
Marathon Des Sables (MDS) is one of those few races that shapes, defines and breaks people. MDS is my youth—I grew with it, love it and hate it. I met a guy there whose name is Paul Templer. I overall love him very much, but I’ve hated him at times.
I met Paul during the 2022 MDS. He was in my eight-person tent, sitting next to me on the first day. I had seven finishes at the time and, when I saw he only had one arm, I naturally volunteered to help him with his food, his pack and his shoelaces. I secretly admired his grit. This was a man who was clearly braver than me, and we bonded. Unfortunately, Paul DNF’d that year and had to leave the camp prematurely. His feet blistered like hell and, according to the main rule of this mad desert game, his walking pace slowed too much. The camel and his Berber owner overtook him at the beginning of stage three, ending his race.
Paul returned the following year but DNF’d again. I’m not entirely sure why, considering what he has been through in his life, including his 1996 death-defying, half-swallowing, half-gnawing, full-on body-slamming angry hippo confrontation in Zimbabwe.
Then, around the end of last year, Paul convinced me to tag along one last time, do-or-die style. He said we would go to battle together. I'm sure he said “battle” knowingly. I love that word. He also promised he wouldn’t be a burden, that I would never have to wait for him or tie his shoes, but mostly, that I wouldn’t have to save his ass. He said he would “Superman it up,” and have his God guide him. I said yes, because I knew I could. But could he? He seemed determined to prove it.
That’s when I went to war with everyone: him, myself and the desert.
During stage two, Paul got to the checkpoint some 10-15 minutes after me. I felt relieved to see him walk in, but I was also scared. I was hurting bad. I had been punished since day one and didn’t even want to be there. Being a nine-time finisher suited me. People said a tenth finish would look cool, but I felt differently—number nine seemed classier and enigmatic. But there I was again, sitting in the dirt, swallowing sand, suffering from painful spasms in my legs, overwhelmed by a perturbed stomach and shallow breathing. I was panting in the heat like my bulldog, having my brain cells fried in real-time. I've literally been ready to die to finish this event, and now all I wished was that I could wake up from this nightmare on my couch at home in California watching the NFL. My head was spinning, and Paul was flying. Why was he so close?

I was already so tired. I hated day two which brought me right back to the imperfections of my life and had no mercy for me. I felt like I was drowning—in the Sahara. I showed up weak, cocky and unprepared and I was now paying the price. My generosity to Paul was backfiring quickly. He wanted me there. I had always admired Paul. How could you not? But I had also never completely understood him. At this moment, Paul was a very big mystery to me.
Since my first participation in 2007, MDS has systematically crushed me physically but revitalized me mentally. It's like a reset. The race can leave some people hanging, repeatedly craving for more, while others are invariably disgusted. I'd say it's a 50/50 ratio: all the suffering, dust, heat and discomfort. It's too much for them, and it's also too expensive. For me, as soon as I set foot in camp on the first day, I instantly morph into a werewolf who smells human flesh and blood on a march to a slow, painful death. It is what it is, but, yes, it's true: I want others to fail and hurt. And the more in-distress runners I pass during the week at MDS, the more DNF men and women I see on the evenings at the camp, waiting to be driven away, the more I sense the strength of my gut and muscles. I know, it's kind of sick.
Paul is right on my heels that day. The man is enthusiastic. It's painful to watch. He looks like a Mad Max character, a survivor, a suspiciously happy bandit. I watch him float and glide, and it feels unfair.
I tried to stay away from the circus of every aid station I came across at this year's race. Looking at cold Coca-Cola bottles resting in coolers outraged me. The race organizers have had this brilliant idea that Coke is good for upset stomach and rehydration.
It is. But why is it there for me to see?
My mouth and heart are the dryest. Don't you dare show me a cold Coca-Cola bottle every 10k. This is MDS. This is a serious race. This is the race where you are self-sufficient, except for desert-temperature water bottles because, well, it would weigh too much in your pack if you had to carry a week's worth of water bottles in the Sahara. Right? Whoever wanted those Coca-Cola bottles there for us to watch was a master sadist.
I was getting angrier by the minute. And I'm not having fun. Paul now refuses to sit down with me by a dry piss puddle. What? Wait. He's not going to sit down. I can't stand and Paul refuses to go down with me.
I do worry that he's not pacing himself right. I don't understand why he looks so damn good. Paul never looked good at MDS before. Going through life with a disability is, to me, one of the most supreme signs of courage. But right now, I hate to watch his faith and realize that I don't have it in me. I read a lot about war, combat, Afghanistan and Iraq, places I have been as a reporter. I read a lot about death. And I have made peace with death. Because, to me, life is here and now. I try to take it as it comes and make the best of it. Before it's dirt again. Or sand. Paul is different. Paul believes in God. Paul believes in heaven. What am I saying? He is in heaven, and I’m in hell.
Paul will look like a miracle all week long. He will be a star, a bright light of life standing, fighting, resisting and killing it. I know about “résistance.” I'm French with nine finishes at MDS. But Paul was the rock this year. It baffled me. I felt jealousy and envy. I felt fear too. I was a terrible friend in that way.
We mess with each other, exchange a few childish insults, we laugh with no restraint. Paul says he is about ready to continue on his trekking trotting pace. I hate him but I love him too, of course. But at that moment, as much as I want him to finish, I don't want him to either beat me or finish without me. I want him to make the cut this year, definitely, but not at my expense. My devious mind thinks that I should remain the expert. I'm also truthful: I feel responsible for him and I cannot tell if he's doing as well as he seems, or if he is going to burst into flames at the next checkpoint. Or the next day. Is he unstoppable this year or is he dangerously flamboyant? I am failing. He is thriving. Something’s seriously off.
Days will go by, stages will get longer, and then shorter again. The closer we get to the end of the race, the more confident we both feel and the more forgiving I became toward my friend's incredible strength. I may be wired weird. Aren't we all? For what he achieved last April, Paul will always be my hero. He did beat me in the final ranking. He finished 744th. I finished 760th. Does it matter?
So, when do we go at it again my brother?