THE MARATHON DES SABLES
by John Loeschhorn
"Don't worry; be happy; this is Africa."
I am seated at the lunch counter of the only restaurant in the Marrakesh
Air Terminal. Behind the counter are three clerks attending to the needs
of diners, while to my right, an officious looking gentleman is seated
on a stool behind a cash register. This man is nibbling at a hard
boiled egg and staring into space. I hear what sounds like a telephone
ringing. The noise is emanating from under the counter, near this
man's knees. Apparently oblivious to the ringing, the man continues
to stare distantly and nibble at his egg. His expression remains
placid, even after the fourth ring. I begin thinking I am imagining this
telephone-like ringing. I hear a fifth ring as the man deposits the
last of the egg in his mouth. Chewing slowly he wipes his finger
tips on a towel. With the sixth ring he sweeps some crumbs from the
front of his jacket. With the seventh ring he turns slowly on his
stool. After the eighth ring he reaches under the counter retrieving
a phone receiver. Holding the phone in his right hand, about a foot
from his head, he picks at his teeth with the pinky of his left hand.
After a few more seconds, finally satisfied all is in order, he proceeds
to speak into the receiver. After a brief, but unhurried-conversation,
he swings slowly on his stool, replacing the phone under the counter.
Welcome to Morocco. The first lesson
of Africa is patience. Just as there is plenty of time to answer
telephones, there is plenty of time to do everything. Since there
is plenty of time, why hurry?
Naturally no society is without its dichotomies
and Morocco has its share. A Moroccan on foot is normally easy going,
and friendly. The same individual, behind the wheel of a car, can
be a demon, willing to risk head-on collisions rather than surrender an
inch of the road. And as many observers of running have noted, pin
a number on a Moroccan's chest, put him in a race and he'll often outrun
the best runners in the world.
Hassan Sebtaoui is this kind of Moroccan.
After pinning the number 140 on his chest, the 26 year old Rabat native
won all six stages of the Marathon Des Sables, a runner's tour of the Sahara.
Affable and friendly by night, he is a fierce competitor by day.
His style is to run near the front or to lead, pushing the pace until no
one is able to keep up.
Employing his favorite strategy, Hassan won
each of the first three days by a clear margin. Since he had never
raced further than 18 miles, race experts predicted the 43 mile race scheduled
for the fourth day would prove to be his undoing. But the tireless
Sebtaoui won this leg as he won all the others; he ran the defending champion
to a standstill, before loping to a three minute victory over an inspired
Noel Mailly.
This victory proved to be the proverbial straw
that broke the camel's back. It wasn't so much that Hassan won the 70K
that proved to be decisive, because his overall lead wasn't insurmountable
with 66K yet to be run. This win was most significant because everyone
was certain Hassan would have problems in the longer race; when he won
convincingly, the competition was demoralized. As each competitor was forced
to drop from the lead pack, you could see their spirits drowning.
They ended the day defeated and so began the race for second place.
The sixth day was the Marathon. It was
cold during the night but the dawn brought the sun and the inevitable heat.
By 8AM it was already warm and promising to be a scorcher. This was the
day I had been waiting for. I had run each leg of the race, but in
order to save my energy for the marathon, I had carefully avoided competing.
Alas, I awoke this morning with a Moroccan
form of montezuma's revenge. I had medication, but I hesitated taking
it for fear of upsetting my stomach. After my fifth trip to the great
dune, I concluded an upset stomach couldn't be worse than diarrhea.
I took my medication.
The wind whipped and whirled; blowing sand
filled the air. The sky darkened and the temperature dropped.
All around me people were donning turbans and sunglasses.
I had overdressed for the 70K, two days before,
and when the sun came out, I had wilted. If I was going to run well
today, I would have to travel light. Ignoring the blowing sand, I
reported for the start wearing only a t-shirt, and shorts, with no head
or face covering.
The French runner, Yves Pol, started very
fast, gaining 50 yards in the first quarter mile. Remembering the
games that had come before, I wondered what strategy the French were planning
for today. Sebtaoui Hassan cruised comfortably a few strides ahead
of me. I positioned myself in his shadow. By the time we reached
Mhumid, a small desert village about 2K in the race, Hassan had the lead
and I was on his heels. Soldiers, young men and children lined the
main street, they clapped and shouted encouragement as we rushed by.
Veiled women, clothed in dark-colored-ankle-length
dresses peered from doorways but displayed no emotion. At town center
we made a right angle, left turn and headed north into the desert.
 |
|
 |
Upper Left: The Leaders pass through Mhumid.
Above: The mid-pack runners pass through Mhumid.
Left: Local villagers crossing a bridge near the start of the race. |
Running sometimes on a sandy road and sometimes
cross country, we ambled over small dunes running the shortest route between
course markers. I felt spasms in my lower abdomen, the gradual tightening
that leads to involuntary pit-stops. I pushed the pain out of my
mind, concentrating on running as close to Hassan's heels as I could.
Serge Robert, currently fourth in the race,
moved quickly past me and exchanged a few words with Hassan. I dropped
back a stride and Serge wedged himself between us. Within a quarter
mile he slowed his pace. When a gap of 10 yards opened, I surged
past Robert rejoining Hassan at the front. By the 10K, Hassan and
I were 100 meters ahead of the second pack, but I was beginning to feel
the effects of seven minute miles through soft sand. There was a
knot in my throat and I was frequently choking. I drank all my water,
but I couldn't dislodge the obstruction. As we approached the first
aid station (17K) I had been out of water for a few miles. I told
Hassan I needed a break for my stomach and wished him a good race.
Hassan moved quickly through the aid station,
lingering only long enough to have his card stamped and grasp his liter
and a half of water. I got my card stamped, gulped down 3/4 of a
liter of water, and refilled my walkbottle before continuing. I gulped
the rest of my water in the first 100 yards and discarded the bottle.
Hassan stopped running and waited for me. Drawing near I noticed
he was smiling and singing a song. I glanced over my shoulder and
realized no other competitors were in sight. Then I knew why he was
happy. In his mind he was already spending the 50,000 franks ($8,000)
that would be the winner's prize.
The wind had died down and it was blistering
hot. We ran side by side for a mile or so and I began choking again.
Hassan acknowledged my plight for the first time and reaching in his pack,
he drew out a small foil wrapped energy bar. He thrust it toward
me and saying, "Eat this, it will help you." I nibbled a small piece.
Walla, it settled my stomach, and I felt instantly better. Within
a mile my choking stopped and I felt a new burst of energy.
We were now running on a rocky road that was
gradually climbing, but the pace remained the same. I was running
at very near my maximum pace, while it appeared Hassan could have accelerated
at any time.
Like all the runners in the race, Hassan was
required to be self sufficient. This meant he had to carry all his
food, clothing and supplies for the seven days of the race on his back.
Most racers cruised under packs weighing 12 to 15 pounds while the hikers
hauled as much as 50 pounds. Being a journalist and an unofficial
competitor, I was not under the same constraints. I had a land rover
to haul my gear and an Arab cook to prepare my meals. I was carrying
only a fanny pack supplied with a tube of sunscreen, a tube of vaseline
and a long sleeved polypropylene shirt. In my right hand I carried
a twenty ounce walkbottle for reserve water between aid stations.
These were my only burdens.
The water I had drunk had time to reach bottom
and my earlier problem came back with a vengeance. Again I told Hassan,
"I must stop, please go ahead and have a good race." When he saw
me squatting by the side of the road, he stopped and waited. We ran
side by side to the second and last aid station (30K). I had drained
the last drop from my walkbottle more than a mile before and by the time
I arrived my mouth was as dry as dust. I took my liter and a half
and nearly drained the bottle before taking a breath. The water remaining
didn't refill my walkbottle. In the meantime Hassan drank 1/2 a liter
from his bottle and handed the rest of his water to me.
We left the aid station running across a vast
wasteland that was little more than a pile of black rocks. The landscape
slanted gradually uphill leading to a gorge. The gorge opened into
a pass through a mountain range about 9K ahead.
The sun was high behind our heads and beaming
down on my neck. The black rocks radiated heat like a furnace.
My eyes scanned ahead looking for a path. A half mile ahead a race
marker was visible, but there was no obvious path. Discerning subtle
differences in the way light reflected from rocks worn by feet and those
that hadn't been worn, we chose the best route. The experience was akin
to finding a path where no path existed.
Hassan leaned into his task, his feet churning
in a circular motion that reminded me of a man riding a unicycle.
His rhythm was unbroken and his pace was relentless. The flaming
rocks were a nightmare for me as I twisted my ankles and stumbled, struggling
to keep up.
I consumed the rest of his water before we
reached the gorge and I only had a few mouthfuls to last me to the finish.
The heat was oppressive as I gazed up the towering canyon walls.
Near the canyon rim I saw soldiers guarding the pass. The soldiers
carried automatic weapons and I wondered what kind of invader could brave
these rocks, the heat and bullets too.
The rocks were bigger now, and there was some
dirt between them. We were finally on a real trail, but the way was
much steeper. We climbed toward the pass. I began feeling dizzy
and worried that I might fall shattering my front teeth on one of the boulders.
We passed two cameramen and I noticed my mouth was dry again. Hassan
had broken contact and was 30 yards ahead. I made an extra effort
to catch him. In another 1/2 mile he was 100 yards ahead and I was
struggling. I crested the pass walking and saw Hassan a quarter mile
ahead. He was racing down the mountain, leaping from boulder to boulder.
The finish line was visible in the valley about two miles away. I
continued walking, easing myself over some treacherous spots. Finding
a half bottle of water on the ground, I picked it up and drained it dry.
I didn't know whose water it was and I didn't care. Feeling
better rehydrated, I jumped from the last boulder, and began running down
a rocky slope. Suddenly I felt totally happy and began singing a
shred of an old song. I kept singing the same line over and over,
while running faster and faster. At the end I was screaming
at the top of my voice. I crossed the finish line three minutes behind
Hassan, in second place, and I felt as though I had won.
There were other Moroccans in the race.
One of these was 22 year old Khalil Moumou of Tiznit. Unlike Hassan,
Khalil had never run before, and had no desire to be a runner. He
had no interest in winning or the 50,000 franc first prize. A young
philosopher, Khalil's goal was to experience adventure while carrying his
guitar from beginning to end.
"My guitar is my hobby and my love," he said.
"I can't live a long time away from it; I must have it always with me."
Referring to the race he said, "All the way, in my head, I am talking to
my guitar. During the day I curse her and at night I caress her.
Yesterday when my knee was so bad (in the 70K) I had to give my guitar
to my friend to carry it to the finish. I did the best I could, and
I tried to bare the pain for my guitar. But we don't understand what
this Marathon Des Sables is until we are in it. The films I saw and
the stories I heard, told me nothing. You can't possibly realize
what it is until you are in it."
Also in the race was 52 year old Brahim El
Jaoual of Fez. He has run the three major Moroccan marathons, Casablanca,
Tangier and Marrakesh. He made his pilgrimage to Mecca by running
and later ran to Rome, gaining an audience with five Cardinals. His goal
is to run the Paris and New York Marathons, but he will need to find a
sponsor first.
There was a team of Parisian fire fighters.
The captain of the team was born in Belgium and was that nation's chess
champion at the age of 19. He began running to improve his health
in 1972. Having seen a film about the race on television, he was
inspired to complete it. He sent a notice to the 81 fire stations
of Paris and selected six volunteers with marathon times faster than 2:55
to join him in the race. The team members were very serious about
their participation and prepared for the event by training a minimum of
two hours every day.
Serge Sappa, a member of the fire fighting
team, was an amateur opera singer and entertained the camp with his virtuoso
renditions of various arias. He was also the camp rooster, crowing
several "cock-a-doodle doos" each morning at dawn.
35 year old Joelle Goulinat, was a nationally
ranked sprinter when she was 18. Now she teaches physical education
and coaches boys soccer in Agen, France, a town noted for its superlative
players. Her motto is, "If a race exists, it must be possible to
complete it." She was fourth in the 1988 Marathon Des Sables and
is already preparing for a 300 mile race that will include running, riding
and kayaking in Australia this October. "I love to run and I love
to travel," she says. "I use my running as an excuse to visit different
countries and meet new people."
Joelle's 45 year old teammate, Elysabeth Bernard,
started running two years ago to learn discipline by doing something she
didn't like. "I have never done sports before," said Elysabeth, "and
I have been real surprised by my results. In the beginning I could
only run a few meters before I was out of breath, but now I love running,
it makes me feel high all the time. I am living proof anyone can
run," she added laughing.
Most of the participants were French and like
Elysabeth, few of these were real athletes. In fact the majority
of the entrants joined the event for an adventure and had little interest
in racing. Typical of these were Camille and Therese Giacosa, a married
couple who participated "to experience the spirit and camaraderie of the
race and to complete something difficult together."
"This is the most difficult thing we have
ever done," said Camille. "Last year we started, but Therese was
unable to complete the 70K leg and so we came back this year to finish
it." This year they walked that section in just over 26 hours, stopping
briefly at 36K to eat. Hassan completed the same distance in 6 hours
13 minutes.
"Before we left France," said Therese, "We
visited Lourdes." Here she produced a large bottle, half full of
water. "This is miracle water," she continued, while passing the
bottle to me. "It's a heavy miracle, don't you think?"
Winning this event or placing high in the
results requires a lot of talent and careful preparation, but almost any
healthy person could complete it without the aid of miracles. I interviewed
two people in their sixties who finished the race and I am sure there were
others I didn't meet.
