On Steed and Steppe - The Mongol Derby, Longest Horse Race in the World
Posted:19 Oct 2009 03:20
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| Thank you for your messages - here is what happened on my epic adventure! Cheers, Hannah On Steed and Steppe – A Race Across Mongolia By Hannah Ritchie Tightening the cable ties that secured my saddle bags to my saddle, meant I was dangerously close to the start of the inaugural Mongol Derby, a 1000km multi-horse race across the Mongolian Steppes and the longest horse race in the world. I wondered when my insufficient sense of trepidation would be replaced by the all encompassing terror I felt would be more appropriate. The scene at the start descended into utter chaos. Flurries of dust engulfed the area. The horses, trained by Mongolian standards (i.e. quite briefly) were not allowing us any sense of confidence. Three riders were up, then swiftly dispatched from their mounts like leather-clad party poppers. With my tack carefully fastened to my steed, there was nothing left to do but get on. Up I went and with a pregnant pause the palomino considered what to do with me. I had watched him two days earlier dispose of a fellow rider exactly like a dump truck and felt it was best just to get him moving before he came to a conclusion. We formed a line at the start and waited for go. It was given and 26 beasts leapt forward. A symphony of hoofbeats ensued as they struck the dusty turf and became more distant as the riders dispersed. We felt our way by GPS and varied our pace to maintain good progress. Often the terrain would be the deciding factor, slowing us with rocky inclines or unpredictable footing. In particular we had to keep vigilant about watching out for marmot holes or clusters of gerbil holes which would see many riders come to grief. The course followed the ancient postal system employed by Chinggis Khan, who created a far-reaching empire during the Thirteenth Century. The messenger riders, who I can only conclude sported titanium thighs, would remain in the saddle for days and every 30-40km was a Horse Station to supply them with fresh horses. It was said that Chinggis could get a message from Mongolia to Eastern Europe in just fourteen days. We had a maximum of fourteen days to complete 1000km. The course began in the ancient capital of Kharkhorin, passed south of Ulaanbaatar then turned north to finish in Dadal near the Siberian border. At each station we would change horses to a fresh mount and continue on. We traveled through remote countryside, the scale of the place was immense. Scenery changed quickly from rocky mountains to endless valleys. The thought of how unforgiving this territory could become did not escape us. We were guests there but that was not to be taken for granted. We experienced a number of soaring highs and crashing lows every day. This was generally dependent on your current horse, weather, physical stress or any combination of the above. We’d completed a trying leg of the race one day. Having lost most of the skin on my thighs to chaff early on and with my dressings tearing free, I was enjoying some discomfort. We’d also had some trouble with sinking bogs and our horses enthusiasm left a little to be desired. A quick interchange saw us redressed, refreshed and remounted. We headed off accompanied by the horses proud owner. Temujin spoke a little English and was able to tell us that he’d bred these racehorses. We decided to really open them up across a wide valley floor. At this point The Beast, as he was named, snatched the bit from my hands relieving me from the burden of control. What happened next was a 7km run of ferocious velocity, and I, the happy hostage. The nature of the breed sets them so far apart from other horses. The level of strength and agility is incomparable. Understanding that this is a hardy breed is one thing but feeling the limitless bounds of how tough they can be was astounding. The Mongolians revere their horses to such a level that all horse gear must be hung next to the ger alter. It was an honour for the owners to have their horses in the race and an opportunity to demonstrate why these animals are belong on their spiritual echelon. The owners would often appear mysteriously beside us during a ride with faces of irrepressible joy. They’d check the security of our girths, nod their approval, a thumbs up then the familiar motion to go faster. I heard of one young boy who’d bought his horses to a station for selection and waited for three days as the vets made their way there. Both his animals were selected. With the money he was paid for their inclusion he explained he could put himself through school. At the end of a day the shadows of horse and rider stretched gradually beside us and we’d arrive at a ger. Sliding out of the saddle onto unforgiving knees we’d stagger about gracelessly while our horses were checked by the vets. The owners, keen to have their horses chosen next, explained the attributes of each of their horses via complex charades. In a rough translation an example would be: this one, good horse, very fast, you probably can’t stop it but you won’t need to kick. We’d finish our day and collapse into the ger, our groans of relief and discomfort would crescendo over the presentation of food. This came in the form of mares milk tea to start, salty and weak. Followed by fried bread, and pungent curd that looked deceptively like shortbread. More palatable was the noodles, either wet or dry and with small bits of mutton or goat and always a heavy glaze of animal fat. After dinner came the drink of choice, airag, fermented mares milk. Thin and with vinegar and yoghurt overtones it was an acquired taste. The bowl would be passed round, usually accompanied by the obligatory floating dead flies. A few of us fell into riding together as a natural team and found significant benefits to doing so. Charlotte, a fellow kiwi and great friend, was navigator extraordinaire, I wrangled loose horses after involuntary dismounts, and Nick, our English gentleman was eternally chipper, ensuring our spirits remained high. Decisions had to be made about staying in a team or going on alone. This happened a day we helped a fellow rider. Her horse tripped in a marmot hole, unseating her then bucked for home. The girth snapped and the tack swung beneath its belly held on by the second girth. Eventually recovering the horse we found it to be lame and much of the tack destroyed. It was an easy choice to stay with Matilda. In the end, sharing the journey with our team meant more than winning. The four of us remained together for the duration and crossed the finish line in nine days. The Mongolian Steppe was well and truly ingrained into me. My skin was dark from sun and dirt and though I wondered what it would be like to feel clean again I felt reluctant to wash it off. The experience affected me so truly I hope never to be separated from the sense of it. Perhaps a little bit of grit might always remain. |
