You go to the desert for the heat. You don’t expect the rain.

The first thing that struck me wasn’t the landscape. Not straight away.

It was the feeling.

Landing in Marrakech and being met by the team from Ultra X, there was an immediate sense that this wasn’t just another race. People were being greeted like old friends — proper welcomes, hugs, laughter — and you could tell some had done these events before.

It settled you, in a way. Made you think, this is going to be good.

A four-hour bus ride later, winding up and over the Atlas Mountains towards Ouarzazate, the landscape slowly shifted. Green gave way to dust, structure gave way to space, and by the time we arrived it felt like we’d properly left the everyday behind.

The Karam Palace that night was a welcome pause — a proper bed, decent food, good company — and that quiet anticipation you get before something big. The next morning, we’d be running into the desert.

Day 1 began in that strange half-light just before sunrise, beside the walls of a fortress you could barely see but could definitely feel were there. We threaded through narrow backstreets, still waking up, before suddenly emerging into open farmland.

Which was a surprise.

There was water everywhere. Irrigation channels, crops, greenery — not what you picture when you think of the desert. It felt lived-in, worked, held together by effort. You got the sense people were actively pushing back against the landscape.

That didn’t last.

Gradually, almost without noticing, the ground hardened. The green disappeared. And then it was just rock. Rock and more rock, stretching out in every direction.

What should have been solid underfoot wasn’t. The rain in the days before had changed everything. Sand that should have been firm was loose and crumbling, and rocks you’d normally trust had a habit of shifting just enough to keep you honest. Every step needed a bit more care than you’d like, especially on the descents where a moment’s lapse would have had consequences.

It made the whole day feel slightly… unstable.

There were climbs, too.

One in particular towards the end of the day sticks with me. Steep enough that running stopped being an option pretty quickly. Hands on knees at first, then hands on the ground, and eventually scrambling up on all fours, just focusing on the next move.

At one point I turned to look back.

I wish I hadn’t.

The drop behind me, the scale of it all, the way the land just kept going all the way to the horizon — it hit me all at once. Proper vertigo. That horrible, dizzying feeling where you’re suddenly very aware of how small you are and how easily things could go wrong.

I turned back round and carried on up. That felt like the safer option all round.

There were lighter moments scattered through it.

I spent a few miles running with a woman from a local running club… ten miles from where I live back in the UK. Of all the places to bump into someone. We chatted, shared stories, and for a while the effort eased off. It always does when you’ve got someone alongside you.

That’s one of the things you notice quickly in these races — company matters. It makes everything more manageable.

Then there are the moments that remind you why you’re there in the first place.

A herd of camels appearing out of nowhere. Goatherds living out of small mud huts in the middle of what felt like absolutely nowhere. A different pace of life, a different set of priorities. It’s hard not to stop and wonder how it all works.

And then you realise that’s exactly the point.

The final couple of miles of Day 1 took us through a village, which should have been a nice way to finish. In reality, after a long day on your feet, it was a bit of a grind. Kids everywhere, crowding round, asking for sweets, for anything you might have. You can’t blame them, but when you’re running on fumes it takes a bit of managing.

By that point, though, you’re just focused on getting to the end.

Camp that night was… basic.

Find a space, roll out a mat, and make do. We were packed in tightly under canvas shelters, rugs laid over what was essentially a dusty car park. Not uncomfortable in the way you’d complain about, just… functional.

You don’t come to the desert expecting luxury.

You also don’t come expecting what happened next.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up.

At first I wasn’t quite sure why. Then it clicked.

Rain.

Not a bit of drizzle. Proper rain.

Within minutes everything was chaos. People shifting around, trying to stay dry, which was largely pointless because there wasn’t anywhere dry to go. I remember shouting something along the lines of, “What the hell is going on?” which seemed entirely reasonable under the circumstances.

We were in the desert.

This wasn’t part of the deal.

By the morning, everything felt slightly surreal.

Day 2 was billed as flatter, and in fairness it was, but that didn’t make it easy. If anything, it introduced a different kind of challenge.

A long, straight track stretched out ahead, marked by blue-painted rocks. One to the next, then the next, and the next, disappearing into the distance. You’d pick one, run to it, reach it, and realise you hadn’t really made any progress at all.

So you settle into a rhythm.

Run for a couple of minutes. Walk for one.

Repeat.

Again.

And again.

It becomes almost hypnotic.

The heat arrived properly on Day 2 as well. Thirty-four degrees, with the sun coming from above and reflecting back off the ground below. There’s no shade, no respite, just a steady exposure that builds over time.

The odd thing is you don’t feel yourself sweating in the usual way. You’re just… losing fluid. Constantly. I was getting through everything between checkpoints — two and a half litres at a time, topping up electrolytes, staying on top of it — but it never quite felt like enough.

I didn’t stop for a pee once.

It was all just disappearing.

There were still moments that cut through the monotony.

Running past Ait Ben Haddou, for one. A thousand-year-old fortress rising straight out of the desert, tourists wandering around taking photos while we shuffled past looking slightly worse for wear. I gave it a couple of minutes, took it in as best I could, and then carried on. It felt like the right thing to do at the time.

Elsewhere, there were reminders that not everything was quite as idyllic as it might seem. A stretch of land that had effectively become a dumping ground, plastic scattered as far as you could see. A jarring contrast to everything else.

Out on the trail, on your own for stretches, the scale of the place really hits you.

It’s vast.

Endless.

And you are… not.

Just a small figure moving through it, trying to make steady progress. There’s something oddly calming about that, once you accept it.

The finish brought things back to something resembling civilisation, running through the film sets at Atlas Film Studios, up a set of steps and through a triumphal arch that felt far more dramatic than anything I had left in the tank.

But it was done.

That evening, at the celebration dinner, something stood out more than anything else.

On my table were some of the top runners — the male winner, the second female who’d flown in from Canada just for the race — and it never once came up. No talk of times, no hierarchy, no sense that anyone’s experience mattered more than anyone else’s.

We’d all done the same thing.

That was enough.

Looking back, there are lots of things I could point to.

The rain. Obviously.

The heat. The endless straight lines of Day 2. The terrain that never quite let you relax.

But it’s the smaller moments that stick.

Sharing miles with people you’d never normally meet. Helping someone out with a handful of salt and vinegar peanuts and watching them come back to life. The quiet understanding that everyone out there is going through their own version of the same thing.

And perhaps most tellingly, at no point did I find myself asking why I was doing it.

Not once.

I’d chosen Morocco because I wanted a taste of the desert. Friends had done races like Marathon des Sables, and this felt like my way in.

It delivered.

Enough, in fact, that I’ve already signed up for another one. Five days in Jordan — Wadi Rum and Petra.

This time, though, there’s a bit more apprehension.

A bit more respect.

Which, after Morocco, feels entirely appropriate.