In the rugged hills and sun-soaked deserts of the American Southwest, a curious and enduring tradition is galloping into the spotlight—burro racing. This eccentric, Old West-inspired sport pairs long-distance runners with pack donkeys in a test of stamina, patience, and partnership that’s unlike anything found on the average race calendar.
This Saturday, the historic mining town of Cerrillos, New Mexico—a dusty gem with a cinematic past—will echo with the sound of hooves and sneakers pounding down its unpaved roads. Around 70 teams will take on the 3- or 6-mile course, leading their long-eared partners through winding desert trails that once bustled with miners and fortune-seekers. But this isn’t just a race; it’s a living homage to the days when prospectors dashed across the frontier with their burros in tow, hoping to stake their claims before rivals could beat them to it.
Burro racing may seem like a novelty sport, but it’s rooted deeply in history and community. The donkeys—known as “burros” in the region’s Spanish vernacular—must be equipped with a traditional saddle, pickaxe, gold pan, and shovel, symbolic of the prospectors who once relied on them as companions and cargo carriers in the hunt for turquoise, silver, and gold.
But don’t be fooled by the pageantry—this is no easy jog. Unlike a predictable treadmill or a solo trail run, burro racing requires constant communication, negotiation, and trust between runner and beast. The rules are simple: runners cannot ride the animals, but they can push, pull, or coax them along—as long as they do so humanely. Success hinges not on speed alone, but on the strength of a sometimes unpredictable, often comical, and occasionally frustrating bond.
“You can’t just show up and expect the burro to do the work,” says Shane Weigand, a seasoned race organizer, construction manager, and occasional officiant for “tequila-burro” weddings in Edgewood, New Mexico. “You have to spend time on the trail, building trust. It’s like any relationship—effort in equals results out.”
For experienced racer Joe Polonsky of Monument, Colorado, the sport has become a joyful obsession. “I’m a pretty average ultramarathoner,” he admits, “but in burro racing, I’ve found my stride.” Polonsky’s partner, a headstrong burro named Jake, has a knack for charging to the front of the pack—a trait that works to their advantage. “Jake likes to lead, so I let him pull me. We’re a team.”
Each team is connected by a 15-foot rope, with the burro wearing a halter, not a bit or bridle, making communication and control more subtle. Some racers hold the rope in hand; others fasten it to their waist, allowing themselves to “draft” behind their partner like a cyclist riding a slipstream.
But when a burro decides to stop, there’s no negotiating. Donkeys are not, as legend suggests, just being stubborn. They’re deliberate and intelligent animals. Unlike horses, which spook and bolt, donkeys freeze when something feels off—be it a strange smell, an unseen animal, or just a feeling of unease.
“If they sense something’s not right, they’ll stop and assess,” says Polonsky. “It’s not defiance—it’s instinct. And if you fight it, you’ll lose.”
Not all racers train with their animals year-round. Some adopt former wild burros corralled by federal agencies for overpopulation control. Others rent their running companions for the day. “It’s a bit like a blind date,” jokes Lisa Kazmar, a massage therapist and burro owner who encourages newcomers to meet their race partner the night before. “You never know what you’re going to get.”
Kazmar’s own burros are named after Harry Potter characters and range in size and temperament. Burros come in many shapes—from stout minis that barely reach your waist to mammoth breeds tipping the scales at 1,000 pounds. They’re hardy creatures, often living over 40 years, and they’ve been part of the Southwestern landscape since the Spanish brought them north from Mexico in the 1500s.
The Cerrillos race is a small but beloved stop on a growing circuit of burro events managed by the pun-loving Western Pack Burro Ass-ociation. The organization oversees competitions from Arizona’s Tombstone Donkey Dash to Tennessee’s annual springtime race. Colorado’s races in Leadville, Buena Vista, and Fairplay draw larger crowds and stretch up to 30 miles, blending carnival atmosphere with athletic rigor.
Despite its niche appeal, the sport has attracted a surprising roster of sponsors, including sneaker companies, veterinary clinics, hydration brands, and even beef jerky manufacturers. The rewards aren’t just reserved for speed demons, either. In Cerrillos, the final team to cross the finish line receives the coveted “last ass” award—a lighthearted nod to the perseverance it takes just to finish.
For many participants, the true prize isn’t the trophy—it’s the bond built on the trail, the shared challenge, and the communal joy of doing something wonderfully offbeat. Burro racing is more than an athletic pursuit; it’s a celebration of heritage, humility, and the kind of companionship that doesn’t require words—just a rope, some patience, and maybe a few well-timed “Hup, hup!”s.
As runners and burros line up this weekend in Cerrillos beneath the wide New Mexico sky, they’ll be stepping into more than a race. They’ll be part of a story, hundreds of years in the making, that still finds new feet—and hooves—to carry it forward.
