Mauro Prosperi had the strength of will that is forged by anyone who competes on an international level in modern pentathlon competitions, competitions that are renowned for breaking down the human body until it cannot go even one more step forward. Competing at this level takes a level of endurance that few people possess.
Yet Prosperi, at 39, wanted to push his body even further by tackling the ultramarathon in Morocco, a 300-kilometer course that would take five days to complete. Physically and mentally, he was up for the task.
The year was 1994, the date April 10, when he lined up with 80 other contestants under the blazing heat of the Sahara Desert to start the first stage of the challenging race, prepared, or so he thought, to tackle any obstacles thrown in his path.
This race is called the Marathon of the Sands for good reason, not just because there is nothing but sand as far as the eye can see, but because of the sand storms that can appear out of nowhere.
Prosperi was in fourth place when this one descended on the racers with terrifying speed, obliterating the way ahead, and only the foolhardy pressed ahead into the wall of sand. He was one of them, determined to hold his much fought-for position in the race after four days of battling his fellow runners.
Barely able to see one foot in front, gagging on the thick sand, he continued to trudge ahead, his will to win pushing him tirelessly on. Disoriented, unbeknownst to Prosperi, he had veered 300 kilometers off course into an area of the Sahara Desert that few men dared to tread.
After the 8-hour sand storm had passed, it didn’t take him long to realize that he was lost, alone, and in one of the most inhospitable places on the planet with very little food and water.
Rather than wander around aimlessly, he found a place to take shelter from the merciless sun and did what he could to attract any overhead aircraft that, he hoped, would be searching for him. Searching for him they were, but spotting him from the air was a mammoth task, and as one day became two, then three he had to resort to extreme measures just to stay alive.
Without any food and water, he had to rely on catching lizards and even bats for sustenance, washed down by his own urine. Unsurprisingly, despair set in as the weight dropped from his already lean frame at an alarming rate, and he decided to end it all, assuming that he would never be found.
For the first time in his life his strength of will had failed him, and, using a penknife, he slit his wrists, lay back, and waited to die.
Amazingly, the sheer heat from the desert thwarted his suicide attempt, clotting his wounds before he could pass away peacefully and end his suffering. In disbelief, he had to decide, and quickly, what to do next. Should he continue to wait futilely to be rescued, or take matters into his own hands and try to find his own way out of this hot, barren hellscape?
Prosperi found an inner strength that even he didn’t know he possessed, and, fully understanding that this was his last do-or-die effort, he trudged wearily once more into the desert to find help that he prayed had to be out there, close by. If his will ran out before the waning strength of his legs could keep propelling him forward, there would be very little hope that he would make it back to his wife and three children.
Whether by sheer luck, fate, or divine intervention, finally, after nine days of being reported lost, and 35 pounds lighter, he stumbled across a group of Berbers after spotting their goats in the distant haze.
He couldn’t recall how long he had been walking for, or at what point he was even aware of other signs of life around him. He was delirious, barely hanging onto life, his liver on the point of failure, and certain death never far away. From there he was flown to a nearby hospital and his long road to recovery began.
For months the only thing his body could tolerate was liquids or soup, and it took him two tortuous years just to feel normal again, a semblance of the athlete he once was. Remarkably, within four years he was actually back to his peak level of fitness, and, in 2001, he returned to conquer the race that had nearly cost him his life.