Taking the Long Road

What began as the most unlikely of propositions had somehow become reality.

Outside my hotel window， a crowd numbering upwards of several thousand had begun to assemble. Some people carried cameras， others waved flags. A long line of women wearing ornate horned silver headdresses and elaborate local costumes danced in slow swaying time to the oscillating drone of a similarly adorned band of reed pipers. Men in uniform marshalled the crowds， and an excitable woman with a megaphone issued sharp high-pitched orders. Amid all this was a large stage， and above it hung a green and blue banner that read: “Qiandongnan Ultra-100KM International Running Challenge” (黔東南超100公里跑國際挑戰賽 Qi1nd4ngn1n Ch`o Y#b2i G4ngl@ P2o Gu5j# Ti2ozh3ns3i) How and why I had come to arrive at this point were still largely unclear， but one thing remained certain: it was too late to turn back.

Qiandongnan is a far-flung tribal enclave in the mountainous southwestern province of Guizhou， some 600 or so miles northeast of the Myanmar border. Given its relative isolation， the region remains in touch with many of the rituals and rites that have been practised there for centuries. That’s not to say the mark of modern China isn’t ever present—newly built highways connect hillside villages to lavish central plazas—but unlike other parts of the country， flush with year-on-year growth， Qiandongnan has resisted the urge to bulldoze and rebuild， managing instead to preserve something of its unique history and outward character.

I had arrived at the provincial capital of Guiyang the previous afternoon， having made the once daily flight from Beijing. It was a cold mid-December day， and it seemed strange to me that I should be making such a journey: to a place I had no idea even existed a mere 72 hours earlier， at the behest of the local municipal government， who had both arranged and paid for the trip.

Running as a recreational sport is taking off in China in a big way， arguably nowhere more so than in remote places like Qiandongnan， where the lure of increased tourist revenue has combined with an emerging middle-class obsession for keeping fit. The result has been a country-wide boom in long-distance races. Last year alone， China hosted over 30 officially recognized marathon-style events， up from a mere handful a decade ago， the vast majority funded or at least part-funded by local government agencies.

What set Qiandongnan apart from other such events was the spectacular scale in which this formula had been implemented. This was to be the Olympics in miniature， lavishly funded and highly organized; Qiandongnan’s window to the world， or put another way， a shopfront in which to help advertise a little-known part of China.

Unfortunately (or fortunately， depending on your position)， few people outside of Guizhou had received the message， least of all the international running elite， whose presence was so integral to the event’s domestic prestige.

My first glimpse of this apparent oversight came not with the invitation to participate (which although unusual， did not seem entirely out of keeping with life as a foreigner in China)， but in the empty expanse of the airport’s newly constructed arrivals hall.

Once through the bag check， I was met immediately by a hyperenthusiastic group of smiling， young， track-suited volunteers， who between insisting I sit down so as to save vital energy and making frantic calls to more senior race organizers， talked excitedly about “Guizhou’s moment in the national spotlight.”

If proof was needed at this point that I might have been the unwitting victim of a major sporting mistake， this was probably it. Although much of the conversation was carried out in rapid-fire Chinese， words such as athlete (運動員 ynd7ngyu1n) were clearly discernable， as too were the many large promotional signs that adorned the nearby walls， containing slogans such as， “Guizhou Welcomes International Participants from Competing Nations.”

After several minutes spent checking their paperwork with my passport， I was led away to a waiting private car， and from there driven some 118 miles through winding mountainous terrain to Qiandongnan’s largest city， Kaili(凱里).

The drive provided me with adequate opportunity to ruminate on the reasons for my being there. Why for example was my race bib marked with the number 010， when my usual number tends to be several digits long? And what did the volunteers mean exactly when they asked what country I was representing?

It was the next morning that the real reasons behind my all-expenses-paid entry into the race became truly apparent. Ushered out of my hotel by rows of waiting police—walkietalkies crackling and faces locked in grimaces as they pushed against the heaving crowds—I was escorted across the main street and into an adjacent stadium. A seemingly rarefied enclosure， the impressive looking structure， which had been designed to resemble a traditional ethnic Miao headdress， was at once frenzied and strangely calm. Populated almost entirely by TV crews， medical staff and hurried-looking men with official passes， it hummed with activity， yet the overwhelming sensation was one of eerie silence.

During a visit to the 1980 Honolulu Marathon， Hunter S. Thompson observed， “There are runners， and there are racers， and never do the two meet.” In Kaili， the two groups not only met， but forged such strong ties that the resulting groups were impossible to tell apart. At least that was what the organizers were hoping， as they placed me and several other bewildered-looking foreigners alongside a tiny band of genuinely professional athletes—elite Ethiopian and Kenyan distance runners， who like me had been flown in especially for the event. Together we were introduced to assorted members of the local media and nameless corporate sponsors， before finally， arms aloft and waving triumphantly， we were led out toward the start line.

I think it’s important at this point to make clear that contrary to widely held views， I am not a professional athlete， nor am I ever likely to be. In fact， for much of my life I have been anything but. It wasn’t until moving to China some four years ago， that I began to take up running， first as a means of countering some of the more damaging excesses of expatriate life， and later as a more serious， albeit steadfastly amateur， pursuit. I’ve since gone on to run a total of five marathons， several of which contained adjectives such as “extreme” in the official race title. Nothing though， would prepare me for what lay ahead.

I suppose it goes without saying that an ultra marathon is a difficult thing to undertake. I myself was well aware of the challenge such an event would present. Prior to arriving in Qiandongnan， the furthest distance I had ever run was a standard 42km marathon， the last of which was a full seven months previous in London. Added to this， I was not in shape. My training had all but ceased in recent months， and to compound matters， I had picked up an injury to my knee some weeks before. Yet I still accepted the invitation.

As I stood at the very front of the starting line， smiling and waving to an adoring crowd， such trivial concerns began to dissipate. Having been treated like an all-conquering Olympian， I was now beginning to feel like one. It took the sudden bang of the starting pistol to bring an end to the ruse. As the real athletes raced off into the distance， I assumed my usual position towards the middle of the pack.

It was from this vantage point that I was able to take in the ragged natural splendor of this relatively untamed mountainous enclave. One of the real privileges of running in China is the opportunity it affords to explore a different side of the country. As one competitor put it， “Running allows me to escape the city and rediscover the real China—a big， unknown， epic place， off-the-map and wild.”

As we exited the outermost edges of Kaili and into the surrounding countryside， something of this “real China” began to emerge. Qiandongnan is home to the country’s largest concentration of the Miao and Dong ethnic groups， who together constitute some 80 percent of the region’s three million or so inhabitants. Set among the dense verdant mountains were clusters of ornate wooden houses on stilts， the first of over a thousand such residences that comprise the largest Miao settlement in the area.

The houses were packed precipitously among the contours of several adjoining peaks， requiring would-be visitors to climb up a steep and unforgiving ravine. It was around this time that my lack of preparation began to make itself known. Fortunately for me， the organizers had apparently foreseen such a possibility， and as I approached the entrance to the village， I was met by crowds of local well-wishers， many of whom were dressed in traditional clothing， and whose undeniable excitement at my arrival—a raggedy lone runner—was enough to push me on toward the finish line.

This， as I came to understand later， would be the first of many such occurrences. The ultra marathon was split into three distinct stages， over three arduous days. Each of which was punctuated with bouts of enthusiastic local support， even on the most isolated and seemingly inaccessible stretches of mountain road. It was this， more than anything else， that gave me the perseverance to continue.

By the start of the second day， most of the non-elite participants were starting to show noticeable signs of fatigue. As I watched several of the more experienced ultra runners hobble slowly to the starting line， I began to feel a slight twinge of guilt. What a confusing sight it must have been for the several hundred Leishan(雷山) villagers who， expecting primed international athletes， were afforded only a motley group of limping masochists.

While day two was undoubtedly the hardest in terms of sheer physical endurance， it was also the most breathtaking. Having reached an elevation of several thousand feet， the course began to level out. Viewed from such a height， the wilds of Qiandongnan appeared even more dramatic. Sudden crashing waterfalls were now a frequent sight. Mighty alpine-esque forests stretched far into the valleys below， while ceremonial archways， drum towers and temples littered the surrounding hilltops. One runner described the scenery as something akin to a “Chinese version of Switzerland.” Awed by their surroundings， many elected to take repeated short breaks from running to better enjoy the views.

By day three， I had come to know practically every runner by name. As participants faltered， others would call out in support， falling back and slowing down when needed in order to help pace stragglers. As the finish line drew ever nearer， it became apparent that giving up would not be an option. In ultra running， finishing is everything.

I crossed the line in just under 12 hours. The sense of elation was so profound， so unlike anything I have experienced before， that it remains difficult to put it into words. One runner termed the feeling “religious.”On reflection， I’d say it was closer to an out-of-body experience.

Unlike other adventure races that rely on transforming age-old geographical annoyances， such as deserts or swampland， into “extreme”places of sporting endurance， the Qiandongnan Ultra is the real deal， a near prefect synchronization of big money and big ideas， let loose over one of China’s most stunning and best preserved natural landscapes.

I for one will definitely be back again in time for next year’s race， even if that means paying for my own airfare.