Bib 264
WORDS → Clara Donghi
Pics → Clara Donghi
DATE → 2026-07-09
My Marathon des Sables in Peru: dunes, dreams, fatigue, achievements, nights on the Pacific, and acceptance. 120 km self-sufficient in the Ica desert.
The Marathon des Sables is one of those races that, as long as they remain in the words of others, taste like legends. Until one day, you find yourself involved too. At the beginning of December 2025, to crown the sporting year, I treated myself to participating in the Peru edition in the Ica desert: four days and three stages, a total of 120 kilometers in food self-sufficiency, an eight-kilo backpack on my shoulders, and a bivouac of tents pitched in the sand, just steps from the Pacific Ocean. The organization accompanies you to the edge of this world, then takes a step back and from then on, what you choose to put in your backpack, how much you eat, how you run, and how you defend yourself from the heat, the wind, and your own thoughts is entirely in your hands.
I arrived in the Ica desert almost by reflex, following the dream of another person, Andrea. For him, the Marathon des Sables Peru was the dream of the moment and for me, at first, just a fascinating story to listen to. Then, the idea stopped being external and started to settle in a corner of my head, until it became a real possibility: what if that desert wasn’t just his, but mine too? Not the same dream, but two trajectories touching in the same sand. Andrea signed up almost immediately. I waited until the last minute, blocked by a modesty I’ve always known: the fear of invading others’ dreams, of occupying space where I feel it’s not owed to me. Meanwhile, however, the feeling grew that this race could shift a boundary I’ve carried for years, long before I started running.
For a long time, my body was an opponent: shapes to correct, numbers to reduce, an enemy to keep under control rather than a home to live in. Eating disorders, obsessions, the mirror seen as a courtroom. Then a crack of light, the climb back up, a timid love toward myself. For a moment, I imagined myself running that race and thought that the greatest achievement would be to look at that body with different eyes. No longer “how much do I weigh?”, but “how much can I carry?”. On the evening of the last day of registration, I was in front of the screen with the form open and my head full of objections: you’re not trained enough, you’re not made for these things, don’t steal the dream from those who really believe in it. In the middle of all that noise, I clicked submit almost in secret, without heroism, just a breach opened between fear and desire.
The Marathon des Sables entered the calendar sideways, so the preparation wasn’t an epic chapter. No dedicated training plans and no program built at a desk just for the desert: I signed up at the last minute, when my legs were already busy with other races and other goals, and I knew right away that I wanted to experience it as an adventure. I wanted to enjoy the journey, be present in every stage, and shift the focus from times and rankings—which had poisoned me in the final months of the year—to inner enrichment. The mandatory gear, however, was a race of its own. The list isn’t short, and putting everything together was almost more tiring than some training sessions. Some brands supported me in gathering what was missing and, as I filled the floor with equipment and freeze-dried pouches, gratitude grew along with the awareness of not being alone in this madness. From a physical point of view, I tried to reach the start with fresh legs and a ready mind: no extreme load weeks, a soft landing and openness toward emotions, knowing that the bulk of the work would be done by the ability to listen to myself along the way. The mood was very high, the enthusiasm through the roof.
When I arrived in the Ica desert, the first thing I perceived was the light. In December, the Peruvian sun warms the air, but the wind blows, alternating relief and blade-like strikes: sometimes it feels almost good, sometimes it pushes you back. As soon as the sun drops behind the dark line of the ocean, the temperature drops suddenly and the Pacific humidity rises into the camp; the sand holds the cool, but you never reach freezing: with a good sleeping bag and a few thermal layers, you quickly learn to carve out a small shell of warmth in the tent. The Marathon des Sables bivouac is a suspended world, and nothing else exists but being present in that moment.
Then a question arises: why are you here? Sometimes you ask yourself, sometimes others ask you. The answers come in fragments; you realize that everyone has their own reason and, in the details, you find a piece of yours. It’s strange: by hearing others’ stories, you realize that yours isn’t quite as lonely as you thought. Racing in self-sufficiency means you carry your own food, so every calorie you consume was decided in advance, while you were still at home, comfortable. The organization only provides water, distributed at precise points and times with counted liters, and the tent structure. Everything else is on your shoulders. You are the one who has to understand how much you can afford to eat, how much you need to keep, how much weight you are willing to bear to feel safe. You learn that what’s necessary is much less than you thought, and at the same time much more precious.
The second stage, the 65-kilometer one, was the heart of the race and a point of no return for me. When I saw that distance written on the roadbook, accompanied by elevation gains, cut-off times, and water points, it seemed surreal: I had never put together so many kilometers in a single day, let alone in those conditions. The start of a race like this is a silent frontier that hides on one side the life where you always had an excuse ready and on the other a territory where you can no longer cheat. The first kilometers pass almost quietly with the body taking the measure of the terrain, the backpack on the shoulders making itself felt, and the foot learning to read the sand—a game of glances between me and my adventure partner. We run together, shoulder to shoulder, and I know that at some point everyone will follow their own pace. Then, slowly, something cracks. Andrea’s calculations with food don’t add up; maybe he brought less than necessary, but what’s certain is that we see his backpack emptying little by little after less than 20 km. For a part of my life, I had the feeling of occupying too much space, of being “extra” in other people’s places and stories. Sometimes I felt at fault for not being able to tame my energy. In the heart of this stage, the opposite happens: suddenly I feel the need to be there, to occupy that space, to suffocate that hissing voice in my head saying “you’ll never make it.” I could give in to panic, cling to fatigue, use his difficulty as a permission to quit; instead, the epilogue is simple, clean, kind: I decide to double my strength and courage for two, I keep running when possible, walking when the terrain and heat demand it, repeating to myself that every extra step is a brick in a new house I’m building inside me. We go on like this for 40 km, together. The more the day progresses, the more the desert opens up, stripping away details and leaving only the essentials: the profile of the dunes, the sky, our passage. The sand becomes higher, whiter, absolute, and we proceed without speaking but as accomplices in that wonder.
Around the 50th kilometer, we reach the top of a ridge: a solid sea of very pale sand stretches out below us, drawing rings, lines, waves that plunge gently downward until they meet the ocean, a dark and still blade on the horizon. It’s as if the wind had spent years working on that painting, filing, moving, erasing, shifting motionless and changing geometries. What a deception the desert is, what a charm it has. We stay there for a few seconds, suspended; it’s one of those moments where time seems to expand and everything is set aside to leave room for a single feeling: being exactly where you need to be. The last seven kilometers are a straight line along the ocean: on the left, the breathing Pacific; on the right, walls of sand; above us, a sky that changes color minute by minute.
Together with Andrea, we arrive at the camp with the sun fading into the sunset, and from a distance, the tents look like an artificial constellation planted in the sand. We undress, tired, and run toward the shore: the Pacific is freezing, it enters your bones with an almost comical violence and washes away layers of dust and thoughts that are no longer needed. In that moment, I feel alive. It’s not the noisy euphoria of a finish line, but a full peace.
The crisis arrived the next day, the rest day. In the evening, the cramps start, and on the morning of the third stage, the last one, I wake up knowing that something inside has shifted to the wrong side. Outside it’s hotter than the previous days, the air is still. I sweat a lot, too much compared to what I manage to drink; I can’t eat. The last fifteen kilometers seem infinite, and I find myself eating bouillon cubes in chunks, washed down with water to recover lost sodium. It’s a scene that has nothing romantic about it, but it makes me feel better almost immediately. I run and don’t speak. I think that everyone has their own pace, their own way of facing the climbs and letting their legs go on the descents, their own relationship with the stopwatch. As you see them run, you understand that running is just the form we’ve chosen to be inside the same thing: the need to feel alive, to the core, at least for a while.
There are moments when the group thins out and you’re almost alone, a few distant silhouettes ahead and some behind. I don’t speak, but I feel like smiling, even though I’m tired, because a simple and enormous awareness hits me: how beautiful life is when you’re running it and not just watching it pass by. We cross the finish line under the midday sun, hand in hand. I’m tired, drained, happy. It hasn’t sunk in. Did I do it? Yes, Clara, you did it. This race has tucked itself into the folds of everyday life, into small choices, into the no’s you learn to say and the yes’s you finally allow yourself. From the outside, it might seem like just a 120-kilometer run, but from the inside, it’s the exact representation of the moment you realize you can even go back, but you can no longer pretend not to know who you are when you stop fighting yourself.