Now in its 13th year, the Marathon des Sables, dubbed "the toughest foot race on earth", is a "self sufficient" race of approximately 145 miles run over six stages across the Sahara desert of Southern Morocco. The competitors are required to carry everything they need for the duration of the race, including their food, in backpacks. The organisers supply only 9 litres of water per c competitor per  day, an open sided 'berber' tent and basic medical care. The route is kept secret until two days before the start when "roadbooks" containing race details are distributed to competitors. The price to a British competitor for the privilege of entry is £1,900, exclusive of any specialised equipment needed for the race.

In April 1997, much to the astonishment of my family and friends, 2¹/₂ stone overweight, unfit and approaching 40, I decided to enter the 1998 Marathon des Sables. I had been inspired by Chris Moon who, despite having lost a leg and a hand in a landmine explosion two years earlier, had competed in and finished the 1997 race. When I lined up for the start of the 1998 race I was 3 stone lighter, very fit but, regrettably, even closer to 40. The evening before my departure for Morocco I had met Chris at a charity function. He was typically forthright in his advice which, if followed, he said would get me through the race. He advised:-

• at no time believe you will not finish;

• if tired or dizzy, slow down;

• take a drink every 4 to 5 minutes; and

• make sure your morning "pee" is clear (the best indication that the body is properly hydrated).

His advice was to serve me well.

Checking in for the flight to Morocco, my fellow runners were instantly recognisable. With their carefully packed and weighed marathon runners' rucksacks (which most were refusing to commit to the baggage hold of the Royal Air Maroc aircraft), there was no mistaking them. The runners came from all walks of life and ranged from teams entered by the Royal Marines and the Parachute Regiment to a 58 year old grandmother from Kent. I was later to discover that other countries had fielded two blind runners and one with an artificial leg. I was the only representative from the UK legal profession. It was difficult to believe that after a year's training, preparation and fundraising for the Variety Club Children's Charity (the charity benefitting from my efforts), the adventure was finally about to start.

30 hours later, having been bussed out to the start, 200km from the Moroccan town of Ouarzazate, I was lying in an open-sided berber tent consisting of no more than a few pieces of hessian sacking sewn together and placed over strategically placed wooden sticks, trying to get some sleep as the cold desert wind whistled in. The tent, which I shared with 7 other competitors (including 3 other Britons - Roddy, Miles and Chris - who made up a team supporting the RNLI) was to be my home for the next seven days, albeit demolished at 6am every morning (irrespective of whether any of us were still sleeping) and rebuilt at 5 other locations along the route of the race. It was genuine 5 star accommodation; at night you could see at least 5 stars through the holes in the sacking!

The rules of the race required us to carry equipment such as an anti-venom pump for snake bites and scorpion stings and a minimum of 2000 calories per day to sustain us. The rules were strictly enforced. We were held at the start for a second day while rigorous medical and kit checks for the 505 competitors were completed and water ration cards (pieces of plastic more valuable than any credit card) and emergency flares were handed out. Unbelievably, 10 competitors failed to bring the necessary medical documentation and were immediately scratched from the race by the organisers. A number of others suffered time penalties for breaches of regulations concerning their kit. The top runners managed to pare their kit down to just over 5 kilograms. My kit weighed 10.45 kilograms, about average for a competitor of my class.

The night before the start was miserable; the wind blew, it was cold and it rained heavily. The berber tents leaked like sieves and we all ended up having to shelter under some plastic sheeting provided by the organisers. As we packed up our kit, put on our oversized running shoes and assembled for the 9am start, the rain was still falling and the 120^oF temperatures of which we had been warned appeared to be little more than poetic licence on the part of the organisers. News reached us that one of the British competitors who had dropped out of the race two years ago, suffering severe heatstroke and dehydration, had let his anxieties get the better of him and decided to withdraw without taking a single step. Did he know something that we didn't? We moved to the starting area in a subdued mood.

The first stage was a short 24kms run and, after a brief talk from Patrick Bauer, the race director (who was largely drowned out by the circling helicopters filming the race for television), we set off at a brisk pace across the rough desert terrain. One of the beneficial effects of the rain was that it had packed down the sand, improving the running surface. Our backpacks were at their heaviest but most runners still managed to make good time and I covered the 24kms in 2hrs 25 mins. Apart from receiving some minor abrasions to my back caused by the rubbing of my rucksack, I was in good shape and finished the stage full of confidence. By the afternoon, the weather front that had brought the rain and wind had blown over, the skies cleared and it began to get hot - very hot. That night for the first time we were able to view the magnificent night sky of the desert, the stars appearing far brighter and in greater numbers than I have ever seen before.

The second stage was a 37kms run through a variety of terrains ranging from dry riverbeds to very stony ground to dunes. Emboldened by their performance on the cooler first day, many competitors set off at a cracking (some would say blistering) pace but were soon slowed down by the heat and the rough terrain. For some it became impossible to run during the hottest part of the day and, bearing in mind Chris Moon's second piece of advice, I adopted a run/walk strategy. I covered the distance in 4³/₄ hours coming in 127th but felt the first blister develop on one heel. I collected my 4¹/₂ litres of mineral water provided by the organisers and made my way to the tent to prepare a "delicious" meal of instant mashed potatoes and "pot noodle" on my little hexi-stove.

Stage three was a 36kms run through some very tough terrain. Before reaching the first checkpoint, we had to climb a very steep hill and descend over some rocks which involved more scrambling than running. A number of competitors fell on the descent, acquiring cuts and bruises to add to their discomfort. The final 5kms of the stage were through deep sand but after about 1km I encountered a British soldier who was bent double and unable to hold down any water - perversely, one of the classic symptoms of dehydration. We managed to make it together over the final 4kms to the bivouac where he was placed on an IV drip. Thankfully, he made a full recovery and was able to compete the next day.

It was that evening that I paid my first serious visit to the medical tent to be treated by the curiously named Doc Trotters who supplied medical assistance to the race. Given that the fourth stage was 76kms (47.5 miles), it was important to have one's feet in the best possible shape. The medical tent resembled something from M.A.S.H., with competitors' blistered feet being cut, sliced and bound up ready to perform the next day. Some more serious cases were on IV drips, others were having sprained and broken limbs bandaged and set. Needless to say, all but the most serious medical attention was given without anaesthetic and as the doctors went about their work the air was filled with the pained grunts and sharp intakes of breath of their patients.

The fourth stage - or, as it was known, the 'night stage' - had a formidable reputation and was the one we all feared. Most of the runners had never covered this distance in one go and certainly not over this terrain and in this heat. It would take most of us well into the night and some into the next day. There were six checkpoints along the route between 11 and 15 kms apart and I made good progress as far as the third. When I left the checkpoint it was past 2pm, the sun was high in the sky and the pace had visibly slowed. I was later informed that the temperature had reached 49^oC! By this time I was also taking mild painkillers and anti-inflammatories to manage the blister pain and foot swelling which was now starting to cause real discomfort. However, the desert scenery on this particular stage was magnificent and one vista, a dry river bed turned green with vegetation from the recent rains, was particularly breathtaking and provided a welcome distraction. The sun was setting as I reached the fifth checkpoint, 22kms from the bivouac.

As darkness came, I turned on my head torch and placed the luminous stick I was obliged to carry in the mesh pocket of my rucksack. The route was lit by luminous markers every half a kilometre and, as I stumbled over the terrain, my eyes became transfixed on these markers and the luminous sticks in the backpacks of the competitors in front of me. The route through to the sixth checkpoint involved a descent down a rocky valley towards a dry river bed consisting of soft sand and small dunes. My feet were now beginning to hurt like hell. The sand, which had the consistency of talcum powder, got into my socks, combined with the sweat and was rubbing my feet raw. To compound my problems, I also suffered a nosebleed brought on by the dry desert air, thinning of the blood caused by the anti-inflammatory drugs and, no doubt, by the general stress of the situation. I subsequently discovered I was not alone in this complaint, one competitor suffering a nosebleed which lasted for 7 hours! I reached the sixth checkpoint at about 10pm, grabbed another 1½ litres of water, and set off to cover the remaining 7kms to the bivouac. The 7kms seemed to go on forever but the sight of the bivouac lit up against the night sky made me ecstatic. As I crossed the line I slumped down and uttered a number of expletives which wouldn't be found in a legal dictionary, not caring that the television cameras were recording my every action and word. I then stood up, limped very slowly to my tent and removed my running shoes and socks to reveal a truly ghastly mess. For me this was probably the lowest point of in the race because I knew that less than 36 hours later I would have to run the true marathon stage (42kms) and I was not sure whether my feet would carry me over the distance. However, I remembered Chris Moon's first piece of advice, made myself a meal, ate half of it, and, exhausted, fell asleep.

Competitors had been given 40 hours to finish stage four. As I had made it in 14³/₄ hours, I had a day to rest and watch the slower ones arrive (some took advantage of the generous time limit, taking the full 40 hours). I could manage no more than a slow shuffle as I proceeded over to the medical tent to receive significant attention to my toes, the balls of my feet and heels. The most I could manage for the rest of that day was to lie in the tent with my feet propped up on my backpack and chat to my tent-mates. Conversational gambits included ".. and how many toenails do you have left?" and, following a visit to the medical tent, "I hope you didn't let the side down by bawling". From my prone position I watched the walking wounded shuffling around the bivouac. Some, completely unable to walk, had to be given piggybacks by fitter competitors when they needed to move around the camp. By now, most competitors cared little for their times or race positions. To finish was their sole objective.

By the morning of the fifth stage the Marathon des Sables had become the "Marathon Disabled" and when the start gun went a good number of the competitors, myself included, could manage no more than to hobble away from the start line. We had been given 12 hours to complete this stage and I could see myself taking most of that. However, the Brufen painkillers which I had taken that morning began to work their magic and after about 15 minutes I was able to break into a slow jog. I discovered the mind also adjusts to a certain level of pain, and after a while, I actually began to feel quite good and became confident I could cover the distance. This had a tremendously uplifting effect. As I ran I started to sing at the top of my voice "Onward Christian Soldiers", "Jerusalem" and any other rousing song I could think of, to take my mind off the pain. It must have looked and sounded bizarre.

I made reasonably good time to the second checkpoint (the half-way stage of the marathon) but after that progress was very slow. From about 5kms out I could see the bivouac shimmering in the desert heat. After a further 20 minutes walking it did not appear to have come any closer. Was it a mirage? Thankfully not and I finally made it home in 8¹/₄ hours, 4³/₄ hours longer than my personal best for the distance back home.

We were rewarded for our efforts by the organisers with a can of warm coke followed, miraculously, by a can of cold coke. Coke (warm or cold) has never tasted so good! Even better, I received an e-mail from home which buoyed my spirits enormously. My feet were in worse shape than at the end of the 76 kms stage but as the next stage was the sixth and final stage and only 14kms I did not care. I would have crawled over the distance if necessary. I climbed into my sleeping bag as the sun went down for a fitful night's sleep.

As we packed up our kit and made our way over to the line for the start of the final stage I had very mixed feelings. I knew that the next couple of hours were going to be pure hell but, then again, it was only a couple of hours and the thought of the undiluted joy of crossing the finishing line kept my spirits up. Once again I set off very slowly. One of my fellow competitors commented as she passed me "you are finding this very difficult". I muttered agreement through clenched teeth. As on the previous day, I adjusted to the pain, managed to speed up and then broke into a slow jog. I was able to keep this up and, shortly after passing through a village (which appeared to have not moved on from biblical times), with 6kms to go, I hit tarmac. On the tarmac the organisers had thoughtfully marked out the remaining kilometres individually and soon I reached the 13kms point and the town of Rissani, the finish of the race. A sign said "Welcome to Rissani". Never before had a simple road sign been the source of such joy. I jogged the final kilometre to the finishing line, even managing to sprint over the last 50 metres.

Crossing that finishing line was one of the happiest moments of my life and, as the organisers put the finishers' medal around my neck, many emotions went through my head. The principal one was relief; relief at having finished and an end to the pain and also relief at not letting down all those who had supported me and been kind enough to sponsor me. There was also a mixture of delight at having raised over £30,000 for the Variety Club Children's Hospital and sadness that an episode in my life was coming to an end, such had been my focus on the race over the previous six months. However, the feelings of sadness were soon put aside as I joined in the general mêlée of runners celebrating and congratulating each other which filled the area around the finishing line.

Within an hour we were on the coach back to Ouarzazate for a shower, a soft mattress, good food, cold beers and the myriad of other little luxuries which we had all missed during our seven days in the desert. I had completed the "toughest foot race on earth" in 37¹/₂ hours coming 234th out of the 495 competitors who started. The winner, a Moroccan, Mohamed Ahansal, covered the distance in an amazing 16 hours 22 minutes. Sadly, about 100 did not make it to the finishing line. Not to have made it would have been an unbearable experience and I would have had to come back to do it again, even if I had to walk around the whole course.

The pain has now gone and as I write this piece from the comfort of my home two weeks after finishing the race, I know I will always retain wonderful memories of my participation in the Marathon des Sables: the awesome scenery of the desert, the camaraderie of the competitors, their humour in the face of adversity, the bravery of the disabled runners, the canopy of stars at night and the enormous mental and physical challenge of the day ahead. For the moment life back home seems to lack excitement, but that will certainly pass.

The feeling of achievement will also endure. A slogan on the teeshirt of one of the organisers at the finishing line seemed to sum it up: "Pain is Temporary, Pride is Forever".

Robin Spencer
18 April 1998