I stood there, weeing on the cracked desert floor, watching the splashes land on my boxfresh white desert gaiters that I’d paid so much to get velcro’d to my trainers in central London.

How the hell did I get here? Dead last in the toughest footrace on Earth.

The dark stain spread across the dust, the desert drinking it in like it had been waiting for years to get any moisture. But still, my pee is clear, which is a good sign, I guess.

Behind me, the ‘failure camels’ were closing in. If I didn’t start moving, I’d be the first DNF of the race, less than 300 metres in it on the first day had started. That would be some kind of record, I’m sure. AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ was still blaring in the background from the inflatable start line, mocking me.

I thought about my mates at the BBC, at home and in the military and how much they’d laugh and how much piss-taking would ensue if I got pulled this early. That was enough to make me shake out the last few drops and start shuffling forward.

The other runners had already stampeded off, they were like a pack of dogs chasing dinner. But I knew better than to get caught up in their pace.

‘Race your own pace’.

A mantra I’d learned the hard way after ‘bonking’ on too many ultras. It was my way of managing my own over competitiveness that still pushed me as a 36-year-old, without overdoing it.

It was only a few minutes after 9am and the heat was already in the high thirties I had another 32 kilometres of sand dunes and uneven terrain to cross. It was about then I remembered that I fucking hate the heat, but that was why I was here, to put myself in ‘arena’ again and remind myself what I’m made of.

I’d undergone months of training at all hours to build the mental calluses needed for this kind of suffering. Living on the South Coast of the UK meant that most of my training had to be done on the beaches and the South Downs Way, hardly the Sahara Desert, but it was the closest thing I had.

I knew that running with a heavy pack on was a waste of energy. It would tire out my core stabilising muscles for a short-term gain that wouldn’t last more than a day. Not a very efficient way to start a race that really values long-term thinking and planning. Besides, I was happy to be last. Everyone I overtook later would be a little victory, a chance to ‘take their souls’ (as David Goggins puts it).