To celebrate men and women running in same event, in the open, in running attire together is truly a remarkable change for Saudi. Disregarding the feminine garb of concealment was radical. The Kingdom of Saudi is in the throws of well planned changes that are bringing back liberties once shared by men and women prior to 1979. Coaxing the Dhahran Road Running Club to participate took no time and the DRRC quickly organized the travel. I had to ask myself, what would my role be? This event while important to me as a runner was not about me. it was about "the we" or the umma, the community. The radical idea of a marathon through sacred desert where the expectation is self sufficiency is a lot to ask of people used to compounds. We would carry our own water, our own medical supplies. The trail wound past Mada'in Saleh, a reverent historic sanctuary, through date palm plantations, through towns and up over mountains. Would passerbys be welcoming? Would locals embrace this? For two years an annual Tantora festival of music and concerts and tours of archeology older than Petra was drawing tourists. Prior to this, tourists were decidedly unwelcome and unable to visit without special passes or chaperones. The trepidation, anticipation and excitement was real for all of us. We were going to do this as one, we were going to stick together.

My strength as a runner is my enthusiasm as a pioneer. I love to advise about training and to converse about gear. My husband Marc and I mapped out a two month training plan with 20 mile compound loops that include dance jams and coffee stops. We used our trip back to the US to secure trail shoes, water vests and other basics for fellow runners. We set up friends with camping equipment. Seriously, there were not enough hotels in Al Ula for this event and so a local rock climbing & touring company was flown. 60 of us, from Dhahran. The Hussaak Adventurers found us a nearby canyon, set up 60 individual tents, and organized food, transportation and an 8 km hike into a slot canyon trail the day before the race. I would have rather napped but instead we hiked, we met strangers, we created memories. At 6pm staggered back to register for the race, drink gallons of water and caught sunset as carpets were rolled out over sand and tables laden with kebabs, rice, fruits and vegetables were presented for feast. For a typical marathon I would've been in bed by 9 but here we sipped tiny cups of coffee and cardamom as the sword dancers put on a show. Saudis can dance and sing all night long but 8 of us crammed into the truck of a local who drove us back to tents in our hidden canyon. 10:30, I was huddled in a farwah, sleeping under stars, listening to winds howl.

5:00am, it was still dark but I was wrapped in the Saudi farwah sipping my coffee cup of courage. Our daughter would race in the 10km a few hours after we started. She would rely on the other campers to get up, get to her race and meet us somewhere at the finish. I felt a bit of fear, guilt and pride knowing that we were leaving her behind and that she was savvy enough to figure it all out. 127 athletes all started at 6:30 in the dark. Some were facing 83km and the rest of us, 45. A packed dirt road turned to a long downhill slightly sandy. Not far from Mada'in Saleh we trekked past the mirrored Malaya concert hall. the first rosy fingers of sun light were tapping the tips of the surrounding mountains. This reflection off the glass walls of a concert hall was a mirage that stayed with me as we hit the canyon floor and ran past date trees lining steep walls of rocky mountains. This was the beginning of soft sand and the end of the road. The miles taught me to take shorter strides, strike soft and fast, run zigzags towards any small plant life stretching across the surface, a momentary brace against the soft sand underfoot. 10km marked the first aid station. We were still a crowd of joyous pioneers overwhelmed by the landscape sharing bananas, dates, and water.

The next 10km, undulating packed sand roads up a canyon passage and down to a town. A local men observed from their farm trucks with radios blaring some hymns in Arabic. at 20 km, we had a bit of paved road, more water and snacks and then a shaded couple of km as we skirted a date plantation. The sun was higher but the canyon walls gave shade. Sand was so deep that running was pointless. I skied and swung my arms gliding through sand as if it was deep snow. Friends followed suit and soon we were all through to the next mountain pass and the 30 km aid station. Now it was open terrain. We ran as a group and passed those determined to do it on their own. I had plunged and tele skied down a long hill to fill my water. Looking up to a jebel of volcanic rock slab we could see the runners high ahead of us. We whooped, laughed and took off. singing. We, a chorus of tired runners sang to those struggling and together we picked up the pace, heads down plodding through wind and sand. This last 10 km proved to be most difficult, the trail markers were gone. Several of us separated and looped until we met back up. Abrasive sand had rubbed skin from my toes. Pain set in, we kept going. Once in awhile, someone would shout, "go on without me," and the sentiment was ignored. At 40km, we found ourselves in front of the famed Elephant Rock, camels, dates, more bananas.

We parted from the 83km runners and joined the last 5 km with the 10km finishers. Arching through the last canyon to the downhill finish was like every race I have ever done with spectators cheering, gratitude flooding my senses and people making that final sprint to the finish. Five of us crossed the line together and we turned to cheer for peers. In the 10km, my daughter had won her age group and my friend from Scotland had won overall. In our marathon a Saudi woman and a Yemeni man finished first. Spectators wept over this woman and gallantly threw the man in the air to crowd surf him to the podium. The joy of setting precedent, of presenting and embracing a culture of adventure was now a reality. It had succeeded and could not be undone. I watched my proud Palestinian friend stand with her flag and I just gave thanks for being in this moment, in this exhaustion, in this humanity. I took photos for them, for us and it felt good to be an "us". The curfew here in Saudi will lift any day despite the spread of the pandemic. I look at photos and I know that I still have hopes of continuing this umma of running