug deep, hoping that it would be short-lived. Unfortunately it went on and on, but I kept at it, and even when a series of upstream locks presented themselves with less than ten miles to go I hung in there.

When I passed marathon distance I knew it was in the bag, and when I caught sight of another runner up ahead I set about chasing him down. Unfortunately the bastard caught sight of me with less than a mile to go and put in a spurt, so I finished about thirty seconds behind him, in a time of 4hrs 37mins.

Not bad for a fully-laden run. The Raidlight pack had been far more comfortable than the Aarn and the 6kg of kit not too much of a burden. I treated myself to some time in the sauna at the Ramada Grantham and then tucked into a massive baguette and a pint at the bar.

That evening Rory held a mini MdS seminar while people waited to have their medical forms signed off. I picked up a couple of items from his shop and when my turn came I headed behind a screen to have my check-up.

All the MdS organisers are looking for is whether or not you have a pre-existing medical condition that would put you at risk during the event. Aside from a slight irregularity with my heart rate (apparently commonly associated with endurance athletes – my former PE teacher would spit out his coffee if he heard I'm one of those now!) I was clean as a whistle and my forms were signed off.

The only thing that stood in my way now was thirty miles of mind-numbing towpath, which I covered in a shade under five hours, having reverted to my preferred run/walk strategy. That's really all I can say about it. It was dull and uninspiring, but it was miles in the bank and another race under my belt. I headed home to make my final preparations.

Those last few weeks were filled with kit checks and comparisons, social runs at the track and on the roads, and obtaining sponsorship. I had held off committing to raising money until I was certain I would make it to Morocco. Now that was no longer in doubt I set up two JustGiving pages, one for Shelter and one for Water Aid. Both these charities do amazing work and I hoped that my struggles through the desert, with only a tent to sleep under at night, would inspire people to give generously.

I gave myself the rough target of raising more than I had spent on entry fees, training events and kit – somewhere in the region of £4k, I figured. Friends, family and work colleagues all did their bit and I was delighted when my company offered to match whatever I raised for each charity. With this in mind I made myself known to my local paper, who ran a decent-sized article on my upcoming adventure. Within days of it being published an anonymous donation of over £1,800 appeared on the Water Aid page. I was gobsmacked. That one donation, coupled with my company's offer almost took me to my target on its own. Whoever donated it, I couldn't let them down.

The days ticked by and I had my second meet-up with my tent group. Several of them couldn't make it, but a few of us enjoyed a Thai meal in central London while we chatted excitedly about all that awaited us in the desert.

The week before the event a documentary was aired charting the efforts of Olympic rower James Cracknell to complete the MdS in 2010, sparking all manner of conversations via email, up at the track and in my office. I refrained from watching it, and from participating in the conversations, not out of fear of what lay before me, but because after investing so much time and effort I wanted it all to be a surprise. I didn't care if the surprises were good or bad, I merely wished to preserve the mystique of the event and the sense of stepping into the unknown.

At my last track session before heading out another surprise awaited. Our social secretary revealed a cake she had baked depicting a man running across sugar-coated sands. I felt overwhelmed by the support that was gathering behind me and gleefully indulged in a large slice, knowing that at some point the energy it provided would be put to good use.

The night before I was due to fly out I spent the evening in with my girlfriend. We ordered a Pizza Hut and chilled out together over a glass of bubbly. She was more nervous than I was. In fact she thought the whole idea of running six marathons in the desert was among the stupidest things she'd ever heard. Yet despite her concerns for my well-being she was supportive and wished me every success (if only to get me back in one piece!).

My mind was awash with thoughts that night.

Had I packed everything I needed?

What time was the train?

Had I set my alarm?

Currency?

Passport?

Arrrgghh!!!

It was like London all over again, but ten times worse. But as I lay in bed and all these last-minute thoughts scrabbled for my attention a steely determination rose to the surface. For everyone who had donated so generously and for all who had offered words of encouragement, I would see it through. But most of all, for the girl sleeping soundly beside me.
THE SANDS
31st March 2011 – Heading Out

I woke to a kiss from my girlfriend as she headed off to work. For once it was a blessing that she was leaving so early. Neither of us needed a lingering goodbye. We wished one another well and she was gone.

That painful obstacle overcome, my mind began shifting through the gears until it found one that filtered out anything as obstructive as emotions. My final preparations were almost mechanical that morning. I showered, breakfasted and went through my last-minute checks methodically and barely spared a look over my shoulder as I left the flat and headed to the train station.

The contingent of British competitors was due to head out on a charter flight from Gatwick and I had to make my way across London to join up with them. I had a medium-sized suitcase containing most of my food and non-essential kit and clothing, while all flight-legal essentials were stashed in my Raidlight pack which would be carry-on.

I was dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, but was wearing my race shoes – the one thing I really couldn't afford to lose en route. A cobbler had fitted a strip of Velcro around the upper, to which my ankle gaiters would attach. They had done a great job and during my test runs at Grantham they had proved only slightly less comfortable than my unmodified pair (slightly stiffer, as one might expect).

It wasn't until I reached Clapham Junction that I spied a fellow competitor. There were plenty of travellers with suitcases waiting to board the train to Gatwick, but it was the backpack that gave him away. Throughout my introduction to the world of ultra running I was surprised to find how many companies existed almost solely to support this small but growing fraternity. I had never encountered the likes of Raidlight, Aarn, OMM and Inov8 before, but now they stood out as a tell-tale sign of a kindred spirit.

On the train I stood chatting to a couple of girls who seemed a little too normal to be MdS entrants. I don't mean to be discourteous when I say that, it's just the women I'd encountered on ultra marathons thus far all seemed to share the same traits; outdoorsy dress sense, slightly weathered appearance, an aversion to make-up, and generally (as someone who will remain nameless put it) a bit scary-looking. These on the other hand were just normal, easy-going girls, looking like they were heading out of a coffee. Albeit with larger handbags. Okay, before I get myself in too much trouble I'll move on.

I reached the airport with plenty of time to spare and gave a sigh of relief. I'm generally pretty laid back but when it comes to travelling by plane I tend to grow horns and become a right pain in the arse. The time between waking on the day of travel and arriving at the airport is always fraught, as I bombard myself with scenarios of things that could go wrong or that I could forget or forget to do. It's only when I reach the check-in desk and am handed my boarding card that I am finally able to relax.

The queue for the Monarch desk was top-heavy with runners and running gear, and with none of my tent-mates in sight I immediately started scoping out what kit was on display and comparing it with my own. There was a buzz of conversation around me but I kept to myself, feeling strangely anxious without the familiar faces I'd met only once or twice before.

Check-in and passport control were a breeze, for which I was thankful (it meant I'd put my penknife in my suitcase rather than the backpack). I chilled out for a bit in the departure lounge, listening to music and collecting my thoughts before what promised to be an interesting flight.

I met my tent-mates at the gate, including, for the first time, Matthew's friend James – whose mountaineering exploits I was in awe of. Conversation flowed easily as we discussed last-minute kit purchases, nutritional choices and attempts at acclimatisation.

Then the subject turned to expected performance, which was something I'd started to ponder once I was certain I would actually make it to the start line. We had compared training strategies at our first meeting and I'd been encouraged to find that I had more ultra experience than most of the group. We did, however, have in our number several Ironman triathletes and a very experienced mountaineer, all of whom were used to pushing themselves to the limit. We had also traded marathon and half marathon PBs (as most runners do), and again it turned out I was well up there. The conclusion was that Richard G and I were the ones to watch out for, both having enjoyed well-rounded training programmes.

The flight to Morocco was unlike any other. I'd travelled a fair bit but never been on a plane entirely occupied by people with a common purpose. I generally hate been cooped up in an aircraft for any duration, but the atmosphere in the cabin was buzzing as we taxied onto the runway and headed for the skies. I could sense that tent groups were already being formed and I was thankful that I didn't need to force myself into conversation with anyone. Instead I chatted casually with those around me as I cherished the feeling of three years' waiting and effort finally coming to fruition.

We were heading to Ouarzazate, which turned out to be a dusty town of modest size nestled a little way south of the Atlas Mountains. It was a sleepy-looking place, seemingly set up for off-roading trips in the desert. Upon arrival the weather was warm without being oppressive and we boarded coaches for the transfer to our hotel (all of a 5 minute drive).

The British contingent had booked out the Berber Palace, a surprisingly pleasant complex of small rooms interconnected by a labyrinth of tiled paths. I had been warned about the amount of queuing that MdS participants have to endure, but thankfully Richard G and I walked straight up to the counter and bagged a room as soon as we arrived. It was a comfortable size and pleasantly laid out (a change from the identikit hotel chains in the UK) and we had space aplenty to set about consolidating our provisions.

This was it: time to find out if all the food and kit would fit. I had done a couple of trial packing exercises before heading out, but had been reluctant to decant all my breakfasts and dinners into freezer bags until the last possible minute. Richard G and I had settled on the same pack and sleeping bag choices, as well as a number of sundry essentials like cooking pots, penknives and goggles. We had become a little obsessive about weight in the run-up, seeking ever-more inventive ways of shaving off grams to get as close to the 6.5kg minimum prescribed by the organisers.

I recall a shopping trip a couple of weeks beforehand where I went round weighing various pairs of flip flops, much to the embarrassment of my other half. We were even weighing food and working out the most calories per gram in order to achieve the most efficient diet possible.

With all the food laid out and separated for each day it looked like an awful lot. Once I included the electrolyte sachets (50:50 Dioralyte and lemon & lime SIS powders – something I'd discovered at Grantham) I swiftly discovered there was no way it was all fitting in.

I began culling. Then culling some more, agonising over how many packets of dried fruit and energy bars I could permit myself per day. The pack really was bursting at the seams. In the end my approximate daily diet was as follows:

\- Breakfast: 1 x Expedition Food (Chicken Tikka, Chicken Korma, Spaghetti Bolognese or Chilli con Carne).

\- Trail Snacks: 1 x Peperami mini, 1 x Mule Bar (Strudel or Summer Fruits), 1 x 35g bag of dried fruit.

\- Dinner: 1 x Expedition Food & 1 x bag of dried fruit.

\- Hydration: 2 x Dioralyte sachets, 2 x SIS powders.

There may have been a few other odd bits, but I got it down to about the 2000 calorie limit for solid food, plus a few extra courtesy of the SIS powders. Richard G did the same and we were eventually satisfied with our respective setups. Our suitcases would be coming to the desert with us, so there would be the opportunity to make any final adjustments when we knew for certain what the conditions were like.

Dinner was a buffet affair and we ate as a tent group, along with a couple of other runners whom some of us knew from previous events. I ate heartily but avoided uncooked food as much as possible; the last thing I needed was bad guts when shitting in the wilderness. I also managed a beer or two, knowing I was unlikely to enjoy the taste for over a week.

My last night's sleep in a bed was fitful. Richard G made a few night-time noises and I listened to music to ease my racing mind. The next day, desert awaited.
1st April 2011 – Transfer to Bivouac

It was apt that April Fools' Day saw us heading out to into the middle of nowhere. It reflected the view held by a number of people back home when I'd mentioned the event (my girlfriend included). It also provided my first experience of the infamous MdS queues.

Everyone gathered on the front steps of the hotel at checkout to await the buses that would transfer us to the camp. Strategies were already being put into place as groups sought to arrive first and nab a tent in a prime position. I'd heard there was a bit of a trade-off between being near the finishing line (and not having far to walk) and being further away (and it being quieter). There were also the toilets to consider – being directly down-wind being a big no-no.

The buses arrived and there was a rush to cram bags underneath before finding a seat onboard. Our group was split – possibly an advantage – but Richard G and I found seats near the front and settled in for the journey ahead. I'd already made half a dozen toilet breaks in the build-up and hoped that the transfer wasn't too long. I dislike bus travel even more than I dislike flying.

Almost before we left town the buses stopped (possibly to pick up our packed lunches) and a few of us disembarked for a tactical comfort break. It was at that point that I first became aware of the TV crews filming the event. A chap with a video camera came over and began shooting me as I was taking a slash, which at the time didn't seem as weird as it now sounds. I gave him a smile and a wave and wondered whether that would be my one moment of fame from the event.

Back on board and we soon left the relative civilisation of Ouarzazate behind. The scenery turned rugged and bare, with the occasional village breaking things up. Not long after leaving the town one of our representatives handed out what is now one of my most prized possessions – the road book.

The route for the MdS differs each year and is a closely guarded secret up until the event. I can only imagine this is to stop any of the local elite runners gaining an advantage, as for most of us it doesn't really matter which direction the wiggly line in the middle of nowhere goes. Nevertheless at last we could see exactly what we had let ourselves in for.

Any MdS entrant knows the drill: 1st & 2nd days ease you into it, 3rd day is dunes, 4th day 50 miles, 5th day rest (if you're lucky), 6th day marathon and 7th day finish. This is broadly the format that has developed over the years, therefore as Richard and I scrutinised every detail we were surprised to find we would be crossing a vast swathe of dunes on the first day. And the third. And some on the fourth as well. In fact there there was an awful lot more of the soft stuff than I had anticipated.

I could have stared at the road book all journey. For each day, as well an Ordinance Survey-type map, a hand drawn illustration of the route gave distances, headings and features of interest, and there was also a written breakdown of each section.

Lunchtime arrived and the convoy of buses pulled over, giving us an opportunity to stretch our legs. The packed lunch was an interesting mix of sandwich, fruit, a sort of chickpea salad, some yoghurty thing and a Babybel. It was all rather pleasing and I got stuck in, taking care not to sit on anything sharp or dangerous-looking. Speaking of which, we had our first encounter with the local wildlife when someone discovered a scorpion sheltering just inside a small hole in the ground. This prompted a rush of paparazzi to grab evidence of the harshness of our surroundings, although I was not among them – I already had a close encounter with a much larger version under my belt during a trip to Mexico.

The excitement continued to build as we continued on our way, turning to amusement when our rep passed around supplies of biodegradable bags to be used in conjunction with the new toilet 'system', which comprised a folding stool (excuse the pun) with a toilet seat, over which the bag should be placed.

The idea of defecating in the wilderness had never really bothered me, but the prospect of sharing a hole in the ground with a hundred other runners on a diet of energy fuels, with blistered feet and 100 miles on my legs was another matter. It wasn't luxury, but it was one less thing to worry about (and one more unique experience to try out).

Before too long we turned off the tarmac onto a dusty trail that barely had any features to mark it out. In fact rather than travel in convoy the buses seemed to just plough their own furrows, presumably to keep out of the dust thrown up by those in front.

Staring out of the window my attention was drawn to a reddish smear on the horizon. As I focussed on it I realised it was in fact a sharp outline of the dunes we were due tackle in two days time. It was weird; they just seemed to pop up in the middle of the barren, rocky terrain and were so striking as to seem completely out of place, as if the organisers had dumped them there in an attempt to make the course more interesting.

Before I had much time to contemplate them we came to a halt and were ushered off the bus and advised to collect our bags. Nearby stood a couple of army trucks with open backs and it soon dawned on it that this was it: our race for the best tent was on!

Those from the first bus were already on board and the second truck was filling up fast, however I spied several more on the way and decided to wait. Being British, the queues that formed were orderly and well adhered to, but as the next trucks arrived so too did several more buses full of competitors. Oh shit! The French.

These new arrivals prompted a mad scramble for places, for we all knew there was no equivalent in the French language to the word 'queue'. Mark, Steve, Richard G and I helped one another over the side of a truck and joined the general crush of kit and people on board. I'm sure somebody must have had some item or another broken as by the time we set off I was half sprawled across several bags.

Still, I managed to get off a couple of photos and the journey, although very bumpy, was short. Within moments the camp came into view; a mass of white tents in the middle distance, with two concentric crescents of black ones beyond. These were the Berber tents we were vying for, although we now knew from the road books that a block of tent numbers were allocated for us Brits, which limited the scope for making a tactical selection.

As soon as we came to a halt people were heading for them, dragging wheeled suitcases through the dust and sand. By this time we had concluded that some of our group had been on one of the earlier trucks and that the pressure to grab a spot was no longer on. We found Phil, Richard T, James and Matthew making themselves comfortable in one situated on the outer crescent about a third of the way round. This was to be home for the next week or so. Tent 102.

It was little more than a woven blanket supported in the middle by four large poles (slender tree trunks or branches rather than anything fabricated). Guy ropes pulled it out to give it width and each side had three smaller branches giving a bit of extra space to those on the periphery. It was open front and back across its entire width, and though we saw other configurations we decided the best sleeping arrangement was side by side like sardines in a tin, so that everyone had equal access for midnight toilet breaks and such. As the only member of the group not to bring a sleeping mat I took one of the ends. For what it's worth, the sleeping order from left to right (when viewed from between the two tent rows) was myself, Richard T, Mark, Steve, James, Richard G, Phil & Matthew.

Time to relax.

Dinner was served that night out of a large white tent that vaguely resembled a Big Top. I don't remember much of what was served, except to say that beer and wine was on offer, albeit not exactly free-flowing, and I savoured a couple of cans.

The atmosphere was good that night. Some participants had brought costumes with them for the evening and there was some musical entertainment put on by the Berbers. We all went to bed with full stomachs and brimming with anticipation. The start was drawing ever closer.
2nd April 2011 – Technical Check Day

This was the last hurdle to clear before the start. At allotted times groups of runners were summoned to one of the white tents to drop off their suitcases and submit their kit for inspection. Medical forms and ECGs were handed over, and if all was well you were cleared to run and given some final essentials such as a distress flare and the all-important race numbers.

My first night's sleep had been reasonable. There had been much banter in the surrounding tents as I had tried to drop off, so I'd used my ear plugs to filter it out and get some rest. I had cleared out any rocks from beneath the blanket (the only other comfort provided) and found the ground comfortable enough to lie on (good news as I had no backup plan).

I probably awoke at around 6am (a luxury, as I would soon find out) and was struck by the prospect that there was now just one day to go! This challenge I had set myself thirty-three months previously had all but arrived and I couldn't wait to get going (or get it over with – one of the two).

Breakfast was served in the same location as dinner the night before, and then there was nothing to do but wait until our numbers were called. Richard T, Phil and I had longest to wait as our surnames all fell in the latter half of the alphabet. We passed the time studying the road book and wandering around camp taking photos – nothing overly strenuous. Sometimes we would see groups of runners fully kitted up and posing for photos, or going for practice jogs. The general feeling among Tent 102 was that it was a little too late to be trying things out and a little foolish to be expending energy unnecessarily. Having said that, several of our members did go and test drive the toilet facilities (located within small canvas cubicles) and came back smirking and joking to one another. My body was holding out as long as it could for that experience.

After an age it was time for Phil, myself and Richard T to head over for our technical checks. I'd packed and re-packed my rucksack several times, making sure that nothing left in my suitcase was there by accident. And then that was it; gone. What small luxuries it contained were taken away and I was left with what I could carry.

I passed the checks no problem and was issued with my flare (bigger than expected), running numbers and a punch card for water rations. This last item was of vital importance as it would need to be presented at every checkpoint in order for the next ration to be provided. I was given my first lot – three 1.5 litre bottles – and headed back to the tent, which seemed awfully empty with the suitcases gone. It gave me a weird sense of vulnerability and reassurance at the same time. My wallet, phone and keys – the holy trinity of security – were gone, but then so were everyone else's. We were all in the same boat and after a short while it felt liberating to be on board.

I'd often contemplated what would happen if I was stripped of these essentials. I even have several book ideas based around the subject. Now I was actually faced with the situation it was rather nice to be completely disconnected from the world I knew, although the reality of the MdS was becoming clear to me: the only peril came from a lack of preparation on the part of the competitor. The organisation behind the event and the backup and support in place was second to none.

All we could do now was await the start of the race. Everyone was itching to get going, but at the same time keen to conserve as much energy as possible. We lay around and chatted idly, watching the various comings and goings.

In the late afternoon there was a briefing by race director Patrick Bauer, who welcomed each nationality in turn. The British and French contingents – the two largest – did their best to out-cheer one another and special mention was reserved for the handful of Japanese entrants, who had made it over despite the earthquake and subsequent tsunami that had rocked their country just a few weeks beforehand.

As he talked we managed to pick out a few of the elite athletes, in particular Mohammed Ahansal, the previous winner, as well as a weathered chap who had apparently run every year since the race's inception.

After a demonstration on the correct use of the distress flare there was one more dinner laid on before we were truly self-sufficient. I couldn't resist replicating my usual pre-race ritual and sinking another beer, but was strangely eager to head off to bed.

As I settled down for the night I was conscious that I still hadn't test-driven the toilets and hoped that my body would man up to the challenge before we set out.

One by one we drifted off. It was time.
3rd April 2011 – The Start

The first thing I was aware of was a lot of shouting. I stirred in my sleeping bag and peered out. Most of the others were awake and staring down the line of tents. I followed their gaze and saw nearly a dozen Berbers working their way down the lines, dismantling the tents while startled competitors were still regaining consciousness. Moments later ours began to shake and cries of 'Yella! Yella!' rang out.

After all the stories and advice about the race I'd heard, it seemed this little nugget of information had slipped everybody's minds. Even Rory had failed to mention it. He was probably smirking to himself even as his own tent was being removed.

The sun was creeping over the horizon but the light was flat and the temperature comfortable as we were left to rustle up our first camp breakfasts without any shelter. We were each in possession of several packs of fuel blocks for use on the light-weight stoves (mine weighed in at 12 grammes!!) we would be carrying.

James' wilderness experience came into play here as he swiftly got a hole dug and some water on the boil. Once I had negotiated the tricky task of putting my contact lenses in I got mine under way. I selected a curry that morning. It tasted pretty good and I was glad to have many more of them in my pack for the days ahead. I also snaffled a few odds and sods that I didn't have room for in my pack and then it was all about getting everything I needed into the damn thing.

It was a tricky task, but I took comfort from the fact that it would get easier day by day as I worked my way through my provisions. Part way through this process the Berbers returned to remove our blanket. It then dawned on us that perhaps the organisers were deliberately trying to mess with our heads; to make things uncomfortable for the city boys playing wild men and put us out of kilter.

We made our final preparations sitting on the ground, which for some included taping up toes and fitting socks – far from ideal. For my part I had already taped up my little toes and the ones next to my big toes, as per Rory's advice and the technique he had shown me, and had very little left to do before the start.

Nerves were jangling, but there was still plenty of banter among our tent group. And when one of our number noticed the toilet cubicles were being removed I realised, too late, that I was ready to acquaint myself with the facilities.

I took a wander into some nearby dunes and took out one of the biodegradable bags I'd been given. I was conscious of the fact that someone could blunder across me any minute, but strangely it didn't bother me. In less than two days this sort of thing had been accepted as the norm.

I returned to my friends with a wry smile, feeling like a man of the wilds and raring to get going. We began to migrate over towards the start line, where a couple of camels bearing crates of Sultan tea (the race sponsor) were standing.

It was the first chance we'd had to see how the other competitors had set themselves up for the race and I wasn't sure whether to be encouraged or worried that I was lightly laden compared to the majority. Weight-wise it would give me an advantage, but had I got my nutrition all wrong? If I had then Richard G had too, which was something of a comfort.

The start was scheduled for 9am, but with about half an hour to go we were herded into two areas marked out on the ground to form the number 26, representing the edition of the race we would be taking part in. It was there that we saw some even more outrageous amounts of kit on people; some appeared to have all their cooking and sleeping gear on the outside of their packs, prompting speculation as to what could possibly be making the insides of the packs bulge so much.

We were then distracted by the Eurosport helicopter hovering overhead, taking a few promotional shots before the event kicked off. Then it was over to the start line, where music was blaring and Patrick Bauer and his interpreter were waiting on top of a support vehicle to address us.

Anticipation was building to fever pitch as the music faded and the ritual of daily announcements began. We were welcomed again and given a description of the challenges we could expect before the day was out. There were also a number of birthdays to celebrate and we all sang along as Patrick conducted.

It was impossible not to get caught up in it. The organisers had pulled out all the stops to make us all feel part of something really, really special. I was right in the middle of the crush of runners, with most of the rest of tent 102. Every part of my body was crying out with euphoria. All my expectations had been blown out of the water and if I thought it couldn't get any better the music swelled again and then suddenly...

'We're on a HIGHWAY TO HELL!'

The helicopters strafed overhead, then over the PA...

'CINQ... QUATRE... TROIS... DEUX... UN........'

And we charged.

It was an extraordinary moment; over eight hundred runners from across the world storming out across the compacted sands as photographers snapped, helicopters circled and in the distance the dunes of Erg Chebbi waited. I lost most of tent 102 in an instant, but Richard G and I had always planned to set out together and I kept him in sight as the rush of blood calmed down and around me everyone began to settle into a pace.

We headed southeast, on a bearing of 140º. This I knew from my road book rather than my compass, which would not see use for the entirety of the event. The way was marked with pink spray paint, applied every 50-100 yards to a rock or bush; whatever was available. From the road book I had determined that the course basically took beelines from checkpoint to checkpoint, to simplify navigation and, I presume, to discourage cheating. After all, the desert is a whole heap of nothing, so why would you take anything other than the most direct route possible?

The result was my favourite game of follow-the-leader, which I went along with willingly, knowing it would take a real fool to get lost in these vast open areas (in the daytime at least). The temperature was modest and Richard and I chatted away happily as we went, even finding time to stop for a couple of photos. Ahead and behind us snaked a long line of runners. We had no idea where the rest of the tent were but we were clocking a respectable pace and felt happy as we neared the first checkpoint. The ground was solid underfoot, if a little rocky, and those first eight miles passed by in the blink of an eye.

As we approached the checkpoint my heart was racing. We were over a third of the way to the second bivouac and less than an hour and a half had passed. This was easy! But what really set the pulse going was the monumental wall of sand that rose up directly behind the checkpoint; a range of smooth, golden mountains dumped smack-bang in the middle of this wilderness.

At the checkpoint we were given two bottles of water (3 litres). I felt my two water bottles and found that I hadn't depleted them on that first leg. I'm generally fairly light on fluids so this didn't come as any great shock. I drained them both and then filled them afresh. As they were 600ml each this left some over in one of the bottles, which I also necked. Taking a look at the road book I noted that the second leg was the same distance as the first: approximately 8 miles. In good terrain I'd cover the distance in under an hour, in bad maybe two. In what turned out to be one of the stupidest decisions I'd ever made I ditched the second bottle.

Richard was feeling sprightly, so I let him bound off up the first set of dunes while I settled for a more measured approach. I'd located Matthew at the checkpoint and the two of us set off together, although after a short while he urged me to go on at my own pace. I was now surrounded by sand and felt like I was in the middle of a Hollywood movie. But if the landscape around me was a delight, the going under foot most certainly wasn't.

There's a lot to say for making as the crow flies, but when faced by wall after wall of sand you do begin to wonder where the sense in it is. The sand was terribly soft on the climbs and my once-swift progress was brutally curtailed. The only way I found to cope was to walk in the footsteps of the runner in front of me. Preferably as close as possible. Even then I knew it was going to take longer than anticipated to negotiate the dunes. But how much longer was another matter.

After an hour or so there came a short stretch of firm ground. I had been joined, briefly, by Rory, who seemed to be having a whale of a time. As we crossed the barren oasis one of the helicopters swooped overhead and I waved more enthusiastically than I was feeling. As the ground softened again Rory plugged his headphones in was off; a man used to the conditions and perfectly in control. I on the other hand was now worrying about my water situation. The barren stretch was not marked on the road book and I had no idea how far I'd come.

I battled on for another hour as the sun passed midday and the temperature soared. I had nothing to measure it by but I suspected it must have been into the 40s. I was taking salt tablets at a rate of two every hour on the hour, but when I stopped for a pee it was a long way from the 'pale straw' colour that is recommended. I needed fluids but I was running low. I continued to sip alternately from my bottles every five minutes, but each sip was smaller than the last and I was starting to feel heady. Half an hour later I was out completely.

I'm not saying I was close to death, but being pretty dehydrated and unable to discern how far I was from the next checkpoint was not one of my happiest moments. More than anything I was kicking myself for making such a fundamental error on the very first day. My saving grace was a northern chap who caught me up and offered the last drops from the bottle he was carrying. He had done the MdS before but did not laugh at my incompetence. He merely passed me the bottle, exchanged a few words and then moved on.

It was enough to see me through. Even while we'd been talking the next checkpoint had come into view, and we had climbed to such a height that even the second bivouac could be seen rippling in the hazy distance. It still took another twenty minutes to reach the checkpoint, but I felt safe following my scare and was even able to muster a smile for the cameras as I came staggering in, vowing to drink every drop of water that was given to me from now on.

The final stretch was 7km of flat terrain – barely a warm-up under normal circumstances. But my body was complaining and a brutal headwind had blown up. And though some of the competitors around me saw fit to attempt to jog in those last few miles, I had been given a severe reality check and saw it as a waste of energy.

As I toiled against the wind I could see the bivouac up ahead, a tantalising mirage of what lay beyond a very shallow ridge. Once I'd crested it, there it was. But still 2km away. The organisers of the MdS like to taunt you with their positioning of checkpoints and bivouacs. They'll either squirrel them away so you can't see them until you're almost passing through, or they'll plant them in plain sight so that you get to spend at least an hour wondering why they aren't getting any bigger.

But that's all part of the fun, if you can call it that. After five and a half hours I made it to the bivouac, stopping briefly to throw an ironic Usain Bolt 'Bolt of lighting' pose for the cameras before heading off to pick up my water ration.

Those last few yards each day, loaded down with 4.5kg of fluids, are painful, and I understand the appeal of having a tent near the start of the semicircle. As I passed down the two rows I couldn't help noticing how empty the other tents were. I may have made a monumental screw-up of my first day but I certainly wasn't the only one struggling. I thought of my tent mates. I'd only seen Richard G and Matthew after the start and I knew that one was ahead and one was behind me. Judging by the other tents I assumed the rest were yet to finish as well. Boy was I in for a shock.

Richard G was indeed back at tent 102. As were Phil, Mark and James. James! Who classifies himself as a 'non-runner'. After the relief of finishing, and an almost quiet smugness at seeing how quiet the rest of the camp was, my ego came crashing back to earth. These lads were good.

James and Richard G had both put in solid efforts, but Phil and Mark had absolutely nailed that first day, coming 57th and 90th respectively (my efforts had earned me 253rd out of the 844 who finished that first day).

I'd barely picked my jaw off the ground when the rest of the tent showed up. First Richard T, then Matthew and finally Steve. We congratulated one another for making it through the first day alive, then congratulated ourselves collectively for seeming to be the first complete tent back. Indeed we had all finished inside six hours, which was no mean feat. It was going to be interesting to see how the rest of the week panned out.

But first there was damage to assess. A couple of our number had already paid a visit to the infamous 'Doc Trotters' to get some blisters seen to, and as I removed my socks and assessed the state of my right middle toe I realised I would need to follow suit. Having taken Rory's advice and wrapped only my little toes and the ones next to my big toe, my middle one had gotten cosy with the tape and was a mess. I'd heard about the screams of pain that emanated from the medical tents as peoples' ailments were seen to, but it was unavoidable. I donned my flip flops and headed over.

I was met with a roll of the eyes by the attendant 'doctor' and told to sit in the corner. I'm not sure how much sympathy I was expecting, but evidently there wasn't a drop to spare and I did what I was told. I'm not sure how true this is, but I heard that most of the 'doctors' at the MdS are actually French medical students who head out to Morocco to gain experience treating real patients without any of the red tape (except the stuff being peeled off runners' toes). Anyway, after a bit of iodine and a swift lancing I was sent on my way. It was relatively painless and I returned to my tent feeling that all things considered I'd got away with it today. I resolved to learn my lessons and not make such a hash of day 2.

Supper that night tasted reasonable, and it was certainly welcome after the day's trials. As the last few runners trickled into the camp I wandered a short distance away to take a few photos. The wind was still blowing, but the sun had dipped, casting the dunes of Erg Chebbi into sharp relief. It was staggeringly beautiful, and despite the extensive logistical support for the event the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere remained.

I returned to the tent to find that our rep had been round and distributed email messages from friends and family. I had a single message from my mum wishing me well for the event. Obviously most of my support were yet to get to grips with the system, but to hear from her was encouraging nonetheless.

Soon enough darkness was upon us and it was time settle down to another night's sleep. I had cleared my little area of rocks and found it surprisingly easy to get comfy. The next day promised more miles and more dunes, but I now knew what I was in for and began to prepare myself mentally. Then sleep took me and the sands rolled in.
4th April 2011 – The Sandstorm Day

I knew something was amiss as soon as I opened my eyes. The temperature had dropped and the wind had risen and was scouring our tent with thousands upon thousands tiny particles. I lay with my sleeping bag pulled up tight around my face and wondered what this meant. Were the conditions too serious to run in? Would the Berbers remove our tent and make us prepare breakfasts of grit and water? How the hell was I supposed to get my contact lenses in?

One thing I was certain of was that it would make for a cool story at the end of the trip. Two days in and we'd already faced searing heat, scorpions and now a sandstorm.

There was a deep reluctance in our tent to get going that morning but the Berbers didn't appear to be hanging about. As soon as I became aware of them breaking camp I sat up with my back to the wind and dug out my lenses. I had to get them in before our shelter was removed. Fortunately 14 years of experience paid off and I somehow manage to get them fitted without trapping any sand beneath them. I quickly fished out my sand goggles and put them on. Only then did I feel ready to face the elements.

Breakfast was a cold, gritty affair. My fire was fleeting and it was impossible to keep the sand out of my improvised eating bowl (fashioned from an empty water bottle). Application of sunscreen was also far from pleasant, as it turned to grinding paste as soon as it was applied.

More than anything, though, it was cold. Not bitingly so, but distinctly chilly with the wind and the sting of the sand. Noticing a number of vehicles parked near the start line most of our tent got packed up as quickly as possible and headed over to grab a patch of shelter. We remained there while the morning announcements were read out, and only when we sensed the start was imminent did we join the ranks of other runners.

The chorus of 'Highway to Hell' rose above the howl of the wind and we were under way, and at quite some pace. Everybody needed to warm up and the best method seemed to be to go out like the clappers and get the blood circulating. At the front one of the elite Moroccans carried his national flag and we followed as it swept south out of the camp.

Despite the elements the helicopters were airborne and strafed up and down the column of runners shooting their footage for Eurosport. I kept out to one side so that my natural place in the field could be assumed without the need for ducking and diving past slower runners. The going was a mix of hard-packed dirt and rock, interspersed with areas of softer sand and camel grass.

About 30 minutes in, while picking my way through some of the soft stuff I noticed a runner up ahead who I thought I recognised. It was Rory's other half, Jen, who in previous years had placed as high as third in the women's rankings. This worried me – surely I had gone out too fast? But the temperature at stabilised at a little over 20ºC and I was feeling fine. I probably couldn't sustain my pace all day, but I hoped to tick off as many miles as possible while it was still cool.

A short while later we hit some dunes. There were three miles of these to negotiate, but they were much smaller than those of Erg Chebbi and without the blistering sun to contend with traversing them was a much nicer experience. I remember at one point walking up the spine of one particular dune and thinking: _This is what it's all about!_

After my little Lawrence of Arabia moment the dunes thinned out and before too long the first checkpoint appeared. The next stretch mixed soft terrain with dry riverbeds and scattered dunes. It was fairly unremarkable but there were signs of life about. I ticked off the next 10km without much trouble and arrived at the next checkpoint, on the outskirts of a small settlement.

Things were going well. The sandstorm had died down and I had made good time. I felt I was atoning for my errors the previous day, but a small problem had been growing over the last stretch. In my bowels.

As I set off from the second checkpoint I realised there was no avoiding an excursion into the wilderness. This was extremely frustrating as it meant wasting some of the precious minutes I had clawed back during the morning. Fifteen of them as it turned out. It was an awkward experience trying to support ones self when the legs have accumulated 55km over two days, and that was the main reason the process took too long.

I was angry and frustrated, but very diligent in keeping myself clean; the last thing I needed was a dodgy stomach. As I rejoined the trail I saw I had tucked in less than a hundred yards behind Richard T. I called out to him but he had his head down and was pounding out the miles like a demon. I did my best to catch up, but in the end had to settle for my own company.

I spent some of my walking stints taking photos of the parched ground and small herds of camels. After negotiating another dried riverbed I reached the third checkpoint and was happy in the knowledge I had less than 5 miles left of the second stage.

The terrain became hilly and I took a measured approach to that last leg. Until, that is, I spied Matthew and James up ahead and decided to hunt them down. I reached them on the fringes of the final set of dunes, beyond which lay the third bivouac. Matthew was struggling and James was keeping him company (the two are old friends). They welcomed me and the three of us attacked the dunes as one.

At some point during those last few kilometres I lost my salt tablets. All of them. We had each been given a pack at the start of the event that contained enough to last us the duration, and having failed to close one of my pouches mine had upped and left. I was seriously pissed off. My companions reassured me that there were no penalties imposed for requesting more, but I suspected this would apply to people needing one or two. Not the whole lot.

As the dunes ended and the bivouac came into sight Matthew urged us to go on, so James and I upped the pace and crossed the line together. I was satisfied with my performance but the impromptu break and loss of tablets took the sheen off it somewhat. I headed straight to the medical tent to confess my sins and to my surprise they did indeed furnish me with a fresh bag and imposed no penalty. There was a great deal more tutting and rolling of eyes, however, and I left determined not to expose myself to their condescension again.

The whole crew were back when I returned. The top performer had been Richard G, while Phil and Mark had once again had strong outings. Looking around, we appeared to be the first complete tent again, for which we gave ourselves a hearty slap on the back. But as we were busy congratulating ourselves and preparing our sleeping areas the wind got up and the sands returned in earnest.

Having a full tent definitely helped things. There were enough people and possessions in it to provide some semblance of a structure and we were also able to pilfer all the largest stones from around the camp to stop the whole thing blowing away.

We rode out the sandstorm together, watching as one by one the unoccupied tents succumbed to the wind. It must have been disheartening for all the runners who returned to find their shelters flattened and we were thankful not to still be out in it.

It took a while to die down, but by early evening we were able to let go of the tent and leave it to stand on its own. The setting sun cast long shadows over our battered camp as we set about dinner. It was another gritty affair, but it did not bother me. I'd just come across my first portion of spaghetti bolognese which, while still coming out as lumpy orange slop, made a nice change from the curries and chilli I'd survived on thus far.

My messages that evening ran to two pages. I had half a dozen from various friends, family and work colleagues, mostly words of encouragement mingled with congratulations for my performance the previous day. _If only you knew_ , I thought.

That night we battened down the hatches in case the storm returned, and I reflected on the day and the lessons I'd learned. While I did so an elephant in the corner looked on; the 'long day' – the 50 miler – was less than 36 hours away. I resolved to enjoy day 3 as much as I could, conscious that it would be all too easy to spend the whole trip looking where to place my next footstep. One way or another I was going to enjoy this experience.
5th April 2011 – The Dunes Day

The sandstorms didn't return and I was greeted by clear skies when I woke at half five. I lay there fighting the need to go for a pee and listened to the sounds of the camp coming to life.

While tomorrow was the dreaded 'long day', this was another staple of the MdS menu: the sand dune day. Erg Chebbi and the poxy excuses I'd passed through yesterday were just a warm-up. According to the road book we had 16km of dunes plus two big climbs to negotiate. Times were out of the window. This was all about conserving as much energy as possible for day 4.

We headed out to the usual bluster and I found myself close to Matthew and Steve as the field settled down. We blitzed the first 5km, which were flat and firm under foot, albeit a little rocky. We then climbed a sandy embankment and arrived in a small settlement. I took a couple of photos and we were cheered on by some of the locals as we headed on towards the day's first climb.

The jebel – what hills are known as in those parts – was not particularly high but the ascent was a single, sandy track that forced everyone to assume roughly the same pace. It ended on a sandy col that linked two adjacent peaks, which turned out to be almost impossibly narrow. The route dropped straight down the far side into a wide ravine and the view was so spectacular that most of the field were stopping to take photos, creating quite a bottleneck.

I trusted my tent-mates to get some good pictures and headed straight over and enjoyed the sandy descent. It took a while for the ground to firm up enough to make it worth running on and a short while after it did the first checkpoint put in an appearance.

The next stretch was a tedious 5km of variably stony ground, followed by a small climb and a dried-up riverbed. Then came the dunes.

I'd fallen in step with another British runner who seemed to have taken the same, laid back attitude to the day that I had assumed. As the mercury soared we took on the sand at a steady pace. The next checkpoint was less than 3km away but it was clear it would be positioned such that it would only appear at the last possible minute.

As all hint of the path just trodden became swallowed up by a sea of yellow, I got some photos of myself in the midst of the wonderful scenery. This was what I'd come all this way for! I took on all the water I was offered at the checkpoint – I carried by hand any that wouldn't fit in my pack bottles – and we continued on our way.

The next stage was 6.5km – a shade over 4 miles – of constant dunes, and I had time to reflect on how difficult it was to judge distances out in the desert. In my mind I could picture 4 miles exactly, based on routes I knew back home. It would take me less than half an hour normally, but clearly the heat and terrain were making me travel much slower. Yet I didn't seem to be able to put a figure on my pace. I had no idea how quickly I was going or when I could expect the next checkpoint to appear. Usually I can estimate such things with a high degree of precision, but 'probably sometime in the next hour' was as good as it got.

Appear it did, and while I wouldn't call the leg easy I coped with it far better than the first day and was ready to face the next challenge. Which was a good thing, because the next challenge was the biggest climb of the race so far; a monstrous jebel called Foum Al Hopath.

I met Matthew and Steve at the checkpoint and the three of us set off together to tackle the steep ascent. It was a mix of rocky slabs and soft sand rising up through a cleft in the outcrop. Before long we came across a runner being tended to by medics and I gave myself a mental pat on the back for taking such a sensible approach to the day.

The climb was tough on our worn out legs. We'd covered over 100km of inhospitable terrain in not much over 50 hours and my delight at reaching the summit was tempered by the worry of how on earth I was going to raise myself for the long day. The view was spectacular, but revealed yet more dunes to plough through before the day was out. Matthew and Steve seemed keen to press on, but I was freewheeling and happy to let them go at this point. All I wanted was to conserve my energy for what was yet to come.

As I entered the dunes one of the helicopters made a couple of low passes and I waved cheerily at the occupants. In spite of my worries I was in a pretty good place. One of my fears had been that the soft sand would cause my ITB injury to flare up, but aside from a dull ache that I had grown accustomed to on my final training runs there was nothing.

I breezed into the finish six and a half hours after setting out and felt that all things considered it could have been a lot worse. I necked a cup of Sultan tea, collected my water rations and headed to the tent. To my surprise I was not the last one back. Mark had been having some issues with one of his knees, although it wasn't long before he arrived and completed our number. Once again we were surrounded by half-empty tents and we were delighted to all be back within such a relatively short space of time.

That evening, as I tucked into yet another packet of freeze-dried orange mush, the conversation turned to what foods we were missing. I was reluctant to join in, not wishing to torture myself with memories of the gorgeous pizza I'd had the night before flying out. Yet I think such talk is something every entrant has to endure at some point during the course of the race. So for my part it was pizzas and sausage sandwiches; salty, calorific goodness.

After a while I put my iPod on and chilled out while the others continued to debate their choices. The prospect of fifty miles the next day was weighing heavily and I didn't need anything else tormenting my mind. The tone of my emails that night helped to ease things. The impression back home was that I was handling things well and putting in a good performance. Put in perspective this was probably true. I was in the top third of the field and had established a rhythm that was working well. Yet I still couldn't banish thoughts of London to Brighton and how long and hard that day had been. The next day would make or break my race.
6th April 2011 – The Long Day

Waking up for the start of the long day was like waking up for the start of any big event. The worries the night before, the restless night, then the relief of the day actually arriving; it was like a microcosm of a race within a race. I was simply glad to be able to get on with it and not have it taunting me from afar. I made my preparations as I had done on the previous days, leaving others to get ratty with the Berbers for hassling us about sitting on our blanket for too long. When I was ready I headed over to the start.

The schedule was slightly different that morning. Due to the disparity in pace throughout the field, the top fifty competitors would be starting out three hours later than the rest of us – something which seemed a little unfair as they had already had much more rest having arrived at the bivouac that much sooner.

This meant that Phil, who was still storming along and riding somewhere in the fifties position-wise, would be out near the front until some time in the afternoon. For the rest of us it would be business as normal, although at some point we would get a chance to see the elite runners come past and cast jealous glances their way.

Patrick Bauer did his usual speech, giving us a flavour of the route, letting us know how many retirements there had been the previous day and wishing several of the entrants a happy birthday. Fancy having fifty miles of desert as a birthday present!

With the strains of Highway to Hell ringing in our ears we were off again, and I was surprised how many of the walking wounded suddenly found the strength for a jog in those first few hundred yards.

We were due to head west for the first three stages, then north for a while, then west again and finally southwest to the fifth bivouac. There were six checkpoints in all and the route took as close to a beeline as possible between each. The first leg was stony and rugged and I spent much of it swapping places with Rory as my run/walk overlapped with his more consistent slog.

Already it was hot and promised to get hotter. As the field began to stretch out I knew it was going to take every ounce of mental resilience I had developed over the past year to see me through.

I was the slowest in my tent, of that there was no longer any doubt, but such thoughts were meaningless when I considered why I was here. I'd invested thousands of pounds in entering the race and the _only_ thing that mattered was seeing it through to the end. As much as my competitive instinct tried to take hold, any thoughts about overall position were out the window. Simply getting to the end of the long day would go a long way to determining where I ended up, and as long as that wasn't in one of the medical trucks heading for a DNF I was on the right track.

I was turning these thoughts over in my mind as I passed through the first checkpoint, then suddenly I noticed Richard T nearby making some adjustments to his kit. After a steady first couple of days he had fared well on day 3 and was looking strong. I was surprised to have caught him but he had encountered a small issue (I struggle to recall what) and was about ready to set off again.

Within a mile of setting out on the next leg we had come to an understanding: we would look out for one another and keep each other company whatever the day threw at us. For me it was a massive relief, and I felt honoured that a chap with more running talent than I would be happy to do this. But then again we were both venturing into the unknown and I had my share of experience to bring to the party. One way or another it was going to be a long day so better to spend it with someone. Even better someone from your own tent.

And so we went, ticking off a mile at a time as the temperature continued to rise. We were blessed with a few miles of flat terrain with mixed going underfoot, which seemed to suit my run/walk strategy quite well. But then in the distance we saw the long line of runners bearing left and up one of the jebels. We were about to take on the second serious climb of the race.

It was a bitch; a real energy-sapping slag of a climb. A few choice words were uttered about the organisers for throwing such an obstacle into the long day. When we reached the summit it was nearing noon and we had barely covered a half marathon. Back at the bivouac the elite runners would be setting out and we knew it wouldn't take them long to catch us.

I was just dwelling on this fact when all of a sudden we met a small group of Berber children coming the other way. They were dressed in trousers and jumpers, had not a drop of water on them and, based on what we could see from our vantage point, were miles from any settlement. We were gobsmacked, and slightly humbled. There we were, dressed up in all our desert-ready gear, with our energy foods and hydration tablets, sunglasses, hats and gaiters. And there they were just laughing and pointing at us. I'll never know where they were heading or where they came from, but their presence on that rocky outcrop left a lasting impression.

We descended the jebel at quite a pace, down a twisting sandy path that opened out into a broad, shallow slope at the foot of which sat the second checkpoint. But according to the road book it was still over 2km away and the going underfoot was so soft that breaking into a run just seemed like an exercise in foolhardiness. We were therefore forced to stare at the checkpoint for at least another half hour as it slowly crept towards us. A line of runners could be seen leaving it, heading out across a vast, flat basin. Some of them were undoubtedly our tent-mates, a thought which spurred us on.

By the time we reached the checkpoint it was absolutely baking. The temperature was now in excess of 50ºC, although we did not find this out until later. The only way of judging seemed to be the rate at which the body needed to take on fluids.

After my lessons in what not to do with water and salt tablets on the first two days I had made some adjustments to my routine. Initially I had alternated drinking from my electrolyte and plain water bottles every ten minutes, and been popping two salt tablets every hour on the hour. From day 3 I had moved to taking one tablet every twenty minutes, during my plain water drink. This seemed to stabilise my salt levels and was probably the reason that I didn't end up face down in the sand on the long day.

The next leg was a mixture of dry, parched earth and areas of softer sand, usually marked out by camel grass. Aside from some small bushes with evil-looking thorns on, this was the only vegetation for miles around. We were in a wide basin with a couple of isolated jebels rising up from somewhere in the middle. Interestingly, one of these seemed to have some kind of transmission tower on its summit.

There were other signs of life too. As we walked through the heat of the day we came across a signpost for an auberge. A hostel? Really? We looked in the direction of the arrow and there did seem to be some kind of low structure in the far distance, but with the heat haze it could equally have been a mirage.

We then came across a well near a dried up riverbed. It was very old and, naturally, dry as a bone. We stopped to take a few pictures, then noticed a buggy parked a small way off. It was one of the camera crew. This could only mean one thing: we were about to have company. We continued on our way, but were constantly checking over our shoulders for any sign of the lead runner.

Eventually he appeared, and all we could do was stand and marvel as he ran past us. Ran, not jogged. He was going some. We were about 30km in and he seemed perfectly comfortable despite the oppressive heat. We had to applaud him.

There was still miles of flat, desolate land to plod through before we reached the third checkpoint and not once did we bother wasting energy in attempting to emulate him. We had reached the tipping point of the event. The next checkpoint was just shy of the halfway mark and to get there, having survived the worst of the day's heat, would be a significant milestone.

The checkpoint was hidden just behind a rocky outcrop that formed part of a small jebel. As it came into view and relief washed over us we passed the skeleton of a goat, picked clean by whatever creatures had the resilience to survive in such inhospitable terrain.

Richard needed a pit stop to sort his feet out and we seated ourselves in one of the Berber tents at the checkpoint and relished the shade. I tucked into a mini Peperami while I waited for Richard, then, much to my consternation, he brought out a full-size version and proceeded to chow down. Peperami envy; he was lucky I didn't get up and leave him there and then.

In actual fact I _was_ keen to press on. The lead Brit had just passed through and I knew that every minute we spent on the road ate into our eventual finishing time, which at this point (about half three in the afternoon) looked like being very late indeed.

When we finally got under way again the westward push was behind us and we were now heading north, through a cleft in the jebel and a down shallow slope to another wide basin. The temperature had begun to drop off and our break had done us some good, so we passed through the halfway point at a steady jog.

The road book told us that the next stretch was 8km small dunes and cracked earth with crevasses to watch out for. These turned out not to be the great fissures you get on glacial fields, but slight patches of subsidence and erosion – nothing to worry too much about unless you were passing through in the dark (a real possibility for some people).

The sun was making a definite bid for the horizon and we knew that shortly after six it would disappear, leaving us to find our way by head-torch. The temperature must still have been into the thirties, but the two of us knew that this was our opportunity to tick off a good few miles before nightfall. We upped our pace and began running whenever the going underfoot was solid enough to do so.

It went well, and before too long we had reached the edge of a dried-up lake with the next checkpoint barely a kilometre away. We covered the ground and wasted no time when we got there. Already it looked like a handful of runners were preparing for a night out on the trail, as some were laying out their sleeping bags in the Berber tents. It was never a question for us to do the same. We wanted our rest day and one way or another would drag our arses across the finishing line that night.

We were now onto the third and final page of the route, but still had a daunting 33km still to go; the same as the entire first day. First up was 7km of dried-up lake. Dead flat, dead straight, and with the sun rapidly approaching the horizon it was time to bust a move.

Richard and I pressed on, but we had not been going long before I began to feel a small but sharp pain in my chest. This was something completely new and the omens were frightening. Was my body about to crumble under the relentless exertion I was subjecting it to? For the first time it seemed like a real possibility.

I did the opposite of what I should have done: I kept quiet and rode it out. We were covering good ground and in the gathering dusk I could make out the line of dunes in the distance that marked the edge of the lake. I knew that if I could make it there our pace would be forced to slow and I would probably feel better.

It was a horrible half hour. For the first time in my life I was acutely aware of my own mortality. I thought about my girlfriend and how I had played down the risks of the event. Now all I wanted was to make it home to see her and that should have meant stopping. But still I kept going. Looking back it would be easy to be blasé about such things, but I'll happily admit that for a little while I thought I could be in real trouble.

I got through by focussing on my breathing and on running as efficiently as possible. I suppose a part of me was annoyed that having survived the murderous heat I was unable to let loose as much as I should have liked, but in the end we reached the dunes and I could walk again without having to make excuses. Pride can be a dangerous thing, but I'd like to think that in pressing on I was using self-awareness rather than blind stupidity.

A pick-up truck waited for us at the entrance to the dunes and the crew were handing out glowsticks that were to be attached to our packs during the hours of darkness. We took the opportunity to grab our head-torches out of our packs and slip them over our hats. From now on the trail would be marked by glowsticks.

As we set out across the soft sand Richard handed me one of his walking poles. I had toyed with the idea of bringing some myself, but had ditched the thought when I started looking at the weight of my kit in detail. In the end that pole got me through the night. The extra support and effort it permitted made all the difference, and if I was to enter the race again I would almost certainly take a set with me, not just for the night stage, but for the dunes.

It was now fully dark and we were pretty much at the mercy of the route markings and the glowsticks of the runners ahead of us. The road book had a bearing to the next checkpoint, but to follow it would require taking an energy-sapping beeline over the crests of the dunes. At times this was unavoidable, but it was preferable to take the path of least resistance when it presented itself and fortunately the runners ahead of us seemed to agree.

As we went we became aware that we were not alone. We caught glimpses of groups of Berber kids in the darkness, looking on curiously as we made our way through the maze of troughs. At one point we were forced up and over a crest and could glimpse in the distance the lights of the next checkpoint. It was still several miles away, but what was more apparent was that the glowsticks leading towards it did not form a straight line. Were the kids having a bit of fun and moving the sticks to disorient us?

We speculated on this as the minutes ticked by, but we had caught up with some other runners and everyone seemed to agree on which direction we should be heading. Not once did I bother to take a look at my compass. It would have told me to go up and over, up and over, and I had no energy for that nonsense.

It must have been approaching 8pm when we rolled into the fifth checkpoint, where we found yet more runners bedding down for the night. Again we barely paused for breath, so keen we were to get the nightmare over and done with.

Almost upon leaving the checkpoint our suspicions were confirmed when a couple of kids on a scrambler zipped past waving a glowstick in delight. Fortunately the dunes were behind us and the trail was now much clearer. The pain in my chest was now a memory and the only thing slowing me down was general exhaustion and the need to pee every few minutes – it seemed that with the sun gone my body was more relaxed about its fluid requirements.

We were following a pair of tyre tracks across stony but firm ground. Running wasn't really on either of our minds and we plodded on slowly, wishing the hours and miles to be gone and to be tucked up in our sleeping bags. Then up ahead we caught sight of something we had been looking forward to all day: A thin beam of green light cutting across the night sky at a shallow angle from behind the hills to our left. We had heard of the laser beam that was used to guide runners home on the final leg of the long day and it lifted our mood, despite being still a long way off.

About an hour out of the fifth checkpoint I passed another milestone. It had become the longest time I had been on the go in one hit, exceeding the time it had taken me to complete London to Brighton. I barely had the energy to give myself a mental pat on the back. I was knackered, my feet were sore and I was starting to get delirious. I was aware that I was swaying a bit as I was walking, but there was little I could do to stop it. I was exceptionally grateful for the walking pole, without which I would have ended up on my face on more than one occasion, which as it turned out was exactly what happened to an unfortunate Aussie who tried to overtake me.

I blame him for not giving me a wide enough berth. He must have noticed I was a little wayward as he was catching me up. It wasn't that I didn't know he was there either. I made a point of moving my walking pole out of the way as he drew alongside, but then when I went to place again his legs were still there.

I was barely coherent enough to mutter an apology as he untangled himself, swearing profusely, but deep down I knew that it was a story that would elicit a few chuckles when I recounted it at camp.

We passed through the final checkpoint at around 10pm and only paused to collect our water rations. It surprised me how many participants were calling it a night with only 10km to go, but I knew this would work in my favour when it came to the final standings (somehow I was still able to consider such things).

We now had the laser beam directly overhead and only needed to follow it to its source. The going was rocky with scatterings of the evil little bushes with profusions of thorns that would be curtains for our gaiters.

As the lights of the checkpoint faded behind us I found I was really struggling to see. I waved my hand in front of my head-torch and found it to be giving off very little light. I commented to Richard about what a crap bit of kit it was and asked him to stay close so that I could see where I was going. However, we were both in bad shape and forced to listen to our bodies. For Richard this meant alternating jogging briskly and walking, whereas I could only manage a steady jog, despite feeling like there was a stone beneath the sole of my right foot.

The end result was that I had to forge ahead in near darkness at times, tripping on rocks and kicking through bushes. I was sure my gaiters had had it, but I couldn't see them to check. During the times when Richard slowed to a walk and I was able to catch him things were better, but if I overtook him suddenly my shadow blocked out all trace of where I should be treading.

I spent a nightmarish hour and a half stumbling blindly through the desert, cursing my head-torch, the bushes, the organisers and pretty much anything else I could think of. The one bonus, if you could call it that, was that I now had an identical feeling of discomfort under my left foot, which led me to believe it was blisters rather than stones. Strangely this was a comfort as it meant I didn't have to take my shoes off to empty them out. Perhaps my gaiters were okay?

We were a not too far from the 80km mark when I was finally permitted the moment of mental clarity I needed to realise where I was going wrong. The battery in my torch was dying! That's why I couldn't see! Somehow my mind had already blocked out the stretch of dunes where I had been able to see just fine. I would have kicked myself if I wasn't so utterly bereft of energy and I called out to Richard to stop so I could see what I was doing as I changed the battery.

The deed took moments, and had I thought of it sooner it would have saved so much misery and wasted energy. Suddenly the way ahead was perfectly lit. Blindingly so. The difference was unbelievable. I looked at Richard and we knew that this was it: the final push to the line. We broke into a run.

After fifteen hours on the road we somehow found the strength to finish the day as we started it. We crested a small ridge and suddenly the bivouac from there. We passed the truck that was firing the laser into the night sky, but barely gave it a thought. We'd spied the finished. This was it. Long day done! Unbelievable!

The relief at being finished was overwhelming, but that didn't stop us having a little sword fight on the line with our walking poles. We then downed a couple of cups of sweet Sultan tea and some of the crew came and asked us if we were okay. We weren't entirely sure, but we'd made it and that was the important thing. When they were satisfied, we were given our water rations for the rest day. Rest day! How good that sounded.

Most of the tent were already back when we collapsed onto the blanket. Only Mark was unaccounted for.

No meals were cooked. It was all I could do to lay out my sleeping bag and climb into it. Within seconds I was gone.
7th April 2011 – The 'Rest' Day

Annoyingly my body clock roused me at half five in the morning. _Jeez_ , I thought, _some lie-in_. I had the overwhelming urge to let out a massive fart and it didn't take long for me to succumb to the temptation. _Hmm, that felt a bit weird_. I tried again. _Oh shit!_ Quite literally.

And that was how my 'rest' day started: sitting in one of the toilet cubicle tents with a written-off pair of running underwear. It turned out my body _had_ had enough of the abuse I was throwing its way. I was absolutely gutted.

I had been meticulous with my hygiene throughout the event thus far, using antibacterial hand wash whenever I'd used been to the loo and steering clear of 'high-fiving' any of the local kids for fear of picking up something that would disagree with me. Despite my efforts I still ended up with a dodgy guts, which I put down to a combination of the heat, the stress on my body and the diet of energy bars and Peperami that had seen me through the long day.

It took me ages to clean myself up, not to mention a substantial proportion of the hand wipes and bog paper I had brought with me. If I had a sustained bout I doubted my supplies would last.

I returned to the tent in an exceptionally bad mood, but was given a little lift when I discovered that I had not tarnished my sleeping bag. I popped a few Imodium tablets and slid back in, hoping it was a one-off and that I'd be all right in a couple of hours.

I dozed for a bit, then one by one my tent-mates began to stir. I couldn't not tell them what had happened. As distraught as I was with the situation it would have been bad form not to give them that little bit of amusement. After all, aside from the first day I'd fared rather well and had little in the way of blisters to show for my efforts – unlike James, who looked like he had eggs growing on his big toes. Not that they seemed to have slowed him down.

Mark arrived some time in the morning and we were a complete tent once again. His knee had been causing him problems and he had taken some time out on the trail to rest it. Clearly it had affected his overall position, but he seemed to have managed his expectations down to simply completing the race.

Given my current condition I had done the same. My bowels were making all kinds of weird noises, none of which indicated a return to normal service. I made several trips to the cubicles during the course of the day and they were far from reassuring.

When I wasn't on the bog I was lying down, letting my body repair the damage caused over the first four days. The others did likewise. There was no need to expend energy through unnecessary activity. As the morning turned to afternoon rumours began to circulate of a special treat in store: an ice cold Coke for each participant. After the trials of the previous day this was music to our ears, but there was no word as to when they would be distributed, if at all.

It was late afternoon by the time we found out. A truck pulled up in the centre of camp in the same spot where morning water rations were dished out. Almost immediately runners began to descend on it, as if it was a Red Cross relief truck in a famine-stricken village. It was amazing what a few days in the desert had reduced everyone to. It was probably the longest queue I'd seen throughout the whole event, but it was worth it. With the sun heading towards the horizon we sat enjoying a cool drink and all seemed right with the world.

We had barely finished when word reached us that the final runners were coming in, nearly thirty-three hours after starting the long day. It was race tradition to cheer them home and we were more than willing to expend a little energy joining in.

I had not been back to the finishing line since staggering across it around midnight. The final stretch was stony but very flat – far from the harshest conditions we had faced – yet as I watched the specks in the distance I quickly realised how achingly slowly they were moving.

I'm not sure whether I expected them to muster a final dash for the line, as Richard and I had managed, but there was good reason they had taken so long to complete the stage: Some of them were in pieces. An older chap in a Union Jack top was almost bent double, supported by a walking pole and a fellow runner. His face was a mask of agony as he hobbled towards the line and it was clearly going to be a bittersweet moment – he had no chance of continuing.

Also coming in was a lady from the tent next door, who had been hobbling around camp with her feet wrapped up in duct tape. Again it looked like her race was done for, but she crossed the line to huge cheers and rounds of applause. Patrick Bauer was there to greet them, as were the TV crews. I was almost a little envious of the massive show of affection they were receiving, having received little more than a pat on the back when I'd finished. However, I wouldn't have traded places for a moment. Despite my gut issues, I had at least been granted some time to recover.

The last person across the line was a Japanese chap who, again, looked pretty much done in. As he approached the line a smile broke out on his face and he placed his hands together and bowed to the crowd, before being swamped by Patrick and the crews.

I returned to the tent feeling lifted. These guys had spent more than twice as much time out on the trail as I had and I had nothing but admiration for their drive and determination.

In fact everyone who reached the fifth bivouac had earned my respect. The race thus far had lived up to its reputation and looking around the camp it seemed to be taking its toll. It was like being in a refugee camp in the middle of a war-torn country. Everywhere you looked there were people hobbling about, some barely able to move without assistance. People had strapping stuck to their backs from pack chafing (Phil and Steve had this and they were both using the Aarn pack I had initially trialled) and the state of some of the feet we saw shuffling past just had to be seen to be believed.

For my part, the discomfort I had experienced towards the end of the long day had been blisters beneath the balls of my feet. These were so deep that there was no real way for me to treat them, but fortunately the pain was starting to settle and I hoped they would not hinder my progress too much.

Sunset that evening was an absolute doozy and I made the effort to get a few photos before turning my attention to dinner. I forced down yet another pack of tepid orange gruel and kicked myself for the umpteenth time for not bringing more variety. Fortunately some emails arrived to take my mind off it and as I tucked into my dessert (a handful of Imodium tablets) I reminded myself that things could always be worse.

The tents around us were already talking like the race was in the bag, but we still had a marathon (the second-longest stage) and the 11 mile finale to negotiate, and with my bowels still growling angrily I was taking nothing for granted. Eventually I stuck my headphones in so I didn't have to listen to their inane chatter any longer. I was still pissed off that my rest day hadn't been as restful as I would have liked, and simply had to hope that come the morning I would be able to move around without feeling like a disaster was about to occur any minute.
8th April 2011 – The Marathon Day

I was forced to face the last big obstacle with an unsettled stomach. Despite my best attempts things still weren't right when the Berbers came to nick our shelter, so I had to abandon all hope of a decent finish. All I cared about was not suffering the ignominy of any accidents en route.

The first 10 miles of the day read like a giant hurdles race. There were three climbs of increasing size breaking up the predominantly flat land between the bivouac and the first checkpoint, then a fourth straight after. Strenuous activity was not exactly what I needed but I was just going to have to cope as best as I could.

The rest of tent 102 shot off from the start, leaving me to try and find a rhythm that did not upset anything further. I didn't feel great, but as the field stretched out approaching the first, modest climb I noticed some familiar faces from previous days around me and figured that I wasn't the only one suffering.

Five miles in I hit the second climb and was feeling pretty rubbish. I struggled to the top in time to watch one of the helicopters strafe the line of runners in the valley below before tracking sideways up the jebel that formed the third climb. I had to admit they had brought some top pilots with them.

The third climb was the tipping point for the day. It was bloody awful, and with my guts still making noises my mind was in overdrive clearing out its dark places. As I crested the ridge the first checkpoint suddenly appeared and I knew I'd need a pause to compose myself for the next section.

When I reached it I downed what remained of my water, along with yet more Imodium tablets and went for a pee. Strangely things had started to calm down during the descent, so instead of sneaking off for an al fresco number two I continued on my way.

The fourth climb was relatively sedate by comparison to the previous two and I was greeted at the summit by a vast basin with scattered vegetation and a small settlement in the distance. This was good and bad news. No more hills meant more chance of settling into a rhythm and ticking off the miles, but no cover meant that any sudden change in my condition could be embarrassing to say the least. It was also getting hot. Very, very hot.

I cleared the descent and found the going mixed under foot, which was probably what I needed as it made a run/walk strategy essential rather than optional. I knocked off a few kilometres and began to feel better about things. Some of the local kids had come out on to the trail and were offering 'high-fives' to all the runners. I declined as politely as possible, although I am unsure as to whether this was for my benefit or theirs.

By the time I'd crossed the basin and dropped into a broad, dry riverbed that would take me to the second checkpoint, I was surprised by how good I was feeling. My body seemed to have cottoned on to the fact that despite its best efforts I was still going to persevere with this running lark, and with the benefit of some heavy metal blasting in my ears I had managed to establish a solid rhythm.

This I continued beyond the second checkpoint as the temperature continued to soar. It was easily as hot as it had been on the long day, but I had no idea about the figures. What was more impressive was that in spite of this I was still managing to run intermittently.

As I passed some ruins up on a nearby hillside I exchanged pleasantries with a Jordanian runner who had been just ahead of me on the long climb on day 3.

Presently the route exited the riverbed and there were a few small dunes and palm groves to negotiate. There were increasing signs of civilisation all around, but it was hardly like running down Birdcage Walk at the end of the London Marathon.

After a small twisting section between palm trees and crop plantations the third checkpoint popped into view. I couldn't believe how well things were going. I now had 11km to go to the final bivouac and by the look of things it was all dead flat. I checked my watch and started to think about times again.

My mind was in calculation mode when I set out. I figured I had an hour and a half tops until I finished, which would bring me in around the six hour mark. I set this as my target and resumed my established rhythm.

It really was baking hot and the terrain, which for a time had become rather interesting, had reverted to barren stretches of stony, flat land, separated by towering jebels in the distance. I kept the music going and for the first time allowed myself to dream about the prospect of an ice cold beer when I was done.

The miles slipped by and after crossing another dry riverbed the ground began to gently rise. The road book told me that this was the final push. Behind this small hillock I would find the bivouac.

I pressed onwards, waiting for a glimpse of it to appear at any moment. But something else appeared, which I was not expecting: It was Matthew.

He was still going, but seemed to be in some discomfort. I drew alongside and the sight of a friendly face seemed to lift him. We had a bit of a chat and he suggested (or possibly requested) a gentlemen's finish. I looked at my watch and tried to judge our pace. I really wanted to finish inside six hours, but it was going to be tight.

He was finding running a struggle, so we attempted to up our walking pace. Moments later the bivouac came into view. Rather like the second checkpoint on the long day it was still 2km off and would be in full view, taunting us, until we reached it.

We began running in short bursts, not quickly, but enough to increase our pace. I kept one eye on my watch and the other on Matthew, trying to ignore gloating encampment and a French chap taking a dump not far from the trail. A runner came past us at a brisk pace. It was the Jordanian chap. This spurred us on further. My watch ticked towards the hour mark but the finishing line was now clearly in sight, less than a kilometre away.

With one last push we made it with barely a minute to spare. It was the third time I had crossed the line with a member of my tent, and for me that was just as important as performance or times. Such unique experiences should be shared with people and I'm glad I chose to stick with Matthew until the end.

As we headed back to the tent someone told us the temperature had peaked at 54ºC, and for the first time, possibly ever, I thought, _You know what? I'm not that bad at this running lark._ Given the way the day had started I really felt like I had achieved something of significance. I had completed a marathon in obscene temperatures in under six hours. The thought, and the smile it elicited, remained with me for the entire evening.

I had fully expected us to be last back to the tent, but we arrived to find that Richard G was absent. One of the guys had spotted him at a checkpoint receiving medical attention and we crossed our fingers that he would be able to complete the stage.

He arrived a little while later with a slightly masochistic look on his face, and explained that he had been forced to stop for a while because he had started peeing blood. Earlier in the event his pee had apparently been a shade of green due to the volume of energy drinks he had been consuming. He therefore claimed the dubious honour of peeing a traffic light during the MdS.

In all seriousness, his condition had been down to a lack of hydration and he had been given an additional bottle of water to sort himself out (incurring a thirty minute penalty in the process). He was gutted about this, but we all reassured him that the penalty was better than a DNF.

I was now able to all but banish thoughts of a DNF. Eleven miles separated me from a finisher's medal and I would crawl the lot if I needed to.

Before the sun went down I headed over to the communications tent, outside which the current race standings had been displayed all week. I discovered I was within four seconds of Rory Coleman. I had tended to be quicker than him on the good terrain, but he was a demon through the dunes and had smoked me on the long day. He was now my target. Beating a guy with that much experience, despite the age difference, would be a great achievement.

My insides would still have a say in the outcome of my race. I was by no means out of the woods and had exhausted my supply of bog paper. Fortunately I was able to scrounge some from the organisers without incurring a penalty, which was a weight off my mind as I settled down for my final night under the Moroccan stars.

That evening there was some sort of concert, incorporating some footage of the event displayed on a large screen. I chose to remain in my sleeping bag and hear about it from my tent-mates. I wanted to be in prime shape for the final push in the morning.
9th April 2011 – The Finish

I opened my eyes and already I could almost taste the beer, the pizza, the sausage sandwiches; all those things I'd been longing for all week. It was a great relief to down my final expedition meal and strip the backpack bare of any excess food (there was very little – I had judged it just about right).

It was amazing to look at the pack; small, neat and without all my bivouac clothing attached to the outside. It was a wonder how I had managed to fit everything in it in the first place, but it had done me proud and I wouldn't hesitate to recommend the thing. The majority of runners experienced some sort of discomfort from their bags, but Richard G and I got away with nothing. Thanks Rory! Speaking of whom, I was fired up and ready to give the guy a race, though he knew nothing about it.

The start for the final day differed slightly from those that had gone before. In order to better coordinate the finish the last fifty runners in the field were given an hour's head-start. This included the lady in the tent next door with the duct tape-covered feet who, beyond all expectations, still seemed to be able to move.

In addition, a number of the race's sponsors would be joining the main field in running the final (and shortest) leg, in order to raise money for the race's charities. They would be easy to spot: Clean-shaven, fresh-faced and without the white lines of salt that now covered everyone's clothing. As long as they kept to themselves I didn't mind. They didn't know what we had been through and 11 miles wasn't going to tell them. I hoped they were raising a lot of money, as most of the other runners I spoke to seemed unimpressed by their presence.

We cheered the final fifty off and then lined up for some tent photos for posterity. The Welsh and union flags that had flown from the tent all week joined us, and I unfurled the flag of one of my favourite metal bands, which I had been carrying with me (and using as a bandana intermittently).

Everyone was in a good mood. The ordeal would soon be over and, while I still wasn't taking anything for granted, that finishing medal was all but in the bag. As we clustered around the start line to listen to Patrick for the final time, it was like the first day all over again. All aches and pains and ailments were forgotten. This was going to be a battle charge of monumental proportions. Adrenaline was coursing and there was almost nothing left to lose.

By the time Highway to Hell kicked in we were all singing along. The helicopters were approaching and the countdown began. We all joined in, and as soon as we hit 'un' I floored it.

Everyone went hell for leather. I can imagine those who could barely support themselves on walking poles still finding something in them for a run. It was simply brilliant. One checkpoint was all that stood between us and the finishing line. No real dunes. No real climbs. Just a short, sharp blast into the small town of Tazzarine.

After a few minutes I put my sensible hat back on and slowed down to my well established run/walk rhythm. I felt good but there was no need to risk blowing up with the finish almost in sight. The only target I now had was Rory and I was pretty sure he was behind me after my exuberant start. All I needed was to keep enough in the tank to out-sprint him if required.

We crossed some soft sand with patches of camel grass, followed by a couple of dry riverbeds. Already the kilometres were ticking away and I had started to hunt down some of the participants who had set off an hour beforehand. I gave words of encouragement to every one of them, then before I knew it I was rolling into the checkpoint. The final checkpoint. This was it! The final leg!

In the distance I could see the outskirts of Tazzarine. I had five miles left. In my mind I could picture every inch of the distance. Berkhamsted to Apsley; the return leg of my out and back ten mile training run. I could cover that in 35 minutes at a push. It was right there.

Kids were out waving, arms outstretched for high-fives. The terrain had gone from barren to palm groves and small plots of agricultural land. As I passed the first buildings I saw James ahead of me. I gave him a few words of encouragement but was in no mind for a gentlemen's finish today. This was my moment.

Suddenly I was running through streets; dusty, winding and uneven, but it was civilisation. Then with a kilometre to go there was tarmac under foot. Oh how I had missed it! If there were road closures in place then some of the locals were ignoring them. Nevertheless dozens were lining the streets, cheering. A small rise. The road bent to the right. Then there it was!

I glanced to my left and saw a Japanese runner smiling at me. He nodded his head and, unfurling my flag, I returned the gesture. We sprinted for the line.

The MdS is an exercise in queuing; rather odd for something organised by a Frenchman. It was therefore fitting that the first thing that happened after my timing chip passed the sensor, eliciting a _beep_ , was that I joined the back of a queue. I hadn't even passed under the finishing gantry that spanned the street. Peering over the heads of other runners I could see everyone ahead of me crowding around Patrick, waiting for their moment to receive their medal and embrace him. A week's worth of blood, sweat and toil had led to this moment, so a couple more minutes wouldn't hurt.

The midday sun was still beating down on us and there was a steady clamour as more and more runners crossed the line. It was too much for some. Next to me a Spanish lady was in floods of tears, and she was not the only one. Everywhere I looked there were embraces, high-fives and tears being shed. Ahead of me I could see Matthew and when I caught his eye I gave him a smile and a nod.

I was done. The Japanese guy had completely rinsed me but it was no matter. It had taken maybe fifteen years but I had gone from that kid who loathed even the thought of going out for a run to finishing the Marathon des Sables. For me there were no tears. Only smiles.

An air conditioned bus, a packet of crisps and a carton of fruit juice. These three things amounted to a little slice of heaven. Tired as I was, I found myself unable to sleep an the way back to Ouarzazate. With the weight of the medal round my neck and some stunning scenery to take in as we drove along, I wanted to savour every last bit of this amazing adventure.

Next to me Matthew chose the sleeping option, and I don't blame him. He, along with the rest of tent 102, had run a blinder. Seven of us had finished in the top third of the field and had Mark's knee not played up on the long day he would easily have been there too.

It's probably the right moment to pay homage to the great bunch of guys I had the pleasure of sharing this event with. To a man they were determined, high level athletes, while remaining humble and down to earth. There were no squabbles or egos during the course of the week, just a friendly bit of banter and mutual encouragement. We were regularly one of the first complete tents back (and somehow I never managed to be last in) and were there for one another when needed. It was, as I say, an absolute pleasure to be part of tent 102 in 2011.

It was with no small amount of reluctance that I stepped into the shower to clean myself up. The pain, the ecstasy, every mile and every memory, was wrapped up in the sand, sweat and dirt that covered me from head to foot. I could style my hair without the need for gel and had the makings of a decent beard going. I didn't want to leave all traces of my endeavours in that hotel room, so as the yellowy-brown water worked its way down towards the plug hole I decided I would cling to my experiences for a while longer and not shave the beard off in its entirety. A week later it would be gone, but it was a souvenir that came home with me.
11th April 2011 – Homeward Bound

Following a rest day, during which presentations were made and pretty naff T-shirts were distributed, we boarded the flight back to Gatwick. I had my return train ticket in my pocket and envied the others, most of whom had partners or family coming to collect them.

We were treated to some spectacular views of the Atlas Mountains as we climbed out of Ouarzazate and I was buzzing at the prospect of getting home and seeing my other half.

The flight was short and uneventful and before I knew it I had collected my hold luggage and was heading for the arrivals hall. To my surprise I could hear cheers and rounds of applause as I approached. Families were waiting with banners congratulating their loved ones and any arrival who was looking a little weathered and hobbling slightly was receiving a hero's welcome.

I smiled to myself and reached into my pocket and thumbed my train ticket. My time would come soon enough.

Then I heard a voice call my name...
REFLECTIONS
The Aftermath

It was over a year before I ran another marathon. When I got home I ate pizza for a week, then spent the summer simply enjoying life, running a little and savouring the liberation of not carrying a pack around. I lost virtually no weight during the event but a couple of months later managed to shed 2kg and keep it off.

I have kept in contact with every member of tent 102. Indeed we regularly meet up for curries and discuss new challenges. Some of them have gone on to complete sub-3 hour marathons, Ironman triathlons and 100 mile non-stop ultras. As for their performances in the desert? Here's my appraisal (in finishing order):

Phil – Everything came together for that one week. Got his preparations spot on and reaped the benefits. Fourth Brit home.

Richard G – Pushed himself to breaking point and achieved a strong finish despite incurring a penalty.

James – Was consistently quick throughout the week, despite seeming to have the biggest pack out of the group (and the biggest blisters).

Steve – The organisers loved him (or at least his pack), but he remained unfazed and from a cautious first day became one of the week's most consistent performers.

Matthew – Seemed to have an up and down week; sometimes struggling, but otherwise cruising along quite happily.

Richard T – Started steadily and cranked up his pace as he adapted to the conditions. Kept me going on the long day then kicked on.

Mark – Set a stunning pace over the first few days but suffered with knee problems on the long day. Still somehow managed to smoke the final leg.

As for myself? Well, considering where I was three months beforehand, and what happened to me on the rest day, I'm just happy to have made it round.

Looking back I think I was, perhaps, overly cautious at times, worrying too much about conserving for subsequent days rather than tackling what was in front of me to the best of my ability. However, if the alternative was to give everything only to fail then I made the right choice. As it was I slotted in between Richard T and Mark, finishing 235th out of 811 finishers – comfortably within the top third of the field.
What Next?

It took nine months for me to come up with an answer. My trip to the desert was the culmination of so much time and effort that for a while I couldn't entertain the prospect of putting myself through it all again.

But during one of our tent curry nights James mentioned he was in the process of organising an event and I offered to test out his new website by becoming the first entrant. He was calling it the Ring O' Fire, a three-day circumnavigation of Anglesey, taking in 131 miles (exactly five marathons) and 13,695 feet of vertical ascent.

I had been starting to cast around for something to train for and this appeared to fit the bill perfectly. However, after so many months off I needed to get back into ultra training. I had an idea what I wanted to do and set about booking some suitable events to act as milestones. I stuck the Berkhamsted and Reading half marathons in the diary and having missed out on London I also registered for the first ever Milton Keynes marathon at the end of April.

Then I came across an event that really captured my imagination; a non-stop race from Carlisle to Newcastle following what remains of Hadrian's Wall. At 69 miles it was more than a half marathon further than I had gone before, but the concept of the race enthralled me and I knew it would be a good confidence-builder for the Ring O' Fire.

The six months up to and including my trip to Anglesey helped define my current running philosophy. It started in Berko on a horrendous morning in the middle of March. I had approached the race as a sighter for Reading, where I hoped to finally break the 1hr 30 mark. It was teeming with rain and really rather cold; hardly ideal running conditions. As I stood on the start line I decided I needed to go out hard to get my body temperature up. 1 hr 26 mins and 46 secs later I crossed the line.

It was just like when I had run the Abingdon marathon. With absolutely no pressure to perform I'd been able to run free and enjoy the race, and with my target achieved Reading became almost an irrelevance. As it turned out I knocked a further 34 seconds off my time there, and then I allowed my eyes to turned to Milton Keynes and the almost certainty of a PB at full distance.

Conditions at MK were possibly worse than Berko. I figured I was capable of somewhere in the 3:10-3:15 range, but having booked Abingdon again in October I decided to take a chance and head out at 3 hour marathon pace, then hang on for as long as possible. The result was the most monumental collision with The Wall that I have ever experienced. It came at about 18 miles and made the remainder of the race an utter misery.

I ended up with a new PB, but by a matter of seconds. Part of me rued the decision to go out at such a ridiculous pace, but the rest was glad I'd at least attempted a different race strategy, however foolhardy.

June came and as I lined up at Carlisle Castle for what promised to be one of the toughest single days of my running career the clouds were gathered once again. Within 15 minutes my feet were soaked through and for nearly 45 miles of road and hills they slowly festered and began to disintegrate. At that point I collapsed at the side of the road, took my shoes off and called my girlfriend.

This was it: my very first Did Not Finish. I had been in extreme discomfort for quite some time and could no longer see the point in soldiering on. The sun had come out, but I had been wet for hours upon hours and was thoroughly sick of it.

We spoke for a while as runners passed in their ones and twos, most offering gentle encouragement or assistance, and I told her I was going to return to the last checkpoint (about two miles away) and get my uncle (who I planned to stay with at the end of the race) to pick me up. Then as I rang off something changed. During the course of the phone call the sun had dried my feet and the persistent aching had subsided. I had a fresh pair of socks in my pack, so after a little first aid on the most shredded parts of my toes I got to my feet and soldiered on.

Within three miles my feet were soaking again. The course had taken me down a flooded footpath and there had been nothing I could do. But the cold water just numbed my feet, allowing me to focus on making up for lost time.

I am at a loss to explain what transpired after that. From utter ruin I managed to establish a rhythm that I feel I could have maintained well past the finish. Runners were out on their feet as they finally made it to Newcastle, yet somehow I had upped my pace to 10k an hour and was picking them off at will. I even managed a sprint over the Millennium Bridge in an attempt to grab one final position.

It is the single most baffling experience I've ever had while running and the upshot was that I evaded my first DNF.

As it turned out I'd just postponed it.

I admit I didn't do nearly enough training between The Wall Run and the Ring O' Fire. I had just moved to a new house (in Berkhamsted) and was focussed on settling in. I also went to Egypt for two weeks at around the exact point I should have been putting in some longer runs.

Nevertheless, as I arrived in Holyhead on the last day of August I felt optimistic. I was injury free and well rested, and with the MdS behind me I had a significant amount of experience to draw upon.

I set off at my usual run/walk pace and nailed the first half of day 1 without any problems. That was 16 miles with relatively little gradient and only an estuary crossing to negotiate (wet feet again!!). Then the inclines kicked in and my god were they severe! Up and down, up and down; the remainder of the stage was utterly relentless and took nearly twice as long as the first half. I was dejected by the end of the day.

After a fitful night's sleep I set out on the second, 64 mile, leg. My mind was already clouded with doubt, but with a 6am start I was happy to head out and enjoy the early morning light. Things started to unravel within a couple of hours. I began to get a niggle in my achilles and was generally exhausted, aching and not in a good place. I put on a brave face through the first checkpoint but things were not going well.

I found a group to run with for a while, but struggled to keep pace and had to rely on their poor navigation to stay abreast of them. Throughout the whole of the morning the north-east tip of the peninsula was visible and I knew that the third checkpoint was situated right on the end. That was not even halfway. This knowledge chipped away at me for hour after hour and before I even got there I'd made the decision to stop.

My feet were in a similar condition to when I'd broken down on The Wall Run and I gave them some first aid when I finally got there. I'd barely covered a marathon in 7 hours and I still had nearly 40 miles to go, with a further 35 the following day. Extrapolating out I would get maybe two hours sleep that night before having to start the final leg, if my achilles even let me make it that far.

As I sat there I scratched around for reasons to keep going. 'The challenge' didn't cut it. I'd been challenging myself for years but I felt the time had come for my ego to let go of the reins and hand over control to the more rational side of me. That meant 'bragging rights' was out too, although that has never been a motivation for any of the events I've done. The only remotely plausible reasons I could come up with were to get the medal and to avoid my first DNF. But that wasn't enough.

I put my shoes back on and resolved to make it to the halfway checkpoint before dropping out. My brother was in the area and would be able to pick me up and take me home, and I was glad that I would not have to hang around for someone to ferry me to the train station.

I had turned southwest and was heading down the Menai Strait towards Beaumaris, where my brother would be waiting. Facing a horrendous headwind, I was forced to walk the majority of those last few miles and that gave me a couple of hours to reflect on what running has meant to me over the years.

I've never raced for medals. I still have all of mine but they live in a folder with my race numbers and a log of my finishing times. Neither do I race for T-shirts. In fact I feel uncomfortable wearing those I've accumulated as I feel it can become an exercise in posturing and I'm not into that in the slightest (although I've got so many now that it's a shame to let them go to waste).

For a long time it has been the challenges that have inspired me. The temptation to go longer, further and higher has been irresistible at times, but I've come to the realisation that some itches won't go away no matter how hard you scratch them. There will always be another challenge and unless you make a conscious decision you'll never be satisfied.

I can understand those for whom running is everything keeping going; those members of the ultra community who run such events week in, week out. But running doesn't define who I am. It is simply one of several hobbies I have (and a fine way of keeping fit) and I do my best to find the time to enjoy each of them. This means I cannot realistically commit to maintaining ultra fitness ongoing.

It took the Ring O' Fire to show me how far I'm willing to go for a pat on the back and a few weird looks from my friends and work colleagues. I've proven myself able to overcome challenges most people would not even attempt and for me that is enough.

I've encountered some amazing people over the course of my running adventures. From the Japanese chap who was last home on the long day, to a guy who passed me on the final leg of the Druid Challenge, who had nearly lost a leg in a bike accident; there are some truly inspirational men and women out there.

There are also those who the sport could do without. A while back I joined a Facebook group that was being put together by ultra runners. They spent ages debating what they classed as an ultra and it soon became clear to me that it wasn't going to be short of elitist pricks who were happy to belittle others' achievements.

The proportion of the population that have run a marathon is not great. The proportion that have even considered going further, let alone attempted or succeeded, is smaller still. Anyone who has done should be applauded without question and anyone who disagrees needs a reality check. Ultra running is (currently) a niche sport and as such those who participate, even those at the sharp end of the field, are not going to get the same level of recognition as those in other sports. People do it because they want to push themselves and try something a little different. Whether they are going 30, 50 or 100 miles plus is of no consequence.

My mindset now is that I have to enjoy running or there is no point in heading out. In October 2012 I finally did myself justice and smashed a new marathon PB at Abingdon. At the turn of the year I ran Country to Capital again, but despite finishing twenty minutes quicker than before found the experience painful and not nearly as rewarding. A few weeks later I ran from my front door to Westminster Bridge by just about the most direct route possible. The scenery was not the greatest (until I reached Marble Arch) but the concept of the run appealed to me and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Come the Berkhamsted Half Marathon I decided to cause a bit of mischief by heading out in a mankini. It created quite a stir and I still managed a decent time, but the most important thing was that there was not a single moment where I was not having fun.

A few weeks later I pulled out of the Thames Path 100 after 38 miles of mud and snow. It was a miserable experience, but I was comfortable with the knowledge that choosing to drop out of such a monumental challenge was almost as hard as completing the thing.

Our story ends five years to the day after completing my first marathon. Having obtained a guaranteed entry to London through a friend of Matthew's I was back at the start line with the familiar pre-race jitters. But this time there were no worries about PBs or just getting round. The two of us had hired a pantomime camel costume and were doing some fundraising. Despite being an extremely uncomfortable experience – the weather being far hotter than forecast – we had a whale of a time and crossed the line in 5hrs 25mins with smiles abound. This encapsulates what running means to me at this time. Go out, enjoy it and if people have been kind enough to turn out and cheer you on, give them something to smile about.

So what does the future hold? The answer is that I'm starting again. In order to keep things interesting I've bought a pair of Vibram Fivefingers and I'm going to give minimalist running a go. I'm stripping back to basics and will be starting out with single mile runs to ease myself into it. I've no idea where it will lead me, but as is often said, it's not about the destination, but the journey.
And One More Thing...

Running has never been an obsession to me. It's not in my nature. I have too many other hobbies and interests that get in the way.

And I'm not the sort of person who finds an activity that appeals them and immediately goes out and gets all the (most expensive) kit. I like to work at things. I still don't own a GPS device and only recently have I started experimenting with compression-wear. If I like something the chances are I'll be in it for the long haul and am happy to put time and effort into it, rather than looking for a quick fix.

I say all this because it would be easy to think that someone who goes out and runs 150 miles in the desert must be obsessed with running. This really is not the case. Therefore if, like me, you are not obsessed with running, then that should by no means put you off giving something like the Marathon des Sables a go.

I honestly believe that most people could complete the MdS if they put their mind to it. The thing that will stop almost everyone from signing up to even a regular marathon is their mindset. It's all too easy to be overawed by the magnitude of the challenge and give up before you've even put your name down. From Race for Life to Marathon des Sables, if you don't sign up you'll never know.

What I've tried to lay out in this memoir is a long, slow learning curve with modest, achievable goals. I didn't start out all those years ago thinking I wanted to run the MdS and then structuring a ten year programme to work my way up from scratch. In fact I distinctly remember watching that Ben Fogle documentary and thinking I could never do something like that. But broken up into manageable chunks these challenges suddenly become a whole lot easier to digest. If you want to try something like this then I urge you to do it. But you don't have to rush out and get all the gear, train six days a week and try and reach such a goal in a year. Take your time and success will come to you.

I hope you have enjoyed sharing my running adventures. This has been one of the easier writing challenges I have set myself and it has been immensely enjoyable looking back on the journey and remembering all the little details that had begun to fade from memory. The narrative may have wandered a little at times, but this has been something of a indulgence on my part and I make no apologies for it. I simply hope that you have been able to sift through and find something useful, inspiring or enjoyable at the bottom. Whatever your aspirations or goals I wish you all the best with them.

Yours,

Phil Robbins

824
Fun Facts

Races entered: 33

Did not start (DNS): 2

Did not finish (DNF): 2

Cumulative race miles (incl. DNF): 931.1 (1031.1)

Marathon distances completed (incl. unofficial): 23 (29)

Longest single day: 69 miles

Longest time on feet: 15 hours 20 mins

Lowest race number: 23

Highest race number: 26739

Best ranking (numeric): 21

Best ranking (percentage of field): 1%

Worst ranking (numeric): 28,294th

Worst ranking (percentage of field): 83%

Funniest moment (for me): Tearing off my bin bags to reveal a mankini.

Funniest moment (for others): Sharting myself on the MdS.

Personal best for 10k: 39 mins 39 secs

Personal best for half marathon: 1 hr 25 mins 12 secs

Personal best for marathon: 3 hrs 14 mins 19 secs
Thanks For Reading!

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