Marathon des Sables - 250 Km

Posted on June 26th, 2018

Words & Photos: Filippo Canetta

The Marathon des Sables isn't a race.

That's the first thing Paolo (editor's note: Zubani, the MdS Italy contact, on his 30th edition) told me the moment we reached the bivouac, "if you're here for a race, you haven't understood a damn thing." And, as always, I hadn't understood a damn thing!

In the short time before the start, I did my best to prepare physically. I got to the point of running two hours straight at over ten km/h, seven kilos on my back, on the treadmill, at thirty degrees. A pretty horrifying sight for anyone watching me at the gym. (See the article on treadmill training)

One day I ran to the office and back with the backpack, which by now feels like an extension of my own back. Thirty-four kilometers there, thirty-four back, almost as long as the eighty-six-kilometer stage on day four of the race.

Over one week, I manage to fit in a hundred and ninety kilometers with only a single rest day.

I feel ready.

Instead, stupidly, I'd completely neglected everything related to managing self-sufficiency for the seven days of racing.

Two days before departure, panic hits.

I'd ordered a few mandatory gear items online that are taking forever to arrive, I've only tried the gaiters on once, I haven't treated my feet to prevent sand blisters, I've never actually run with the backpack fully loaded with everything needed for seven days, and I still need to finish prepping my food, most importantly, figuring out how to actually fit it all into the backpack.

I'm so behind schedule that it's no longer about trying to cut weight, just about trying to bring everything I might need, so I don't end up too hungry during the day, or too cold at night.

With ten minutes left before the Malpensa Express departs, I finally decide to pack the backpack with everything I'd planned. Everything's so compressed that, as I struggle to zip up the main compartment, a vacuum-sealed food pouch bursts, coating the entire third day's food supply in grease. I try washing everything off and re-vacuum-sealing the food, but will it still be edible five days from now? I miss the train, and let the rest of the Italian team know I'm running late.

We finally reach Ouarzazate at two in the morning, and, after just a few hours, board the bus that takes us to the bivouac. Whatever happens, happens, I've made so many sacrifices, and now I want to fully live this adventure. Morocco's light and clean air are magnificent, and they help ease the thousand anxieties gripping me.

The bivouac is very basic, we settle in under our Berber tent, each of us wrestling with our own doubts and thoughts. Everyone here has their own personal reason for being here, and it remains to be seen whether that motivation will be enough to carry us all the way to the finish of stage six.

We spend the first night with our suitcase still on hand, the one we'll hand over the next day. On one hand, it lets us evaluate what we might still need, on the other, it keeps feeding doubts about what to bring. Sure enough, the following day I unpack and repack my backpack another forty times, before finally the moment of the equipment check arrives. Mine turns out to be one of the heaviest, eight kilos seven hundred grams, without camera or water, meaning at the start it'll easily hit ten kilos.

It's the key moment of the whole thing. I switch off my phone and leave it behind. I can't remember another time I've felt so disconnected from the rest of the world, and from work. Luckily, I've brought along products I trust. Whatever's in my backpack is what has to last me seven days, if I forgot something, I'll just have to figure it out, if I've got too much, I'll have to carry the extra weight. There's something reassuring, in a way, about that certainty, and, oddly enough, I drift off to sleep at peace, with the starry sky pressed right against my face.

The night stays warm until two, then the cold hits me, I realize my gear's inadequate, and decide to bring along the cotton t-shirt I'd planned to give to the guys who dismantle the camp. Room service isn't exactly great, at five, they wake us by yanking the tent's canvas off our heads, in a cloud of dust, and we're left in our sleeping bags, on the sand, surrounded by dust. There's not even time to complain before everyone starts heading toward the start.

The first stage is the easiest, on paper at least, I try to find my rhythm without getting crushed by the backpack. Everyone around me runs incredibly fast and light. Every time the sand gets softer, I sink, and no matter how hard I push, I can't seem to move forward. It's pretty frustrating. I start to suspect the others have inflated their backpacks with helium from carnival balloons.

I watch the battle for the top spots in the women's ranking unfold. It looks like watching wild cats circle each other before the final showdown. At the stage finish, there's a plot twist that ends up shaping the standings, a backpack check is carried out, and the first-place finisher gets penalized for missing mandatory gear, while the second-place athlete, carrying a bigger backpack than her own, has everything required, and the third arrives alongside a male competitor helping her out. I leave the check-in area disgusted and head to our tent with my four water bottles, the camp's still empty, the desert silence beautiful, and the moment I finally take off my backpack, collapsing onto the ground, magical. Maybe, I think, that alone is worth it.

One by one, everyone from our three tents trickles in, each on their own schedule, but all wearing the smile of someone who can check a stage off their roadbook. To be honest, gripped by an irrational urge to lighten my backpack, I tear out the pages covering stage one and use them to light the fire, best Pacific Crest Trail hiker tradition style.

Before darkness sets in, we gather under our tent for dinner. Each person follows their own fueling strategy, ranging from purely liquid, astronaut-inspired meals, to beer paired with spicy sardines. We all try to share the choicest item from our own stash with each other. Eight people, strangers to one another, wildly different, yet ready to do whatever it takes to help each other out. As the sun sets, the camp falls silent, and everyone tries to make peace with their own thoughts before drifting off to sleep.

At night, it's cold, really cold. Around four, I wake up, unable to fall back asleep, I put on everything I have, and zip myself into the sleeping bag, leaving only a small gap open to breathe through my nose.

The second stage is one of the toughest, deep sand, tall dunes, strong wind, unsurprisingly, still blowing against us, and the crossing of Jebel El Otfal. As planned, I really struggle toward the end. I don't feel the slightest bit lighter from having eaten yesterday's food, if anything, the backpack feels heavier. I grit my teeth, focused purely on reaching that damned black tarp so I can finally take the backpack off.

The camp's battered by strong wind, even lying down becomes a struggle, since sand carried by the gusts finds its way into everything. And when I say everything, I really do mean everything. But by now, the race's spirit has taken hold of us, turning us into perfect Tuaregs, and nobody even notices anymore.

The wind shows no sign of easing, if anything, it grows fiercer, and at two in the morning, in a full-blown sandstorm, it manages to rip a few tents clean off, sending them flying, forcing the organization to take down every pole, pinning the canvas over competitors' heads with stakes instead. The situation borders on claustrophobic, but at least the sand's stopped burying us. The next day, as if nothing had happened, once the sun rises, we crawl out from under the canvas, ready to run again. It's as if something ancestral had woken up in us, a primal instinct that, the moment we're awake, has us ready to chase down prey, chase our dreams, or run right at our demons.

I'm starting to understand the MdS isn't just a self-sufficient stage race across the desert...

On the third day, the course turns rockier, with climbs, descents, and ridge sections. Luckily, the desert isn't just sand, it's also home to some magnificent rock formations. The view from atop the jebels is stunning, and it reminds me just how small we are, out here in the desert. I start to realize how little the organization has compromised on logistics over the race's thirty-three editions, dropping us right into the heart of the Sahara. Our isolation from civilization is total, in fact, for seven days, we don't encounter a single human settlement. I'm sure I'll pay dearly for this burst of euphoria tomorrow, on the longest stage, but I'm having the time of my life, finally, on solid ground I can actually push off from.

Sure enough, maybe because I'm starting with the second wave, on stage four I really feel the heat. When we set off, the camp's already fully dismantled, side by side, we set off behind a line drawn in the ground, the only remaining mark of our passage. After the first twenty kilometers, I'm forced to slow down noticeably. I watch heat waves rising off the ground, I can't eat, the food I've got feels scarce, inadequate for a stage this long. Instead of trying to push back, I let dark thoughts get into my head. I'm scared, I have to admit it, scared I miscalculated something, scared I won't make it. I move painfully slowly, the kilometers through the sand feel endless, running in these conditions seems impossible. At every checkpoint, I dump one of my two bottles over myself to bring my temperature down, stop to enjoy the momentary relief, and lose track of the time slipping by. The wind that's been blowing in our faces for three days is completely gone now. I've stopped fighting. Stupidly, I keep dwelling on how many kilometers remain, and that after those, there's still the final leg, marathon-length, waiting. When, finally, the sun sets and night falls, I try to push back against my fears. Wouldn't you know it, right then a strong headwind picks up, scooping buckets of sand off the dunes and flinging them straight into my face. The scene grows even more unsettling under my headlamp's beam, illuminating sand sweeping horizontally toward me like a veil between me and the desert. I'm forced to put on sunglasses and crank the light up to full power. For a moment, I wonder how all this sand I'm breathing in will ever make its way back out of my body, but I realize it's better not to think about it. As often happens, once I realize that, despite everything, I actually can make it, in the final twenty kilometers I start running again, immediately realizing I'd stupidly caved to fear.

I'd messed up on exactly the stage that was supposed to suit me best. Here too, I hadn't understood a damn thing. All I care about now is watching every member of the Italian team come across the line. Over two hundred kilometers now lie behind our shoes, and it draws smiles onto all our gaunt faces. The finish doesn't feel so far off anymore.

In the hours before the final stage, we polish off what's left of our food supplies, trying to bank as much energy as possible for that last push.

I can't fall asleep, conflicting thoughts crowd my mind, I climb out of the sleeping bag to clear my head in the cold night air. The darkness is undisturbed by any artificial light, the moon hasn't risen yet, I look up, and the night sky is right there, inches from my face. It's disarmingly beautiful, stars, constellations, nebulae I'd never seen before, it feels like being inside one of those glittery snow globes. This is one of those moments, when you understand exactly where you belong in the world, and reconnect with nature, with your own nature.

I've stopped caring about the standings entirely, I don't even check them anymore, on the final day I run as hard as I can purely for myself, and cross the finish of the last timed stage, satisfied with having given my best. I stop for hours, watching finishers come in, and I see more tears in the eyes of the last ones than the first. The next day, all that's left is a collective walk through the dunes, mandatory, but untimed.

It'll be genuinely hard returning to everyday life after an experience like this.

Moving through the desert on foot, day after day, carries something ancestral, living on little, without electricity, running water, phones, waking with the sunrise, falling asleep as it sets, sharing both the hardest moments and the most wonderful ones with others, it's a genuine return to humanity's origins.

The MdS really isn't just a race, and now, I finally understand that too.

P.S.: for an entire week, day and night, I wore our HAWAII II TECH T-SHIRT, our BRYCE SHORTS and our ENDURANCE CAP. A bit dusty, but they held up brilliantly.