Omar Mohamed Ali
Omar on the Yukon, the Rub Al Khali, a sandstorm in Egypt and why adventure is right outside your front door.
Looking for myself out there
Adventurer · Ultra-distance cyclist and runner
Some adventures take us far beyond familiar roads. Others take us somewhere deeper, challenging how we see ourselves and what we're capable of.
For Omar Mohamed Ali, adventure has taken him from the frozen wilderness of the Yukon to the deserts of Oman, Egypt and Morocco. But behind the extraordinary distances and demanding environments lies a story that goes beyond endurance, racing and physical achievement.
That's what made us want to talk to Omar.
In this conversation, we explore the person behind the adventures, the experiences that shaped him, and what keeps drawing him towards some of the world's most challenging environments. It's a conversation about identity, resilience and the search for something that can't always be measured in miles or finishing times.
For us at gravelevents.com, it's a reminder that adventure isn't just about where we go, but also about what we discover about ourselves along the way.
Omar Mohamed Ali was born on the outskirts of Naples. Before sport became his profession he worked as a soldier, an anti-terrorism operative and an investigator.
He began racing long-distance ultra trail events in 2013, finished the Yukon Arctic Ultra 300 miles in 2015, and went on to open his own CrossFit box. Since then his adventures have taken him from the freezing cold of the Yukon and Alaska to the deserts of Oman, Egypt and Morocco, and to the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgyzstan.
The conversation
Before we talk about you as an athlete and adventurer, who is Omar when the stopwatch, distances and achievements are taken away?
To answer this question, I have to step back in time. A sentence comes to mind: 'I took you off the streets, but you found a way back.'
My mother said that. By 'taking me off the streets,' she meant moving me away from the outskirts of Naples, the place where she grew up and where I was born. Growing up on the street in that kind of neighborhood was dangerous for the person I could have become, and she had already witnessed that with her brothers.
I am deeply grateful to her for that, because it gave me the chance to grow up in a different environment, build a solid foundation, and turn my passion for sports into my profession.
Yet, somehow, I went looking for that road again — a road made of risks, challenges, and limits. Not out of a love for danger, but driven by an inner urge that always pushes me to test myself. I followed it everywhere: as a soldier, an anti-terrorism operative, an investigator, and then in the second chapter of my life, through sports and exploration. From the freezing cold of the Yukon to the Sahara Desert, adventure has always been my way of exploring both the world and myself.
I think the word that defines me best is adventurer, in the sense of exploring life itself.
When did adventure change from being something you enjoyed to something you felt you genuinely needed in your life?
It took me a few years to truly understand my need for adventure. I started with long-distance ultra trail races back in 2013, while I was still working in private investigation. I participated in races like the UTMB 170km, Lavaredo Ultra Trail, Cro Magnon, and others. But those were all timed races — zero adventure, where the only thing I had to do was run.
In 2015, I took part in the Yukon Arctic Ultra 300 miles, which is still considered the most extreme cold-weather race in the world today. That race reignited something inside me that I had been missing for a long time. I came back from the Yukon changed, leaving behind a part of my heart there in the raw beauty of a landscape that reached -40 degrees. It is the only finisher's medal that truly holds value for me.
From that moment on, I changed many things in my life — one of which was opening my CrossFit box and starting my second chapter centered entirely around sport. That is when my genuine need for adventure truly began.
When you choose adventures that are physically and mentally demanding, what are you actually looking for out there?
Adventure isn't just something I do — it's an inner drive that we all have inside. It's the desire to explore, to seek out the new, and to test ourselves.
People often talk about 'stepping out of your comfort zone' as if staying there were a bad thing. But the truth is, we feel good in our comfort zone; we feel secure, we have our certainties, and feeling comfortable is natural. However, at a certain point, we feel the need to go beyond it — even when things are going well. It's an impulse that is more or less strong in each of us.
I've often asked myself: what is my tolerance limit for the comfort zone? For me, that limit coincides with the need for adventure.
I'm happy in my comfort zone; I have my certainties, my balance, my gym, the mountain where I always train, and so on. But periodically, I feel the need to rediscover myself somewhere else. And that is ultimately what I look for in an adventure: myself.
In the moments when you are exhausted, uncomfortable and completely alone, what happens in your mind – and what makes you continue?
I believe my greatest strength lies right in this exact answer. That state of discomfort and discouragement is precisely the part of the adventure I unconsciously look for. Perhaps it's because I've always managed to overcome those moments and benefit from them, but what I love most is the awareness that while most people would quit, I don't.
I view discomfort as a mandatory zone you have to cross when undertaking an adventure. Only by successfully crossing that zone do you become stronger — there are no other options, zero shortcuts. Either you walk through it, or you throw in the towel.
When I start a long journey, I know full well that I will have to face situations of discomfort and despair. I don't know how or when they'll hit, but the only certainty I have is that I am capable of overcoming them. My mind shifts into survival mode: I know exactly what to do if I crash my bike into a freezing river, if I'm risking heatstroke, or if I'm about to ride into a sandstorm. I also know how long I can go without food and water.
But the most important thing? I know I have everything I need to stay calm, like a satellite device and technical gear I can completely trust if the weather turns bad. Because no matter how much you plan, that preparation is simply there to ready you for everything you couldn't plan for.
We tend to describe ultra-distance adventures through kilometres, hours, elevation and records. What do those numbers fail to tell us about the experience?
It's true — numbers are cool and impressive to look at, but I think the obsession with sharing these achievements has gotten a bit out of hand. A lot of people go out on their bikes just to show the community that they did it, losing sight of the sheer pleasure of the ride.
Many people ask me how they can follow me on Strava, and I tell them they can't, because I don't use Strava. I only use Komoot because I find it brilliant for building new routes, not for showing off numbers.
We are living in the era of records, 'Everesting,' and what everyone now calls from zero to summit or bike to climb. But people talk less and less about passion and a genuine love for this sport. For me, using a bicycle to reach the base of a mountain and then continuing on foot to the summit has always just been normal.
I could easily brag and shout from the rooftops that I've set a record — like crossing Oman from north to south, combining cycling with 400 km of running through the desert, doing the same in Egypt, or riding non-stop from Milan to Marrakech for 3,000 km in 19 days, only to climb Mount Toubkal on foot the very next day. I could claim a record simply because no one else has ever done it the way I did. But let's be honest: what kind of record is that? I did it purely for the love of an extreme adventure, not to slap a 'record-breaking' label on it. I call myself an adventurer, and if I look at numbers or big distances, it's for an entirely different purpose.
I don't want to be misunderstood: I follow and admire those who race and break records, but very few do it out of true personal dedication. How many people go out on their bikes just because they have to train for a race? And how many go out simply for the pure joy of riding? It's a subtle distinction — it might sound like the same thing, but it's not.
Is there a particular encounter, place or moment from one of your adventures that has stayed with you long after the ride itself ended?
Undoubtedly, my adventures in the extreme cold of the Yukon and Alaska marked a major turning point in my life. Where there is no support team, solitude plays a crucial role and changes you radically.
There are many episodes I could share, like the time I was cycling down a desert road and nearly collapsed from a sandstorm and extreme heat. But honestly, I want to push past that and go deeper.
There is one thing I think about often: the spiritual power I sensed in certain people I met in the most extreme places. Specifically, in the Rub Al Khali desert, there was a Bedouin man. He had dark, sun-weathered skin, honey-orange eyes, and a disarming gaze.
Every morning I would wake up early and see him in the distance on a dune, praying in solitude in the golden light of dawn. When he walked back to camp, it was a powerful, deeply meaningful image.
One day, he came over, greeted me with a slight bow, and placed his hand over his heart. He asked if I had slept well and, pointing back toward the dune, he told me: “I prayed for you.” I looked at him in surprise, and he added: “I prayed for you because today is going to be a very hard day.”
That look, that demeanor — so secure, calm, and precise in every gesture — captivated me for the entire time I spent in that uninhabited desert. He was like a samurai of the desert.
I treasure the memory of this encounter as one of the greatest pieces of fortune in my life. The combination of the magic of the Rub Al Khali and the spiritual power of that man remains one of the most beautiful and intense encounters of all my adventures.
Has there been an adventure that fundamentally changed the way you see yourself, other people or everyday life?
Kyrgyzstan. This land made me realize more than ever that we who live in industrialized countries are in constant pursuit of a wealth that ultimately makes us slaves to our own lives. As soon as we have the means, we buy something that supposedly increases the 'value' of our life, but that very purchase comes with a price tag that requires us to work harder, making us slaves to our jobs.
For example: we have a good job that keeps us financially stable, so we buy a nice car on payments. Then we add Netflix, Amazon Prime, a gym membership, a phone bill, and maybe a mortgage. Our life comes with a fixed monthly cost of 'X' euros, and we know we have to work just to earn that 'X'. Then we start making more money, so we feel the need to upgrade our car or get a bigger house, and suddenly our cost 'X' turns into 'Y', and so on. We are trapped working endlessly just to afford the lifestyle we've created for ourselves.
While I was racing the Silk Road Mountain Race, I kept thinking about the people I met living in yurts — shepherds who spend months high up in the mountains with their livestock. I stayed as a guest in their homes several times, and chatting with them made me realize they live the exact opposite of us. They can stay in a yurt for months without ever needing to go to a supermarket; they use water from the streams and eat what they produce. In short, they are capable of living a life that costs virtually zero. This realization gave me a lot to think about regarding the lifestyle we lead. Of course, I was already aware of it before, but after that journey, it hit me on a much deeper level. Obviously, it's not about giving everything up, but I believe it's simply about finding the right compromise.
What is your relationship with fear? Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you seriously questioned whether you should continue?
Fear is a great warning system — it guides you toward making the right decision. However, I think we need to make a clear distinction between fear and panic. Fear is a powerful ally, but we must learn to manage it before it turns into panic. We can learn to listen to the sensation of fear and make smart choices that bring us to safety. Openly defying fear is dangerous, and most of the time, it's a gamble not worth taking.
I remember the exact date: March 23, 2021. It was the very same day a massive container ship got stuck and blocked the Suez Canal. I had just come out of the desert and was cycling along a 700 km desert road leading to Luxor. That morning, military personnel at a checkpoint warned me that an extreme heat and sandstorm was approaching — the very same one that caused that chaos. My support team stayed behind at the oasis to resupply food and water, while I started pedaling ahead, knowing they would catch up with me later.
About three hours passed. I was completely alone in a lunar landscape. The temperature kept rising until it hit 48°C, and the wind blew so hard that visibility dropped to zero. In an instant, I was caught right in the middle of the storm. I didn't dare stop, so I kept pedaling, trying to minimize my effort even though my heart rate was at 200 bpm. I was terrified, but continuing down that road was my only chance of encountering a passing vehicle.
I don't know how much time passed — it felt like an eternity — until I finally heard the horn of a car behind me. It was my support team. I was safe. I dropped the bike on the ground and jumped inside. Everyone was frightened: my face was hollow, and I had heat blisters on my arms from the scorching wind. Fear was my ally that day because it made me do the right thing. If I had panicked, I don't know what would have happened.
In a cycling world increasingly documented through GPS files, statistics and social media, how important is it to you to have experiences that nobody else can see or measure?
The social media world is flooded with numbers and achievements, which is precisely why it's so fundamental for me to stay grounded in reality and show myself for who I truly am.
I'm 43 years old, and honestly, I find it harder and harder to keep up with social media dynamics, where building huge numbers requires being glued to your phone and constantly executing growth strategies. That's exactly what I don't want to do. I prefer to dedicate myself to my adventures and document them authentically, using social channels simply to show things as they really are, without artificial fluff.
The cycling world has exploded in just a few short years — everyone is doing everything, and everyone knows everything. It's so easy for a genuine passion to turn into just another trend. For me, it's vital to stay anchored in my own world of nature and quietness, bringing along anyone who wants to follow me with simplicity and authenticity.
For someone reading this who feels the pull towards their own adventure but keeps finding reasons not to begin, what would you tell them?
I would tell them that adventure is right outside their front door — you don't necessarily need to travel to remote places. As I mentioned earlier, each of us has a boundary to our comfort zone; once you cross that line, you enter adventure mode.
I think for most people, the real challenge is unplugging from daily routine — from work, family obligations, and habits. But stepping away from all of that once in a while is a healthy form of egoism — one that actually makes us stronger and more authentic. Adventure cleanses us from the noise and pollution of modern daily life, which is full of social media that is actually very anti-social.
I'd like to close this interview with a quote I wrote during an adventure — one of the hardest to complete due to complex political and territorial challenges. It was a reflection I carried with me as a mantra all the way to the finish, because I didn't know how or when, but I knew I would make it:
“Live your life adventure; live through the uncertainty, but with the certainty of who you are and what you want.”
Ultra Gravel Race 2027
Beyond his own endurance adventures, Omar is also involved in organizing Ultra Gravel Race 2027, a self-supported ultra-distance cycling challenge in northern Italy.
Starting and finishing at Birrificio San Dalmazzo in the Saronno area, the 330 km route packs in 8,500 metres of elevation gain, taking riders towards Lecco, across the Resegone area, through the mountains around Como and towards the Swiss border before returning to the finish.
With live GPS tracking and a finish-line gathering at the brewery, the event combines demanding terrain, self-reliance and the shared experience of taking on a serious endurance challenge.