It’s 6.15 p.m. in Ouarzazate, Morocco, and I’m cutting the excess foil from a packet of paracetamol in a bid to save weight. Beside me lies a small mound of rejected kit – spare batteries, a tiny stove, a handful of fire bricks, even the amputated bottom third of a foldable foam mattress. To the uninitiated it looks like the aftermath of a minor breakdown; to those of us about to run the Marathon des Sables, it’s the logical prelude to five days of voluntary suffering. Every gram counts when your backpack will carry everything you need to survive in the Sahara Desert.
The Marathon des Sables, often called the toughest footrace on earth, is best known for its full 250km edition – a seven-day slog across some of the most unforgiving terrain imaginable. I’m taking part in the shorter Morocco 120km version: a mere four days, temperatures up to 47 C, and enough sand to test every ounce of self-belief. It’s still very much out of the frying pan and into the furnace.
