Leh, Ladakh: Before Barun Karmakar left Mumbai to participate in the 122km Silk Route Ultra (SRU), his daughter asked him to sign a piece of paper that said this would be his last long run. She feared for his health, his well-being, in a reaction to what Karmakar was about to attempt—one of the world’s toughest long-distance runs. The sales executive from GE Healthcare, nearing 50 years of age, said in response that he was willing to do anything for her, “but don’t ask this of me,” recounts Karmakar, seated in the dining area of Hotel Rimo in Nubra Valley, just 24 hours before the race.
On 10-11 September, Karmakar ran the SRU, which traverses terrains that range from Kyagar village in the Nubra Valley at roughly 10,700ft above sea level to Khardung La Pass at over 17,000ft above sea level. Temperatures range from 20 degrees Celsius to sub-zero as the runners start from 7pm, running through the night before reaching Leh market the next day ahead of a qualifying cut-off time of 22 hours. About 60km of the race is above 13,123ft, where—as their website says—every breath is a battle.
Through the journey, they shed and add clothes depending on the weather. They run alone through snaking hill roads hugging sheer drops, sometimes in pitch darkness. Along the way, they grab hurried bites of bananas and boiled potatoes, suffer pain and hallucinations, elation and heartbreak, question, at times, why they are doing this and have revelations about how they would do it the next time.
What makes these ordinary people, with families and offices, take two weeks or more off just to participate in this race?
They come from Mumbai, Indore, Bengaluru, Hyderabad, everywhere in the country, spend days acclimatising to the higher altitude where the air thins, the sun blazes with an intensity to burn and the night chills to foggy breaths.
What encourages them to test the extremes of human tenacity, spending nearly a day running, walking, just aiming to go across a finish line that seems so far away?
Tarang Wadhwani, 42, an entrepreneur from Indore, failed at the SRU four previous times, but this year, on 11 September, he was among the last SRU runners to finish. Hours earlier, Ladakh’s Nawang Tsering, 28, broke a course record to win the race in 12 hours, 12 minutes and 18 seconds, a pace of running roughly at 10km an hour for half a day. He finished the way he started—sprinting in long, loping strides, with a determined stare.
Suraj Meena, a former boxer turned long-distance runner from Jaipur, finished second much against expectations because the terrain, it was assumed, could only be conquered by a local. Ladakh, explained Meena later, is not too dissimilar to Rajasthan, with its deserts, extreme temperatures and rugged terrain. A few years ago, he cycled from Jaipur to Ladakh and back, on a whim.
The athlete with a poetic name, Sufiya Sufi Runner, 40, jogged across near the 18-hour mark, the second woman to finish behind Tenzing Dolma. Sufiya, who has run from Kashmir to Kanyakumari and plans to circumnavigate the globe on foot next year, does this professionally because when she is on the road, alone, endlessly, she finds peace.
“Most people struggle with the altitude or with the idea to run in the altitude,” says Maik Becker, who runs a travel company in Switzerland for extreme sports. “But when you learn about your body, when you listen to your body, especially when it goes up, up, up… You can make it and that makes it special.”
Some find the last stretch, from South Pulu to the finish line in Leh the toughest because it’s downhill, with the sun beating down. For others, it’s the elevation that makes them question the decision to run.
“The moment you start climbing, it’s difficult. Once you finish, your body turns blue because of the accumulation of carbon dioxide,” says Karmakar. “It is more than the event. You have to practise for at least one year. That one-year regime makes you a different human being altogether.”
What brings these runners to this arduous journey is a combination of factors, including personal challenges, a sense of accomplishment and most importantly, the rugged handsomeness of Ladakh’s landscape.
THREE OR MORE
The Ladakh marathon week (10-13 September) includes a 21km and a 42km run, besides the 72km Khardung La Challenge (KC), the 122km SRU, a 5km fun run and an 11.2km intermediary one. For many runners, every trip to Ladakh is a progressive step—42km followed by 72km and then 122km. You qualify for the longer one by completing the shorter one in a prescribed time limit. Those who completed the SRU this year, for example, can look forward next year to a 100-mile race, which is on the cards.
Each longer run allows one to push the body further, steel the mind to endure more. Besides, there are fewer, more cinematic destinations in the world than Ladakh, with its scaly mountains, its snow-capped peaks, its furry Himalayan marmot that comes out occasionally in warmer weather and may whistle at a passing runner.
For runners, the whole experience is a package. Participants have to mandatorily arrive two weeks in advance to acclimatise to the altitude. That means leaving aside work—some like Sufiya are full-time runners—or carrying it with them, like Karmakar. If you fail, like Wadhwani did a few times, it means returning for another gruelling effort just because of the pressure—self-induced in most cases—to finish. Some seek more, like Satish Gujaran who ran the KC on Friday, took Saturday off and ran the 42km on Sunday—and he was not the only one to do so.
This is a close-knit community. Everyone knows everyone else—or so it would appear. At various homestays and lodges at Kyagar village, nearby Sumoor (or Summur), or Khardung village, several share rooms for their overnight stays before their runs.
At the Japanese-inspired Haha Café in Leh, runners line up in the morning for their post-run nourishment. Most can be identified by their gear, but also by the packet of cream-slathered bun that they hold—a favourite among those looking for “carb-loading”. Sharing a table with me is Chirag, who was to run the 42km for the first time here, and has come especially from San Jose, US, for this event. At the next table is Hitesh from Haryana, running a marathon for the first time ever, cheered on by his partner Shailaja, who has decided to make a holiday of it.
Near the Leh market, diagonally facing Washma Butt café, which proudly proclaims that the film Dhurandhar was shot here, is Metta Café. Tanvi Jadhav says she serves the best coffee in town; but what she also does is keep aside a wall where runners, post event, hang their bibs. She believes the end of summer is the best time to be around because the marathon brings in a different kind of ethos, a positive energy that’s good for the town.
The whole town, leading up to the races, throbs with the kind of energy that Jadhav mentions, with runners shooting out of every corner, getting their last practice runs, their easy walks, or merely shaking off nervous energy.
It’s exactly the kind of energy Chewang Motup Goba, founder and race director of the Ladakh Marathon, likes.
RUN LADAKH RUN
On 13 September, at the finish of the 42km, Motup, as he is commonly referred to, vigorously encourages finishers to move past so as to clear the area for other arrivals. There are volunteers, a couple of announcers on microphones, but Motup, a bundle of tireless energy, enthusiasm and possibly a micro-manager, gets down to it himself. Many runners don’t know who he is, some dismiss his pleas or try to argue with him while trying to catch their breath, but Motup persists.
The runners leave eventually, some unaware that the man who has goaded them aside is responsible for a logistical achievement of significant proportions.
Motup started the marathon in 2012 as a means to drive tourism and a healthy lifestyle in the wake of the 2010 flash floods that shook the region. When he started KC, there were 11 participants—the latest edition had 318. The event grew over time, till, under pressure from participants seeking a greater challenge, the SRU was introduced five years ago.
A similar pressure may drive the proposed 100 miler (approx. 160km) next year, “probably the toughest race in the world,” Motup says, seated in the NDS Memorial Stadium minutes after he has given the SRU runners a briefing.
The race would start in the lap of the Karakorams, the base and the snout of the Siachen Glacier, which is the second longest non-polar glacier in the world, crossing two of the biggest mountain ranges (Himalayas) in the world. The race would further challenge the limits of human endurance.
Motup is also aware of the responsibility he carries when he brings thousands of people—runners, supporters, fans into an ecologically fragile region that is a military base and a unique locale, with an economy that’s dependent on the two. The event generates an estimated ₹40-45 crore in revenue, providing additional income to homestays, cafes and local traders. Businesses get a boost just before the tourist season ends ahead of winter.
“The reason we still don’t have a title sponsor (for the Ladakh Marathon),” says Motup, “is because we believe that making an event like this, over-commercialised, will be not good for this event. We have to really balance all aspects of growth, keeping in mind the core value of this race—keeping it traditional, relating to the terrain, the adventure.” The core value, he specifies, is the running, the challenge to humans, “not the other aspects”.
Whatever the race organisers provide doesn’t generate litter; the food includes dates, jaggery, potatoes, lemon, oranges, apples, and of course, apricots. There are no plastic water bottles that runners would normally sip out of and chuck aside. There are no paper plates or cups, but reusable table ware. From next year, the organisers are planning to penalise runners who litter (with gel wrappers etc.).
About 12km south of the stadium, at Shey, Motup has a facility that collects plastic bottles and sends them for recycling. School students get a bib to run the 5K for every 20 PET bottles they collect.
Motup’s fear—of disturbing the ecological balance—is legitimate. At Sumoor, which is by the Shyok river at over 10,000 ft above sea level, the river bank is a tourist attraction. On an early September morning, there are no people here, but their absence is unmissable. Innumerable plastic bottles float on the tributaries, stuck on the vegetation, littered on dry patches, proving starkly people’s disregard towards nature.
Motup takes the example of Pangong Lake—made famous by Three Idiots, made permanent by the bum seats from the film—which has succumbed to hotels and resorts.
“Wherever construction comes up, we are unable to control the garbage and waste. Now, we’re polluting the lake itself. Whatever sewage is generated along these resorts and hotels, it has to go somewhere.”
THE LAST MILE
It’s nearing 3 in the morning at Khardung village when a stiff breeze blows in. On this dark street, where the KC is to start, there is a buzz, of runners getting ready, of others looking for directions. Some of the SRU runners, having been on the road for nearly 8 hours, stagger in looking for the station where they could drop their belongings—the SRU takes the same route as the KC from here.
When the KC first started, the runners would spend the evening in tents because there was no accommodation available in the village. The organisers requested the villagers to build at least one room, so now about 400 people manage to find a place to rest. The runners spend thousands of rupees on air fare, hotels and food over the course of two weeks. The fare to Mumbai on the return, for example, reached ₹30,000 a day after the last run. By all counts, the Ladakh Marathon is one of the most expensive running events in the country for a participant.
The Leh airport is getting an additional terminal—to facilitate more flights, more passengers, more connectivity. The Union ministry of road transport and highways has already announced plans to construct tunnels at Baralacha La, Lachulung La and Tanglang La along the Manali-Leh highway, increasing road connectivity.
The event will continue to grow, even as Motup strains to put a cap on the number of entries, despite the cost barriers and geographical remoteness. The reason becomes obvious when you step out of the aircraft at the Kushok Bakula Rimpochee Airport, flanked as it is by mountains the colour of camels. For people living in Indian cities, this is a revelation.
“I’ve already lived two-thirds of my life,” says Karmakar. “I want to live... I want to see everything that God has created.”
For believers, Ladakh would definitely seem like God’s creation.
The writer was in Leh on invitation from the organisers of Ladakh Marathon.
Arun Janardhan (@iArunJ) is a Mumbai-based journalist who covers sports, business leaders and lifestyle.