I had been warned of it. I had started to suspect it. Now,
as a pair of snarling dogs came lurching at me as I hung
off the side of my bolting horse, I knew it to be true.
We had been galloping for 10 kilometers down a des-
olate dirt road through what appeared to be an equine
cemetery, with horse skulls and bits of bone scattered
across the green knolls. Rounding a bend, we found
ourselves face-to-face with a fully intact horse skele-
ton. As my horse spooked, launching me half out of the
saddle, two dogs blasted out of a ger, biting at his an-
kles as I struggled to hang on.
Really? This is how I'm going to die? A year of prepa-
ration to ride 620 miles across the Mongolian steppe
and I'm going to be ripped to pieces just four days in by
two angry, potentially rabid dogs?
"Not today, boys!" I shouted as I hauled myself back
up onto the saddle. As we reached the edges of their
territory, the dogs backed off and slowly disappeared
into the distance.
THE MONGOL DERBY
WANTS TO KILL YOU.
