Marathon des Sables: When Control Vanishes
This article first appeared in the July 2026 edition of the SSG Multisports newsletter.
With six kilometres remaining in the towering Merzouga dunes, the golden light softened the punishment the sand was delivering to my legs. Nearly 270 kilometres were already behind me. The miles. The people. The terrain. The elements. Everything felt managed. Controlled. Mastered. Seventy minutes. That was all that remained.
Then it happened.
In an instant, control vanished. The Sahara wasn’t finished yet. It had one last lesson to teach.
The race itself had begun six days earlier in Sidi Ali, Morocco. The journey, two days before that. I arrived at the bivouac alongside 1,500 other competitors and was assigned to a shared tent: six strangers, none of us having met before. Within hours, we would be sleeping inches apart on the ground, managing gear, fatigue, and each other.
Relationships formed fast. Tent #172 was magic. No deckhands. A farmer and his daughter. A bubbly treasure. An OCD banker. A social fashionista. A Guernsey comic. And me, the old codger. Different traits, but together, a high-functioning team.
The first night was about decisions. By day two, all travel luggage would be stripped away, leaving only what we could carry for the next seven days. I went minimal: no jacket, no cooker, no poles. Mandatory calories only. One change of socks and underwear. Weight was everything. Final pack: 7.6 kg: all food and equipment for seven days in the desert, excluding water.
In the Sahara, there are three currencies: calories, water, and sleep. All are critical.
Sleep proved… optimistic. Our mattresses (thin foam we’d carry each day) were designed less for comfort than stone mitigation. As a side sleeper, my hips bore the cost. Every thirty minutes, pain forced me to roll. After four nights, my body adapted. Or surrendered.
One concern going in was that I’d be that guy: the snorer. Turns out, Tent #172 was a full orchestra. Everyone coped by simply not caring.
We rose 90 minutes before the first start. Everything packed. Nothing left. A short briefing. Then AC/DC’s Highway to Hell echoed across the desert.
I called it Calibration Day: the day you find out what you’ve actually signed up for.
Thirty-five kilometres of mixed brutality. Cracked mud flats that swallowed ankles. Twelve kilometres of soft sand and low dunes. Rocky plains to finish. No easy running anywhere.
The final four kilometres were savage. Heat climbing. Sand dragging. I finished 1006th of 1500. Message received: recalibrate upward.
By Stage 2, through eating and reducing water carry, I’d dropped 1.2 kg from my pack. Forty kilometres, starting in darkness, sunrise breaking as the desert unfolded. More sand. No surprises. This is the Marathon of the Sands. I pushed harder late, climbing roughly 80 places into the 900s. Still, nine days of travel from Australia before racing lingered in my legs.
Stage 3 (29 kilometres) was a transition stage before the monster to come. I ran assertively and finished in the 800s. Around us, fatigue became visible. Limping runners. Blister treatment queues overflowing the medical tent. Forty competitors had already withdrawn. I’d escaped unscathed. Credit to #Altra.
And then there was no avoiding it.
Stage 4: 100 Kilometres
“To feel fulfilled and accomplished, we need to achieve hard things. If we don’t choose our hard, the hard chooses us.”
Stage 4 was the longest single stage in Marathon des Sables history: 100 km, coming after 105 km already in the legs.
The night before, I didn’t sleep at all. At the start, we were told we were history-makers. Highway to Hell blasted again. Adrenaline carried us forward.
The opening 13 km were sand. Then a monster dune, 50 metres high, an 18-storey climb. Every step steeper, until it became hands-and-knees crawling. The descent was chaos and joy.
Then the fun ended. Another eight kilometres of rolling dunes followed. Fatigue crept in. I kept moving. Mair would be waiting at 35 km. At that checkpoint, pride cut through the noise. No sympathy. Only belief. Enough.
Approaching 50 km, many planned a two-hour sleep break. I knew better. Stop, and I’d never restart. So I went full Cliffy Young. Checkpoint to checkpoint. Barely stopping.
My fuel was minimal: 1 bottle of 6× Tailwind 1 stroopwafel 2 gels
Enough.
At 62 km, my right abductor tightened. Water fixed it. At 79 km, my ankle flared. Electrolytes brought it back.
As night fell, the desert came alive. Field mice. Scorpions. Spiders. Eyes glowing in the dark. At times, there was nothing visible. No lights. No runners. Just sand, stars, and silence.
At 80 km, I took caffeine. I flew, passing runners, finding rhythm. Then I did the maths. Too early. With 8 km to go, the caffeine vanished. My 3:00 am target slid to 4:00.
From there, it was mechanical: Left foot. Right foot. Repeat.
Mirages danced. Flags ran away.
After 22 hours, 46 minutes, I crossed the line at 3:45 am.
205 km done. Two stages remained.
My back, however, had other plans.
Day 5 was officially a rest day, if you’d finished before lunch. I finished at 4:00 am. By morning, my lower back had completely seized. Standing or lying was fine. Sitting (and standing up again) was brutal. Tent poles became mobility aids.
A sandstorm hit that afternoon. 70 km/h winds. Chaos. Sand infiltrated everything. Seven hours later, the storm eased.
That night, we stood in the finish chute watching the final Stage 4 runners stumble home. No recovery. Straight into another race.
Stage 5 was a marathon: 42.2 km. With 205 km already done and my back in revolt, expectations were low. Seven kilometres of dunes to start.
And surprisingly… I felt good. Then better.
At 22 km, Jebel El Beg loomed, an isolated mountain rising from the Sahara. The climb was pure sand, 35 storeys high. Epic doesn’t cover it. The descent was wild.
From there, I hunted. No stopping. No checkpoints lingered. Final tally: 27 passed, 18 net. My strongest day.
247 km done. 23 to go.
Stage 6: The End
The final stage. 23 km. 4.5 km of dunes. 11 km of rocky flats. 7.5 km through the Merzouga dunes. Not short. Not easy.
The plan was simple: execute safely. Absorb everything.
Checkpoint 1 disappeared behind me without stopping. Then the flats. Careful feet. No heroics.
Then the Merzouga dunes rose like a curtain call.
With six kilometres to go, I reflected. Everything felt managed. Mastered. Seventy minutes remained.
Then the town of Merzouga vanished.
A sandstorm. 75 km/h headwinds. Sand blasting my face. Visibility reduced to shadows cresting dunes. Sixty minutes became eighty.
I welcomed it. This was the Sahara delivering its final lesson.
At the finish, Mair was there. Unexpected. Overwhelming. Tears. Hugs.
It struck me then: This may well be the peak of my years of steadily escalating epic shit. And I’m content with that.
Back to normal adventures now. And relaxing holidays. Well… for a while anyway.
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