There's a large gathering of various athletic types at South Terminal. The sort you might see prior to the overthrow of an authoritarian regime in some far flung corner of the globe. Secret signs are oversized water bottles slung from the shoulders like high calibre weapons and ammo belts, and curious Velcro attachments to humongous trainers.
Sarah, from UK organisers RunUltra, greets everyone as we check-in for our early flight, giving us UK MdS luggage tags and a UK MdS wrist band. We are flying on Titan Airways, a charter flight specialist, direct to Ouarzazate, the "Gateway to the Sahara". Somehow Chris and I have ended up on different flights, his leaves later, so I'll hook up with him in Morocco.
I'm in seat 1A, but it's definitely not business class, even though I have lots of legroom; Arthur stuffed into an overhead locker is not so lucky. Sitting next to me on the flight is Rory Coleman, cool as a cucumber listening to his iPod; he's an MdS guru and has done the MdS 14 times before! 14 times!!! We chat briefly before other passengers engulf him in questions. One of the other passengers is none other than Sophie Raworth, the BBC newsreader and journalist. She's an avid runner and, like me, is doing this for the first time.
Touchdown and through the slow queue into immigration. It's not a large airport and perhaps we are one of only a handful of flights that day, so the two immigration desks are flat out dealing with the 200 arrivals. The man in front of me has an unusual Muslim name and chats to the immigration official about it, confirming the spelling. He seems much older than the majority of entrants, but looks in good shape. I've heard the oldest Britain to complete the event was 75, but someone even older has completed it as well!
We exit the terminal to cheers and clapping and are each greeted personally by race director, the legendary Patrick Bauer, a man who walked across the Sahara in the seventies and who then organised this annual event of lunacy.
We now wait for the coach to leave the airport, it's hot and the coach's a/c is struggling to fend off the heat; while outside, the locals hide under trees. It's a six hour ride to the bivouac where we'll camp for a day before the race starts on Sunday morning.
The coach winds its way through the mountains and the heat does not abate. The thought of this for seven days, without the mechanical assistance or a/c, is beginning to raise doubts in my mind (really, only now? I can hear you say...) The scenery is spectacular with mile after mile of rocky vistas interspersed with sandy bits. Lunch at the side of the road is a tin of tuna, some bread and cheese, nuts and fruit, washed down by a sugary drink and water. Sustenance is what it is.
Arrival at the camp is in darkness. Tired, luggage is dragged from the coach and through the sand to join queues at the camp entry. Reading blogs during my preparation has warned me to prepare for the MdS queues, but this one passes relatively quickly and I'm assigned Tent123. No sign of Chris and there's no way to reserve a space for him with the system in place. Foolishly I don't have his telephone number so I desperately send out a Facebook post asking people to let him know, which they do, but he has switched off his phone!
Tent 123 is already occupied and I say hello to Colin, Keith and Pip. Colin and Keith are brothers, both keen runners and Pip, from Elephant and Castle, is an amazing 69 year old, still full of energy! Later we're joined by Mahmut, the man in front of me at immigration, and in the middle of the night by a young lady, who seems rather nervous. But still no sign of Chris!
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