In the quiet Moroccan town of Ouarzazate, with the Sahara looming, the final act of preparation for one of the world's most extreme footraces is a meticulous gram-by-gram audit. For journalist Rod Ardehali, this meant cutting the foil from a paracetamol packet, part of a ruthless cull of kit deemed non-essential for survival. This ritual, performed on Tuesday 23 December 2025, was the logical prelude to five days of voluntary suffering in the Morocco 120km Marathon des Sables.
The Prelude to Pain
Known as the toughest footrace on Earth, the Marathon des Sables is famed for its full 250km, seven-day edition. Ardehali's challenge was the shorter, yet still formidable, 120km version: four days traversing endless dunes and jagged rock under a sun pushing temperatures to a blistering 47 degrees Celsius. The journey began in Ouarzazate, a staging post of eerie calm, before a five-hour coach convoy plunged the runners deeper into the desert. Their new home was a circle of black bivouacs and fluorescent tents, a fragile outpost against the vast, indifferent sands.
Stage One: Bravado, Bargaining, and Brutal Lessons
The first morning's bravado was short-lived. After a safety briefing in French and English, the runners set off to a soundtrack of Eurotrash, a trail of limbs and poles fighting the soft sand. While elites like ten-time winner Rachid El Morabity vanished ahead, Ardehali found himself in the middle pack, quickly realising his careful preparation had led to overpacking. Carrying meals, water, and excess gear, the 45C heat and a 250-metre climb became an ordeal.
By the 18km mark, with water critically low, the desert's true nature revealed itself. People stopped, some collapsed, others used their bodies to shade the fallen. The first hard lesson was learned: never leave a checkpoint without full canteens. Completing the 25km stage felt like a monumental feat, leaving the camp that evening in a hushed state of shared exhaustion, filled with the smell of dust and rehydrated curry.
Stage Two and The Rest Day: Heat, Hydration, and Humanity
Conceding to the extreme conditions, organisers shortened the second stage from 46.5km to 40km. Despite disciplined hydration, Ardehali battled severe dehydration, learning that electrolyte sachets were needed at every stop, not every other. The final nine kilometres presented a biblical 211-metre ascent up soft orange sand, a punishing stretch of false peaks and humming heat.
Amid the hardship, humanity shone. British volunteers sought out compatriots, forging a tight-knit tribe. Friendships solidified in the furnace, with runners watching out for campmates, some requiring ice baths to lower soaring core temperatures. The rhythm of desert life was established: ration, boil, repack. A cheerful bivouac of Brits—doctors, lawyers, a farmer, ex-military—shared freeze-dried meals before a sandstorm tore through, blowing away tents and toilets, forcing a resigned hunker-down.
The Final Push and Aftermath
The last stage began in the cool pre-dawn at 5:30 a.m., bringing a newfound rhythm and acceptance. The fight was over; this was now a sequence of small survivals. The landscape turned copper, then a deep Martian red. The finish line, a modest arch, appeared almost by accident, bringing a wave of anticlimactic yet immense relief, marked by medals and heartfelt hugs from organisers.
There was no time to linger. Sunburned and half-delirious, runners were bused back to Ouarzazate, laughing too loudly and dreaming of showers. A raucous hotel party saw survivors from across continents toasting blisters and survival. Later, lying in an air-conditioned room, Ardehali realised he missed it—the sand, the silence, the stark simplicity. The desert doesn't care if you finish, but if you do, it never quite lets you go.
