It struck me that I could have won the race but only if I hadn’t stopped to help Tommy. That didn’t seem like a price worth paying, just to finish one place higher on the podium, even if it would have been my first overall multi-stage victory and a huge boost for my running future. Stopping to help Tommy had cost me, but I was glad with the way things worked out. Assuming that everything went okay on the final six-mile stage of the last day, my second-place podium position was secure. I wasn’t ready to celebrate, but I was happy enough. I had already proved to myself that my running career still had some life left in it.
Darkness had fallen by the time Richard, Mike, and Allen got back. They’d been out in the sun all day, and they were suffering for it. They looked like the walking dead, stumbling around the tent, their faces equal parts red with sunburn and pale with exhaustion. But it was over, and by the time the last one was back, the mood in the tent was different. Everyone relaxed more than usual, relieved to be so near the end of the race.
I woke up to the sound of the tent falling down. There was no sign of the Macau boys, and Mike was shouting at us to get up. I scooped up Gobi and crawled outside. A wind had struck up from nowhere, bringing the sand with it. It stung, but Gobi and I joined the others and lay on top of the tent to prevent it from flying off while Richard went in search of help.
The night was full of the sounds of two-way radios crackling, tents being flattened, and Chinese voices shouting back and forth. By the light of dozens of headlamps, I could see the volunteers running around the camp, desperately trying to put the tents back up.
The wind picked up and developed into a full-on sandstorm. It was impossible to see anything that was more than two or three hundred feet away, and we heard that the last runners out on the course had been held at checkpoints and were being driven back to camp.
After an hour of waiting for someone to come and help with the tent, I called Gobi to follow and went in search of a woman called Nurali. She had been introduced to us when we arrived at the first camp site. I’d been watching her shout orders and grow increasingly frustrated with her team as the winds raged.
“Can you get your guys to put up our tent, please?” I said to her.
“Yes, but we have many tents to put up first.”
“I know you do,” I said, “but we asked an hour ago, and still nothing’s happened.”
“Not my problem,” she shouted.
I knew she was under a lot of pressure, and I could sympathize with her doing battle with the elements, but this seemed a little dismissive to me. “No,” I said, “we’ve all paid thirty-seven hundred dollars to be here. It is your problem.”
She muttered something I couldn’t understand, turned, and walked off.
The wind picked up, and a sense of panic rose among the people running around. It was the kind of wind we get up in the highlands of Scotland, so maybe that’s why I wasn’t so worried. The sand didn’t bother me either. All I had to do was copy what Gobi did and curl up tight with my head away from the wind, and I found I was fine.
After midnight we heard that the sandstorm was about to get worse. Nobody was getting any sleep, and after fifty miles of exhausting running, we all needed to recover, so the organizers decided to abandon the camp for the night. We joined the other runners who were huddled against one of the many large rock formations and waited for the buses to come. The level of fear in the air seemed to increase as we stood there, and before long the dust and sand were in our mouths, ears, and eyes. But I knew it was just another uncomfortable set of feelings to get through. We’d all experienced far worse in the previous twenty-four hours, but the unknown is always more intimidating than the familiar.
As dawn broke, the bus took us to a low building at the entrance to a national park twenty minutes away. It was a strange little museum with displays of million-year-old fossils and dioramas that showed a wide and random collection of natural habitats. Of course, Gobi made herself at home, especially in the rainforest section that was full of fake trees and fake plants. I couldn’t help laughing when she relieved herself under one of them.
Within minutes we had trashed the whole place, turning it into a refugee camp for 101 sweaty, smelly runners—and one not-quite-house-trained dog. The museum staff didn’t mind, for the shop at the other end of the museum was selling drinks and snacks at a record rate.
The day was already scheduled as a rest day, given the gruelling nature of the previous long stage, and we spent the time sleeping, eating snacks, drinking sodas, and talking among ourselves.
I didn’t retreat into my sleeping bag or take off somewhere else. Instead, I stayed and talked with Richard, Mike, and Allen.
“What are you going to do about that little one?” said Mike in the afternoon, pointing at Gobi.
It was a good question, and one that I’d been asking myself during the long stage. I knew that the two days I’d run without Gobi had been hard and that somehow I’d got attached to her. I didn’t want to leave her to fend for herself out here.
There was more to it than that. Gobi had chosen me. I didn’t know why, but I knew it was true. She had a hundred other runners to choose from, and dozens of volunteers and staff, but from the very first time I saw her and she started nibbling at my gaiters, she had hardly ever chosen to leave my side.
Gobi was a tough little trouper too. She had run more than seventy miles over three legs of the race without eating a thing during the day, and I’m sure that given the chance, she would have clocked up a whole lot more. She obviously had been scared of water but had pushed ahead and trusted me to help her. She had given everything she had to keep up with me. How could I leave her behind when I finished the race?
For every reason I could find for wanting to help Gobi, there were equally strong arguments for walking away. I had no idea what kinds of diseases she was carrying, whether she belonged to anyone, or how I could even go about doing something to help. This was China, after all. I was pretty sure that not a lot of people would be queuing up if I asked for volunteers to help me find a home for a stray dog of unknown origin. If the stories were true, wasn’t there a chance she’d end up getting killed and eaten by someone?
So I didn’t do anything about finding her a forever home right there in China. I didn’t ask any of the many race crew members who had taken a shine to Gobi, and I didn’t even bring it up with my tent mates.
I didn’t ask because it wasn’t an option I wanted to consider.
I had a better plan.
“You know what, Mike? I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to find a way to bring her home with me.”
It was the first time I’d spoken those words out loud, but as soon as I said them, I knew it was the right thing to do. I had no idea if it was even possible, but I knew I had to try.
“That’s great,” said Mike. “I’ll chuck in a few quid to help out if you like.”
“Really?”
“Me too,” said Richard.
I was amazed and touched as well. As far as I could tell, all Gobi had done for my tent mates was growl when they came back in the tent at night, keep them awake by chasing sheep, and beg them for scraps of food anytime she caught them eating. But I was wrong. In the same way Gobi had inspired me, she’d inspired them a bit too.