E
Then, three days before race day, I came down
with the f lu and I realised just how much it did.
I was utterly def lated by the fact the dream
had been snatched away, and bitter that all my
training had seemingly been for nothing. On
race day, consumed with envy, I hated seeing
the other runners cross the finish line.
Still, the following day, I dutifully dragged
myself from my sick bed to the half-marathon
event to support my wife. And that changed
everything. I saw kids – some no more than 13
years of age and dressed in jeans and worn-out
trainers – crossing the finish line in times as fast
as sub-1:40. It was inspirational.
There was singing and dancing, and just about
every member of the community participated
in the event in one way or another. Even the
disabled kids from the centre where my wife
had been working as a volunteer joined in the
7km fun run. I was overwhelmed by the passion
for running that was in the air. So I decided
that the Khardung La Challenge was far from
over for me. I may have missed the race, but
I was still here and so were the mountains.
I would do it on my own.
Going solo
Over the next few weeks, I recovered from the
illness and began to train again. My wife took a
break from work, we met up with friends and
for three weeks we lived on the trails, doing one
trek after another. I even managed to climb
another high peak, Golep Kangri, at 5,995m.
The last of our treks ended in the Nubra Valley,
to the north of the mountain range over which
the Khardung La Challenge runs. My plan was
to run back to Leh, on the exact route of the race
I had missed. But during the afternoon before
my run, I was suddenly overcome by nerves.
There were heavy clouds over the mountains, and
I knew it would snow. Night-time temperatures
could easily drop as low as -15C on the pass. Was
this really safe to do alone?
Determined, I hitchhiked to Khardung
village, the starting point of the race. I left my
wife, telling her (and myself ) that I would wake
up at 1am; and if I saw a clear sky, I would run.
On waking, I saw stars lighting up a brilliant,
clear sky. The deal was sealed.
I pulled on thermals, f leece, jacket, two buffs,
a beanie, gloves and a headtorch. It was bitterly
cold, so cold that my water soon froze solid. And
it was dark. In the blackness I felt alone. Traffic
on the pass typically comes from the Leh side,
and most vehicles don’t start up the pass until
after sunrise. That means that on the northern
side – my side – the road was abandoned at night.
During those first four or so hours of running
in isolation and darkness, I was on edge. At one
point, I was startled by a sound. I looked to my
right to see a stream of water glittering in my
torchlight, but for a moment I was convinced it
was a snow leopard looking back at me. That
incident registered as 184bpm on my heart-rate
monitor – the highest it recorded all day.
A little later, I saw sets of eyes in the dark,
glowing in the ref lected light of my torch.
The bpm peaked again, but to my relief the
eyes belonged to yaks not leopards.
On rest days, we spent
some time day-tripping
through the Indus Valley
and visiting nearby
monasteries
Away from the training
runs, there was time to
take in some of the striking
architecture in the area
Spituk Monastery, with the
Khardung La pass in the
background amid the snow
Mandatory summit shot:
taken at 5,995m, on the
summit of Golep Kangri
Some of the ‘roads’ are
a challenge even for
sure-footed donkeys054 RUNNERSWORLD.COM/UK SEPTEMBER 2019