Gansu Ultramarathon Disaster

The Start Line: A Clear Morning in Gansu

Morning sunlight on the Yellow River Stone Forest can trick you. The ancient rock spires and sharp hills glow ochre under a sky that, for a moment, seems almost benign. That was certainly true on May 22, 2021.

At the starting arch, 172 runners—some of China’s finest, others weekend warriors with grit—gathered for the 100-kilometer trail race that wound through Gansu’s remote, wind-scoured landscape. Their bibs pinned and shoelaces double-knotted, they passed through the gates at nine in the morning to cheers from scattered officials and small groups of onlookers.

For ultramarathoners, suffering is part of the sport. But it is also built on trust: in the organizers, the weather forecast, and a kind of collective preparation for risk that's equal parts self-reliance and community. That chain—of trust, planning, humility before nature—would not hold.

China’s Trail Running Boom—and the Race’s Rise

By 2021, China was in the midst of a running revolution. In cities and villages, marathons sprouted like wildflowers. Local governments embraced these events as engines for tourism, pride, and proof of progress. The Yellow River Stone Forest 100km race, started just three years earlier, had become a showcase—its course daring runners onto high, narrow ridgelines overlooking the famous river, its finishers earning bragging rights and, sometimes, national recognition.

But behind every finish line selfie was a quieter reality: while the number of events had exploded, race management standards hadn’t kept pace. Regulation was patchy, safety protocols uneven, and, in remote regions like Jingtai County, expertise was stretched thin.

The Weather Warnings That Never Reached the Runners

There were signs, in the days before the race, that the mountains would demand more than mettle and good shoes. Meteorological bulletins warned of a cold front sliding south, bringing gale-force winds and plunging temperatures. But the organizers, under pressure to host a flawless event, assumed May would cooperate. The sky at dawn was fair, and the start went ahead as planned.

Few runners brought much emergency gear—they weren’t told they needed it. The race rules did not require thermal clothing or survival blankets. When you’re grinding up switchbacks at 2,000 meters (6,600 feet), the logic is simple: every gram counts, and most gambled on mild weather.

They were wrong.

Crisis on the Ridge: Noon Turns Deadly

By noon, runners had spread over many kilometers. Those approaching the highest exposed stretch—roughly 20 to 30 kilometers into the course—felt the wind rise, then twist cold and angry. What came next was shocking in its violence and speed.

First, the temperature dropped. Then came freezing rain, driven by gusts that felt sharp as knives, and hail that rebounded off bare arms and faces. Out on a windswept ridge, thin shorts and shirts, soaked and battered by sleet, might as well have been tissue paper.

Some runners, struggling against the wind, texted friends (“Cold—can't feel my hands. No shelter”) or called race volunteers pleading for help. Others huddled together behind rocks, their bodies shaking. For a few, the only option was to push forward, teeth clenched, in hopes of finding lower ground or the next aid station.

But the aid stations in these remote upper sections were sparse and under-equipped. Organizers received frantic calls from volunteers and runners but could not ascertain exactly where the most endangered were. Many runners’ GPS signals vanished in the storm. The exposed hills had become a labyrinth of ice and rock.

Rescue Efforts: Race Against Time and Elements

It was not long before a dozen runners, trapped in pockets along the course, lost the ability to move or speak. Hypothermia does not test your willpower; it steals it, quietly and absolutely. Rescue was complicated by the terrain—jagged, muddy, and, now, slicked with sleet. Landslides blocked some access routes. The same storm that pummeled the runners also battered those trying to reach them.

By early afternoon, organizers understood the scale of the disaster. Local police, firefighters, and villagers scrambled up the trails. Some teams tried to carry stretchers through ravines filling with water. But every minute mattered: cold cut deeper with every gust, every minute another risk.

By the end of the day, the full weight of what had happened became clear. When the last of the runners were accounted for on May 23, 21 had died—nearly all from hypothermia. Among them were celebrated Chinese athletes, some known across the country’s running scene for their speed and stamina. Eight others were hospitalized. For every survivor, there were stories of bodies huddled under rocks, of strangers clinging together trying to summon warmth.

“Sorry to All”: Grief, Apology, and Anger

The grief that followed was swift and public. News poured out through China and beyond. The mayor of Baiyin city bowed on camera and apologized with a trembling voice. Memorials sprang up on Chinese social media, where stories circulated: a husband who died with a note to his wife in his pocket; a coach whose last act was to shelter a younger athlete.

As days passed, so did anger. How, so many asked, could this have happened at an event backed by local government, one surrounded by the trappings of modern sports management? Why were severe weather warnings ignored? Why hadn’t there been more mandatory gear? Why were rescue stations so few and so far apart?

Aftermath: An Entire Sport Put on Pause

The response was neither slow nor superficial. Within a week, not only was the event’s organizing committee disbanded, but at least 27 individuals, from government officials to race managers, faced disciplinary measures. Some were dismissed outright, others publicly reprimanded. Many would not work in sports or politics again.

The shock to the burgeoning endurance sports world in China was total. Hundreds of trail races and marathons, from amateur 10ks to longer ultras, were either put on hold or cancelled outright. The Chinese General Administration of Sport, with support from other national agencies, ordered an immediate halt to all “high-risk” outdoor events pending safety reviews.

Behind closed doors, local government offices received new checklists: mandatory survival gear, strict risk assessments, more comprehensive real-time weather tracking, better on-course communication, and the clear power to pull the plug on an event if conditions changed. The days of “run at your own risk” were done.

Rebuilding, Regulation, and Reluctant Hope

By 2022, the races started again, but slowly and with new DNA. Organizers now faced scrutiny that would have been unthinkable before 2021: professional rescue teams on standby, satellite phones, and race rules requiring enough clothing to survive a mountain night. Every runner knew the Gansu disaster by name.

Culturally, it was a hard reset. Safety moved from fine print to the front page. The tragedy forced a reckoning: the mountains demand respect, and so does every life lost in pursuit of human achievement.

What We Know Now

Investigations confirmed what many already suspected: failures in planning and a dangerous blend of optimism and inexperience had set the stage. The warnings were there—but fear of disruption, and in some cases overconfidence in past success, overrode past lessons. Equipment standards had been an afterthought, and communications technology was behind where it needed to be.

No criminal charges were reported, but the administrative fallout marked a rare moment of accountability in Chinese public life. The disaster became a case study: for government, athletes, and organizers. And perhaps most enduringly, for the families and communities changed by a single afternoon when nature’s rules proved absolute and unforgiving.

The Empty Trail

Today, the Yellow River Stone Forest is as harsh and beautiful as it ever was. Grass grows over old paths, and runners remember, sometimes wordlessly, what was lost there. On the anniversary of the race, some return to leave ribbons or notes. The story remains a warning, stitched into the history of Chinese sport, of how quickly a race can turn from celebration to catastrophe and how lessons, though bought at a terrible price, can reshape a nation.