A Lifetime of Learning, Lived in Three Days: Bryon Powell’s 2024 Ultra Gobi 400k Report

I hope that everyone, whatever their pursuits, may have an experience as transcendent as I did at the 2024 Ultra Gobi 400k, where I covered the race’s 250 miles/400 kilometers in 68 hours and 59 minutes. In the process of winning and setting a race record, I shocked no one more than myself.

Despite the occasional blister, gastrointestinal moment, or emotional dip, for the better part of three days, I experienced a joyful ease of effectiveness. Modern neuroscientists speak of flow much as ancient Chinese philosophers spoke of wu wei, which can be understood as effortless action. Until this latest trip to the Gobi, a few hours of such a state was a notable experience — something to be cherished. Now, I have a new threshold for that state that extends to a few days at a time.

Put another way, this run felt like an expression of accumulated mastery: success that followed 30-plus years and many tens of thousands of miles of practice.

To back up a moment, the Ultra Gobi 400 is a roughly 250-mile/400-kilometer nonstop race run in the Gobi Desert of northwestern China. A key element of this race, which is unusual in trail running and ultrarunning but common in fell running and adventure racing, is that while there’s a recommended route, there are no course markings. You can travel as you wish, so long as you scan into the required checkpoints.

The 2024 course featured 10 major rest points (RPs) and 28 lesser checkpoints (CPs). The 28 minor CPs provided ambient temperature bottled water, low chairs, and a low table outside. The 10 major RPs provided hot and ambient water, multiple large heated tents with lights and charging equipment, sleeping pads, and one of our drop bags. Aside from these offerings, the Ultra Gobi 400 is a self-sufficiency race, wherein you carry what you need for the entire race. While this includes a decent amount of required gear, including a warm sleeping bag and a puffy jacket, keeping one’s bag below 6.5 pounds/3 kilograms before adding water is possible.

The region is moderate-to-high altitude, with the event taking place between the altitudes of 4,000 and 11,000 feet. The landscapes are expansive, only occasionally broken up by drainages, signs of pastoralism, and a handful of quiet dirt and paved roads. Most of it is see-forever country with a smattering of hills and mountains. I participated in this race once before, in 2015, and fell in love with the vastness of the terrain, and this race. I’ve always wanted to return, and in 2024, I had that opportunity.

Better with Bennie: The Race’s First 27 Hours

Ahead of the race, I spent a lot of time looking at the race’s recommended route and the terrain around it on online maps. I saw this race’s “open course” format as one of its best features and endeavored to research my way toward being most efficient with the route I took.

Off the start line, the recommended race route has runners trend left onto a dirt road for most of the 10 miles to the first checkpoint. However, as the race gets underway, I and another half dozen runners trend right toward a significant paved road that traverses eight or nine of those first 10 miles before a dirt road leads across a river to the first checkpoint. Based on my pre-race research and what it looks like on the ground now, I also decide to go right.

I quickly fall into rhythm with Bennie Roux, a South African runner with plenty of long-distance running experience. We chat away as we go, getting to know one another and our approaches to the race. Each of us is keen to run easy and take care of ourselves as well as possible for as long as possible. We’re also keen on having company along the way, so we happily continue together down the paved road. My only hesitation comes in learning he’d run 70 hours to take third at a running of the Moab 240 Mile — far faster than I’d run my only 200-plus-mile race. But I feel under control, so I run with it.

From CP1, the course hits a mostly uphill stretch on loose sand between sand dunes. He and I settle into powerhiking, searching for the firmest footing. We’re in it for the long haul. We prefer to let the views of the magnificent dunes surrounding us take our breath away rather than our effort.

A few hours later, after the first rest point, RP1/CP3, where I resupply, eat lunch, and clean my feet, Bennie and I head back out, soon veering onto a cross-country section where several barriers crop up.

For hours, we work through these small challenges together. The first barriers are literal in the form of numerous barbwire-topped fences. At some fences, one of us pulls up the lowest wire, which isn’t barbed, while the other crawls under before we switch roles. Other times, we don’t immediately come across a section of fence that we can pull up. I’m unsure about using the posts to climb over the fences that are more than waist-high, but self-proclaimed farm boy Bennie helps me with the process before making quick work of getting over them himself.

The second barrier is my gut, as I experience intestinal distress several times in a few hours. Fortunately, Bennie offers up some anti-diarrheal medication he’s carrying that I gladly accept. After a couple of hours, my intestines settle, and I don’t think about them again. During the whole episode, I keep eating and drinking, and, other than quick breaks, we don’t skip a beat during this stretch, which encompasses CPs 4 and 5.

After CP5, around 30 miles/50 kilometers in the race, Chinese runner Gu Bing joins Bennie and me as we run up a highway and consistently climb a low grade on asphalt during the heat of the day. Bennie and I stick together, alternating between running and walking to keep our effort under control. We frequently switch positions with Bing, but we all stay within roughly 50 meters of one another. Even with the switching, it never feels like we’re racing, and we enjoy fun moments when all three of us run together.

After RP2 in the remote town of Hongliuwan, Bennie and I set out together as the moderate heat of the day slackens. Long before, Bennie had yielded navigation to me, as I’d nailed numerous alternates to the recommended route without fault. However, as we leave Hongliuwan, I make my first navigational error, costing us about 10 minutes. We quickly catch the error and let it pass. Minimizing and recovering from errant navigation is crucial to this game, as is not letting those errors get you down mentally. Thankfully, we run three peaceful kilometers down a wide tree-lined boulevard with no traffic as the day turns to dusk.

Throughout the first few hours of the night, we see Bing and American runner Hunter Leininger. A couple of kilometers before RP3/CP12, Bennie and I are running near Bing when we come to another possible shortcut I’d identified before the race. In the kilometers leading up to this, I ask Bennie whether or not he wants to try it, as the terrain to our right, the eventual direction of that possible shortcut, is quite rugged. He’s getting sleepy, but I keep pressing him that I need his buy-in on an admittedly risky route that could save maybe two kilometers by traveling cross country rather than a dirt road.

Just as we approach the turnoff for the hypothetical route, the terrain opens up into less daunting country. Bennie and I agree to take the shortcut. As we turn off the road, Bing frantically waves us back toward the road, clearly indicating we’re going off the recommended course. Without a common language, I strongly point toward our intended route while nodding and smiling. Bing joins us. Bennie guides us through the few barbed-wire fences we encounter while I navigate for the group. Less than a kilometer and a half later, we see RP3/CP12. Our gamble pays off!

As midnight of our first night approaches, and we are now 60 miles/100 kilometers along, Bennie’s conversation trails off. While it hadn’t been constant, we’d filled our time with deep conversations, meaningless banter, glances into our lives, and plenty of shared music references from our youth. I miss it.

Bennie’s energy also tails off during this time. We walk more runnable terrain than we had earlier. Still, I’m so happy for his quiet company and the shared miles. That’s worth so much more to me than making slightly quicker time on the first night of a 250-mile race. I eat and drink, and we move along well enough through the night.

Fast forward to the morning of our second day of racing. After a stop at RP4/CP15, Bennie and I face a long, steady paved road climb from roughly 7,000 feet in Dangchenwan to over 9,400 feet after CP18. Not long after entering the town, we notice we are now in the Subei Mongol Autonomous County, with the monumental architecture contrasting the Islam-influenced buildings in Hongliuwan the evening before. Further, there’s an uptick in horses around town and we spot our first yurt and, then, prayer flag installations as we climb past the outskirts of town into a barren alluvial fan coming off the mountains to our south. Looking back over town, even higher mountains tower on the western horizon.

On this climb, Bennie suggests that I go ahead a few times, but I keep encouraging him as I’m still really enjoying his company. For more than a day, we’d never been more than a few strides apart and had worked well as a team. He says he’s going to take an extended break at CP17. I ask him to reconsider, but it’s his choice to make. After 27 hours, many kind words, and a final hug, we’re on our own. It’s just me for the remaining miles up the highway to RP5/CP19.

The Middle of Nowhere: Finding Myself (Alone)

And here I am, high in the Gobi Desert on a little-used highway, all by my lonesome as the mid-afternoon heat beats down on our second day of adventure. Fortunately, that heat’s less intense than when I ran the race back in 2015, and I enjoy a brisk but relaxed walk up the pavement along with some welcome stretches of running where the terrain flattens or briefly tilts downward.

I take my shortest rest point stop to that point at RP5/CP18 with 115 miles/185 kilometers behind me. Not long after the rest point, I turn off the rather remote highway onto an even more remote primitive doubletrack that heads up a river drainage. I stretch out my arms in joy as I run along. It’s nearly a day and a half into the event, I’m at 9,500 feet altitude, and I’m cruising along the gentle incline of a dry water course as mountains close in on both sides to form a narrow valley. Six horses appear on my right as I round a bend a few minutes later. They climb the hillside before parading majestical profile along the ridgeline.

Although a few race media are scattered along the first kilometer or two of this section, it feels distinctly like heading off into the true wilds of the Gobi for the first time during the race. I head upward and onward through high valleys and even higher passes. The first big bend in the river valley shows off a long strand of prayer flags stretching across the gorge and, a bit further, there’s a round display of prayer flags on benchlands above the valley floor, where it opens up again into a grassy meadow that contrasts the dry expanses just a few kilometers earlier. They seemingly welcome me into the alpine terrain through which I’ll travel during the second night of Ultra Gobi.

Amongst these mountains, I look inward to a shared journey — one of myself and my uncle Frank, who two decades ago gave me a Catholic monk’s translation of “The Way of Chuang Tzu,” a book of Taoist philosophy. Since then, we’ve developed a bond over the book, and I asked him to record some of our shared favorite stories ahead of Ultra Gobi so I could listen to them along the way.

It is now that I first listen to the story “Cutting Up an Ox.” In the story, a wise, old butcher no longer hacks up an ox, as many other butchers would do. Instead, he senses the whole animal, separating it with smooth, masterful action. I reflected on this story in running Ultra Gobi in 2015, and I focus on it even more intently in 2024. Listening to my uncle read the story, I remind myself to take my time, feel and sense the race and myself, and approach the race section by section, led by wisdom and intention rather than strength and force. So far, so good.

Eventually, I crest the second pass of this high section and descend a dirt road as night falls firmly over the course en route to CP20. I continue cruising through the darkness toward CP21, now 137 miles/220 kilometers down the course. Amazingly, I feel fine, and my mind drifts. I am at peace in the tranquil night.

Along with the tranquility of the scene and amidst my inner calm, eventually comes sleepiness. It’s not long until I’m the sleepiest I’ve ever been in a race, and though I’d like to wait to sleep at a rest point, I become so desperate that I consider a roadside nap. In an effort to make it to the next rest point, RP6, before needing to sleep, I turn on music for the first time all race, jam along for a half hour, and thankfully arrive there.

I had planned to make this my first significant break in the race — first a full camping meal from my drop bag and then a good sleep via several sleep cycles. Unfortunately and for the first time all race, my stomach isn’t great, so I forgo the meal for a few squares of chocolate, which go down ok.

I am in the rest point with two other runners, Nepal’s Sange Sherpa and Bing, who I understand have been traveling together for a while in leading the race. This makes me the third-place man, though the pair will leave long before me, opting for a shorter break while I take this longer one.

I sleep for a complete sleep cycle, then wake up to snack on some almonds I’ve laid next to me just for this purpose. My stomach is settling — yay! — and I roll over back to sleep. After another sleep cycle, I wake up, intending to snack and sleep again. But it’s not long until I feel wide awake. I’m rested and fed, and it feels time to head back out into the night.

My Opus Magnus: A Life’s Learning Distilled

It’s 5 a.m. on the third day of the race. Officially, I’m 142 miles into Ultra Gobi with 108 miles to go. I’m in third place, but I try not to focus on it. Bing and Sange had left the rest point many hours before me that night, so I expect to run alone unless the others catch me. I head out into the latest hours of night before the darkness begins to yield to first light.

Onward and upward again on a remote paved road to the race’s high point of nearly 11,000 feet, between CP23 and CP24. I’m fully revived as I move through the crisp, high-altitude night. The stars sizzle. The air’s motionless. Aside from the volunteers at the checkpoints behind and ahead, it’s possible that there’s not another person for many miles. At most, a few pastoralists might be asleep in the widely spaced cinderblock buildings far off the road that I pass every 20 or 30 minutes. The tranquility of the night and me in it is transcendent.

I reach CP24 just as the first light hits the sky. There, I turn off the paved road onto a dirt road down a wash. For a long time, I run down the same dirt road through the same dry wash to CP27, which doubles as RP7. I eat. I drink. I run. All as the sky slowly brightens and shafts of light beam from far-off mountains where it’s snowing on the highest peaks. I’m physically and mentally comfortable. I have no idea what the next day or days will hold, but I revel in the moment and movement.

After a 45-minute stop at RP7/CP27, I head down a very wide dry riverbed. Still down. Seemingly, always down. Indeed, of the race’s final 100 miles, all but the final 16-mile incline should be relatively easy downward travel. This informs my race approach: Go easy to keep going, since there’s plenty of running to be had late.

Without warning, this consistent ease abruptly disappears. Not long before CP28, I encounter a small river. Normally, I’d run straight through it, but instead, I take off my shoes and socks to cross it. Foot blisters are often a weakness of mine in long races and, so far, aggressive foot care all race has been keeping them mostly in check. Even if I could change my socks later, I desperately want to keep my shoes — which are working well for me — dry.

While I don’t count, I must cross the river at least 20 times over the next few hours. Each time, I take my shoes and socks off. As the banks are often sandy, I usually sit on the riverbank after a crossing and wash off my feet before putting my socks and shoes back on. Add in a bunch of short climbs, either out of river crossings or in attempts to avoid such crossings, and some relative heat in the afternoon, and this section has started to feel interminable. I’m uncomfortable. I’m a bit off my game with the irksome inefficiency — more than I’ve been all race.

Finally, I reach CP29 and plop into a chair. Deflated but not defeated, I take a longer-than-usual 10-minute checkpoint break here to let the frustration pass before I move on. There’s still too far to go to carry that burden with me.

As I get up to go, I check my phone to see a text message from my sister, Gretchen, with whom I’m close. To end a loving note, she writes, unprompted and unaware of my struggles of the past few hours, “Turn on some T Sizzle and shake it off!!” As I climb out of the river valley for good, I pull up Taylor Swift on my phone and hit shuffle, starting with “Shake It Off.”

Just a few minutes later, I’m smiling and grooving my way down the course again. The terrain is now a wide-open rolling desert, and the course is still trending down. I cruise. Maybe I run faster than I should, but I will cement this happy reversal.

I arrive at RP8 maybe an hour before sunset with 202 miles/325 kilometers officially behind me. I intend to make quicker than usual work of this rest point. I will soon reach a straight-bearing section across lower altitude desert that I hope to get a feel for before darkness falls.

But in the aid station, I encounter my next bit of trouble. I take off my shoes and socks, down some Coke, and swallow some medicine from my drop bag. Shit! It tastes like sunscreen, which appears to have leaked into my drop bag. I immediately vomit several times, my eyes tearing up while the race volunteers look on sympathetically. I feel better right away, and begin to smile and laugh. With minimal shared language, I try to reassure everyone I’m ok, even if it’s too complicated to explain why.

As I leave the rest point, I notice the timing chart. I’m still in third place, but I’m now just 31 minutes behind second-place Sange and 78 minutes behind leader Bing. That’s a surprise! Bing had left RP6, the rest point where I’d stopped and slept for several hours 60 miles/100 kilometers backward on the course, more than 4.5 hours ahead of me.

Five hundred meters after the rest point, I turn left onto a dirt road that continues to climb, whereas the recommended route remains straight on a paved road. I’d scouted this section online and thought the dirt road could cut almost two miles off the recommended route. I have no idea if my route might fail, but the risk is worth the potential benefit. And it goes! Knowing that I’ve made it through stomach trouble, am moving well, and nailing this navigation leaves me psychologically lifted again.

I stop at CP32 just long enough to check in and glance at the officials’ clipboard. Now, I’m curious! Sange is only 10 minutes ahead of me, while it’s 46 minutes up to Bing. “Don’t get excited,” I calmly think to myself. “Take in the sunset.” I look to my left as the nearly set sun casts envy-of-Monet pastels across the desert in bucketfuls from atop an infinitely distant mountain range.

Ahead of me lays the final 40 miles of course, loosely resembling a triangle with two rest points at the far corners. On my current side of that triangle, I’ll head eight miles on a slight decline through two more checkpoints. The vegetation is sparse, and the terrain is nearly featureless. I use my phone’s navigation app to gain a bearing and do my best to find a point on the darkening horizon to aim toward.

In this expanse of desert, I settle into my uncle’s recording of “The Need to Win,” another Taoist parable. In the story, there is an archer, normally a master marksman. When a small prize is on the line, he becomes nervous. When there’s a prize of gold, he goes mad. His skill is still there, but the need to win ruins his aim. I’m now close to second place and not far from the lead man — I could move up in the rankings. I take some time to acknowledge that this can’t become my focus, though. As I’ve been doing all race, I will aim to take care of myself and run within myself. As I’d coined on huge adventures while training for this race back home, I’ll “run well, run easy.” Any other approach was to invite the same ruin of the archer.

Upon arrival at CP33, it becomes clear that I will move into second very soon, as the gap up to Sange is now only seven minutes. I still have enough fluids for the four runnable miles to RP9, so I clock in and keep moving.

Onward to RP9/CP34, I run under darkness. I keep expecting to see Sange or his light ahead of me, but I never do. I arrive to RP9/CP34 and head into a tent. Bing is here, and we smile and encourage one another. I ask where Sange is. Officials respond that he’s not arrived yet. I’m in disbelief. Where could he be?!

Bing heads off while I down a Coke, take care of my feet, and eat a little. I’m 26 minutes behind Bing when I head back on course. This is where things get complicated. I’m close to the leader, having gained 50 minutes on him in the last 12 miles/19 kilometers. Whether or not I want to be competitive, I’m now amidst the competition to win this race.

I plan to run everything I can of the 16.5-mile, slightly downhill on the due westward bearing to RP10/CP36. After that, I plan to walk every step of the final 16-mile incline to the finish, given my decades-long issues with my calves and Achilles. This walk-the-final-climb approach is not a competitive capitulation, though. I’m confident that my walking skills match anyone else’s and would tip my hat to anyone who could run that final climb after more than 200 miles of racing.

In opposition to these competitive thoughts, since I’d signed up for the 2024 Ultra Gobi, I’ve dreamt of finishing with another runner. There’s just something about the shared humanity in such a massive undertaking with the mutual assistance, sacrifice, and joy that comes with it. Plus, I’d long ago pinned my idea of success in the event on internal feelings rather than external metrics.

So, with that duality in my head, I head due west out of RP9. Although I sense one or more dirt roads are around, none feels like it’s on my direct bearing. I rely on frequent checks of the navigation app on my phone to stay on my bearing, but the limited scrub brush and very slight water drainages running roughly perpendicular to my route mean I’m bobbing this way or that, and the phone app just isn’t responsive enough to keep me on a tight course. I dig out my handheld GPS device, a piece of required kit I’d not expected to need and one with which I have little familiarity. I quickly figure out the device and it’s a solid solution.

Maybe two or three miles out of RP9, I stop and drop to my knees, dry heaving several times. I laugh as I stand up, tears streaming down my face. What’s a little puke at night in the middle of nowhere? I’m shortly back up and running again.

Running isn’t a problem at all, but it is a challenge to run continuously for long stretches, and I feel that running consistently will pay more dividends than trying to run faster. Except for two short indulgences, I’ve been saving music as a mental boost at the right time. This is that time. I turn the music on and challenge myself to run for an entire song. Then two. Then three. I don’t make it longer than that. Still, when I take a walk break, it’s for under a minute before I start running again. Music is an amazing tool.

Less than six miles after RP9, I see a light shining my way, getting closer. Soon, it’s clear that someone is headed my way. Both of us head to the other. Shit! It’s Sange. My heart drops. He’s way off course, having missed RP9, and needs to return to it before he can continue the race.

With teary eyes, we hug. He asks how far it is back to the previous checkpoint. I tell him 10k, my heart sinking further as I say the words. He would head back to RP9 before showing his courage to continue.

Not that long later, I see another light, which must be Bing. I have closed the 26-minute gap in seven miles. When I catch him, we speak using Google Translate on my phone. I ask him if he’s ok and if he needs anything, and he signals he is fine. We try to run together for a moment, but our paces are just too different, so I go on alone.

At 225 miles/360 kilometers and 62 hours into this race, I have taken over the lead. It’s smoke ’em, if you’ve got ’em time. I’m working to move well but also holding something back. All of this feels pretty incredible. I don’t eat or drink, as I don’t want to risk puking again when my energy is good. RP10, the final rest point, comes and goes with just an eight-minute stop.

An interesting twist after this last rest point is that the recommended course backtracks and runs parallel to itself for several miles. I watch for Bing’s headlamp in the night, but don’t see it before the course diverges. It looks like I have a lead of at least four miles.

I refuse to say the race is over. Anything can go wrong. I’m locked into a 90% effort that yields roughly 15-minute miles walking up the uneven desert. I still haven’t eaten or drank since RP9, some 20 miles and nearly six hours ago, but my stomach has recovered. Soon, it’s rumbling with hunger. It’s become an extra tool that I hold in reserve. I’ll try to eat again if my energy flags or a chase comes.

Once through CP37, there’s only one checkpoint to go. Music. Night. Efficient movement. Peace. Hours and miles pass. It’s not over in a moment, but it’s over with little effort. I’ve not slept in nearly a day and have logged all of three hours of sleep in three days, but I’m holding together pretty well. There are a few stumbles or rock kicks in the expanse, but that’s it. I’m in and out of CP38, the last checkpoint, and the only thing left is the finish line.

I enter a tight canyon with a stream a few hundred meters later. A dirt road weaves in and out of the stream. The stream’s bottom is fine gravel and the water shallow, easy travel. With the race almost over, I no longer have to protect my feet. There’s just the slight resistance and cold of the water flowing against me.

I try jogging maybe two short bits early in the canyon, but it feels harder than this section needs to. It’s not worth the very slight risk of injuring myself, and I’d rather enjoy what I’ve earned over the past three days and, indeed, the past many months. I look around at the trees, cliff sides, and stars above. I shine my headlamp to take a couple of photos. I move with purpose but still with peace and efficiency.

Forty minutes later, the course turns off to the side and climbs steeply. I see the lights of the finishing complex. I hear a familiar song playing — before the race, the organizers asked us to choose our finishing song, and I picked one that reminds me of my wife Meghan’s win of the Marathon des Sables many years earlier.

I cross the finish scanner, with at time of 68 hours and 59 minutes.

Having finished, officials still urge me on. I turn onto a treelined stone walkway. Officials and camera people surround me. A videographer remarks on how fast I’m moving. I pick up my stride another notch with a cheeky grin. I climb some steps and am in an amphitheater, and soon on its stage. Over the next 20 minutes, I’m draped with a ceremonial scarf, toast baijiu — the Chinese national liquor — and interviewed by a new-found friend in the Chinese media.

Wisdom, Patience, and the Desert’s Inspiration: My Recipe for a Successful Race

I’m ecstatic. What have I done? I’m an old guy with white in his beard. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But it did. And with some time to ponder it all, I’ve realized that it happened because I let it.

I didn’t throw up any barriers to it along the way, and when external barriers presented themselves, I went around, over, or under rather than try to force my way through. It was 30 years of training and preparation well executed for three days. Some of those Taoist ideas that had captured my attention for so long appeared in my lived experience. I couldn’t have been more proud then or now.

I kept an easy effort and took relaxed, but efficient breaks at checkpoints. I ate and drank over and over and over again for as long as my stomach allowed it. I had effective systems for where to store every gear item. I cared for my feet, addressed chafe points, and avoided sunburn.

While I avoided problems, dampened disappointments, and limited frustrations, I cultivated positivity even more. I treasured getting to know Bennie, helping him where I could, and graciously accepting his help when I could. Likewise, I took every interaction with Bing to be positive, from smiles to mutual shouts of “jaiyou,” a Chinese cheer that buoyed me and, I hope, Bing, as well. Even in the sadness of encountering a far-off-course Sange, the depth of humanity in caring, feeling, and giving was a source of strength and positivity.

The same goes for encountering the staff of 38 checkpoints and likely just as many additional race staff outside of checkpoints throughout the race. I gave and took the positive currency of humanity whenever and however I could. Sometimes, that was a 10-minute long interview at a rest point while taking care of my needs. Other times, that was a big smile, a bigger wave, and a “xiè xiè” — “thank you” in Mandarin — as I left a modest checkpoint in the middle of nowhere.

The Gobi itself helped carry me along in strong, positive spirits. Gosh, I love the desert. It’s not for everyone, but it is for me. I love the openness, the pastel hews twice a day, the starkness, the hidden beauty and life, the vistas of days-away mountains, the wonder of a lifegiving spring, the warmth of an autumn afternoon, and the still, crisp, universe-unveiling night sky. Amidst the physical challenges of an event like Ultra Gobi, it would be easy to see the desert as my enemy. Instead, I saw it as a joyous buffet to be eaten and savored along the way.

I was proud of all my logistical preparation, from choosing effective gear and tolerable food to discovering alternate routes and confirming ideal ones. The same was true of my training, which combined the biggest training outings I’ve ever done with the graciousness to move past the training outings and blocks that didn’t happen. I pushed myself to my limits and forgave myself for what I perceived at the time to be my failings. Ultimately, my body was as well prepared as my mind and gear.

The pride I have in all of this is quiet and sublime. I wanted to “run well, run easy” at Ultra Gobi, and I did so by using patience and wisdom as my foundation and goals for the event. I let that happen as well as I possibly could.