Ultra Gobi 400km

247 miles. 94 hours, 27 minutes, and 58 seconds.
6th overall (tied with Jack). 2nd female.

Running ultras has never really been about running or the numbers. It’s about people, community, connection, and adventure. It’s about experiencing the beauty of the world. It’s about doing something really hard and feeling gratitude for all that the body is capable of. It’s about sharing the challenge with people around you, and forming deep connections because of it. It’s both the simplicity of the task (run until you finish) and the enormity of the challenge (navigate, carry an 18-lb pack, fuel yourself, endure discomfort, continue to run through it all).

The Ultra Gobi 400km was no exception.

It’s taken me over a month to try to summarize the event, and I still don’t really feel like I can adequately put it into words.

In so many ways, it was a familiar challenge: My 6th time running 240+ miles in a desert. Another ultra with Jack, adding 94 hours to my already over 100 hours spent running alongside him in races (even more if you include our non-race runs).

In other ways, it was totally new: Self-navigated. No course markings, in a foreign country where GPS maps are not always up-to-date. Self-supported. Heavy packs that weighed around 18 pounds with all our required gear. Aid stations that provided only water and access to our pre-packed drop boxes. No crew or pacers allowed.

The same but different. A new kind of challenge. And I love those.

During the four days Jack and I were running, our lives were distilled to the simplest possible tasks: Move forward. Carry everything. Find your way. Eat enough. Sleep a little. Keep going.

We crossed rivers with trash bags on our feet (worked once, failed for the following dozen crossings).

We climbed fences, mountains, and dunes.

We slept in a sliver of shade under a windmill.

We drank instant coffee mixed into Chinese tea.

We laughed deliriously.

We argued about our GPS tracks.

We threw up instant mashed potatoes (ok, that was just me).

We took many 10-minute naps in the dirt.

We saw sunrises that stopped us in our tracks and sand dunes lit up by the full moon at night.

We got offered (and declined) a motorcycle ride by a local who thought we spoke Mandarin because we yelled ‘jiayou’ to him.

We marvelled at how much higher up 11,000 feet is compared to our home, New Orleans (below sea level).

We found a lake that was not on any maps and spent a lot of time trying to find our way around it.

We hiked through brambles for miles.

We saw camels, dead rams, wind farms, trains, towns, and miles of just sand.

We marvelled at the expansive nothingness and the unsettling quiet of the desert.

We told stories, asked questions, blasted music, and made up silly games (‘count the white rocks you see’, ‘how many steps until we get to the next checkpoint?’) to pass the time and distract ourselves from the discomfort we were intentionally enduring.

At one point, Jack fell asleep mid-stride. Between checkpoints, time lost meaning.

You live in a loop of motion, of tiny decisions: follow the dirt track or the GPS line? nap now or later? one more mile or two?

Those decisions don’t stick with you though, not like the memories of the way light hits the desert in the morning, or the kindness of a volunteer who helps fill your bottle when you’re too tired to even open it, or the absurdity of a drone filming you as you vomit by the roadside.

Our solitude in the desert was punctuated every 5-10 miles by the incredible volunteers. We arrived, always dirty and tired, to cheers and kindness at every single checkpoint. The volunteers could only provide water but their energy did much more to boost our spirits. Their generosity needed no translation app. The volunteers spent the week camping in remote areas of the Gobi to help runners make it safely through the race and did it with a joy that lifted us up each time we saw them.

Every person out there, from the local family volunteering at a checkpoint to the fellow runners we shared miles with, reminded me of the power that adventure has to connect people.

By the end, we were tired. 6 hours of sleep in 4 days. Miles of eating Oreos and instant potatoes. Hours of chasing a faint red line on a watch through sand and wind.

The last stretch of the race took us through a canyon at sunset and felt magical.

After 94 hours, 27 minutes, and 58 seconds, we crossed the finish line together: dusty, exhausted, and overflowing with gratitude.

When people ask why I do something like this, my answers may not make sense to anyone who hasn’t experienced a 240+ mile race for themselves:

I love being outside.

I love sharing adventures with people.

I love doing hard things.

I love the belief in myself and my abilities that it fuels.

I love seeing the world on my own two feet.

I love the problem-solving and mind games that one has to play during an ultra.

I love the absurdity of it all.

Running across a desert seems to be the main way for me to scratch that itch.

I’m so grateful to have experienced the Gobi. I’m grateful for the opportunity to have had such an incredible adventure and take on this challenge. I’m grateful for the volunteers and fellow runners who made the experience so special. I’m grateful for the constant support, love, and understanding from my wonderful wife, Maggie, and from Jack’s wife, Jenny. I’m grateful to have a friend like Jack, willing to travel to the other side of the world to run with me. I’m grateful for all those who donated to fund scholarships for Live Oak campers - we raised over $10,000. Thank you.

Ultra Gobi was all the things I described, and more that I haven’t put to words, but if there’s one thing I’m left with, it’s gratitude.

Who knows what’s next? Whatever it is, I hope it involves running really far.

Thanks for reading. Go outside. Have adventures. Do hard things. And remember: Running is a team sport.

Check out some videos that do a great job in illustrating the absurdity of this adventure: