By | Ben Bartenstein ’16

Ben Bartenstein ’15 studied in Morocco last spring on the School for International Training’s Field Studies in Journalism and New Media program.

I arrived in the Sahara after midnight with nothing but a backpack and a pair of running shoes, my stomach churning from bumpy backroads that bopped a truckload of reporters into the ceiling of our rented Land Rover.

Stepping outside, we gazed at the vast network of stars that lit the sky and surrounding mountains; then the crisp air reminded us there was no time for gawking. The starting gun would fire in five hours, and this wasn’t your usual jaunt down Summit Avenue. So I tossed my bag and shoes in the corner of our bivouac and sunk my body into the sandy ground.

Some call the Marathon des Sables the “toughest footrace on Earth.” Competitors race 156 miles through southern Morocco’s sand dunes and jebels (desert mountains) while hoisting a week’s supplies on their backs. More than 1,000 run it each April, mostly Europeans burning vacation time for eternal bragging rights. Then a few Moroccans battle for the 5,000 Euro grand prize. Brothers Lahcen and Mohamad Ahansal have won half of the event’s 30 editions, Lahcen 10 times and Mohamad five.

I heard about the race in February while searching for an enterprise story to report. A 71-year-old British explorer with a history of record-breaking adventures would be competing, and I was determined to witness his latest challenge. I pitched the piece to several publications and received press credentials. Two months later, I was sprawled out in a black bivouac alongside reporters from Spain, Italy and Belgium.

When I woke several hours later, I crawled out of my towel that doubled as a makeshift blanket. The sun rose over camp and the sand simmered. After downing cornflakes and coffee, I hustled to the runner’s tents. In the semicircle, I passed Vietnamese, Spanish and French competitors slurping noodles, blasting techno music and brushing their teeth. After interviewing several of them, I followed the crowd towards the start line.

While the other reporters packed into 4x4s, I buried myself in the sea of runners. “Highway to Hell” blared from the speakers. Standing side-by-side, Canadians and Aussies shared a few final laughs. Then the gun fired. Legs lurched ahead of me. We were off.

The last time a journalist embedded in the race, I was told, was in 1999 when a New York Times reporter ran five miles between checkpoints. The competitor in me wanted to best that mark, but more so, I wanted to experience the pain and euphoria felt from running in 124 degrees.

After the initial 30-minute adrenaline rush, the realization hit: you’re not finishing anytime soon. An hour later, I veered to the right of the first water station and quickened my pace, the mirage of a stream pulling me forward. At the next checkpoint, 15 miles beyond the start line, a medic truck forced me to stop and drink. A layer of salt half an inch thick had crystallized on my face. I downed several water bottles in minutes.

Scanning the results that afternoon, I noticed something peculiar. Lahcen Ahansal, the race’s storied champion, was stuck in 635th place. Suddenly, my focus shifted from the British explorer who I was supposed to interview to Ahansal.

When I reached the Moroccan bivouac, Ahansal was nowhere to be seen. Rachid El Morabity, the race leader, pointed me towards the Germans, and I quickly rerouted. As I approached, Ahansal was brewing homemade tea alongside Harald Lange, a 35-year-old German office worker.

Months earlier, Lange had been told his visual disability would disqualify him unless he found a guide. In a scramble, he called various entrants with no luck. Then Ahansal called him. The two met at Lange’s apartment in the winter, started training and struck a deal.

Over the campfire, Ahansal told me he wanted his return, after a seven-year hiatus from the race, to be special. Either he’d win 20 times or do something never done before: help a blind man finish. The test became even greater when Ahansal agreed to coach Transavia, a French-Canadian team aiming to pull three Canadian teens with leg impairments across the course in a 100-pound cart.

Throughout the six-day competition, Ahansal ran each step alongside Lange. Meanwhile, I was relegated to a 4×4, having broken the unwritten rule of running alongside competitors. At the checkpoints, I’d watch them squirt water into each other’s mouths. They’d laugh. Ahansal knew a great deal of German, but most of their communication could be read in grimaces, winks, and smiles.

Watching a decorated runner surrender his competitive streak and potential championship earnings for a stranger’s benefit astonished me. With the championship earnings, Ahansal could fund a school for his hometown or buy enough food to last five years. Instead, in one of the most self-sufficient races on the planet, Ahansal and his cadre formed a community.

Lange laughed about their winter training, when he and Ahansal would sneak out of his apartment at 3 a.m. to pad a few extra miles, much to his wife’s chagrin. And Ahansal shivered at the memory of practicing with Transavia in several feet of Canadian snow.

Ahansal’s benevolence led me to ponder my own running career. I’ve never won a state championship or a MIAC title. I most certainly will never run in the Olympics or win the Marathon des Sables. But like Ahansal, I’ve established bonds with teammates and opponents that will outlast the dust-collecting hardware.

For more on Sir Ranulph Fiennes’s finish, read this piece published in The Miami Herald.

November 7 2015

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