Fartleks & Flatulence Read online

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FARTLEKS AND FLATULENCE

  INTRODUCTION

  THE MARATHON DES SABLES 1996

  HIMALAYAN 100 MILE STAGE RACE

  THE JORDAN DESERT CUP 2001

  RAID AMAZONIE 2003

  THE 3 PEAKS CHALLENGE 2003

  GUADARUN 2004

  THE YUKON ARCTIC ULTRA 2006

  TRIATHLON 2006

  THE YUKON ARCTIC ULTRA 2007

  IRONMAN UK 70.3 2007

  ATACAMA CROSSING 2009

  THE NORSEMAN EXTREME TRIATHLON 2010

  THE AUGRABIES EXTREME

  ULTRA MARATHON 2010

  THE YUKON ARCTIC ULTRA 2011

  THE NAMIB DESERT CHALLENGE 2012

  THE WINTER 100 2012

  THE 6633 ULTRA 2013

  FINALLY

  LIST OF ADVENTURES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  At the age of 34 and bored with his job as a civil servant, David saw a 10 minute clip on TV about a race across the Sahara Desert.

  Two years later, and determined to have just one adventure in his lifetime, he found himself standing on the start line of the 11th Marathon des Sables.

  At the age of 53 David is still having adventures and continues to race in some of the most extreme Ultra-distance races in the world.

  David lives on the Isle of Wight with his wife Marilyn and is currently writing his second book.

  And he is still bored with his job as a civil servant!

  www.daveberridge.co.uk

  http://facebook.com/pages/david-berridge/452379348162384

  FARTLEKS AND FLATULENCE

  One man’s epic journey, from a rather comfortable settee, to the Great Sahara Desert and beyond.

  David Berridge has asserted his right under the copyright and patents act 1988 to be indentified as the author of this work.

  This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Published in 2013 by Dave Berridge

  daveberridge.co.uk

  ISBN 978-0-9927341-0-7

  Printed by crossprint.co.uk

  To my wife Marilyn, whose absolute support

  made the whole thing possible.

  INTRODUCTION

  FARTLEKS AND FLATULENCE

  One man’s epic journey, from a rather comfortable settee, to the Great Sahara Desert and beyond.

  This book is written by me - an ordinary bloke who fancied having a bash. It sort of chronicles my feeble foray into the world of “Ultra-distance Running.”

  I’m not an athlete or even a very good runner, but I do possess a thirst for adventure, a willingness to have a go, and a love of travel.

  My fears, mistakes, questions and “cock ups” are all here.

  It’s not a book full of training tips, nutritional advice, kit lists etc. It is however a comprehensive list of the races I have done, the things I’ve got away with and the things I haven’t.

  Unfortunately I write much like I run, with an amateurish enthusiasm, so please forgive me.

  Why the rather odd title “Fartleks and Flatulence”? Well, they are both what I would consider accidental imperatives, essential but involuntary actions that occur when I run, particularly when I’m training.

  Flatulence, one of those embarrassingly pleasant pastimes that I can indulge in whilst out running on my own, no volume control required and no one to either pass comment or judgement!

  I don’t know why it happens when I run or why at such an intensity, but it happens. I used to think that I was the only runner in the world suffering from such an affliction, but no apparently it’s quite common, just one of the many perks of running, I suppose!

  Fartleks or “speed play” would seem to imply that I am a serious athlete, but alas and to my eternal shame my so called ‘fartlek’ sessions always come about accidentally, being the worlds laziest trainer I normally just plod along, until that is, a dog chases me, a mountain biker passes me, it starts to rain or attractive female or two appear, another runner comes into view, a tractor tries to squeeze pass in a narrow country lane and I need to speed up for the sake of self-preservation, I need a wee or worse! Any number of reasons make me run faster but rest assured the ‘fartleks’, much like my flatulence, just seem to happen!

  THE MARATHON DES SABLES 1996

  All men dream but not equally

  Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their

  minds wake in the day to find that all was vanity; but

  the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they

  may act their dream with open eyes, and make it possible.

  T. E. Lawrence

  What is it: The most famous and the original Desert Stage Race

  When: April

  Where: Morocco

  Distance: 240km (150 miles)

  It is: A six day multi stage Desert race

  See: Darbaroud.com

  One Saturday morning in 1994, I was up early, and with a cup of tea and half a dozen choccie bickies in hand, I plonked myself down in front of the television to watch “Transworld Sport”. I finished my tea and was busy brushing away the crumbs (trying desperately to hide the evidence) when a ten minute piece came on about a foot race across the Sahara Desert, the race was held annually and was called the “Marathon Des Sables”. It was a 210 kilometer running race across the Sahara Desert, the people running were an odd mixture, elite type racing snakes, young, old and middle aged, fast and slow, tall and short, fat and thin. I was fascinated! I grabbed a video tape from the mountain that was beside the television. “Dirty Dancing” that would do, I shoved it in and hit record.

  Over the weekend I watched it a couple of times, amazed that any one could, or would, want to run across a desert.

  The following weekend whilst reading the Telegraph I came across an article by Mike Calvin, a journalist covering that year’s ‘Marathon Des Sables’ and in particular Dr Mike Stroud’s participation. Dr Stroud had not long returned from his epic crossing of Antarctica with Ranulph Fiennes. I read the article and watched the video for the umpteenth time and decided to write to Mike Calvin to find out a bit more about the race. A few days later a letter from the Telegraph arrived along with the details of the UK organiser, Chris Lawrence. ‘The best of Morocco’ was the man to talk to, another letter and another reply - only this time from Chris Lawrence. He had kindly sent me an official video. I watched it and read the details of how to enter, ‘how to enter’- I hadn’t planned to do the bloody thing, doing the bloody thing was for other people!

  Even if I did fancy having a bash, which I didn’t, the reality was that I was 34 years old, had not run a step since I was at school, and I had hated running at school. Memories of the dreaded cross country runs, cold red legs, runny nose, humiliation and black plimsolls all came flooding back.

  I hadn’t got the money - £1800 was a lot. I hadn’t got the time or indeed the knowledge to train, how far is 210kms, how does anyone train to run for seven days on the trot, carrying a rucksack and across the desert?

  I wouldn’t know how to navigate, what to take, what to wear or what to eat and I’d never flown. The list of why I couldn’t was impressive and long and getting more impressive and longer by the minute.

  I knew what I had to do: just watch the video again to confirm what I already knew, and as I was watching it for the 50th time my wife came in wearing that look, the look that only an exasperated wife can a give a husband. She sat down and I
proceeded to waffle on about the ‘Marathon Des Sables’, sort of explaining that I would love to have a go whilst knowing it was completely ridiculous. She politely listened as only that same slightly exasperated wife can listen. As you can see my wife spends a lot of time being in a state of utter exasperation. I thought I was making a pretty good case when bloody Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey started faffing about on the television, the words “You’ve taped over my “Dirty Dancing” bought the whole thing to an abrupt end!

  The more I thought about it the more I wanted to do it. And if I really wanted to do it I needed to commit myself. Could I find the money? It would be difficult but yes, just! Could I train? The race was a year away, plenty of time (I hoped) What sort of training? That was a difficult one, all I could do was run and walk as much as possible, whilst carrying a rucksack. Time off work, with enough notice it should be okay, If I did manage by some miracle or other to get myself on to the start line I WOULD have to finish!

  After the ‘Dirty Dancing’ debacle had died down (I had promised to buy her the video) I plucked up the courage to ask, well not ask exactly, more suggest, that my running 143 miles across the Sahara Desert, and paying £1800 for the privilege would be a good idea. It was a tough sell but I got away with it (It was only after I had returned, that my wife said she only said yes because “I didn’t think for one minute you were stupid enough to go through with it”).

  With my wife’s ‘blessing’ it was time to get my arse in gear. Three things needed to be done - train for it, pay for it and complete it. Easy. First the money, I would start saving immediately. Second, the training, ah! Before I start training I’ll have to buy some trainers: bollocks, I’ll have to start saving when I next get paid.

  In the mean time I’ll just get out and run round the street, within 20 minutes I was back and trying to put the kettle on. I was bollocksed, couldn’t talk and needed a cup of tea.

  Watching the video again and trying to pick up some tips on running through the desert, I noticed that there was one hell of a lot of walking involved. That made me feel a bit better.

  With the training all I could do was to be patient, increase my distance bit by bit, but not my speed, do plenty of hills and lots of ‘speed marching’ whilst carrying a pack containing the plastic milk containers filled with water, slowly increasing the weight. Buy a compass and practise walking on a bearing, whatever that means (fortunately the compass I bought had an idiots guide to using it). Only the year before an Italian runner had got lost and was not found for 10 days. When he was eventually found he was in Algeria!

  Over the following months I steadily increased my mileage but with Christmas rapidly approaching and the race scheduled to take place in March, I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t anywhere near ready and I knew it. Yes, training had gone well and yes I could run/walk 10 to 15 miles a day for three or four days but it wasn’t enough and I was very aware of it!

  So my first major decision, well second if you count my entering the thing, I decided to not do the 1995 race but wait another year and enter the 11th ‘Marathon Des Sables’ in 1996.

  Decision made, I let my wife know of my revised plan and was once again treated to that exasperated look.

  With the training side of things going well and with time rapidly passing by, it was time to sort the logistics out, the funds were coming together, I might have to borrow a bit, but the funds would be in place. The time off work: I managed to get 10 days off and with swapping a couple of shifts, that was all sorted.

  What gear? ie: rucksack, cooker, clothes, shoes and food etc etc. Off to the local outdoor shop, when I say the local outdoor shop, we live on the Isle of Wight, the choice of outdoor shops is somewhat limited - Milletts! So it was a trip to Portsmouth where I managed to find a rucksack a 35ltr Lowe Alpine ‘Mountain Contour’ jobby. I also managed to find a pair of trainers, I tried a pair on in what was supposed to be a ‘Sports Shop’ when a spotty, bored-looking 12 year old shop assistant asked if I was going to run in them!!

  Food: this was a tricky one. What type of food could I carry in a rucksack? The food had to be light, I had to carry 7 days worth plus an emergency supply! It had to give all the required nutrition for hard physical labour, be easy to prepare and not get spoiled whilst being carried in a rucksack and in the heat. I had got no idea, then I remembered the book I had just read by Ranulph Fiennes, ‘Mind over matter’, an account of his journey in Antarctica. In the list of sponsors at the back was the name of the company that had supplied all the nutritional requirements used during that expedition. I wondered if they might be able to help or advise. I wrote a letter explaining my predicament and luckily they had not only heard of the “Marathon Des Sables” but could supply me with all that I would need - problem solved.

  They gave me a list of what was needed and more importantly why it was needed. I was impressed and after all, if they were good enough for Ranulph Fiennes they were good enough for me.

  A few days later the postman arrived with my food parcel. He struggled up the garden path, his face and upper torso hidden behind a quite substantial package, or should I say ‘crate’ containing my ‘essential’ food! On opening the box I saw it contained 28 ‘power bars’ (3 a day) and packets and sachets of God knows what. I reasoned that if this is what the ‘experts’ considered essential I was in trouble. I wouldn’t be able to carry that amount, let alone all the other stuff I would need. In the end I decided on about two thirds of their total, of which I ended up eating less than half, and only one mouthful of the 28 power bars!

  What to wear? I sound like my wife now! But, like everything else to do with this race, I had to get it right. The clothing needed to be cool (not as in trendy), not chafe, prevent sunburn and be comfortable. The clothing couldn’t be heavy or bulky. I decided on the following; 2 Great Ormond Street t-shirts, Great Ormond Street was the hospital that I had decided to raise money for, 1 pair of coolmax shorts, 4 pairs of socks (I had to look after my feet, so decided to treat them with clean socks) 1 Helly Hansen thermal top, 1 Helly Hansen thermal leggings, 1 pair of training shoes, 1 pair of sponge flip-flops and 2 pairs of underpants.

  Sleeping bag: with what little research I managed to do, I found out that at night the desert was freezing, so a good sleeping bag would be essential, but again it was which sleeping bag? I reasoned that the warm sleeping bags would be the big sleeping bags, however I had to squeeze mine into a rucksack and carry the thing!

  Like everything else I hadn’t got a clue, I didn’t even know where to look. Back to Portsmouth and the shop where I had purchased my rucksack. Trying to look as if I knew what I was doing and exactly what I was looking for, I stumbled on Mountain Equipment’s ‘mountain marathon’ (I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a mountain marathon) at 750gms it was light, and it was down filled, down-filled = warmth!

  Cooking, I don’t even cook at home, so this would be a challenge. Luckily most of the meals were the ‘just add hot water’ type. Even I couldn’t cock that up!

  I was a little bit limited in my choice of cooker because most airlines don’t allow fuel ie: gas, meths or petrol. So I would have to use solid fuel tablets: these hexamine blocks worked magnificently - I did practise a lot in the garden.

  The training had gone well, I had remained injury-free and felt confident-ish. The thing was paid for and my place secured, kit was assembled, leave from work sorted, I had passed my medical and had flights organised. I was in effect ‘good to go’ (I think).

  D DAY

  Friday 22nd March 1996. It was here, the day I had been dreading and looking forward to had arrived, and so had I, at Terminal 3, London’s Heathrow airport. My first flight, I hadn’t got a clue what I was doing but just bimbled my way through. I had a strange feeling I would be doing a lot of ‘just bimbling my way through’ over the next few days.

  After completing my ‘check in’ I grabbed a coffee and a few quiet moments to contemplate what the hell I had done, and indeed was about to do. I was actually
flying to Morocco to take part in what was billed as the ‘Toughest Foot Race on Earth’ running 143 miles across the Sahara Desert, what a plank!

  I had nearly 3 hours before the flight: 3 hours to kill. I looked around and tried to see if I could spot any other like-minded individuals, I couldn’t. Everyone else looked relatively normal. Surely the people that would be having a bash at the ‘worlds toughest foot race’ would be easy to spot? Strong, athletic-looking, a spring in the step, confident and cool, trained, toned and ready for the task in hand? Wrong. I didn’t spot any of them because we were after all just average runners, dreamers and joggers, young, old and middle aged but we had got one thing in common we wanted to, no, needed to, take part in this, the maddest of adventures, the “Marathon Des Sables”.

  Touching down in the small desert town of Ouarzazate, the air was oppressive. The short walk down the aircraft steps had me sweating, the little airport was quite literally swamped with nearly 200 hundred athletes, and God knows how many race staff and tourists. The officials fortunately rose to the challenge and started the long laborious job of processing each and every one of us. There were pained expressions on the check in staff as they desperately tried to get to grips with the various languages:- English, Russian, German, Italian and Danish to name but a few.

  After having my passport stamped I was taken to one side by a member of staff who was wearing an ill-fitting and grubby uniform: a small man who but for his position I would not have given a second glance. Behind him stood a sour-faced stern-looking individual who was dressed in plain clothes, strangely it was the plain-clothed individual who seemed more menacing. After placing my holdall and rucksack on the bench in front of them, the smaller uniformed man asked, well indicated, that he would like me to open them. It was at this point that I remembered placing seven packs of dehydrated food very neatly on the top of my kit - all the uniformed bloke saw was seven bags of white powder. The look on his face said it all. Whilst I had visions of the film ‘Midnight Express’ and 15 years in a Moroccan jail, and the inescapable fact that my life was now officially over, he called to the plain clothes bloke. He looked at the bags of white powder, they looked at each other and then they each looked at me. I smiled, well I think I smiled, it was definitely supposed to be a smile, I then explained or at least tried to explain that it was food, I was with the ‘Marathon Des Sables’. I said ‘Marathon Des Sables’ using my very best French accent, I don’t know why but I did. Thankfully and thanks in no small part to my impressive language skills, he understood, smiled and waved me through, the uniformed bloke looked crestfallen. I zipped the bag up and got the hell out of there.