Running on Thin Air: My Ladakh Marathon Story
September in Ladakh isn’t as harsh as most people imagine. Mornings start crisp, but once the sun peeks over the mountains, it’s surprisingly pleasant – almost perfect running weather. The real challenge here isn’t the cold. It’s the altitude.
Leh sits at over 11,000 feet, and on day one even walking up hotel stairs can feel like a workout. But give yourself a week to acclimatize and the body begins to cooperate. That week of gentle hikes, monastery visits, and short shakeout runs was as much about absorbing Ladakh’s energy as preparing for race day.
When the marathon began, it felt magical – runners from across the world, prayer flags dancing in the breeze, locals calling out “Julley!” with warm smiles. The first half of the race passed almost smoothly. The air was thinner, yes, but pacing smart and soaking in the scenery made it manageable. Children lined the streets, stretching out tiny palms for high-fives. Monks in crimson robes cheered quietly from monastery steps. It was Ladakh at its best – serene, raw, welcoming.
But then came the second half. By the time I crossed 30 km, the road stretched endlessly. No loud music, no crowded sideline supporters, just barren beauty and the sound of my own breathing. It was a different kind of marathon – one where resilience meant keeping the mind busy as much as keeping the legs moving.
And then came the infamous last 5 kilometers. Brutal. That’s the only word for it. Just when you’re most tired, the route throws its highest elevation gain at you. The incline is steady and unforgiving, and at that altitude, every step feels like double effort. Many runners slowed to a walk, some even stopped. For me, this is where years of trekking suddenly paid off. My “trekking muscles” – the strength built on long climbs, carrying backpacks, finding rhythm uphill – carried me through. I leaned forward, shortened my stride, and treated it like a climb rather than a run.
It wasn’t fast, but it was forward. One step, then another. Run a few meters, walk a few, breathe deep, repeat. And slowly, the prayer-flagged finish line came into view.
Crossing that line wasn’t about timing. It was about grit. It was about remembering that resilience doesn’t roar – it whispers: just one more step.
Looking back, the Ladakh Marathon wasn’t the hardest race I’ve run because of weather or altitude — those become manageable with preparation. It was hard because of the silence, the stretches of open road, and that final climb that asks you to dig deeper than you thought possible.
And that’s the gift of Ladakh. It teaches you that toughness isn’t loud or showy. It’s the quiet strength to keep moving forward, even when the road tilts uphill and your body wants to stop.
For anyone looking to test themselves, Ladakh will surprise you. It will challenge you, humble you, and leave you lighter at heart than when you started. The medal may hang on a wall, but the memory of those last 5 kilometers – that will stay with me forever. That, and knocking one of my biggest bucket list marathons on my list.
Author :
