Alex Haslam - Marathon des Sables diary

London 15 Jan. 06

It is funny how the mind can block out things in such a short space of time. This time last week I was sitting (well, collapsed is a more appropriate adjective) in my sitting room floor contemplating the sheer brutality of the first Heavy Pack March (or Beast) weekend. (Budgie has earmarked three of these beauties in the forthcoming 6 weeks.) For a total of 10 hours and 62 odd kilometres I dragged my body, laddened down with 16kg of weight in a backpack around the horse tracks of Richmond Park.

In what can only be described as far from ideal conditions for the riggers of the Sahara desert, I encountered icy northerly winds, snow, rain, hail. In fact, I was outside for so much of the beast weekends, you could pretty much name the weather condition and it is reasonable to assume that I encountered it; apart, of course, from 40 degree sun and 30 foot sand dunes. There are some things you just cannot effectively prepare yourself for with this race and living in northern European, appropriate desert conditions is one such thing.

Yet, as I sit writing this, fresh from a beautiful 90 minute, 21 km run along the river Thames with beautiful blue skies and my i-pod for company, I feel on top of the world. The brutality of last weekend never happened and the MDS for all of its fearsome reputation will be but a walk in the park.

The purpose of this diary (aside from being an outlet for me to put down all my rambling thoughts that occur to me whilst out running (and trust me, the coming weeks and months will provide a lot of thinking time!)), is to set out for posterity for myself and for those who may be interested in sharing the journey with me, a diary of the trials and tribulations as I prepare for and ultimately compete in the 2006 Marathon des Sables this coming April .

A combination of a change of jobs and the Christmas holidays means that I am getting to my training diary 6 weeks into it. I won't bore you or myself for that matter with a blow-by-blow account of the training to-date; but rather give a brief summary of the highs and lows experienced until now:

Weeks 1-3 (General Preparation) (December 5 – 25 2005):

To-date, this training block has been the most disruptive. A combination of factors meant that the first 3 weeks’ of the programme could be summarized more by a failure to achieve the target sessions rather than actually achieving them. Why? Well, the first problem pre-dates the start of the training programme. On 27 November 2005, as part the advised pre-programme preparation, I trained for and competed in the Florence Marathon. The race itself was completed in 3hrs 26 minutes without great event; however, two concerns manifested themselves as I came round the final bend in a rainy Florence to take – if not the chequered flag - then certainly a medal for my efforts.

First, was the rather depressing thought that in 6 short months’ time, I would not only have to be in a position to take on another marathon, but I would have to be sufficiently prepared so as to be able to wake up the following six days and do the same thing over and over again. But not just a nice 42 km run, far from it. These back-to-back Marathons would be in the most inhospitable terrain on earth, with all of my kit and food for the week. Don’t get me wrong, having a goal is the most effective way to train, and there was a lot about the training and the event that I was looking forward to. But at that very moment, as I hobbled down the competitors’ enclosure, medal in hand; I felt a terrible low at the prospect of what lay ahead. What accentuated the thoughts was that I had just completed the Florence Marathon, an event that was for majority of the competitors the culmination of months of training and effort. As they crossed the finish line, the starter's gun went off for a few weeks celebration, relaxation and a tapering off of the training. As families stood by waiting for their loved one to complete their race, to start their celebrations, I could not help but feel a little daunted by the fact that the starters gun that had just sounded in my head was for months of hard work and training. The MDS was not going to be easy, I knew that already. But having just dug really deep within myself to complete the Marathon, I now realised that the MDS would require an inner desire and strength that I wondered if I would ever be capable of demonstrating.

Although this problem did not impact my ability to train per se, it does give a certain insight as to my mental state as Christmas fast approached and I felt that I should be entitled, like the 15,000 odd other competitors, to be able to enjoy myself during the “Christmas season”. The second, altogether more problematic issue was a niggling strain in my right calf. The strain had manifested itself very subtly about 10 days before the race. Too low grade to worry about at the time, the 42 km of concrete and pathways of Florence had done it no favours at all. Accordingly, the following 3 weeks, rather than representing the start of my training, can be characterised by a few too many blow out Christmas parties and intensive physiotherapy to get my right calf back on track.

That is not to say I did not run at all, far from it. It is more that I ran without total regard to the training programme, within my capabilities, mostly without my pack (to avoid strain on the lower legs) and quite often with terrible hang-overs. Week 3 – typically a more relaxed “adaptation” week (reward to the body for 2 weeks of endurance) – coincided with my arrival in Malaysia, which would not only be home for the next 2 weeks but would represent a real chance to force my cowering, pampered, right calf out of hibernation and pick up on my training. It would also represent the only chance of any real heat training that I would get in the build up to Morocco. It was not the end of the Christmas period, but the parties were over. It was time to wake up to the realities of my programme.

Newly resolved, I stuck to the requirements of week 3 without fail. Pilates, running and the intense heat of South East Asia were dragging my body back into the shape last seen 3 weeks before hand in a cold and wet Florence. It felt good.

Weeks 4 – 6 (Specific Preparation) (26 December 2005 – 2 January 2006):

The humidity of Malaysia really took its toll on me as I started to get into the rhythm of the first week of specific preparation. I decided to make the most of my surrounds and try to incorporate some of the surrounding jungle into my Tuesday and Thursday heavy pack marches. One hidden advantage of being in Malaysia with my family was that it gave me the opportunity to introduce them to the demands of preparing for this race. Not having come from a family of ultra distance runners, for many in my family, the MDS simply represented the last bastion of lunacy on this planet; and therefore was beyond comprehension. However, as I began to talk about the race and more importantly head out on my daily runs with my pack loaded with weight my family began to appreciate and get involved with the challenge. The most intrigued was my father , who decided that he would accompany me on some the heavy pack marches.

The Malaysian jungle is as unforgiving as any. It is humid, tough on the feet and so full of things that can kill you that I did have pause for thought before I set off into it with a guide, my father, not enough water for the ensuing sweat festival and 12 kg of weight in my pack. The first heavy pack March was supposed to be 105 minutes, but it ended up a little over 2 hours. The terrain was so tough, up and down that despite near continuous walking for that amount of time, we managed to clear only 1.2 km as the crow flew. I was astounded as to how much effort was required to cover so little ground. Aside from the inevitable attack from the mosquitoes, the march also saw potential attack from a plethora of poison trees, cantankerous monkeys, and most disturbingly of all a rather aggressive Malaysian Jungle Viper. Glad to have the guide with me, was I?

The second heavy pack march accompanied my younger brother Sam as he tore up and spat out the local 18-hole golf course. Although a lot easier under foot than the jungle walk, being out in the open allowed me to get used to a greater pace and to marching during the middle part of a very hot day. Useful preparation for high-noon in the Sahara.

Although it felt good to shake off the injury and the propensity to hangout in London’s throbbing bars; I don’t want to mislead you into thinking that my arrival in Malaysia was a totally abstemious affair. New Years Eve, is New Years Eve, the world over; regardless of training programmes or pending Sahara Marathons. My final offering to 2005 was an aggressive 60 minute full pack run in the waning heat of the day; at a time when, like an aging rugby star who has not quite retired, the Sun remained full in the sky but its ferocity was all but gone. The run felt so good. The MDS would be a breeze. I was invincible. Only it turns out I was not. The hang-over that laid me low the next day was so acute and so profound in its manifestation that I was incapable of walking to bathroom, let alone doing the 2 hour run I was supposed to do.

That pretty much saw the end of my Malaysian training. As I boarded the flight back to London, I hoped that the 2 weeks of humidity and hill training would really reap their rewards when I got back to the cool flats of London. The second week of the specific preparation was going to be demanding, as at the end of it I could look forward to the first beast weekend.

Determined to make up for my dismal performance on New Years Day (or lack of performance, more appropriately), I decided that the 50 minute run scheduled for Monday 2nd January would be substituted by the 120 minute run that I missed on New Years’ Day. Notwithstanding a slightly groggy post-flight feeling, I set off in weather 25 degrees cooler than I was used to on a murky grey January morning to run from my flat, 12.5 km along the River Thames to Richmond and back. Although I moan about the cold, one thing I did enjoy about suddenly being forced back into – well, let’s just say, a less than tropical climate – is that I was now no longer losing a cool 2 litres of sweat during my runs. Once back in my flat I stretched off and decided to take a closer look at my training schedule for that week. I quickly realised that whilst substituting the easier 50 minutes for the longer run had made me feel a bit better for missing Sunday’s run, it was perhaps a mistake. The week had a lot of running and for the first time, the weights I was going to have to carry were getting up to race weight (10kg) furthermore, the spectre of the beast weekend, that seemed so impossibly far away when in the sun of Malaysia, was but 4 short days away.

Tuesday morning was the first of that week's pack marches. With 12 kg of weight, I had decided I was going to head off into Hyde Park as I thought that it would be a useful exercise to combine the pack march with a beating my feet up by trudging through the horse track that forms a large loop around the park. I had planned to do the march at some point after breakfast. What I had not planned on was jet lag waking me up at 0500. My body pretty much still in Malaysia and accordingly, could not work out quite why it was being forced to lie in bed so long into its day. Despite the strong protests, led by the brain, the body won the day and a little before 0530 I stepped out into the very dark, cold London streets, readying myself for a 2 hour assault on my back and feet. Now, anyone reading this who knows me will quickly appreciate that I don’t do mornings. As far as I am concerned, 0730 is the middle of the night, therefore I did not realise that 0530 actually existed until that fateful morning.

But it turns out that, as with so many other things in life, I was in the minority position. Apparently 0530 does exist and I was amazed at quite how many people are up and about so early in the day. Milkman, post-man, people who ply their trade on the money markets; I sort of expected to see. People taking their horse for an early morning ride in the horse tracks of Hyde Park I did not. For some reason I had presumed that the mass industrialisation of the 19-century had pretty much sounded the death knell for horses in the centre of London. I mean, I suppose there was some logic to the horses being there. After all, some sensible person working at the London Parks Commission (or whatever Orwellian name they afford to the people who look after London’s parks) clearly felt that there were enough horses in use in London in 2006 to warrant the maintenance of an entire horse-track in the middle of the Royal Park. But somehow, I had not put two-and-two together and I was continually amazed at these normal people out so damn early riding their horses!

The march itself was surprisingly easy. I had made a point of running through as many muddy patches, puddles and built up areas of sand that I could see in the pre-dawn light in an effort to beat up my feet and get them used to the awaiting rigours of the MDS. As I got back home a little before 8am (a cool hour before I had anticipated getting up), my feet were sodden, my back sore but the rest of me feeling quietly smug at having marched 18 km before most of London had even stepped out of their homes to face the day.

The rest of the weeks’ training assumed a similar pattern, with early morning patches blending into industrial sauna sessions at the gym and shorter cardiovascular runs on the running machine. If only I could continue the next few months without a job, the time demands of training would be easily achievable. Sadly, as I woke up on Saturday morning, anticipating the first day of the first beast weekend, I was also contemplating having to shave for the first time in a month and having to go to work.

The weather for the entire weekend was so miserably depressing. It was the sort of weekend where if you did not have to train for a Sahara marathon or 6, you would feel entirely justified in sitting at home watching TV. There were no redeeming features to the weekend. It was icy cold, it rained, the sky never changed from a sulking bruised grey and to top it all, a northerly wind ripped through you at chosen intervals. Perfect preparation for Morocco, I thought.

Over the weekend I marched with 16 kg in my backpack for a sum total of 11 hours. I tore through the balls of my feet. I covered just shy of 65 km. I burnt off nearly 4000 calories and for the first time in my training I went to hell and back. The only redeeming feature of the weekend was the first day spent with Emily keeping me company as I lapped around Richmond park. On the second day Em kept me company for the first 2 hours before calling time and heading back to the flat. From that moment on, with my feet aching I battled with myself, with the elements, just to keep going. It was unrepenting. I counted the inches and seconds back home. Finally, as the sky gave up any semblance of light and the rain became horizontal in the gusting northerly wind, I figured even as committed and dedicated a man as Budgie would forgive me if I called it time, 100 minutes earlier than I should have been out. I would like to think I have a reasonably strong mental fortitude. But as I trudged past my flat in the driving rain no amount of mental grit could have forced me to carry on marching into the streets of London for another hour and forty minutes. Slightly annoyed at myself and very, very, tired I buzzed my front-door walked inside and collapsed.

The week of the 9 January was an adaptation week. Having timed it particularly well to coincide with my first week at work, I was not only grateful for a break in the long distance running (I am not sure I cut a great impression hobbling into my new ultra slick office with the balls of my feet swollen and covered in blisters) but I was also grateful for a less pressured week in which to establish a route from the office to my flat (12 miles).

Week 7- 9 (Specific Preparation) (17 January – 6 February 2006):

London, February 19, 2006

Time is flying by just a bit too quickly for my Marathon des Sables sentiments. A full 5 weeks of my training cycle has passed since I last updated my diary. I can now no longer hide behind my “new boy” façade at work and in as many weeks time, I will be a week away from running the MdS.

I bought my race trainers yesterday. Well, I say bought, I ordered them. Everyone recommends buying trainers 2 sizes too big, due to the fact that your feet swell and you need the extra room, come day 3. After 2 hours in two separate “Runners Need” shops, we had selected the trainer – Brooks Adrenaline RT. On the advice of no less than 4 people in the trainer shop we decided to get size 12 (one size up, due to the fact that I take I am on the border of a size 10/11 normally) but get the trainers one width bigger too. So size 12, E. This, Rob and his team at Runners Need reckoned would effectively give me more room for swelling and the added width would have the overall effect of making it a size 12.5. Perfect. Did they have such a shoe in the shop? No. God I came close to finalizing my kit yesterday.

The fact that I am now so close to having everything ready for the race scares. My training is progressing well – the last few weeks have suddenly seen the training take on a slight pattern. The routine of it all has started to take hold and – worryingly – I have found the discipline of not going out drinking, slipping slightly. Not that I am out drinking a lot, the bottle of beer at night has become 2 or 3 and worryingly I feel that the next day. I am so body aware these days, the slightest alteration from the routine impacts on my training. The catalyst for the slight ill discipline was 10 days ago I turned 30. Despite my best efforts at making it clear that I did not want to make a big deal out of the occasion, Emily and my family had different ideas. So the weekend of 5-6 February (fortunately a quiet weeks’ training) was consumed with theatre visits, nice wine, lunches and smart suppers. Somehow this timely reminder on normal life opened up a rush of atavistic emotions and I slightly rebelled against the rigors of the programme. Whilst I can hardly say I have been on some bender not training (quite the opposite), I have recently been trying to accommodate some sort of social life and the training. Unfortunately I can’t seem to do it, so for the next 5 weeks I am going to disappear inside my shell a bit, get on with the business and emerge into the April sun with this goliath event behind me.

The first week of specific preparation after Beast I started with dread, knowing that I was kicking off a cycle of training that would culminate in the Beast II: 5 hours and 10 hours of what I could only imagine to be pain, hardship and, frankly, despair. Despite my internal protests I had to bear up to the uncomfortable truth that I have yet to work out a way of holding off time; so like everyone else in the world, I just had to deal with that Monday morning.

The continual gloom of January was getting to me a bit. I am not a typical Brit, in that I don’t complain about the weather the whole time; but I feel a bit justified in moaning about the weather we suffered in January this year. I think the sun came out about twice. And getting up on dark, gloomy January mornings was so hard and depressing. I am not a morning person (that much I have alluded to already). But the funny thing is about getting up early to train is that I never regret it. I always love sitting down at my desk with a coffee and some breakfast with my systems all fired up and running.

So it was that my alarm went off at 6.45am and I prepared myself for the first pack march into the office. I estimated it would take around 150 mins marching at full pace. However, what I had overlooked that morning was that there would be not enough room in my backpack for 14 kg of weight and a change of clothes. Clearly I could not walk around the office in my running kit all day, so I had to strip out some weight, which annoyed me intensely. I hate missing targets. But I had no choice. So I stripped 5 kg from the bag and replaced it with a change of clothes. However, the one benefit from this process was that I learned to run with 10kg. All the way to the office I went (12 miles) running with a pack which would (I hope) probably be akin to the weight of my race pack. Although I was not marching into work with 14 kg, somehow running with 10kg seemed a fair compromise and I decided that, actually it was not a bad idea to substitute one weekly heavy pack march with a weekly slightly less heavy pack run. It also made training and working more compatible.

So I ran in. Then I did a 70 minute run in the evening. Then I did a heavy pack march and a forty minute run on Thursday. And, for my efforts in between, I did a 60 minute run from work to the gym, followed by a sauna session. Although the pattern of heavy pack marches followed by middle distance runs was not a new thing to the program, the interruption of work, having to get up early and home late was new. Previously, my training had been the only activity and so a routine had not been forced on me because when I felt like running, I did. So, it was, as I got to the end of my first proper weeks’ training with a job, my body (whilst clearly unable to talk) was sending out messages to me letting it be known that it was decidedly unimpressed with what I was expecting of it.

This feeling followed me into the weekend and the beginning of the second specific weeks’ training. I found it very hard. The effort required to establish a routine was tough and I would find myself getting home at 10.15pm and realizing I had no food to eat. Sensing my disquiet Emily stepped into the breach and took it upon herself to ensure at all times that my fridge was full of food and my washing under control. To be honest, I am not sure how I would have survived without that help.

As well as raging against the lack of routine, struggling to train in either the pitch black or the gloomy grey London sky, as if to make matters worst the specter of the Beast II loomed ever closer. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, oh my god, it was nearly here, Thursday, how the hell do I stop time? And, finally, Friday: that was it. I had no choice but to do it. With a heavy heart I logged off from work and headed home, consumed with my own thoughts.

On Saturday of Beast II, I got up at 8 am, went to Pilates (on the subject of which, people who Pilates at 8.45 am on a Saturday take themselves very seriously. It is a lifestyle thing. Women are either pretty earthy or very “the wife of an investment banker”. The men who attend at that time are just odd (present company accepted, of course). Either way there is no place for a normal chap who clearly is a lot less flexible than most of the class. I think they assume you are just there to perv. Anyway, I did not care. What did bother me, though, was my woefully poor ability to bend. I was very clearly the poorest bender there and the fact that I was so bad merely served to satisfy their initial assumptions perving being the priority. I left the class at 10 am and the instructor gave me a look as if to say: “well, Mr. Pervert, I don’t think I will ever see you again”. She was right).

It was cold as I set off for my 3 laps of Richmond Park with 16 kg. But the sun was out the sky was a brilliant blue, London was in full Marathon training mode as the park brimmed with runners out breaking their new trainers, readying themselves for their race. The 5 hours and 32 km passed by relatively easily. I tried to walk in the horse tracks as much as possible in some pathetic attempt at simulating the sands of the Sahara and I had to maintain a constant vigil against my pace slowing to an amble as naturally I am not a very fast walker. I also set off with taped toes for the first time ever. It felt sort of strange to start with and sort of normal at the end. By 4pm I was in the shower and I really wanted to enjoy the days’ effort. To a certain extent I did, but the following day loomed.

In the end the long day of Beast II it passed off relatively well. A few text messages at the start from Budgie helped focus the mind. Budgie’s constant presence on this program is something that never ceases to amaze me. There I am, thousands of miles away and I would totally expect no contact from him; unless I sent him an email but there he is in Perth sending me text messages to pep me up, get me focused. His students in Perth are lucky in a way I hope that they appreciate. The man lives and breathes his job, it is so great to see (and be on the receiving end of). Emily joined me as we set off into the brilliant blue sun. The early morning rowers and joggers were our initial company. Then Kate Spicer joined us. Kate was running with an equally heavy looking rucksack, which meant only one thing: she too was running the MdS. We talked desert for about 90 minutes, before Kate set off on her merry way. Then Crispin and Mikey ran past, abusive as ever. They were on their way to Teddington Lock, so off they went. I saw them again as they were on the way home, abusive as ever. I was slightly envious that it was barely 12pm and they were, maybe, 90minutes away from a hot shower and some food. I was 3 hours into my 10. Not even close enough to call it halfway.

The only mistake we made on the way to Hampton Court was not to cross the bridge in Kingston. That meant about 40 minutes the other side of Kingston, instead of winding up in the splendor of Hampton Court; we ran out of river and found ourselves at the junction of Winnersh and Kingston; near surbiton train station. A very poor second. Back in Richmond with 35 km, Emily headed back to flat after a commendable 35 km of trekking. Now I was no on my own. My feet were in good condition and I was feeling okay. The sun was now softening in the sky and I was eager to cover as much of the non developed stages of the river before the sun went down and the muggers came out.

By the end I had nothing left to give. I was in a zombie state. I felt okay still, but I was no longer sure what I was doing or why. I just walked. One foot in front of the other, running down the clock; slowly circling around my flat in a way that I had failed to do on Beast 1 when the first sight of my flat saw me throwing in the towel. That still annoys me. By hour 10 I turned into the road leading into my flat and by hour 10 and 15 minutes I was a heap on the floor of my bedroom having covered a shade under 38 miles. I had done it and felt so much better than 2 weeks’ previously.

The next day I got up and went to work and talked about my efforts as though I was telling someone about the lunch I had attended on the Sunday. I am not sure many people believed me when I told them. I felt normal but I was not all well. At about 6pm a terrible foulness gripped me and I had to go home. That whole week, I lacked concentration and energy that despite the near total rest I took (a few short runs and swims). By the weekend, I was feeling normal again, normal enough to go running again and by the time the week of 6 February reared its ugly head not only was ready to turn 30, but I was ready to start training again. Even, looking forward to it: surely not?

Weeks 10- 13 (Specific Preparation) (6 February – 5 March 2006):

Two things combined to make this 3 week block different from the rest. First it was to be 4 weeks due to a weeks’ slack in my training program. This would mean that I would do: a week’s specific preparation, a weeks’ adaptation, a week’s specific preparation and finally a week’s adaptation.

The second thing manifested itself during the first weeks’ specific preparation. That was that for the first time the routine took hold. Tuesday morning (my birthday) I ran into the office and felt great (though running without the pack does feel great these days, I feel like I have a strong wind on my back the whole time) and the heavy pack march home was just off a run most of the way. I kept expecting the mental fight with myself, I waited for my mind to throw its toys and expect me to break the run down into bite size portions. But the flat arrived before any of that. Strange – could I have finally reached a tangible plateau in my training? I mean, I watch the progress I have made over the weeks and clearly I am improving. But for the first time in this whole process I suddenly felt like my body accepted that this level of training was normal. As if to confirm it, the run in on Thursday saw me shave a full 15 minutes off my personal best – all of that with 16kg of weight. This felt very exciting. But 2 weeks ago I completed a 40 miler and somehow took the sting out of the long stage. Now I was running to work with 16kg packs on my back. Could this race be achievable? The question mark remains: one can run forever on the even surfaces of a river bank. The desert was a different matter.

As if to underscore that point, that weekend I headed down to the South Coast to Dorset to do some hill and beach running. The rugged beauty of the Dorset coast line is enhanced by its sweeping cliff tops with dramatic peaks and rugged pebbled beaches. That sentence accurately describes the coastline of Dorset. It, however, does nothing to give you an idea of quite how brutal it is to run along such a landscape. For “dramatic peaks” read brutal hill climbs; “sweeping cliff tops” read viscous up and down hills and “rugged pebble beaches” imagine running across miles of slippery, uneven glue with a 10kg back pack. I was out for a little over 3 hours and covered just over 13.5 miles.

This was what the MdS was going to be about: the terrain. One could get to the start line and be jumping out of one’s skin with fitness. The desert will not reward that. All that effort will come to naught when the sand dunes rip through your core, sapping your energy and reducing you to a shuffling mess; whilst the sand unleashes its destructive best on your soft, swollen feet. That is what this race is about and anyone who tells themselves otherwise is deluding themselves.

The reward for my efforts was a week’s adaptation. My legs felt sore and weary so I decided to lay off all running, favouring the cross trainer and the pool instead. I also had two sports massages and by the weekends’ running (which I decided to do with an 11kg pack), I was feeling good, ready to take on the second weeks’ specific training and Beast III.

This time last week I was in a hole. Mentally, physically and emotionally I was stretched to the limits of what I felt capable of enduring. Yet now I feel normal but truly scared at the prospect that there is no Beast IV to worry about. Beast IV will be the MdS and as quickly as the previous three beast weekends have loomed and passed, so it will be the case with the MdS. It is close now and people who have not been very close to this event (i.e. not my family and my few close friends) are not quite sure if I have or am about to run it. It may be a small point, but to me it shows that in their minds “it was kind of around this time I would be running”. That scares me. After Beast III I went into a bit of an emotional hole. People are always interested in talking about the MDS, but right now I am fed up with the conversation. Fed up about thinking about it, writing about it, training for it. I have banned it as a topic of conversation from the dinner table. Don’t miss understand me, this is not a sign of regret. Merely a product of the fact that this event is my life and it is taking its toll on me, forcing me to question myself in a way I have never had to do before.

Beast III combined the extra distance of Beast II (and some) with the mentally kicking of Beast I. I had broken my back pack during the week (perhaps a bad omen) and Olli had leant me his. And as if the signs were not bad enough, on his way to our agreed rendez vous for me to pick up his rucksack, he ripped the shoulder strap off too! Fortunately his was fixable. But it required Emily to spend her Friday night sewing, which I am sure she really wanted to do!

The Saturday carried on in the same vein. I had agreed to do a 6 hour walk on the Dorset coast with a guy from work called Craig. We had arranged to meet at 8.15 am in order to be in plenty of time to make the journey down, do the walk and get back to London. At 8am, I leave the flat and get into the car – to my dead car. The cold had killed the battery. Were the gods telling me something?? Fate is indeed a cruel mistress. For the second time that weekend, Olli came to bail me out. Once down there, the trek passed off well. The terrain was as brutal as the previous time I was here but the weather was stunning. The bright blue sky and yellow sun shone of the rolling Dorset green hills, dusted with a light covering of snow. The weather was so clear that the water reflected off an inviting turquoise haze that tempted you to drop your bag and jump in. Fortunately the arctic winds served as a reminder that any attempts to go swimming would be meet with a fairly swift death. We trekked from Lulworth Cove to just outside Waymouth and back. It took 6 hours and I reckon we covered around 16-18 miles.

Back in London I went home and prepared myself for the big day of Beast III. Mikey, Crispin and James had agreed to come with me, which was great. We met at 8am and in high spirits set off for the final big walk. The route went from Putney to Richmond (spirits high), Richmond through the park (spirits drooping, the reality of what lay ahead sinking in but the promise of a snickers bar keeping us going); Richmond park to Hampton Court Park (the slight mental trickery of the fact that, although we were at the turning point of the walk to start heading home, we were in fact over half way in terms of time and distance, was taking its toll and people began dwelling on their aches and pains); Hampton Court back to Richmond (a sense of purpose to the walk and the fact that we had stopped, eaten something and taken our packs off served to lift spirits somewhat at the start of the journey home. James however, was in a bad way and was beginning the mental process of calling it quits in Richmond. Although totally understandable, to listen to people go through the process of justifying their quitting the walk can be very destabilising on your own mental state. I tried to block out his thoughts and focus solely on the fact that no matter how many people dropped out, the end for me was 13 Dryden Mansions and nothing before. In Richmond, James pulled the plug). Richmond to Kew (where James had stopped, Mikey and Cip started the same thought process. 13 Dryden Mansions, 13 Dryden Mansions, I kept whispering to myself as Mikey’s blisters took there toll. I totally understood the concern: whilst completing the task would be satisfying, it was not worth doing permanent damage so that one cant train in the coming weeks. At Kew, Mikey called it quits and Cip went with him): Kew to Dryden Mansions (I was now on my own and fighting the desire to join the others. My watch told me I had a little under 2 hours still to go. I was alone, it was dark and I was – well there is no eloquent way to describe it – fucked. Totally and utterly fucked. I kept trying to disassociate my mind from the task. I tried desperately to block out the total of the distance still left to cover. In the end, I just put one foot in front of the other until the flat loomed and then I walked in and properly collapsed. I then went into toxic shock and sat by the oven shivering. I cant really remember how I got from the kitchen floor to bed via supper. Em, as she has done every time, picked me up, fed me and put me to bed.

The walk was done with around 19 kg of weight in the pack and covered around 45 miles. It was the hardest thing I have ever done and unlike Beast II were, although tired, I felt very buoyed by the achievements, this time I went into a black hole from which it was the following Friday before I emerged.

Weeks 14- 16 (Pre Competition preparation) (6 March – 19 March 2006):

Christ on a bike: pre competition preparation. This is now getting real.

(23 March 2006) As I write this it is a week day and I am at home, ill. With 2 weeks to the day until we depart getting hit with a viral cold is far from ideal. I suppose it could be worse, it could be today.

The final two weeks of training went by okay. Mentally I found it very hard to re-adjust to training. Having done Best 3, I could not help but feel that my training was done. Although Andrew pointed out that I was over the hump of my training, I felt strangely at odds with feeling that my training was over with still some 5 weeks to go before the race.

The first of the two weeks pre-competition training went by with uneventful clock-work. I felt fully recovered after the Best 3, though I have to be honest, the fuel reserves were perhaps starting to wane somewhat and routine runs, whilst achieved perhaps took a touch more effort. With hindsight, the writing was on the wall: I was starting to get run down.

The second week witnessed a coming together of 3 forces that I believe led to my illness. The first point I have alluded to already: I was run down. The second force was work orientated. A deal that has been 3 months in the making exploded Friday 3 March 2006 with the knock on consequences that meant I was working very hard, late into the night. This meant I was forced to snatch at my training as and when I could. Determined not to miss too many sessions, I found myself getting up early with less sleep than I should have, and running to work. The Tuesday and Thursday pack runs were condensed into Wednesday and Thursday. The third and killing consequence was that for the –god knows how many consequtive weeks – Southern England was gripped with the most prolonged cold snap that I can remember. It was continually cold and bitter (my last pack run to work was shared with sleet and snow flakes). Don’t misunderstand me. I live in England where we have a generally temperate climate: when it is hot, it is never too hot and when it is cold, it is never too cold. So when I say “cold snap” I don’t want to leave you with the impression that I was running head long into blizzards of driving snow, but the temperatures continually hovered around the 0-4 degree c mark.

As I became increasingly tired with the week, I became less prepared for my runs: I forgot my hat one morning, my gloves the next and so on. So there I was, run-down, tired and training in a continual cold snap. It is hardly surprising therefore that I woke up Friday last with a filthy cold that got progressively worse over the weekend such that by Tuesday night it was clear that if I was to fend off full blown flu, I would have to stay at home and recover. Practically marched out of the office by my assistant CF, I was told in no uncertain terms that Monday was when I was expected back at work – AND NOT BEFORE.

I think I could have avoided getting ill. When training for an event like this, there is a very real danger that you lose sight of the objective of training as you become increasingly obsessed with “hitting your targets”. At some point in the process you stop appreciating that the process becomes as destructive as not entering into the process at all. The power of doing nothing and letting your body recover is something I have learnt during this journey, but I lost sight of it at the very end. I should have stopped training and picked it up at a later point. Recognising all of this wisdom I was at the weekend – and am still now as I write – gripped with a desire to train. My body is no longer used to doing nothing. There was also the psychological side to thing. Sunday was my final full training session and in terms of the psychological kicker of actually achieving the run, I really wanted to go. It was such a sunny day on Sunday, for the first time in weeks I did not have any real commitments. The day before I had bought (most of) the rest of my kit and I wanted to try out the sunglasses for comfort. So I over-rode my instinct and ran. It was a lovely run, the creeping tiredness in my legs had not gone away, and for the first 7 miles my breathing made me feel like I had never run before, but on the positive side: I had a 12 kg pack on, which felt normal and I mentally had to stop myself from running on. I knew I could have covered 30 miles there and then, but I stopped myself at 20.

This week’s adaptation week has been a total rest. I am in 2 minds about going to the gym now for a light work out. But since Sunday I have done nothing. I will run in Wales this weekend and then I have 10 days of taper.

I suppose that this will be my last diary entry before the race. With 2 weeks of taper there will not be much to write about and I know that time will just run away with me before I leave. It is hard to sum up how I feel about the challenge ahead or indeed the journey so far with out sounding hackneyed and cliché. There is something about this race that forces those who live it and compete in it to write about it only using superlatives: the toughest, the greatest, the hardest and so on. The combined effect could almost come across as hyperbole; and I am no different, so bare with me.

The training has been harder than I imagined possible. I have had to totally sacrifice my life outside of work and training. Worst, I have had to rely heavily on but a few people, forcing – not asking, forcing – them to prop me up as I spent day after day, weekend after weekend training. Notably Emily, who has had to put up with me so tired I can’t speak, who has had to ensure that my fridge was always full of food to sustain my voracious eating habit. All of which was done with little complaint or expression of frustration. My gratitude to her and to others who have supported me – especially my assistant CF, who has been so enthusiastic in raising the awareness of the MDS within the office and in helping me sort out my kit and Iain my sports therapist who’s sessions on the massage table have been quasi counseling sessions and finally Budgie, whose generosity and spirit has not only got me to where I am today, but has helped sewed the seeds of belief that perhaps I can achieve this race – cannot easily be put into words.

The MDS has been surprising in many ways. First I have surprised myself at how I have performed in the training. Touch wood, no injuries, I have hit the big milestones with effort but not exertion, and I have always picked myself up mentally and taken on the next stage with the same effort as the previous. I have also been touched by the kindness the race seems to bring out of people. I have alluded to 4 people in particular above, but so many others that I have come across in training for the event have moved me by their generosity. Seeing such kindness of human spirit has been invigorating and extremely gratifying and regardless of how I do in the race, those that have touched me will remain with me forever.

I am excited about the MDS. I have thought about the race for at least 4 years and to find myself on the cusp of running it is exciting. It will feel even more surreal to get out there and start the race. And for that reason, I cannot wait. I said to Crispin last January: “we have thought about this race for such a long time, it is time to either do it or be satisfied that we will never run it, and be done with it.” The truth is, there was only one course available to us and that is the one I find myself on now. It could be no other way.

Although I am excited, I am in equal measure scared. Of what exactly is hard to express. On a more mundane level, I am fearful that I will have insufficient kit for the race. I always remember watching a programme on some guy who set off to row the pacific and a day into his race realized he had forgotten his tin opener and half his food was useless. Where is my tin-opener moment in this race? I don’t know and that scares me. But my real fear is on a deep level than that. I know this race will be tough, I can emotively tell you now it will be the toughest thing I will ever do. But what I don’t know is what that actually means and how I will react when faced with the circumstances that will form the aspects of this race that make it so tough. Adversity is guaranteed, what it is and how I will deal with it, I don’t know. And that scares me.

Unfortunately, the only way to find out is by going into the bear pit and next time I write, I will have come out the other-side. Who knows what I will write. The MDS is many things to many people and I don’t yet know what it is to me, I have an idea, but I don’t know. Whatever people think about it, I think the quote at the top of this page is an epithet that best describes the mindset of the people who dare to compete in it:

“Only those who risk going too far will know how far they can go”

To read more about the Marathon des Sables click here.

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