April 6: Runners prepare for the days to come
By Dan Morrison

"The waiting is the worst part," observes Bill Menard, an ultramarathon record-holder and a first-timer at the Marathon des Sables. "There's only so many times you can repack your pack.

The competitors have gathered at a tent city in the Sahara Desert, somewhere about 150 kilometers southeast of Ouarzazate. Transported late Saturday by bus, once near the desert location they were taken the final few kilometers across the nondescript sand in the back of large transport trucks, kind of like a herd of stock animals. By the second day in the desert, the racers are at least beginning to smell like animals, if not yet act like them.

Once assigned tents, which are fabricated with black burlap sacks, the runners staked out spots on rugs laid on the desert floor. Many hung flags displaying their nationalities. The Union Jack over here, Stars and Stripes there, Lebanese Cedars way over there. Red five-pointed star on a field of green for Morocco. The Japanese Rising Sun.

Saturday afternoon was spent working out the kinks in tired legs after two days of travel. Old acquaintances were renewed, new ones established. By late afternoon there simply wasn't much left to do, so some competitors bartered with Tuareg merchants who had set up a tent and were selling silver jewelry and turbans. Others posed for snapshots while perched atop one of two camels assigned to the race.

"Those are the 'sag wags'," explained Cathy Tibbetts, who is running this event for the second time. "They follow the race and if you fall out they pick you up and get you to the next checkpoint."

An impromptu Tuareg band began playing the local variety of music and a few competitors eventually worked up the courage to dance for the gathered crowd. The music — rhythmic tunes from a "darbuka," a terra cotta jug drum and a "kanza," a three-stringed guitar — continued late into the night.

The competitors stood in a long line for dinner. The boiled vegetables, bread, and mutton was one of the last meals they will have prepared for them by the race organizers. Then many went back to reorganize their packs again. Or barter for jewelry. Or work out the kinks.

By 10 p.m. the camp was mostly quiet, with the exception of a few die-hards still dancing with the Tuaregs, their inhibitions diminished with a few shots of whiskey or beer. Or perhaps it was just a good way to work off pre-race jitters.

Sunday morning the sun rose in a cloudless sky, and by 9 a.m. the temperature gave a hint of what the racers can expect during the next week: unbelievable, relentless heat, with the none-too-welcome occasional gust of sandy wind.

After breakfast all the competitors began the requisite pre-race technical check. First each competitor's pack was weighed. The packs must weigh no less than 12 pounds and no more than 30.

Then all the paperwork — legal releases and personal medical information and application forms — was thoroughly checked. The next step was to pick up a race number to be pinned to the runners' shirts and worn at all times during the competition.

The individual packs were then inspected to see if all the required gear was inside: sleeping bag, whistle, flashlight with extra batteries, antiseptic cream, a mirror, a cigarette lighter, 10 safety pins, snake-bite first aid kit (actually there are very few snakes in this area and the snake-bite kit will be used primary for scorpion stings, which may well be a common problem), a compass, salt in some form — a sports drink mix acceptable as a substitute, and six days supply of food. As if that weren't enough to carry on their backs for seven days through the scorching desert, the race organizers added more gear to each pack: a long burning flare and a survival blanket.

The racers were then given a map of the course, and for the first time could see what lay ahead. Not that knowing the route helps much. As competitor Jan Richardson says, "What difference does it make? You have to put one foot in front of the other day after day."

Next stop was the medical tent, where competitors had their medical papers inspected once again. And then an interview with one of the race doctors, to determine the level of experience and competence of each racer. Because the runners are already in Morocco this measure seemed like shutting the barn door way after the horse was already out and gone.

The best moment came when British runner Chris Moon — an amputee who lost both an arm and a leg in an accident involving a land mine — had his medical papers inspected. The medical doctor had not noticed Moon's prosthesis, and when asked if he had any medical problems, Moon pulled off his prosthetic leg, laid it on the table in front of the doctor, and replied, "How about this one?"

Each runner was then asked to give a deposit of $200. This refundable check will be held as security in case a runner violates one of the many race rules and is fined. If a runner falls out of the race, then the cost of transporting him or her to the next bivouac is also deducted.

Standing in line after line after line in the midday desert sun is a long, arduous experience. "Let's get this show on the road," muttered more than one runner.

After completing the technical check, the competitors were free to return to their tents to repack their packs. Or to barter with the Tuaregs for jewelry. Or to work out the kinks again.

Waiting is the worst part.

Dan Morrison is a freelance writer-photographer based in Austin, Texas.