Mr. Sandman, bring me sun cream...

Despite the usual feeling at the end of the Abu Dhabi Marathon on Friday morning (7 December) – i.e. that I may never again be able to run - by Sunday morning I had recovered sufficiently to return to my usual morning routine of a 10 kilometre-ish run before work.  This gave me some confidence that I would be physically able to tackle the 50 kilometer Al Marmoom Ultra Marathon which I had signed for on Saturday, 15 December.  Giving me less confidence was the mandatory kit list which I was required to obtain to enable me entry into said Ultra Marathon.  This included: an up to date ECG (electrocardiogram) scan, doctor’s certificate confirming fitness to participate, anti-venom pump, evidence of accident/repatriation insurance, signaling mirror, headlamp, sahara cap, whistle and aluminum survival sheet.  It sounded like the sort of list one might receive when heading off for a fun family holiday with Bear Grylls (as it turned out, my whistle was a Bear Grylls’ endorsed number and, much to Gill’s amusement, I failed at hurdle one of my survival training, being defeated by the robust plastic packaging of the whistle)…

After signing up for the run several months ago, I had decided not to faze myself my reading too many of the no doubt terrifying details.  Gill latterly did this on my behalf and suggested that I may have grossly underestimated the difficulty of event, which had a 12 hour cut off time and was dubbed on the website as “a tough multi stage challenge over endless sand dunes and under a relentless sun…”  I told Gill not to worry, despite having not undertaken any sand based run training, nor even tried running with a backpack (other than a lightweight Camelbak a few times), which I would be required to do in order to carry the kit list described above.  I predicted I would breeze through the event in five hours or so, finished in plenty of time to attend a barbeque we had been invited to on Saturday afternoon. 

I had packed my kit on Friday evening – absent an anti-venom pump, which I had failed to locate – but on Saturday morning had to jog the 3 kilometre round trip to the office at 4:30am to collect my original medical documents in case they need to be inspected (they didn’t).  With that done, I had to wake Gill who was sorting my transport to the event (despite her open objection to my participation).  I was slightly vague on exactly where I was heading and, having been deposited at the Last Exit Service Centre, which I knew was near to the race “base camp”, did not have a clue where said camp was precisely.  I drifted aimlessly into the darkness of the desert and luckily stumbled on a ranger who pointed me out towards the Al Qudra Lakes, near to which the base camp was situated.  It turned out to be a near two kilometer walk to the camp (not exactly what the doctor ordered, particularly post the 3 kilometer jog earlier), although it did allow me some fairly spectacular view of the sun rising over the lakes and some encounters with wildlife (mostly birds and a handful of antelope).

Base camp was reasonable size, a series of canvas tents in an L-shape around a large area of hard sand, with a number of additional tents containing various aspects of the race administration – catering, a luggage drop-off, general information and the crucial GPS beacons, which could be used to monitor each athlete’s position on the course and – in the case of emergency – used by an athlete to summon help (by holding down a button on the device for three seconds).  It was very re-assuring to have this item.  I just hope that I wouldn’t need to use it…

There was limited time to take things in or worry too much about what was ahead, which is no bad thing before such events, as the race organizer was busy imploring runners to gather around him at the start-finish line for the race briefing (during which we were warned that most of the day was over soft sand dunes, with limited patches of hard sand).  The field size was relatively limited and a number of those in attendance had already completed 220 kilometers over the previous few days, meaning that once they had finished the day’s 50 kilometer instalment they would have completed 270 kilometers in total, making this the longest desert ultra-marathon in the world.  I felt I had more than enough to contemplate with my poxy 50 kilometer run and luckily managed a quick toilet stop with one minute to go before the 7am start time.

Although, as promised, the course very quickly transitioned from a short stretch of hardish sand into steep, soft sand dunes, I was relatively happy with life for the first few kilometers, something aided by being treated to the sun slowly rising over unspoilt desert.  I quickly realized that my failure to undertake any training on sand/carrying a relatively heavy backpack may well have been an error as the course progressed like a small sandy roller coaster up and over soft sand dunes which I would walk up and then run down.  It took me nearly just over hour to complete the first eight kilometers of the run over this difficult terrain (by way of comparison I was nearly 14 kilometers into the Abu Dhabi Marathon at the same point) although respite was at hand as the course finally changed to harder sand after the first checkpoint and I was able to speed up (slightly).  The respite did not last for too long and we were soon back into the up and down undulations of thick sand dunes.  I say “we” but it was becoming less and less frequent for me to see any of my fellow runners.  I suspect I was somewhere in the middle of the field as this point, but that field was strung out over a very long distance, between the incredible athletes gliding across the dunes as if running on flat tarmac and we less fortunate…

Evidence, if it were needed, of the challenge being faced was when one of the support vehicles – a nice looking Range Rover Vogue – became stuck in the thick sand and required three people to eventually dig it out.  Worse followed when one of the support ambulances suffered the same fate, although happily the crew managed to free the vehicle from its sandy predicament soon enough.  Whilst not quite getting stranded in the sand, I was not faring too much better than the vehicles and after 21 kilometres (reached in three hours 20 minutes or so) had to stop for the first of a number of times to empty a large quantity of sand from my shoes which had effectively reduced my trainer size by two sizes and was crushing my toes (particularly on descents) as a result.  Worse followed at the 25 kilometer point, by which time I had been running for around an hour or so without sight of another human being, when I climbed the latest unforgiving sand dune and could not see the next bright orange flag showing the route.  After a brief moment of panic, I eventually spied a flag a few hundred metres at my 2 o’clock and could continue a journey which was rapidly becoming an ordeal.  As if reading my desperate thoughts, there was a small stretch where we were able to run aside the tarmac Al Qudra bike track, offering a rare chance to jog rather than shuffling as the sand swallowed my feet with each step on the dunes…

It was by now approaching noon and the “relentless sun” was just that.  At this point I was delighted that I had made the choice to purchase my “Buff” sahara cap with neck flap, even if wearing it with my Primark sunglasses did make me look like someone who would not be welcome near school gates.  I can’t really say with any clarity what transpired over the next few hours of my life.  I do recall adopting various techniques to surviving the misery I had inflicted upon myself – breaking the course into 500 x 100 metres in my head in the hope that it made the mission more palatable; singing 12 days of Christmas (out loud) from start to finish several times, swearing at the sand each time it enveloped my feet or I was on all fours scrambling up it…Periodic phone calls and texts with Gill helped a lot although I basically knew that “she had told me so” in relation to the difficulty and lack of wisdom in entering the event (she did have the good grace to wait until the finish to tell me this explicitly).

Entering the last 10 kilometres did raise my spirits, despite me knowing that at my current rate of travel I would be out in the scorching sun for up to another two hours and being torched alive by the sun (I had packed sun cream, but it was buried deep with my by no soaking wet bag and the thought of rummaging to find it and then rubbing it into my sand covered skin in some sort of sandpapering effect did not massively appeal).  The going did not get easier during this time and I was desperately hoping to catch a glimpse of the Base Camp each time I dragged my by now battered body to the summit of one of the seemingly never ending sand dunes.  Eventually, after working my way through a small patch of desert scrubland, it was there.  A truly magical sight for my sore eyes.  As I reached the final stretch of open sand to be covered before the finish line, another athlete appeared a few metres to my right.  She was sobbing uncontrollably for the duration of the 400 metres or so to the finish line (where she was greeted with her enthusiastic support crew waving Turkish flags) and I was not too far off joining her for a good old self-pitying weep.  However, I managed to hold back the tears (at least externally).  As I checked my Garmin at the finish line, it told me that I had burnt over 6,500 calories during the run.  I had eaten nothing like that (a bag of peanuts, a banana, some shortbread and a bag of Haribo) and had also not been for a pee for eight hours (something which worrying extended for a further four hours beyond the finish).  Sadly, I was not able to receive the consolation of my finishing medal/t-shirt as they could not be handed out until the official closing ceremony at 5pm, for which I was not able to hang around.  I did inadvertently leave the event with my GPS chip so hope that an exchange can be arranged at some point and that the organisers are not currently trying to hunt down a very slow moving man along why of the ultra-marathon course…  

I had by now well and truly missed the barbeque (which did not go down well with Gill) and had the misery of retracing my two kilometre walk from earlier that morning, back to Last Exit, where I could grab a much needed shower, some sustenance and a car pick up.  It had been a truly harrowing few hours of my life and when I saw myself in the mirror at the toilet at Last Exit I looked like I had lost 10 kilograms (no bad thing) and aged maybe 20 years.  I lay on a bench, periodically suffering leg spasms with cramp which probably made it look like I was having invisible electric shock treatment to passersby, before being collected by Gill and fellow barbeque attendees – Lulia and Ronnie.  I was firmly in the bad books but I think looked sufficiently battered to soften the abuse.  I was at least able to say, without fear of future contradiction, that I would never, ever, again tackle such an event…