A few days before I left for China, my nerves finally got to me. As a veteran of more than 25 marathons and ultra races, including the Himalayan 100 Mile Stage Race and the JFK 50 Miler, I've traveled and run all over the world, without too much concern. But as I packed my bags in Richmond, I realized I was headed halfway across the world to one of the most remote areas in existence in order to complete a distance race far longer than anything I had ever attempted, in conditions for which I felt largely unprepared. As our living room became scattered with medical supplies, Gatorade packets, and Ziploc bags stuffed with freeze dried meals, I struggled to identify what I would need for the Gobi March, a six-stage, seven-day, 250K self-supported foot race through the Gobi Desert. Participants must carry their own food and supplies, but the Racing the Planet race organization provides hot and cold water and a place in a tent. The race is held in mid-June, and we were told to expect heat (close to 100 degrees), wind (up to 60 mph gusts), sand (it is a desert), elevation (up to 14,000 ft), and very minimal chances of rain.

As I chopped off the handle on my spoon to save space and crammed 24 lbs of gear into a 32L rucksack, my boyfriend, Deane, tried to comfort me by recording voice messages on my MP3 player, which he told me to listen to if I started to mentally lose it somewhere on a mountain. Great, I thought, the "Mountain Meltdown" track. My goal for this race (and every race) was simply to finish, and I hoped I would be fit enough to enjoy the experience.

After a few days of sightseeing in Beijing, I joined the 190 competitors from 23 countries in Kashgar for final gear checks. Rumors circulated that temperatures on the course were even higher than expected, and some runners debated leaving warmer clothes behind. Experienced racers talked strategy for Stage 5, the 80K stage that can take up to 30 hours. As we made the nine hour bus ride to the first campsite, we learned that record rains (the most in four decades) had washed out our first campsite, so we were directed to a schoolhouse for the night.

The first stage was a flat stone and dirt path through a canyon. I hadn't planned to run on the first few days until my pack lightened up, but these conditions were ideal for running, unlike what was expected later in the race. As I trotted along the first 20K of the 32K stage, I was taking pictures and marveling at the mountainous scenery around me when I slipped down a rocky ravine. Without a word, the Chinese competitor in front of me turned back and helped me up. With a banana-sized bruise on my thigh and severely scraped shoulders and knees, I decided to start paying a little more attention to the terrain.

That night, the race doctors lectured on the importance of foot care, and that blisters and toenail issues can make or break the ability to complete the race. The doctor examined my feet and said knowingly, "There's no way those feet are going to make it 250K." Given my spills and the ruling on my feet, I'm pretty sure there were bets that I wouldn't make it through the week. But I was feeling pretty good, running about half of the 38K 2nd stage. The unexpected rain continued during our first night in the tent, dripping on my head as I slept and soaking my clothes. But surprisingly, I was sleeping well in my tent of seven New Zealand natives and one U.S. Marine. My tent mates were great, sharing pork rinds, M&Ms, and 800mg Ibuprofen, and telling stories while draining toenails and blisters.

The next night, we stayed in the homes of local villagers, which was a nice treat. Stage 3 was the climbing day, when we would finally leave the canyon via the rugged mountains. The first 20K was a rocky climb from about 7,000 feet to just more than 13,000 feet. As I reached the aid station at the top, a light snow began to fall. As I descended, the snow turned to vicious hail and bitter cold rain. I put on every shred of clothes I had, using the buff to shield my face from the stinging ice. My hands went numb as I gripped the trekking poles, and my feet went numb as my gaiters squished through the flooded stream crossings. I laughed, noting this "rare chance of rain" as thunder crashed in the distance. But I was lucky, as racers farther back faced blizzard conditions on top of the mountain. I finished the 40K stage, frozen, and promptly jumped into my wet but warm sleeping bag.

At the start of the 46K Stage 4, race organizers warned us of many river crossings during the first 20K. Since I had run more during Stage 3 than expected (to stay warm), I decided that I was done running--I planned to trek the remainder of the race. This strategy saved my feet, as I didn't get any major friction problems yet still kept a decent pace with people running near me. I trekked through many villages, and I was amazed at the number of blond haired and blue-eyed Chinese villagers. About halfway through the stage, the villages disappeared, the sand dunes appeared and the blazing sun heated up the sky--we had hit the desert. Competitors struggled with sunburn and dehydration, but knew the hardest stage was yet to come.

Stage 5 started with a steep climb over the sand dunes, which took more than an hour and set the scene for the long 80K day. The sand dunes opened up into rocky canyon, with no relief from temperatures in the high 90s. I had no idea how long this stage would take, but unlike the frontrunners, I wouldn't finish before dark. Around 40K, as a mild panic attack set in, I turned on Deane's Mountain Meltdown recording, which I found contained a promise we could get a puppy when I returned. Rather unusual form of motivation, but it worked.

I reached the ravine that contained several river crossings, which was a welcome relief for my steaming feet. On the first crossing, a wire helped to stabilize the wade across the thigh deep rushing water. On a deeper crossing, we sat on the back of a donkey cart as we bounced across the rocky river bed. After almost flipping out of the cart, I took my chances and waded across the later crossings. I reached the 60K checkpoint around 10 pm, as the sun was setting. After a brief rest, I flipped on my headlamp and headed out for the glow sticks marking the last 20K across the desert plateau. Trekking across the black, rolling desert with tons of stars in the sky, I felt strangely awake. As I descended down the plateau for the final 2K, I found one more surprise: steep, loose rock. I put my hand on the rocks to stabilize myself and a 3-foot boulder slipped out and pounded down the hill. At 3:30 am, I stumbled into camp, completing the 17 1/2 hour stage.

After a well-deserved rest day, we headed to Kashgar for the final 10K stage. It was only at this point I looked at the results and realized I was less than an hour off the leader for my age group. But I came to participate, not race, and I jogged the last 10K, finally crossing the finish line. Just under 49 hours, 69th place, the top American female, and I FINISHED.

The Gobi March was by far the most difficult race I've ever done. The experience opened my eyes to a whole new part of the world and a whole different type of event, and further proved to me that distance running is a 99% mental activity. I'm excited to try more events like this in the future. But not for a few months--I have to take care of Gobi, my new Beagle puppy.

Karen Zacharias lives in Richmond, Virginia and is the world record holder as the youngest female to run marathons on all seven continents. For information on Racing the Planet events check the web site.