How the Ladakh Marathon became the world’s ultimate endurance test

At eleven, most children are worrying about spelling tests. Chewang Motup, on the other hand, was trudging across frozen passes alone, dodging shepherd dogs that attacked in packs of five. It might look like an extreme-sports stunt but that’s simply how he got home from boarding school in Kashmir to his village of Kyagar in Nubra Valley. “Even now I wonder how I did it,” he says, shaking his head. “At that age, you don’t think about danger. You just go.”

Born from disaster, the Ladakh Marathon now defines India’s high-altitude spirit

Four decades later, Chewang is the founder and director of the Ladakh Marathon, and the same treacherous Silk Route he once walked as a boy is now the stage for one of the most formidable endurance races in the world. “The route doesn’t just test your body,” he tells us. “To run alone in the dark, with only a headlamp and your fear for company — that takes something else entirely.”

He’s not exaggerating. This September, at the 12th edition of the Ladakh Marathon, 6,600 runners from 30 countries descended on Leh to pit themselves against the Himalayan altitudes. The event, spread over four days, includes everything from a 5 km fun run to the world’s highest ultra-marathon: the 122 km Silk Route Ultra. For perspective: more than 60 kilometres of that course lies above 13,000 feet. Oxygen is scarce. Sanity, scarcer.

Marathons are everywhere these days, from bustling metropolises, to sunny beaches, and even in Antarctica. But the Ladakh Marathon was born in the aftermath of tragedy: the devastating flash floods of 2010, which killed hundreds and scarred Ladakh’s fragile landscape. Chewang wanted to create something that celebrated Ladakh’s resilience. The first edition was held in 2012 and twelve years later, the race has grown into one of India’s largest and most prestigious, certified by the Association of International Marathons and Distances (AIMS). But prestige is not what fuels the obsession. It’s the brutality. The Silk Route Ultra begins in the Nubra Valley, crosses the bone-chilling Khardung La Pass at 17,618 feet, and descends into Leh Market.

The Khardung La Challenge, its “shorter” sibling, is still a monstrous 72 km ordeal. Local joke: if you survive the altitude, the sun-burn will finish you off. In Ladakh, there’s a saying: if you sit half in the shade and half in the sun, you can get frostbite and sunburn at the same time. September is when the marathon takes place, just as Ladakh’s tourist season is winding down. The Leh market isn’t buzzing the way it does in July or August; the motorbikes are fewer, the cafes less crowded. You would see the first signs of winter creep in with sharper winds and longer shadows. Days are still sunny and can touch the low 20s, but the sun is harsh, and the air is dry. At night the temperature drops quickly, often below freezing. This is the climate runners must adapt to: heat and cold in the same day, thin oxygen at all hours. It’s against this backdrop that runners must not only race but first acclimatise.

Many arrive weeks, sometimes months, before the event, so that their lungs can attempt to adjust to the high-altitude contract. Three days in, the headaches may ease. Three weeks in, some can run without collapsing. Acclimatisation is half the race, if you skip it, you’re finished before you start.

What makes the Ladakh Marathon more than just some crazy adventure is the way it has stitched itself into the social fabric of the region. When the first editions passed through Khardung village, locals were baffled. Who were these lunatics running into the thin air? Today, Khardung is a vital partner in the race. Families open their homes to runners as homestays, providing beds, hot butter tea, and warm smiles.

“Earlier, we didn’t even have a community hall,” Motup recalls. “Now every house waits for runners. A one-day race has changed their economy.” Entire villages line the roads in the dead of night to cheer participants, ringing bells and handing out water, their presence a human antidote to the silence of the mountains.

Ask a Ladakhi about challenges on these routes, and you’ll hear about altitude, cold, and — surprisingly — dogs. Not the stray sort, but massive shepherd dogs that guard flocks in the valleys. “Those were my biggest fear as a boy,” Chewang laughs. “Glaciers I could handle. Dogs? I would yell until someone rescued me.”

For modern runners, diet is another battlefield. Ladakh’s traditional food, like thukpa (noodle soup), skyu (a hearty wheat and vegetable stew), and butter tea, might be comforting but that’s hardly marathon fuel. Runners from outside often stock up on energy gels and imported carbs, while locals rely on sturdier diets like tsampa (barley flour), potatoes, meat, and milk. But hydration is the real trick. In dry mountain air, you don’t feel yourself sweating, but your body is losing water at alarming rates. And then there’s the mental game. Imagine running at 3 am, alone, your headlamp the only sliver of light cutting through a moonless pass. For hours, it’s just your footsteps, your breath, and your doubts. Aid stations appear every five kilometres, like tiny lifelines, but in between it’s you versus silence.

Motup likens it to mountaineering: “You can’t defeat fear. You learn to walk with it.” This year’s winners reflect both Ladakh’s local talent and its international reach. Tsewang Kundan of the Ladakh Scouts finished first in the Silk Route Ultra, covering the 122 km course in 13 hours and 50 minutes.

In the women’s field, five-time Guinness World Record holder Sufiya Sufi crossed the line ahead of the pack. The Khardung La Challenge, a 72 km ultra that begins at 3 am in Khardung village, saw veteran runner Shabir Hussain finish just under the seven-hour mark. Among the women, Namgyal Lhamo — a familiar name on this podium — once again took the top spot. But the results sheet isn’t the whole story. Some of the most lasting impressions come from runners far away from the podium.

Like 57-year-old Sushila Grehwal, who ran the full marathon side by side with her 61-year-old husband Captain Sajjan Kumar (retd), who was once the President’s Bodyguard. They weren’t in it for records. Having undergone a serious spine surgery and still pushing her boundaries, Sushila said, “We just wanted to see if we could do it together. For us, it’s a way of celebrating life.”

If you scroll past the foreign Instagrammers gasping for breath, you’ll find the marathon has quietly become a launchpad for local runners. Many of the Ladakh Scouts who dominate the ultra categories were first spotted as schoolchildren tearing across dusty grounds. Some have gone on to represent India in international track championships, despite the lack of professional coaches or facilities.

Motup sees it as a beginning. “We Ladakhis and Tibetans have a genetic advantage,” he says matter-of-factly. “We endure altitude better. With the right support, our kids can compete with the world’s best.” Already, young Ladakhis are breaking into the top 100 of global trail races, an extraordinary leap considering their training often takes place without even a proper gym.

Running the Ladakh Marathon is brutal. Organising it may be worse. Nothing here can be rented. Barricades? Built from scratch. Cones, gates, dustbins? All are stored year-round in a warehouse. Communication across passes? Only possible because the Indian Army’s Signal Regiment steps in. Medical emergencies? Handled by the Army Medical Corps and the Air Force. It takes an army—literally—to pull off the race. But somehow, every September, it happens. Villagers pour tea, scouts marshal roads, volunteers brave freezing winds, and thousands of strangers lace up to run where most sane people would prefer a car.

Boston boasts 128 years. New York has its neon swagger. But Ladakh has something they don’t: the highest certified marathon in the world. “There are thousands of 42-kilometre races,” Chewang reminds us. “But there is only one highest marathon.” He doesn’t chase Guinness records or gimmicks. He doesn’t need to. The Ladakh Marathon has prestige the hard way — earned with altitude, fear, and silence. To run here is to discover not just how far your legs will take you, but how deep your mind will go when there’s no one else around.

As we left Leh, the mountains already frosting with the season’s first snow, we realised the Ladakh Marathon isn’t about beating others. It’s about bargaining with yourself. Every runner leaves with the same prize: proof that in the world’s thinnest air, human stubbornness still breathes thick.

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