GENGHIS CAN
—
Dan Jones experiences the other-worldly beauty of Mongolia’s Mongol 100 ultra
Words: Dan Jones
Photographs: Mongol 100
Crunch after crunch after crunch. The noise of crampons on the hard black ice is spine chilling. Every step I take sends shockwaves racing up my legs. As I run the ice cracks behind me, I feel like I’m being chased by something unknown, something unworldly. The only thing that makes sense to me now is to just keep on running. Stay in the moment.
As a boy I just loved to run. Being outside I felt like anything was possible. The trees, streams and coastal paths just felt like one big playground and this undoubtedly fueled my appetite for wandering. For me, running isn’t all about the races, split times and medals but more an efficient way to explore magnificent surroundings. With minimal kit, it truly connects me to the earth. It’s when we lose ourselves to the quiet time that we really start to find out who we are and what’s important to us.
I missed 18 months of training and racing, after twisting my ankle on a tree root and then ignoring everyone’s advice about proper rest and recovery. The 18 months of frustration at getting back up to being able to run three miles without pain was my just reward for failing to stop and listen. Lesson learnt. Injuries should be used as a time to learn, improve and strengthen, and having realised that running through the pain simply wasn’t working, I began to do just that. I took up callisthenics and got back on my bike, but building up the miles and carefree running still seemed an eternity away. I needed motivation, a goal to aim for, and I found it.
It has always been one of my dreams to visit some of the most beautiful place on earth, but doing it while running? It hadn’t really occurred to me, until that moment. A friend of mine liked a social media post which popped up on my feed, and I was instantly intrigued. The Mongol 100 ice race ultra, a traverse from north to south of a frozen lake in outer Mongolia. With temperatures dropping below -30°C, this would be the first race of its kind.
So many questions crowded in. How to run with all of the necessary kit? Does the cold affect breathing? How do I go about running on ice? There would be many more questions throughout my training, but for now I knew that I had to sign up. The next 12 months were consumed by a constant focus on nothing else.
That year passed quicker than any before it, and while I understand the proportional reasoning behind this in relation to my ever-increasing age, the unrelenting focus was definitely a big factor in this. The picture of a frozen Mongolia that I pinned to my bedroom wall began to come alive as my training progressed. Back-to-back runs and two sessions a day had become routine by now. Although unable to train on ice, I hoped the unforgiving nature of the coastal trails of Cornwall had toughened me up enough to adapt to anything Mongolia could throw at me. My kit bag was the size of a house but I felt stronger than ever before. I was ready.
And now the moment was here. I’d arrived. I looked around me and couldn’t quite believe it.
The snow-covered mountains in the distance and the bare trees of the harsh landscape confirmed that I was, indeed, here. My eyelashes were frozen and sticking to my eye sockets. The ice around me cracked and groaned like thunder. Every step set off a chain reaction, causing me to question the safety and wisdom of this whole thing. I could see for miles, highlighting just how alone, small and insignificant I was, and for a moment my undivided attention on my own training seemed almost juvenile in view of the scale of the landscape around me. Perhaps I should’ve been questioning the more fundamental issues of life on Earth. How the mind wanders at times such as this, in such breathtaking surroundings. Time to refocus.
The 27 athletes made their way to the most spectacular starting line that I think I will ever see. Most of us were intending to run, one sat on a fat bike and around seven were skaters. To me this sounded like the most sensible idea, but I wanted to be truly connected, relying on my own energy to power me through. The countdown – three, how has this moment actually arrived, two, no backing out now, one, this is it.
Running in the extreme cold is an interesting challenge. Too much sweat turns to ice, so running efficiently soon became the order of the day. I used my watch to dictate my pace during training runs at home, but out here, in the main event, I decided to only pay attention to my heart rate. By keeping this at 140 bpm or lower I would keep my body temperature under control, and run in such an efficient way that my pace should rarely change over the four days of the race. This strategy worked amazingly, and I felt as though I could’ve carried on long after the finishing line.
Standing alone on the ice, its black endless depths stared back at me. The cracking was never-ending, both in the distance and just behind me. The ice moves all the time, with new seams appearing without warning. I could see for miles around me, but could see no-one. Just the ice. If I stopped, if I just stood still, would anyone find me? I ran two miles thinking someone was behind me, but when I looked back there was nobody. The cracking ice is my only pursuant. It’s easy to lose focus out here, as the horizon barely changes from the beginning of the day to the end. Although demoralising at times, I constantly reminded myself that I was still moving forward. One step at a time.
On my training runs I normally listen to music. It helps when running the same route time and time again or just trying to rack up the miles. I have a mixed playlist that my girlfriend rates as average at best, but during a windy, rainy evening in Cornwall I can often be heard singing along to AC/DC or Queen as I run along the coast or down a back lane. Race days are a little different. I take it with me for long races in case I need to take my mind off something like a throbbing knee or ankle, but it rarely gets any race airtime. Out on the ice it was the same, and I used it only twice, but one of those times is lodged in my memory.
Around mile 17 on day two and at the front of the pack, I hadn’t seen anyone for a while and was starting to feel the impact of the ice in my legs. Switching on the tunes, my personal karaoke session was soon in full swing. I was just hitting the high notes of Highway to Hell when a deep rumbling vibrated through the ice and through me. I knew it wasn’t one of the support trucks. As I turned, I was amazed and delighted to see a gang of bikers with side cars making a bee line for me. A cloud of ice dust in their wake, I felt like the lead role in the latest action thriller, viewing the situation from a bird’s eye perspective. One by one they sped past shouting and waving at me, until the last in line tried to get the back end of his bike out. He nearly ended my race there and then. As they sped past the smell of the old bikes hung in the air. They disappeared as fast as they had arrived, but it was a highlight of the day to catch up with them two miles further on as they paused for their lunch. What a great bunch, full of life, just enjoying what they do.
Each night, runners, skaters and the cyclist arrived at camps, erected and taken down by the local Mongolian crew. I couldn’t thank them enough for all their help and generosity, especially after a hard day on the ice. They were truly lovely people. On nights one and three we stopped on the shoreline on the east side of a lake, and on night two we camped on the island in the middle, sleeping in traditional gers with a stove in the middle and around 10 people to a ger. Temperatures dropped like a stone as soon as the sun went down, the thermometer cruising down past -30. This made getting out of a warm sleeping bag especially difficult in the morning, and the evening’s prep work with our kit very important to avoid frozen clothes the next day. We lived on ration packs and whatever else we had taken with us. After day three I never wanted to see a ration pack again, and the thought of the checkpoint snack bars made me feel queasy. If I were to do this race again I would spend more time planning my food.
I’m not sure what kept me running, but I knew I couldn’t stop. Maybe it’s the ability it gives me to switch off from busy life, or perhaps the physical challenge – testing my own limits. It’s amazing to see how much happier people are putting themselves through miles of pain compared to being stuck inside all day in front of a computer screen. For many, it’s not running, but I feel certain that if people reduced the time spent on social media, and spent more time connecting with the natural environment and challenging themselves, the benefits would be immediate.
It was with sadness that I started day four, the last day on the ice. I had enjoyed my time on the ice and had given it everything I had. I needed to keep it going for one more day to complete the most epic race of my life. A headwind had picked up, reducing the daytime temperature to around -30°C. I pushed on, with only my eyes exposed to the elements. Approaching the last aid station I found myself running along a track left by a bear the night before, paw prints frozen into the ice. To my amusement the tracks led directly into the back of one of the aid station trucks. As I finished a warm drink and was about to set off I wondered whether I should point out that there could be a bear in the back of the van. Deciding they would soon find out if that was indeed the case, and preferring not to be around when they did, I ran on. As I rounded the last corner I could see the finish line about a half-mile away. This was the first time I realised that not only would I finish, but that I would be the first runner to cross the line.
This had been the most amazing race, far exceeding my own expectations. But without the help of all the other amazing runners, skaters and the lone cyclist, this trip wouldn’t have been the same. Without the smiles and hard work of the Mongolians or the Rat Race crew none of this would have been possible. Thank you for everything, and see you on the next one.
—