And this year, in 2013, I won!

The 2013 Marathon des Sables (MdS) was, for me, a dream turned reality. This might sound sickeningly cliché, but I mean it in its most literal interpretation. Being on the podium of the world’s most famous, formidable, and competitive expedition-length stage race in 2009–but still a step below the top–made me want to win this race more than I wanted many other things in life. Thing is, I didn’t know if I could do it. The MdS requires the most exquisite combination of raw talent, honed fitness, and the skill to work through its unending logistical challenges. Over the years, I’ve thought that this dream might be a bit too much of a reach for me.

I have so many reasons why I wanted to win this race, but my desires stem largely from my love of the Sahara Desert, Morocco, and my friends there. Since 2009, I’ve now spent several months of my life in Morocco. I’ve chased beetles over the wind ripples of sand dunes. I’ve drank gallons of mint tea poured by the fastest runners in the country. My Moroccan friends have shared with me their homes and families. I’ve seen the full moon slingshot itself above the Sahara horizon. I’ve seen pissed-off vipers. I’ve slept with my head on the Sahara’s hard Earth more than 30 times.

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” -Y.B. Yeats

Every time I visit Morocco, I find there is more to learn, and more to love. My eyes grow wider and my heart bigger for this place, this race, this one, random place. And, of course, my Moroccan friends. This year’s race was overfilled with magic.

I’ve already written many words about the Marathon des Sables, and many media outlets have covered my race. Because of this, this blog post serves as a collection point for that which I and others have captured about the 2013 MdS. Below you’ll find:

• my race reports composed for media outlets,
• interviews I have done about the race,
• what other media outlets have said about this year’s edition,
• video footage from the race,
• a collection of photographs from my race,
• the official race video,
• and a list of all that I’ve previously written about the MdS on my personal website.

This is not an undertaking a person can do without a support network. And, mine is huge. Family, friends, acquaintances, and the perfect strangers of the trail and ultrarunning world who have sent your energies my way over the years, I am grateful for and buoyed by you.

Race Reports

iRunFar.com: On Believing: Meghan Hicks’s Marathon des Sables Race Report

Runner’s World: How I Won the Marathon des Sables

Interviews

iRunFar:

Outdoor Journal: Q&A with Meghan Hicks, the first woman to cross the finish line at MDS, 2013

KPCW: Park City Runner Wins Ultra Marathon in Morocco

Mountain Bike Radio/Get Outside Radio: Meghan Hicks Wins the 2013 Marathon des Sables

Talk Ultra: Episode 34 – Hollon, Hicks, Davies & Stephenson

Pace Per Mile:

The Park Record: Parkite Meghan Hicks conquers Morocco ultramarathon

Other Media Coverage

Fox News:

CNN: Winners survive ‘toughest race on Earth’

UltraRunning Magazine: Meghan Hicks Wins Marathon des Sables

7M Sports: Ahansal and Hicks win 2013 Marathon des Sables

Generation Trail: Marathon des Sables

Revista Trail: El rey y la princesa de Sables: Ahansal y Hicks

Run 247: Danny Kendall and Jo Meek excel at the 28th edition of the Sultan Marathon des Sables

Ikkosports: SHOWDOWN IN THE DUNES – 28th Sultan Marathon Des Sables

Video Footage

AOL: Stage 1

AOL: Stage 2

AOL: Stage 3

AOL: Stage 4

AOL: Stage 5

Photographs

Finishing Stage 1. Photo cedit: Mark Gillett

About 1,500 feet above the Sahara in Stage 2. Photo credit: Mark Gillett

Stage 3. Photo credit: Mark Gillett

Stage 4. Photo credit: Mark Gillett

At the finish line. Photo credit: Cimbaly/E. Sampers

At the finish line. Photo credit: Kirsten Kortebein

With 2012 men’s champion and 2013 men’s runner-up, Salameh Al Aqra, at the finish line. Photo credit: Mark Gillett

Official 2013 Race Video

My Previous Writings about the Marathon des Sables

2012:

2012 Marathon des Sables Training Update #1

2012 Marathon des Sables Training Update #2

Into the Sahara for the 2012 Marathon des Sables

2012 Marathon des Sables: What It’s Like

2010:

Off (Again!) To The Marathon des Sables

Indurare: The 2010 Marathon des Sables

2009:

Off to the Marathon des Sables

The MdS Backpack

Saharan Rain

MdS Stage 1: Erg Chebbi Meanderings

MdS Stage 2: A Desert Loop

MdS Intermission: Ode to Tent 100

MdS Stage 3: Sun, Wind, Sand, And the Thoughtful Appearance of Sean Meissner in the Desert

MdS Stage 4: The Desert Changes You

MdS Photos: A Race Tour

Look-ie here, we survived another year. Hoorays and happy 2013! I wrote a group resolution-y-type post at the beginning of 2012, and I’m doing it again this year.

Health, as it pertains to sports. Getting it. Keeping it. Embracing the pants off it. Squeezing it so tight it almost-but-not-quite pops. Not giving it away to anyone, any run, any activity, any mountain, any sunset, any workout, anytime, ever. A health that makes you freaking unstoppable, that enables you to do whatever the fork you wanna’ do.

This topic has been on my mind for a while, so long that I’m beginning with brutal honesty: Everyone should be healthy.

Let me say it more clearly:

EVERYONE SHOULD BE HEALTHY.

Sorry ’bout that. I got a little excited there. It’s just that I think our health is farking important enough for big and bold.

There are some sad exceptions to this rule. Like the folks who accidentally fall on their faces and break body parts. And cancers and other diseases that spontaneously swoop out of nowhere and mess your whole world right up. That sh%t happens, is largely out of our control. I’m talking about overuse injuries, overtraining syndromes, hormone dysfunction, and the other crap we athletes do unto ourselves.

Does me saying “everyone should be healthy” in read-me-now letters make you feel awkward? Make you seethe in defense of your health or lack thereof? Make you wanna’ duck and cover because you’ve struggled with being a healthy athlete? Are you unhealthy now?

If so, you’re not alone. It’s basically every athlete at some time in their athletic-ing lives. It’s been me. Three times, actually, as my noggin is pretty dense. I’ve been forced to take significant amounts of time away from my sports on three occasions because of overuse injuries and general body mistreatment/life mismanagement. My acts of self-inflected idiocy were a stress fracture in 2005 from running, plantar fasciitis in 2009 from running, and a multifaceted back injury in 2010.

The third time was the farking charm. I know, right? Like I said, dense. It was when I realized that being there sucks dirty, dusty, hot-as-sh$t donkey balls. And by “there” I mean that ugly place where injured athletes hang out for months or years or sometimes the rest of their lives, distraught because they can’t do what they love.

I’m never going there again. And I don’t want you to, either. No one wants to taste donkey manhood, or be unable to do the things they love.

So, are you ready to get serious? If you’re not prepared to look yourself or your sport-y loved ones in the eyes and ask some big questions that might hurt a little, I suggest you click away post haste.

In December, I was riding in the car with my buddy Matt Hart. We were driving home from Zion National Park where, with some other friends, we’d just run from one side of the park to the other. Fifty fu7king miles and 12 hours in all. Human powered, using just our legs and hearts and lungs. Sometimes laughing, sometimes running in silence and awe and reverie for red rocks and towering sandstone. I digress a little, sorry. But being healthy enough to do this kind of crap anytime I want to is pretty much my life goal now, so I get a little wound up in the personal sanctity of it all.

My companions for running across Zion National Park in a day (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Anyway, Matt’s an endurance-sports coach and a baller multi-sport athlete. He says to me, “This applies to any sport, cycling, running, baseball, whatever. The men and women at the top are terribly imbalanced. Some are so messed up that they can’t stay for long, and some manage to stick around a while. Everyone up there has an expiration date and chances are it’s sooner than they’d like.”

What he meant was that the best athletes in any sport are a little physically screwed up as a result of pushing themselves so-dang hard. What a rickety fence to ride, no? Pushing for the sake of sport–being stronger, fitter, faster, better able to do whatever it is you love–inherently sounds like the sweetest thing on this gosh-danged planet. And it is! But what about the repercussions of pushing just a little too much and decreasing your shelf life because of it? This precarious balancing act isn’t just for elites at the top of sports; everyone who spends a lot of time moving their body is subject to certain topple-overs.

Doing your beloved sport today is equal in value to being able to do it tomorrow, five years from now, when you’re old and gray, or on whatever time scale you imagine yourself doing it. Can anyone argue against that? I can’t even justify it for the best of every sport. No one wants to be forced to quit doing what they love because their body won’t tolerate it. We wanna’ do it until the cows come home or we’re sent off on some dazzling funeral pyre or however we imagine the end of our sport days.

On New Year’s Day, I ran this race called the New Year’s Revolution Run. It took place at the Utah Olympic Oval’s indoor, four-lane track. The race had winners, the man and woman who completed the most laps in the five-hour race time limit. But the race director offered other goals–half marathon and marathon medals–and encouraged people to run as long or as little as they wanted.

The whole set-up was idyllic. You wear a chip on your ankle that counts your laps for you (No math required.). You have access to an aid station, a bathroom, and your own stuff every lap (Sh&ting in the woods? Not today!). You get to chat and watch hundreds of other people do their thing (People watching, my favorite!). You wear shorts and t-shirt (This means a lot in Utah, in winter.). You have no pressure of a far-off finish line (You see the thing every lap.). You just run your little heart out until you don’t want to anymore.

There was this woman, I could tell by the way she set her gaze that she was in for the long haul. For the first three hours, she kept a solid, even keel. Somewhere after the three-hour mark, she began taking walk breaks. And then I began to notice a hitch in her giddy-up. Then I saw her holding her left hip, and stopping to stretch it. By the end of the race, her gait was deformed and she was in obvious pain. Yet she continued on until the race director stood at the edge of the track and told us the race was over.

Her demise was sad. So badly I wanted to tell her, “It’s okay to stop. You’ve run a real long way today already.” I mean absolutely no offense to her specifically, as she’s just a recent, real-life example. But why did she take a really nice long run and turn it into an injury she’s probably working through as I type this? Why have I done the EXACT SAME THING? Why do we take our sports too far?

That’s an exceedingly complex question, as exemplified by the fact we athletes just keep getting injured. If psychologists had already figured this crap out, we’d not have passels of burned out, washed up, chronically injured folks in every. single. gosh-darn. sport.

If you’re someone who is or has pushed themselves into sport-injury trouble, ask yourself why you have done or do that. No, I mean it. Go ahead and do it. I’ll be here when you’re done.

Oh, you’re too shy to look inside your soul right now? That’s okay. While you work up the gumption, let me tell you about why I got obscenely injured:

1. Stress fracture. I developed pain in my right tibia about two months before my goal road marathon and just kept running on it, reasoning that I didn’t want to lose my fitness and that I’d heal whatever was wrong with me after I ran a marathon PR. I dropped at mile 17-ish of the race due to overwhelming lower-leg pain, a stress fracture that took four months to heal.

Me running in Big Bend National Park in 2004, several months before my stress fracture (photo courtesy of Meghan M. Hicks).

 2. Plantar fasciitis. I was training for the Marathon des Sables, and developed right foot pain about four months before the race. Again, I trained and raced through it. I finished the race–actually felt not a smidge of pain during the race itself–but it took many months to recuperate once I acquiesced.

Me training in Death Valley National Park for the 2009 Marathon des Sables. My foot was killing me because I had plantar fasciitis (Jeffrey Smith photo credit).

3. Back injury. I was working a job that required lots of hours at a desk and a long car commute. This gobbled up my time to stretch and do cross training, though I continued to run a lot even though I knew I should probably cut back in light of other life stresses and imbalances. Over about nine months, my back grew more painful until one day its tight tissues impinged upon a nerve that relegated me to horizontal for two days. That biomechanical disarray is still not 100% unwound now, more than two-and-a-half years later.

Bekah, me, and my painful back fastpacking in the Sierra Nevada in August of 2010 (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Right? It’s obscene. The stupid sh$t I talked myself into for the sake of training and racing. I would be mortified to admit all this–especially the part about me making the same dam* mistake three times–except that something so good came out of this hodgepodge of idiocy: I learned that ImemymememymeImemememe was instigating my own demise.

It hit me like a ton of bricks as I lay on my couch waiting for my back muscles to loosen their grip on that unfortunate nerve. In pursuit of personal records and performances, I allowed myself to become grossly injured. There was no alien who crept in and banged on my leg in the middle of the night with a sword. And no god performed a miracle of meanness on me. It was all me. Tragic that. Simple that.

I said there would be some messyhardtolookat stuff here. Now it’s really time for you to ask yourself the same question. You might have avoided it the first time I encouraged you to do so, but I just aired all my dirty laundry. Your turn!

Why have you or do you allow yourself to do a sport until you’re too hurt to do your sport? Are you running from something else in your life? Do you value the sport part of you more than your other qualities, skills, and hobbies? Are you running from food issues? Relationship issues? Is there a nasty secret in your past that you want to separate yourself from some more? Are you compulsive? Do you not know when to say when? Do you just love your sport so much than you don’t know what else to do with yourself? What say you?

*big, fatty, loud, chirping crickets*

Now what? You’ve looked about as deep inside as you can. It might have hurt a little or a lot. You might have just had a come-to-hayzeus moment of some sort. Whatthefork are you supposed to do with all that juiced-up emotion?

This is the easy part. Put it to productive use. Use it to re-capture the feeling–I know you’ve had it–of your impeccable, indestructible health. Allow this to become momentum for heading in that blinding, brilliant direction. I imagine this to be like putting, just for a little while, a lightning bug in a glass jar. Harness and hold close something that is magic, powerful.

The journey back to health might be long. My back is not 100% healed from an injury that manifested two-and-a-half years ago. I know, it sucks. I’ve cried much. I’ve declined dozens of runs or other adventures that I knew would work against the long-term healing process. I’ve spent thousands of dollars on physical and alternative healing therapies and learned to do a lot of them on my own. Forever health isn’t achieved overnight, but you must be willing to commit to the process.

But now I am as close to forever health as I have ever been. I can run my little heart out, carry a heavy backpack a long way, do yoga headstands, and ride a bike very far. I am healthy enough to do all this today and for the future as far off as I have the capacity to imagine.

In case you’re not there yet–willing to join me in a place of awesome health or to do the work to get there–let me share one last story. It was the summer of 2010, and I was on fastpacking trip in the Sierra Nevada with my friend Bekah. Almost all of that trip was perfect: cloudless days and clear, cold nights; a friend who makes me feel strong and loved; a route that curled through some of the mountain range’s best highlands; thousands of calories of tasty food every day; and a perfect distance to feel challenged.

There was one thing that was so very wrong, though. My back hurt for the whole stinkin’ trip. And the labor of movement caused the pain to radiate into other areas of my body. So vivid is my memory of taking a rest break on Koip Pass at something like 12,000 feet altitude. There was incredible beauty there, everywhere. I knew it intellectually, could see it visually, but I couldn’t feel it in my soul. My back pain disallowed me from connecting with that wilderness.

What a loss. What a waste. Don’t be me, or don’t find yourself in an equivalent, painful situation.

I haven’t been back to Koip Pass since I’ve been healthy. But the next time I go back to that very tall and breathless place, I’m taking my forever health.

Koip Pass in the Sierra Nevada (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

I can’t live without these high and mighty sentinels. Oh, the hyperbole, you think, and you’re probably right. Perhaps I could survive without time spent with big views, but would I want to?

When I was a kid, my family took the great American family road trip, a loop through the American west from our Minnesota home. I don’t remember the kind of car we drove (a station wagon of some sort, of course) or how many times my brother and I fought in the backseat (multiple times per day) or all the places we went (I remember the presidents’ carved heads.) or how many times we successfully begged my parents to stop for ice cream (I doubt very many.).

But, I can recall this: my dad driving, a curve in the road, and suddenly my mom screaming, “Stop the car! Stop the car!” There was a big, big view of Wyoming’s Teton Mountains and my mother wanted us to see it. Fifteen or so years later and six months after my father passed away, Mom and I returned to the same damn spot in front of the same damn view. To cry, to heal. Because that’s what mountains help you do.

And, besides, does our planet not need them, something to stand guard over wild landscapes?

I spent the summer of 2012 chasing mountains and other high places. (Click on any photo for a fill-your-screen view.)

Wheeler Peak in Nevada, in May. I don’t summit, can’t. A bitter wind being chased by a snow-bearing cold front makes conditions dangerous for my sparsely dressed self. When I can’t stand the cold anymore, I sprint down to this lake and wait for Bryon Powell, who has appropriate attire (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Bryon Powell turns 34 atop a ridgeline in the Oquirrh Mountains, Utah. Just us and the butterflies (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Rim-to-river-to-rim running in Arizona’s Grand Canyon on a hot June Saturday. The lemonade at Phantom Ranch tastes so good (Matt Vukin photo credit).

A convention of runners on Jupiter Peak, Utah. Oh am I sick with a summer cold and slow this morning! The beauty carries you when your legs are leaden (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Evening on California’s Emigrant Pass (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Vince Heyd and I’s Notch Mountain circumnavigation in the Uinta Mountains of Utah ends with a breathless-at-11,000-feet sprint through hail (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Here’s Triple Divide Pass in Montana and one of 343 photos I take while transecting Glacier National Park on an eight-day backpacking trip. Every day a big pass. Hours over treeline. Chirping marmots. Summer sun. The brilliant company of friends (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Torched legs after a time trial up and down Kendall Mountain, at the edge of Silverton, Colorado (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Geoffrey and Paige Dunmore handily handle Handies Peak, Colorado (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

We can’t find the hematite in Hematite Gulch, Colorado, but we do find a helluva lot of flowers (Bryon Powell photo credit).

Nature’s technicolor at 13,000 feet. Bryon Powell on Grant-Swamp Pass, Colorado (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Vince Heyd and I self-portrait ourselves atop Mount Timpanogos, Utah (Vince Heyd photo credit).

Early morning, dead legs, and not enough oxygen. But still my heart soars. Colorado’s high point, Mount Elbert (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Mount Massive, Colorado is massive (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Chasing sunset up and down Mount Elbert, Colorado. Mount Elbert, again. I lose the race and finish in the almost black. No flashlight. No moon. Groping the ground with my feet, trusting proprioception. Warm breeze flows through the trees. Chocolate milk waits in the car (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Linda Barton protects Jon Webb about 4,000 feet above Chamonix, France. This run wins the prize for the least amount of distance covered in the most amount of time: six hours, 17.5 miles. A lot of vertical. One beautiful pastry at a refuge. No regrets (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Gina Lucrezi, Ashley Arnold, and Jon Webb above Chamonix, France. Everyone except Jon is hungover. Beer then champagne. At 2 am the night before. Seeping out of our skin as we sweat the uphill. Yes, I should know better by now and, yes, it is worth it (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Matt Vukin, Lone Peak, Utah (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Utah’s Mount Raymond makes for perfect post workday highpointing (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Danni, Amber, and I near Scenic Point in Glacier National Park (photo courtesy of Danni Coffman).

From Saturday, July 21st through Saturday, July 28th, Danni Coffman, Amber Steed, and I backpacked through Glacier National Park in Montana.

The Map

Our seven night, eight day, 134-mile backpacking route in Glacier National Park is penned in red. We began at the Bowman Lake Trailhead and finished at East Glacier. The red circles indicate the backcountry campsites at which we overnighted (image courtesy of Danni Coffman).

The What Went Down

Day 1 | Bowman Lake Trailhead to Brown Pass backcountry campsite | approximately 14 miles

A forest-y walk along the north side of turquoise Bowman Lake. It’s hard to believe this kind of turquoise is made by nature. A short-but-steep climb up to the near side of Brown Pass. The mosquitoes atop Brown Pass are Alaska caliber, from remnant snow still buried in nearby avalanche debris from two winters ago. We flail around the campsite, trying not to be consumed. Danni’s friend, Dave the Glacier National Park Encyclopedia, joins us the first couple of days.

Day 2 | Brown Pass backcountry campsite to Mokowanis Junction backcountry campsite over Stoney Indian Pass | approximately 22 miles

Over the rest of Brown Pass, then a forever descent to the Goat Haunt Ranger Station and the shore of Waterton Lake. You can see Canada from here! A right hook southbound to the easterly turnoff for Stoney Indian Pass. The trail to Stoney Indian Lake is overgrown by cow parsnip taller than us, a bushwhacker’s delight! Wading in Stoney Indian Lake. Hopping/skipping/jumping Stoney Indian Pass. Jaunting past the waterfalls, cascades, and stream crossings on the pass’ east side. Way hungry, but we refuel in camp and peace is restored.

Day 3 | Mokowanis Junction backcountry campsite to Elizabeth Lake backcountry campsite | about nine miles

We say good-bye to Dave, him to the real world, us to Elizabeth Lake. A recovery day, walking on the north shores of Glenns and Cosley Lakes and a zip past Dawn Mist Falls. An all-afternoon lounge on the smooth rocks of Elizabeth Lake’s shore. We sip bourbon from a flask and dunk our toes in cold, cold water.

Day 4 | Elizabeth Lake backcountry campsite to Many Glacier Campground over Redgap Pass | about 20 miles

A windy ascent of Redgap Pass. We disturb the morning meal of a bighorn sheep nursery herd. Leaning into the wind to stay in contact with the Earth. Freezing fingers! A tailwind pushes us down past pretty Poia Lake. Over a tree-d hump and the down the longest of approaches to the Many Glacier developed area. Dinner, beer, and wine (Too much wine!) from the Swiftcurrent Motor Inn. Campfire chillin’. Hurrah for half way!

Day 5 | Many Glacier Campground to Reynolds Creek backcountry campsite over Piegan Pass | about 15 miles

We wake up rough around the edges from last night’s debauchery. Moose, a mama and her feisty babe. Piegan Pass, going up! Way beyond treeline and staying there. Lunch at the pass with overzealous ground squirrels, boxing marmots, and one curious bighorn sheep. Piegan Pass, I suspect, is home to unicorns. Downhill and a crossing of the Going to the Sun Road. I now understand why wild animals act so nut-so on roads. Days of woods-y slowness, the pace of nature, then the sudden rush of motorized, metal boxes. We survive, I’m not sure how.

Day 6 | Reynolds Creek backcountry campsite to Atlantic Creek backcountry campsite over Triple Divide Pass | roughly 26 miles

This marathon day is made easier by about 14 miles of flat morning walking. And the arrival of Sonya, another of Danni’s friends. She smells good and tells stories. Danni has fire in her belly and leads the charge. A big black bear on the edge of Saint Mary Lake. A nekkie dip in Red Eagle Lake. Sweet Jesus, the joy of Triple Divide Pass! Celebratory dinner at camp.

Day 7 | Atlantic Creek backcountry campsite to Two Medicine Campground over Pitamakan and Dawson Passes | approximately 18 miles

The sweeping two or three miles between Pitamakan and Dawson Passes on this day, be still my heart. The exposure, the views! Replete rad-ness. Powerwalking down, down, down to Two Medicine Campground at almost four miles per hour. Good-bye Sonya. Camp store snacks! Ice cream, I have never loved you as much as I do today.

Day 8 | Two Medicine Campground to Glacier Park Lodge in East Glacier over Scenic Point | about 10 miles

One last high point. Until next time, next year, same people, new place. Walk wild. Feel wild. Be wild.

The Visuals

Click and watch!

The Thanks

Danni: Thanks for planning this stupid-amazing trip and for bringing me along. Thanks for making me laugh so hard I sometimes had to drop my pack and pants to pee on the spot. Thank you for getting us deep into the wild. Thanks for your friendship.

Amber: Thanks for liking me the first day we met. Thanks for the nutty scientist voice. Thanks for liking food as much as you do. I’m only mad that you were less hungover than me after our night in Many Glacier.

Dave: Thanks for the surprise beer, the encyclopedic park knowledge, and for saving my arse when I almost fell in the stream crossing.

Sonya: Thanks for your joy on our marathon day, and for smelling so sweetly when all of us stunk. Thanks for heaving that heavy pack around to prove that girls are tough. Thanks for the killer powerwalk off Dawson Pass!

Ted: Thanks for the shuttles. Without you, we might still be out there. Thanks also for being Danni’s husband and contributing to her coolness.

This is what it’s like.

You stand over the entirety of your racing kit–the tiny backpack; the 17,000 calories of food; the microscopic toothbrush; the required safety supplies; the jacket that packs down to the size of a lime; and the sleeping bag–in your living room and you think, this can’t be everything.

My 2012 Marathon des Sables gear (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit)

You call your mom on Google Chat to smile, wave, and say, “I’m off to the Sahara Desert to run 150 miles.” She tries to be brave, to not cry. She hates that you go to this race, and you wish for a moment that you did, too. Tormenting your mother is the worst feeling on Earth, but you know that you were made to do adventures like these and that you’d wither without them. You tell your mom this and she smiles. She wants you to be happy. It’s just that she saw your dad dead on a South American beach and she wants everyone else she loves to stay alive. “Be careful,” she says, stressing the “be” like she always does so that the phrase becomes an admonishment. When she disappears from your computer screen, you cry.

You receive a message from a little man called Thunderclap. You’re in a Moroccan hotel on molasses-slow wi-fi, so it takes the YouTube video minutes to buffer. When Thunderclap comes alive, he has blue marker on his chin as he tells you to be fast like a spider. You watch the video over and over, committing it to memory so that you can remember his words all the way across the Sahara Desert.

You journey to the race’s starting line with the other 850 runners and 400 volunteers. You meet people, so many people. No one who goes to the Marathon des Sables is normal, but some people are nuttier than others. Everyone has a story and today you learn many.

Several runners from all over the world pose during the journey to the race’s starting line (photo courtesy of Rachid El Morabity)

You lay to sleep the first night, your head separated from orange Sahara dirt by a Berber rug. You lay next to six relative strangers, the rest of Tent #56 among the 100-plus tents containing runners out here. This is now your tribe, your people, your familiar faces in an unfamiliar land. You begin the race with them, so clean, eager, and nervous.

Tent #56 (Greg York photo credit)

You grow dirtier. Your skin and your hair and your shirt and your underpants become the same color as the Sahara. The color of a salmon, you think. At some unnoticeable point, the dirt no longer bothers you. It is just dirt.

All week, your throat hurts, just a little, from the dry air. You love the feel of water slinking down your throat and soothing the rough skin. When your tentmate says, “water is gold,” you agree.

You and the other runners are isolated from the world. All you know is what’s here, what’s Sahara. You do not know what’s happened in Greece, Guatemala, or even the first town at the edge of the desert. But, you don’t need to know. You are content with the now and here.

You get mad, twice in those eight days. Every day it is windy, so windy that you have to hold onto all of your possessions or they will blow away, so windy that your belly button and dinner are always full of sand. For most hours of most days, you accept this. One afternoon, when it’s just you and Chris in Tent #56, you are pelted by painful sand sheets. You fire off a string of curse words and Chris raises his eyebrows. You laugh and say, “I suppose the wind will blow no matter what name I call it.”

On the last day of the race, you tell one of your tentmates that you are upset with him. All week he’s been doing something intrusive to the other folks in Tent #56. He shrugs his shoulders each time someone says as much, seeming to care not about his ill-effect on others. When you ask him if he cares, he looks at you like you are an alien who has spoken a just-invented tongue. He doesn’t understand that a place like this–and life in general–is about taking care of people.

Me at the 2012 Marathon des Sables (Greg York photo credit)

You starve. Not really, but kind of. You’re constantly hungry and you ration your food, dosing it every 30 minutes when you’re running and every couple hours when you’re not. You don’t think about the food you’ll have after the race is over, you can’t. You think about those dehydrated green beans that you’re going to eat next and pretend they will be the best food you’ve ever consumed. And, when it’s time to eat them, they are. You will, of course, not be able to eat dehydrated green beans ever again back at home. But here and now, they are heaven.

You run. You run like it’s your job, your business, your all. You eat for running, drink for running, sleep for running, talk for running, be for running. This is a lot of running in a short period of time and it hurts. You do not mind the hurt. You glide over rocks and dirt, past other runners who seem to stink less than you do, by oases of green trees, through walls of wind-blown sand.

Running Stage 3 (Marc d’Haenen photo credit)

You run like hell the last day, it’s just 10 miles and almost all tall, salmon-colored sand dunes. You arrive to the finish line of the race and into the arms of race director Patrick Bauer. You are sweaty and he is, too, when he hugs you and hangs a medal around your neck.

In the hotel that night, right after you drop your racing backpack and right before you shower, you turn on your cell phone to call your mom from Morocco. She answers, yelling your name. You say, “Mom, I finished.” She says, “I know! I’ve been watching you online.” She describes what she knows–evidence that she’s not only been Internet stalking you, but also that she’s genuinely excited about your race–and you use a dirty fingernail to scratch at the dirt on your thigh as you listen. You think, she couldn’t be happier, I couldn’t be happier.

You go home and people ask in polite passing, “what was the Marathon des Sables like?” They ask a complex question, but seek a one-sentence answer. It’s akin to inquiring, “In seven words or less, describe your relationship with God.” So you say, “The race was wonderful.” and “I loved it.” and “It’s an experience I hope I don’t forget.” These statements are true but they toss a fuzzy, feel-good blanket over the whole Sahara Desert. There is no short answer for that question.

Running Stage 5 (Carolyn Schaefer photo credit)

The Marathon des Sables ingrains into you so hard that just the dirt takes an hour in the shower to scrub off and you can’t, for the life of you, get enough perspective on the experience to blog about it for two-and-a-half months. It swallows you whole. You live, breathe, and become for a week nothing but the race and the dirt and the wind and the people and your backpack and the pain and the stink and the dehydrated green beans and the joy. And, when you go home, the race goes, too. It becomes a part of you, for good. The Marathon des Sables is animalian and primal and like a tattoo for your soul and a way to stay grounded to this life and a church and the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my 33 years on this massive blue-and-green planet.

So, that is what it’s like.

This race has been on my training and life radar since February 2011 when I found out I was one of the lucky North Americans who was chosen to play. Between then and now, I’ve run thousands of miles and participated in at least a half-dozen ultramarathons. Almost all of this adventuring has been with the goal of this race in mind and body. Does this sound silly? It does. But, a girl’s gotta’ have goals and this one’s mine.

I’m a lucky, lucky creature in that I have family, friends, and the complete strangers of the Internet world supporting me in my endeavor. This means more than I could ever articulate. If you’re reading this, I owe you a massive thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you for buoying me along the way.

I’ve been hanging out in Morocco for a while, having fun, acclimating to the Sahara Desert, and learning from the best in the biz, the Morocco runners who routinely finish close to first in this race. This experience has connected me to this country–its people and land–on a level I didn’t feel in my 2009 and 2010 MdS outings. Morocco possesses a beauty that fills my heart so full that it aches with love. I feel blessed to take this positive energy along on my journey across the desert. Here are a couple photos that show the kind of experiences I’ve had:

I've spent time with great runners and their families here in Zagora, Morocco, including my new best friend, Aya (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Samir, Lhoucine, Aissom, and I did a 50-kilometer bike tour (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

I ran and traveled in the desert with supreme adventure companions Janet and Chris (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

I chased fast Moroccan boys, like last year's MdS winner, Rachid El Morabity, around the sand (photo courtesy of Rachid El Morabity).

Our friends have shared with us some amazing meals and teas (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

This Friday, April 6th, the MdS race administration transfers us from civilization into the desert. On Saturday, we 900-ish runners check into the race, an all-day endeavor of weighing packs, checking mandatory gear, and being patient. The race begins on Sunday, April 8th and concludes on Saturday, April 14th.

If you’d like to follow along on this seven day, six stage, 250-kilometer race, you can do so on the race website and over on iRunFar, where daily updates will be posted. If you’d like to send me a note out there in the desert (Believe it or not, you can! Messages are delivered to us competitors most nights in the camp we make between each day of racing.). To do so, navigate to the race website and click on “write a competitor” between April 7th and 13th (The link will only exist on the race website on those days.). You’ll need my full name, Meghan Hicks, and my race number, #973, to send a note. Feel free to write once or as much as you want! You can imagine how amazing it is to hear from people who care out there in the desert.

There is so much more I want to tell you about this place and this race, but I’ll save it for afterward when I’m back home recovering. For now, I’m off to the 2012 Marathon des Sables!

If you’re stopping by for the first time, MdS is a 150-ish mile, seven-day stage race in which you carry your own provisions (except for water and a shade structure to sleep under, which are provided by the race administration) in a backpack whilst running through the Sahara Desert. The race takes place in 2012 from April 8th through 14th. As I type this, I’m entering my last week of training.

I’ll save you (Mostly me, training plans nearly kill me. At the end of the day, I just like to run.) the details and summarize the various elements of training as well as a couple fun specifics.

Danni Coffman and the Grand Canyon during our R2R2R training trip over Thanksgiving weekend (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Build/recover cycles

I’ve adhered to taking a recovery week after every two weeks of hard training. Many traditional training plans call for three weeks up and one week down, but that cycle length doesn’t work for me. If I want to work real hard in training, my body asks for frequent recovery.

Mileage

Cycle by cycle since November, my mileage has crept up from where it was in the 60 miles-per-week range to the 90-110 miles per week range. If this last week of training week goes well, I’ll have put in four weeks above 90 miles. For me, this is as high as my mileage ever gets. And, in training for MdS by running with a weighted pack, it not only takes forever to run this many miles in a week, it’s also stressful on the body. All along, I’ve let my body do the talking on how much time to spend running each week. You can bet your bottom dollar that I’m grateful for this kind of physical health.

Self-portraiting on a solo weekend training trip to Moab, Utah in January (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit).

Back-to-back long runs (with a running pack much of the time)

With the exceptions of recovery weeks, my weekends this winter have been filled by these back-to-back long runs with a running pack. This is pretty much what running MdS is about, getting up every day for a week and doing a long run with a pack.

Fortunately, I did some of these runs as races, including the Red Hot Moab 55K in February, which I ran with a 12-pound pack and the 3 Days of Syllamo two weekends ago. At the 3 Days of Syllamo, I ran with 15 pounds in the 50K, 13 pounds in the 50-mile, and no pack in the 20K. And, next weekend, I plan to run the Antelope Island Buffalo Run 50K with a pack. Using races for long runs takes the edge off the torment of running a real long way with a pack on your back. Also fortuitous is that some of my running buddies have put up with doing long runs with my running pack and I around Park City and Salt Lake City. Finally, I’ve traveled to Moab twice to do these runs in beautiful and unfrozen terrain. This variety and support have kept me sane.

Speed workouts

I have done one or two of these each week, even on my recovery weeks. Most of them have been in the range of tempo workouts that include somewhere between four and eight miles of tempo-effort work. I have done these on the treadmill at the gym. Treadmill training is a blessing and a curse. I love people watching and I get to do lots of it while I’m on the treadmill. Though gerbil-style running is quintessentially not me (Just give me a mountain to frolic upon, alright?), these runs have built strong legs and perhaps an even stronger mind.

Strength work

If there was any part of my training that I could have improved upon, it has been my strength workouts. I love doing them but I just plain struggle with the gym environment and feeling like a caged bird in there. If I’ve already been at the gym twice in one week for the treadmill, the idea of going back some more is like clipping my wings. Nevertheless, I’ve done them, either one or two per week. I could have worked harder or stayed in the gym longer, but I’m proud that I suffered through, er, did the work.

Me on a training run in Canyonlands National Park in January (Bryon Powell photo credit).

Easy miles/streaking

I’m streaking 2012, running (or hobbling if the occasion calls for it) every day. Through streaking, I’ve gotten in all of my easy mileage around training’s most important workouts. The key here has been to do these runs really, really slow. Early on in training, I was doing a lot of these runs with other people. I found that it was better if I did the majority of this easy mileage on my own so that I could stick with an easy effort and slow pace.

Heat acclimation

In the last five weeks before MdS, I’m acclimating to the heat I will find in the Sahara Desert. Five weeks out, I sat in the sauna twice for around 45 minutes. Four weeks out, which is the week I’m finishing up as I type, I sat in the sauna four times for between 45 minutes and one hour. Three weeks out, I plan to sit in the sauna four times for a bit over an hour each.

Ten days out, I’m going to the Sahara Desert to acclimate there! Holy smokes, I’m a lucky girl and I know it!

Me finishing the 3 Days of Syllamo 50-mile stage with my running pack (Travis Liles photo credit).

Bodywork

My biomechanics are imperfect. I wouldn’t have made it through this training season without weekly Active Release Technique/chiropractor visits and monthly massage. Knock on wood, I have been working really hard to get to this year’s starting line as healthy and as fit as I am able.

Mental-toughness and do-nothing-stupid training

Running MdS is about staying mentally flexible and adapting oneself to whatever conditions present themselves over the course of the week. At the 2010 MdS, I did not possess enough mental flexibility and I ended up spending a night in a medical tent. This sucked in general and, more importantly, frightened the pants off my mother back at home, who was following my progress (or lack thereof it in that case) via the race website and the timing chip around my ankle. I wish to never, ever again partake in or create this type of mess. Ever. So, I’m taking with me some new mental abilities.

How does one train to not be stupid? For me, there are a couple components. First, it’s about rolling with whatever punches happen out there. Not feeling good? Figure out why and fix it instead of mourning it. These miles are getting hard? Yep, that’s what running is about so don’t belabor that fact. Second, it’s, for me, also about learning to listen to my body. It tells me everything I need to know and, if I listen to it, I’m going to have a great experience.

Finally, it’s about understanding hyperextension. Running these long distances in training and racing is about going to the outer limits of where you feel comfortable. There’s a fine line out there, though, of  taxing oneself enough and really effing up and hurting yourself. I’ve not always been the best at staying on the sustainable side of that line or even knowing where and what the line is. I think you can only learn about this place by going to it, testing the waters, and coming back from it feeling good. I’ve spent my fair share of time in this training cycle trying out that hyperextended place, then coming back to recover before going out again.

Okay, friends, it’s a simple as that. Heh. As you read this, I’ve entered my last week of hard training. After Saturday, March 24th, it’s time to taper!

Faith of Cranes book cover (image courtesy of Mountaineers Books)

Hank Lentfer and his book, Faith of Cranes: Finding Hope and Family in Alaska, pretty much blows my theory out of the water. I love this book and I’m inclined to think that Mr. Lentfer and I are more the same than we are different. He’s a National Park Service dropout who cared not to live the desk life of upper-echelon management. I am, too. Hank Lentfer loves sandhill cranes and helped his daughter grow for them her own love. My mom has always been obsessed with the big birds and she instilled in me the patience to watch them all day. Large-scale environmental problems sometimes shade Hank’s world. My heart can become heavily leaded by similar issues. Heck, we even have a mutual friend in common.

Faith of Cranes is a non-fiction, first-person account of Hank growing up, old, and wise in Alaska alongside ever-tenuously-present sandhill cranes. You probably know that sandhill cranes are the massive birds that look and sound more like they belong in the Age of Dinosaurs, that make larger-than-life migrations between their summer and winter ranges, and whose livelihoods are threatened by habitat encroachment and a host of other conservation issues. In Hank’s rural Alaskan world, cranes represent both humans’ destructive tendencies and nature’s persistence in spite of this. Sandhill cranes, it seems, are a framework for Mr. Lentfer’s life.

The book is a peephole into his world and, through it, I am made to feel–right down to my tippy toes–a wild spectrum of emotions. At times, Faith of Cranes makes me swing my head low in shame for how humans treat wildlands. Drilling in the Alaskan Arctic? For Jane’s sake, what makes us think we possess the right to do this? Hank inspires wonder for nature’s patterns. That sandhill cranes fly to and from Alaska every year and have been for millions of years boggles the way-back depths of my mind. Mr. Lentfer makes his world the real-life manifestation of his dreams and I dance in jubilation of this fact. If you can dream it, you can do it. Hank proves this to be so. My eyes overfill with tears for the too-soon deaths of Hank’s friends and for the folks who live on through loss. I know as well as Hank does that being among the ones who survive is one of life’s largest challenges. I am enamored with nature as Mr. Lentfer records it. The songbird’s trill in Hank’s front yard? Through the pages, I can hear it, almost.

Sometime in Mr. Lentfer’s life, he experiences a revelation. If sandhill cranes can and do operate on what appears to us humans as faith–in finding food, water, shelter, and a place to mate when they migrate–then, by good god, so can we. In this day and age of clear-cut logging, en masse dolphin slaughters, and melting ice caps, I am easily swept into a dark, non-functional closet of despair over such large-scale loss. All day I wonder, what else should I do? Could I help more? Can I reach further? Hank and Faith of Cranes dares me to ask myself what I can possibly do way out in those places if I become unable to care for my own chunk of life? Hank’s answer and mine is not much.

Hank reminds me to return to my world, to do the best that I am able with my plot of this good Earth and the sweet, few human beings on it. And, of course, to have faith in what might grow out of my wee home.

Mother and colt sandhill cranes in Park City, Utah (Meghan M. Hicks photo credit)

Here in Utah, the sandhill cranes will return in April, when dirtied snow remnants still stick in the shade and when the creeks run high with spring runoff. They will be fat and tan from a winter in New Mexico, ready to stake their land claims, make those dinosaur-like calls into each twilight, and create new sandhill cranes. After watching them for hours–just like I did last year–I’ll take home with me their faith.

More Resources

• Purchase Faith of Cranes here.
• Read about some of my experiences with a nesting pair of sandhill cranes here, here, and (sadly) here.

I want to let you all know that Mark Floreani, one of Flotrack/Flotrail's founders, and I just had a pleasant phone conversation in which he apologized for posting a photo of mine on their website without permission or credit. As many of you know, the photo was removed from the couple places it was posted at Flotrack/Flotrail around midday today.

In short, case closed, situation resolved. Thanks again and let's all go hit the trails!]

Hello. You over there on the Internets. Have you ever stolen something someone else created/owned? Maybe just once? Maybe as a kid? My brother once did.

When we were young, he stole some candy from the grocery store. I can’t quite remember what it was, but we’re talkin’ a piece or two. What I can remember is my mom staring my brother down in the kitchen of our house, waiting for him to fess up. When he did, she put us both back into the car and returned us to the grocery store so my brother could apologize and give the manager the change he owed. My dad later grounded my brother for the weekend, sealing the deal on that moral lesson. We learned–my brother from doing the heavy lifting and me by osmosis–that stealing is bad.

I grew up in the late 80′s and early 90′s, the age of big bangs and bigger earrings (Someday I will show you pictures of what I looked like and we will all have a good chuckle.). One day back then, my friends and I climbed into my wheels at the time, a mouse brown Chevy Corsica, from a day of mall shopping. Hooked around my purse strap was a set of hooped earrings from Claire’s or someplace similar. I had stolen, unintentionally, and I was mortified, remembering the stern punishments my bro had received. I creeped back into the accessory store and hung the earrings on the first rack I could reach because, dear lord, the guilt was punishment enough.

Other people, on the other hand, steal. Peppered around the Internets are my photos and words, taken from this website or other places I’ve published them, and re-posted without attribution. In most of these cases, I believe that folks have good-hearted intentions and they don’t understand that they should ask permission to do so (When people ask, I almost always says yes. This week, a nice lady said she wanted to put a photo from this website on the cover of a forthcoming book. I loved the book idea and said yes!). In a couple of cases, however, I know people know better and have done it anyway. That’s the work of both meanypants-ville and people who must not have grown up with my parents.

This kind of stealing gets me fired-up enough to write a blog post. Last week, an Internet company announced that they were going to start a new trail running website and were on the hunt for contributors to help build an online trail running community. Here’s that website and contributor announcement. Here’s the screenshot I took last Friday of that same webpage:

Screenshot of Flotrail website and contributor announcement (Meghan M. Hicks image credit)

Right away, something about the page struck me as odd. About 32 seconds later, I realized that the photo near the top of the page seemed, I dunno, familiar. And then it hit me, it’s a photo of ME. Can you see the resemblance now? This image is a manipulated version of this photo:

Meghan trail running in Jasper National Park (Keith Brodsky photo credit).

This photo originally appeared here, in this blog post, back in 2009 when I was on vacation in Canada. How in the heck did I put seven and four together so fast? In this 2009 photo, I was recovering from plantar fasciitis. Anyone who has had a long injury knows that those early runs back to health are sweet and imprinting upon the memory. I also remember this day because I was running with a dear friend, Keith Brodsky. He took this photo, actually.

Still with me? Flotrack/Flotrail lifted a photo from my website, did a little switcheroo editing, and published it on their own website as if it were their own. Did they ask permission? Nope! Did they pay me? No way. Are they going to profit from something that I own? Not for much longer.

In case you haven’t tooled around my website much, I’ve got proprietary information listed on the bottom of each page (Scroll down on this one to see it.). Here’s a screenshot of what this looks like:

Copyright information for my website (Meghan M. Hicks image credit)

Flotrack/Flotrail, stop stealing my stuff! Sorry, doods and laydees. Fair’s fair, take that candy back to the grocery store, apologize to the manager, and pay your buckaroos. Or, apologize and take it down (And don’t steal someone else’s photo when you replace it.).

While you’re here, Flotrack/Flotrail, can I tell you one more thing that I’m sure you already know? The website you’re inventing, Flotrail, it sounds just like one that already exists. It’s called iRunFar.com and I work for this website. Let’s bring this all full circle. You stole a photo from the personal website of an editor at a publication that’s already doing what you’re trying to promote with the photo. Funny all that.

Between doing some heavy lifting from me, a person who works her heiny off for and cares deeply about the trail and ultrarunning community, and the fabulous splash this blog piece is making, you’re sure rolling out the welcome wagon for yourselves. I want you to know that we trail and ultrarunners try our damndest to play nice with each other, every time, all the time. We get behind, support, and buoy each other. You should, too.

In the meantime, buy my photograph or take it down. And don’t steal anymore, please.

About a month ago, Sidney, Montana runner Sherry Arnold was abducted and killed during her morning run.

At the same time this tragedy occurred, thousands of other women around the world were engaging in their own morning runs. That we, as women, are subjected to violent crimes while engaging in the sports we love is an intolerable part of our society. We should have the right to safely engage in our sport no matter who we are, where we are, or when we run. We deserve safe streets and trails, and we deserve communities who support us.

This Saturday morning, February 11th, a Virtual Run for Sherry Arnold will take place. Around the world, women (And men, too!) will gather to run for Sherry, all women who’ve been victimized while running, and the right to safely play.

Park City, Utah is participating! Please consider joining us at 9am on Saturday morning at ZB Sports in Newpark. Below you’ll find the details of Park City’s Virtual Run for Sherry Arnold via a JPG image or a downloadable PDF. Click, print, repost, link away, and spread the word.

But, if you’re going to do anything, come run with us!

Park City’s Virtual Run for Sherry Arnold

Park City's Virtual Run for Sherry Arnold on Saturday, February 11th (photo courtesy of Meghan M. Hicks).