Finding Gobi

by Dion Leonard

  The second decision I made was about running.

  The sixty-miler had been a piece of cake. I looked at the times of the different finishers and worked out that I could have made it into the top ten—not a bad possible result given that the elite field included some 2:05 marathon runners from Kenya. A couple of weeks later I had a conversation with the organizers of an upcoming 104-mile ultra-race, the Mt Gaoligong Ultra. As part of the invitation to run, we talked about my doing a few interviews with UK running magazines. The opportunity to travel to another part of China, to the city of Tengchong in Yunnan Province, close to Myanmar, was a great drawcard for me. I’d never done a non-stop hundred-miler before, so I certainly wasn’t signing up to compete with the idea of winning.

  It was a brutal race in the mountains. Climbing 29,000 feet altogether, I was pushed to my limits and was close to pulling out at one point during the race. My fitness wasn’t as good as it should have been, but seeing the finish line after thirty-two-non-stop hours, I was stoked to complete it. I received my medal—styled in the form of a sheep bell to remind runners of the local herders we ran past in the mountains—finishing a respectable fourteenth out of fifty-seven hard-core endurance athletes.

  23

  One day Gobi and I were shivering, trying to wrap up against the winter wind that whipped through the ageing flat windows; the next we were unable to sleep, fighting for air as the sweltering heat sapped the life out of us.

  15 November was the day the government turned on the heat nationwide. It was the start of our toughest times in Beijing.

  Almost as soon as the heating went on, the pollution increased. Like everyone in Beijing, I’d learned to monitor the air quality and tailor my day accordingly. If the index was below 100, I’d take Gobi out without any worry at all. Above 200, and I’d keep our walks short. Above 400, and even the fifty-foot walk from the bottom of the block of flats to my favourite Japanese restaurant was enough to leave my eyes stinging.

  I’d heard that when the levels are between 100 and 200 and you’re outside, it’s like smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. Two hundred is two packs, 300 is three, and anything above that is like a whole carton.

  With the coal-fired power stations spewing their heavy smoke, the sky was so full of toxic filth that you didn’t dare open the windows in the flat.

  Trying to avoid the pollution led to a sense that our freedom had been cut. We were not able to go for walks or out for coffee. Everything stopped. We felt as though we’d been cut off from the world.

  The change was not good for Gobi. After just a few days of shutting ourselves away in the flat, I could tell she was struggling. She stopped eating, barely drank anything, and lay about with the saddest look on her face I had ever seen. About the only thing I could do to get her up and moving was to take her out into the corridor and throw a tennis ball for her to chase and bring back. It was the kind of game she would have played for hours had we been out by the canal, but up in the flat block, with the security lights continually switching themselves off and plunging us into darkness, she’d want to play for only thirty minutes.

  Thinking the problem with the corridor might be too many distracting smells wafting out from under our neighbours’ doors, I took Gobi down to the basement car park one day. I knew it was usually empty during the day, so there would be plenty of space for her to run and chase the ball, just like she used to.

  As soon as the lift doors opened on the cavernous car park, Gobi planted her feet as if she were a hundred-year-old oak tree and refused to move.

  “Really?” I said. “You’re definitely not going in?”

  She stared ahead into the darkness. She would not be moved.

  On the night that I came back from my evening sushi and she didn’t get up to greet me, I knew we were in trouble.

  The next day the vet took a good look at her and diagnosed kennel cough. The remedy was a course of medication and a week locked up in the flat.

  With Lucja not due to come back to Beijing until Christmas, no media duties to fulfil, and no way of getting out, the days dragged by. Twice each day we’d take the tennis ball out to the corridor, and every evening I’d squint my eyes up tight against the pollution and hurry over to the Japanese restaurant. The flat was a furnace, but I dared not open the windows and let more pollution in. So every morning I’d wake up feeling hungover, regardless of whether I’d drunk three beers the night before or none at all.

  I’d go to the gym from time to time, but I could stream only an hour’s worth of video before my Internet account dropped out. Without a screen to distract me, I’d soon lose interest.

  I tried to work on my strength and conditioning in the flat, but it was hopeless. The pollution was everywhere. Even though I washed the floor and wiped the surfaces regularly, every time I did push-ups, my hands would be covered in black grime, which must have crept in through invisible cracks in the windows.

  Just as I was starting to slip into the darkness, Gobi recovered. Her timing was perfect. I’d wake up to see her staring at me, I’d receive the customary lick, and my day would be off to the best of starts. How could I be depressed when I had Gobi all to myself?

  Gobi grew in confidence every day. Once she bounced back from the kennel cough, her old self re-emerged. Even when we were going outside so she could do her business, she’d walk with her head up, her feet light, and her eyes bright. I loved seeing her look so confident and self-assured.

  Yet again Gobi got me through. I thought about how she had put herself through so much, from the run to the time on the streets in Urumqi, just so she could find a forever home with people who would love and care for her. If she could tough it out, then so could I.

  During those long days, I had a lot of time to think and a lot of things to think about.

  I thought about coming home and how, even though I compete wearing the Aussie flag and would never support any sporting nation other than Australia, the UK is now my home. I’ve lived here for fifteen years and seen so many of the good things in my life flourish here. My running, my career, my marriage—all these things have taken off in the UK. I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather take Gobi back to.

  I thought about my dad too. I was in my early twenties when my real father made contact and came into my life. Things were complicated, and it wasn’t possible for us to have a lasting relationship.

  Even though I never had that father–son experience that many of my friends have, I am grateful to him for one thing. He was born in Birmingham, England, but as a child his family emigrated to Australia. My dad didn’t give me any money, and he didn’t give me any support when I needed it most. But when I was an adult and ready to make a fresh start thousands of miles away from home, my dad’s nationality meant that I was eligible for a UK passport.

  I thought about my mum too. Around the same time my dad reappeared in my life, my mum became sick. She phoned me one day before Lucja and I met. I was surprised to hear her voice, given that we’d spoken only on Christmas Day in the years before that.

  When she told me that she was seriously ill, I was stunned. As I watched her go through treatment and saw her get dangerously close to death, it pulled us closer. She wanted to make things better, and that was exactly what we vowed to do. We built the relationship back up from there. We took our steps slowly, but over the years we’ve at least grown to become friends.

  Waiting around in the flat, counting down the days until I’d see Lucja again, I also thought about why finding Gobi had been so significant for me. It wasn’t hard to figure it out.

  It was about keeping my promise.

  I’d vowed to bring Gobi back, no matter what it took. Finding her, keeping her safe, and making it possible to fly back home meant that I had kept my word. After all the ups and downs, I’d been able to rescue her. I’d given her the safety and security I had been so desperate for when my life went wrong as a kid.

  The day Gobi stood by my side and looked up from my yellow gaiters an
d stared into my eyes, she had a look about her that I’d never seen. She trusted me from the outset. She even put her life in my hands. To have a complete stranger do that to you, even if it is a four-legged stray, is a powerful, powerful thing.

  Did Gobi save me? I don’t think I was lost, but I know for sure that she has changed me. I’ve become more patient, and I’ve had to deal with the demons of the past. She has added to the good things in my life that started when Lucja and I met and then continued when I discovered running. Maybe I’ll no longer feel the need to run long-distance races to sort out the problems from my past. In many ways, by finding Gobi, I’ve found more of myself.

  When Christmas was finally a few days away and I stood in the airport and watched Lucja walk through the arrival door, I couldn’t help crying. It was just like the day she waited for me at the Marathon des Sables: the longest, toughest, most gruelling part of the challenge was behind us. We’d made it. Soon we’d be going home.

  24

  Sometimes, if I close my eyes and concentrate hard enough, I can remember all the times I’ve been told that I was going to fail. I still can picture my junior high school headmaster holding out his hand for me to shake, a fake smile stuck on his face as he whispered that one day I’d end up in prison.

  I can see countless sports coaches, teachers, and parents of people I thought were my friends, all looking at me with disapproval or disappointment, telling me that I’d wasted whatever talent I had and was nothing but a bad influence.

  I remember my mum at the lowest points of her grief and how helpless I felt.

  For a long time I tried to block out those memories. I got pretty good at it. I needed to, for whenever I let down my guard and gave those dark memories some room to move, I instantly regretted it.

  Like the very first time I ran an ultra-marathon. I was nervous right from the start, but as the miles inched by and the hours stretched out, I started to doubt myself.

  Who am I to line up alongside all these other runners who know what they were doing?

  What was I thinking, to try and run thirty miles with barely any training?

  Was I really a fool to think that I could do it?

  As these grew louder within me, the answers soon came.

  You’re nothing.

  You’re no good.

  You’re never going to finish.

  Four miles from the finish, I proved those voices right. I quit.

  This was a few weeks before my first multi-stage ultra, the 155-mile Kalahari race that Lucja had first spotted in the book I’d bought for her previous birthday. In the days after I bailed on my first ever ultra-marathon, the doubting voices within me grew louder and louder. When friends asked whether I really thought I was capable of running so far, given that I’d not managed a measly thirty-miler, I was almost convinced they were right.

  Who am I to think I could do it?

  I’m nothing.

  I’m no good.

  I’m never going to succeed.

  But something happened between bailing on the thirty and starting the Kalahari. I wish I could say that I had a flash of light or a great training sequence, like in my all-time favourite movie, Rocky.

  I didn’t.

  I just decided to try my best to ignore the voices that told me I was a failure.

  Whenever those toxic whispers started up within me, I chose to tell myself a better story.

  I can do it.

  I’m not a failure.

  I’m going to prove everyone wrong.

  Our flight out of Beijing was late on New Year’s Eve. I spent the day cleaning the flat, walking Gobi, and saying goodbye to the guys in the Japanese restaurant who had served up kimchi hot pot, sushi, salad, and friendship on an almost daily basis. They even gave me a bottle of the secret salad dressing that I had come to crave.

  As we waited for Kiki to pick us up at the flat that evening, Gobi knew something was up. She was wired about as tight as I’d ever seen her, sprinting around the empty flat. When we finally walked out of the block of flats for the last time ever, Gobi raced towards Kiki’s car as if it was made out of bacon.

  I was a little calmer.

  I sat and watched the street lights pass by, thinking about the people and places that had become important to us during the four months and four days we had spent in Beijing.

  We passed the hotel gym where I had tried so hard to keep up my training. I thought back to all those times when the Internet had dropped out and I had to quit after just one hour on the treadmill. I’d found the whole thing frustrating but nothing more. A mark of how much had changed in my life was that I’d been able to let go of it so easily.

  There was the Little Adoption Shop, where Chris worked, and where we donated £10,000 from the donations left over from the Bring Gobi Home fund. Without Chris and his careful advice to Lu Xin about how to conduct the search for Gobi, I knew we never would have found her. Without Chris, who knew where Gobi would be by now?

  I thought about all the other people I’d met in Beijing, as well as those back in Urumqi. It was hard to leave so many great people behind, especially since my time in China had completely changed my view on the country and its people.

  If I’m honest, when I arrived in China for the Gobi race, my view of the Chinese was a bit clichéd. I thought they were closed-off and serious, rude and uncaring. In that first journey from Urumqi to the race start, I saw in the people only what I expected to see. No wonder I didn’t think much of the place.

  But everything that happened with Gobi changed my perspective. Now I know the Chinese are lovely, genuine, hospitable people. Once they let you into their hearts and homes, they’re incredibly generous and unfailingly kind. One family I’d never met but who had followed the story loaned me a £1,000 electric bike for the duration of my stay. They didn’t ask for anything in return, not even a selfie with Gobi.

  People were the same in Urumqi. The city itself might be full of closed-circuit TV cameras and security guards outside public parks, but the people are some of the friendliest, most generous, and most kind-hearted I’ve ever met. I’m pleased to have a connection with them and know that it won’t be long before I return.

  And then there’s Kiki. She agreed to help us when everybody else was saying no. She came to Urumqi to make sure Gobi got out safely, and she spent the whole four months that we were in Beijing in a state of nervous tension, feeling responsible not just for Gobi’s well-being but also for my welfare. I called her 24/7 with all sorts of questions (How do I pay for more electricity? Gobi’s not feeling well. What do I do? Where do I go to buy pollution masks?). She was never too busy or too tired to help, and she never once complained when I asked if she could take Gobi for a few days while I went out of town. She even sent video updates every couple of hours to me, and I was kept fully up-to-date with all the ways her staff pampered Gobi. Kiki made her team available to me as well. Her drivers ferried us everywhere, dropped off supplies to me in the flat, took care of the paperwork, and tended to countless details. They did more than I could have ever asked.

  We pulled up outside the airport, unloaded the bags, and let Gobi take one last potty break before zipping her into the special doggie carrier that she’d be in for most of the journey.

  UK law prohibits dogs from being in the cabin for any flights, in or out of the country. After she’d been so traumatized by travelling in the cargo hold when we left Urumqi, I vowed never to stow her away down there again. That meant our journey home was going to be long and complicated: a ten-hour flight to Paris, a five-hour drive to Amsterdam, a twelve-hour overnight ferry crossing to Newcastle in northern England, and a two-and-a-half-hour drive back home to Edinburgh. With all the waiting around added on, the whole thing was going to take forty-one hours.

  We’d purposely paid extra for business class to make sure Gobi was comfortable and able to be next to me in the cabin. I felt pretty good as I walked up to the counter and was seen straightaway. I handed over my passport to the wo
man at the desk, stepped back, and thought about how much life had changed for Gobi. Six months earlier she’d been living on the edge of the Gobi Desert, desperate enough for survival to run three marathons alongside a total stranger. Now she was about to fly business class to the chic city of Paris, of all places.

  I was pulled out of my daydream by the sound of Kiki having an increasingly loud conversation with the Chinese check-in lady. During my time in China, I’d come to understand that anytime the volume rises in a conversation, trouble is brewing. I closed my eyes, listening as whatever issue Kiki had encountered grew bigger and bigger.

  “What’s going on, Kiki?”

  “Did you book Gobi on to the flight?”

  It was as if all the air around me suddenly turned stale.

  “I didn’t do it,” I said. “I thought you were doing it.”

  Kiki shook her head. “Lucja supposed to do it.”

  Kiki turned back to the clerk, and the conversation continued. I dialled Lucja.

  “Did you book Gobi on?”

  “No,” she said. “Kiki was supposed to do it.”

  It was obvious that this was just a simple misunderstanding between the two of them. They’d both been so busy organizing so much from other ends of the world that this little detail had been missed. And I was sure it was going to be relatively simple to fix. Maybe a little expensive but simple enough.

  “Kiki,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Just get them to tell me how much it’s going to cost, and we can get on with it.”

  She shook her head. “She say she can’t. No way to put Gobi on system now. It’s impossible.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to take control of my breathing. Steady in, steady out. Keep calm, Dion. Keep calm.