Ultramarathons and Desert Races in Xinjiang: Running the Gobi
My alarm went off at 3:40 a.m. in the dark of a March morning outside Dunhuang, just across the border from Xinjiang. The temperature read minus 11°C on my watch. Forty kilometres away, a starting line was being taped down on packed sand, and I was about to run 50 km through one of the coldest, windiest stretches of the Gobi. I had trained for a year in my home city, but nothing prepares you for the moment the sun comes up red over a horizon with no end. Xinjiang has quietly become one of the most compelling places in the world to run long distances on foot, and I have now done four of its races. This is what I wish someone had told me before my first one.
Why Xinjiang for an Ultramarathon
The simple answer is space. Xinjiang covers about 1.66 million square kilometres, roughly the size of Iran, and much of it is open desert, salt flat, or gravel steppe where a course can be laid out for 100 km without crossing a single paved road. The extreme climate is the draw, not a problem to be solved. Races here use the cold and the heat as part of the challenge.
I ran my first event near Turpan in late April, when the daytime temperature hit 34°C and the ground radiated heat back at my legs. The second was the March Gobi race where I started this piece. The contrast is the point. You are not running through a park; you are running through one of the oldest trade routes on earth, and somewhere around kilometre 28 you stop thinking about your splits and start noticing the silence.
The organisers I have met are serious about safety. Every event I joined had sweep vehicles, GPS trackers handed out at the start, and water stations every 8 to 10 km. Entry fees ran from ¥680 for a 50 km race to ¥1,480 for a 100 km stage event, and that included the tracker, hot meals at the camps, and a bus transfer from Urumqi that cost another ¥120 each way.
The Main Races I Have Run
The Gobi 100 near Dunhuang
This is the event that pulled me into the region. It is technically staged on the Gansu side, but the course loops into Xinjiang’s eastern edge and most runners stay in the region for a week. The 100 km version is run over two days, 60 km then 40 km, with a tented camp in between where the night temperature dropped to minus 8°C. I slept in every layer I owned.
The terrain is a mix of hard-packed caravan tracks, loose sand that sucks at your shoes, and stretches of wind-polished gravel where the wind blows constantly from the northwest. My finishing time was 14 hours 22 minutes, and I was fifth in my age group of runners over forty. The medal was a slab of local jade, which I still keep on my desk.
The Taklamakan Crossing
This one is harder to get into. The Taklamakan Desert is the second-largest shifting-sand desert on the planet, and the race follows the old southern silk road for a 72 km single day. I ran it in early November when the cold keeps the sand from being unbearable. The wind that day gusted to 40 km/h and reduced visibility to a few hundred metres.
What stays with me is the support crew. At each station, local volunteers in heavy coats handed out warm broth and checked our trackers by name. The entry was ¥1,280, and the field was capped at 200 runners, so you apply months ahead. If you want context on the landscape you are crossing, the Tarim Basin loop describes the two desert highways that cut through the same ground.
The Dzungaria Cold Run
North of the Tian Shan, the Gurbantunggut Desert hosts a January race that I would call the toughest of the three. At minus 18°C my water bottles froze solid by kilometre 15, and I learned to carry them inside my jacket. The course is 42 km, deceptively short, but the cold slows everyone by 20 to 30 percent.
The prize is the light. In deep winter the sun stays low and the snow-covered dunes glow orange for hours. I finished in 5 hours 11 minutes, the slowest per-kilometre pace I have ever recorded, and I would do it again without hesitation.
What to Pack That the List Forgets
Race briefs tell you to bring a headlamp, 1.5 litres of water, and a whistle. They are right, but they miss the small things that decide your day. I bring two pairs of socks and change at the halfway camp; wet feet in cold desert wind become a problem fast. A buff over the face cuts the dust on the gravel sections more than any mask I tried.
Battery life is the quiet enemy. My phone died at 22 percent inside an hour because of the cold, so I carry a paper map as backup and a second tracker battery. Sunscreen matters even in March; the reflected light off pale sand gave me a burn across the backs of my hands on my first race. Total extra kit cost me about ¥600 in Urumqi’s outdoor market before the trip.
Shoes are a personal choice. I use a trail runner with a rock plate rather than a heavy boot; the sand is soft enough that grip is less important than protection from sharp gravel. Gaiters kept the sand out of my shoes for the first 30 km before they packed full anyway.
Logistics: Getting There and Staying Safe
Most races base themselves within reach of Urumqi, the regional capital, where the international airport has direct flights from Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, and several Central Asian cities. From Urumqi a race bus is the easy option; for the Kumtagh event near Shanshan I drove myself, and the Kumtagh Desert guide gave me the exact fuel and water stops I needed for the 280 km run south.
If you are driving the wider region before or after a race, the S21 Desert Expressway is the fastest way north toward Altay and cuts what used to be a nine-hour haul to about five. I used it to reach a recovery hotel with a real hot spring, which my legs appreciated more than any ice bath.
Safety deserves a straight word. Cell coverage is patchy once you leave the highway, so the GPS tracker is not optional. I once took a wrong turn at a wind-carved dune that looked exactly like the one before it and wandered 3 km off course before the sweep team radioed me back. Tell the organizers your experience level honestly on the entry form; they use it to place you with the right pace group.
Acclimatising to the Air
Urumqi sits at about 800 metres, and most race sites stay under 1,500 metres, so altitude is rarely the enemy here. The dry air is. On my first morning I lost track of how much I drank because I never felt sweaty; it evaporated the instant it formed. The medical tent told me mild dehydration was the single most common reason runners dropped, and it explained the cramps that ended my first race at kilometre 40. Now I force down 500 ml of electrolyte mix before the start and sip 150 ml at every station regardless of thirst.
The dust is the other quiet factor. Fine sand gets into zippers, eyes, and lungs on the windy sections. I use clear lab goggles from a Urumqi hardware shop that cost ¥25, and they worked better than the branded running glasses I brought from home. A small thing, but it kept me from rubbing my eyes raw by the halfway mark.
Choosing Your First Race
If you have never run a desert ultra, start with the Dzungaria Cold Run despite its low temperature, because the 42 km distance is honest and the field is forgiving. Build your weekly volume to 60 km over three months, with one long run of 25 to 30 km every Sunday, and add back-to-back Saturday and Sunday runs in the final month so your legs learn to run tired. I skipped that detail before race one and paid for it.
Treat the Taklamakan as your second step, once you have finished a shorter event and know how your body handles sand and wind. The 72 km single day demands respect but rewards it with the most remote course I have ever seen. Save the two-day Gobi 100 for when you want the full expedition feel and can spare the extra days of travel and recovery.
When to Go
Timing splits the calendar into three windows. March and April bring cold Gobi winds but manageable running temperatures between minus 5°C and 15°C. Late October and early November are my favourite: the Taklamakan crossing runs then, the crowds are smaller, and the light is low and golden. January is for the committed cold-runner only.
Summer races exist but I skip them. Turpan in July can reach 45°C, and running through that is a medical risk rather than a sport. If you are new to desert ultras, aim for a spring or late-autumn event and build a base of at least 60 km per week for three months beforehand. I learned that the hard way after cramping at kilometre 40 of my first race.
A Realistic Budget
People ask me what a trip like this costs, so here is my actual ledger from the November Taklamakan trip. The return flight from Shanghai to Urumqi was ¥2,150 booked six weeks out. The race entry was ¥1,280. The bus transfer ran ¥120 each way, and five nights in a mid-range hotel near the start averaged ¥320 a night. Food was cheap and good: hand-pulled noodles for ¥18, a plate of laghman with lamb for ¥35, and endless tea included. All in, the week cost me about ¥5,600, not counting gear I already owned.
The Gobi 100 was pricier because of the tented camp and two-day format, closer to ¥6,800 with the same flights and hotels. Compared with a staged race in Europe or the US, where entries alone often run €200 to €400, Xinjiang remains a bargain if you can get yourself to the region. The value is in the small fields; at 200 runners or fewer, the volunteers genuinely know your name by the second aid station.
Food and the People After the Line
The running ends, and then the best part begins. Every race I finished ended with a meal that mattered more than the medal. In a village near the Kumtagh finish, a family opened their kitchen and fed the stragglers clumps of warm nan bread and bowls of mutton soup at no charge beyond a thankful nod. In Dunhuang the organisers laid out a spread of grapes, melon, and roasted lamb that I attacked still in my muddy shoes.
These moments are why I steer visitors away from only ticking off cities. The desert races drop you into the rhythm of a place that has hosted travellers for two thousand years. You run where caravans once hauled silk, and the wind that slows your pace is the same one they knew. That continuity is the kind of detail no guidebook captures, and it is free with the entry fee.
The Part Nobody Warns You About
The running is hard, but the aftermath is stranger. After three or four days in silence and wind, returning to a city feels loud and fast. I sat in a Urumqi noodle shop on my last trip, sore and happy, watching steam rise, and realised I had not thought about my inbox once all week. That quiet is the real prize, and it is why I keep coming back to these courses instead of the road marathons at home.
Xinjiang’s races are still small, still rough around the edges, and still run by people who clearly love the land. You will be a number on a tracker and a name at a broth station, and that is exactly enough. Pack light, train honestly, and let the desert do the rest.