Marathon des Sables

I wake up instantly, through fear or excitement I’m not sure. The camp is still relatively quiet with only a few people stirring from their sleeping bag cocoons. I stare out at the endless desert beyond the camp still unable to imagine myself in it.

That night I dreamt about riding the London Underground and as I wearily stir, I half expect to be sat in the cramped heat of a Northern Line train rather than the cramped heat of my sleeping bag. Rolling over and staring out at the sand and endless horizon I can’t help but smile at the ridiculous juxtaposition and the ridiculous place I’ve volunteered to sleep in.

I wake up to pitch black, surrounded by whispered commotion, with headtorch lights darting through the darkness. A sandstorm had ripped through the camp felling many of the tents, including ours.

As the final light of the day faded, we switched on our headtorches and made sure our glowsticks were attached. These glowsticks would act as guiding lights for the rest of the race. Not only were they attached to every competitor but also to every marker along the course. It became a simplistic yet torturous act of searching for the next neon green glowing beacon, lights guiding you down an endless tunnel.

After I said my goodbyes to Charly I made my way nervously to my tent. I knew, having checked up at each checkpoint during the stage, that Mark has finished and done so in an amazing time but it was still such a comfort to see Mark’s familiar smiling face as I came to our sandy homestead. But his was the only face in the tent.

Making my breakfast on the morning of the last competitive stage of Marathon des Sables I found a messaged I had written before I left home, which now felt like a lifetime ago: “Future James, if you have got this far I want you to know how proud I am of you!! Go get that fucking medal!!”.