“Any dog that tough,” said Richard, “deserves a happy ending.”
By the time we lined up on the start for the final day, the sandstorm had passed. As in all multi-stage ultras, the final day is nearly always a short run of between six and ten miles. And, like in every other multi-stage I’d been in before, the thought of being an hour or two away from the final finish line brought out the best in the runners. While they’d been hobbling around like the walking dead during the recovery day in the museum, they set off at the start of the last day as if it were a Saturday morning sprint down at the park.
I had Gobi by my side, and she seemed to know something special was going on. She didn’t chew my gaiters as we ran. Instead, she kept perfect pace with me, occasionally looking up at me with her big dark eyes.
The weather was cool with a slight drizzle as we ran, and I was happy that Gobi wouldn’t overheat. There were no checkpoints because the last stage was so short, so I stopped every couple of miles to give her some water from my hand. She never refused, and it amazed me how much she had learned to trust me in just a few days.
I’d spent a bit of time looking at the race positions while we were in the museum. As I’d suspected, I had no chance of catching Zeng, and Tommy’s near escape had cost him dearly. He’d been overtaken by Brett, the Kiwi who had stormed to victory on the long stage. I was still twenty minutes ahead of Brett, and if I kept ahead of Brett, my second-place finish would be secure.
I’d done just that all the way, but as I stopped at the halfway stage on the crest of a sandy hill to give Gobi a drink, I saw Brett approach me from behind. He stopped next to me. I must have given him a quizzical look, for he smiled and shrugged.
“I could hardly run past you as you’re giving her a drink, could I?”
I smiled back. “Thanks,” I said.
I put the bottle back in its holder on my bag’s shoulder strap, gave Brett a nod, and carried on racing as though nothing had happened.
We stayed like that for the rest of the stage. I finished the stage fifth, Brett sixth, with Gobi between us. Medals were given out and photos taken straightaway, and soon afterward a celebration feast ensued with beer and a traditional barbecue, kebabs, and breads as big as pizzas stuffed with herbs and meat and all kinds of delicious things. I savoured mouthfuls of delicious mutton and let Gobi lick the grease from my fingers. There was a lot of laughing and hugging and the kind of smiles you get only when you know you’re surrounded by good people, enjoying a moment that you’re going to remember for years to come.
I had started the race as I always did, keeping to myself, focusing on the run and nothing else. I ended it as I have ended every other race, surrounded by friends.
But the race across the Gobi Desert was different. The lows had been lower, and the highs had been higher. The experience had changed my life. So it was only right that in return I should do everything I could to help change Gobi’s.
PART 3
10
I watched Gobi from out of the bus window. She was busy eating up all the scraps of kebab that had been left behind from the barbecue. Nurali was organizing the rest of the volunteers who had just loaded the last of the runners onto the other bus. Gobi stopped. She looked up. Was it just me, or had she worked out that something was wrong? The bus engine kicked into life. Gobi, startled a little, started running up and down. She looked just like she did when I turned back at the river. She was looking for something. For someone. For me. Her tail was down, and her ears pinned back. I felt an almost irresistible urge to haul my aching body out of the seat, climb down out of the bus, and go and scoop her up into my arms again.
This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. I felt like a dad watching his kid walk through the gates for his first day of school.
The bus began to pull away as I watched Nurali call Gobi to her side, give her a bit of meat, and ruffle the shaggy brown mop of fur that sat like a bird’s nest on the top of her head.
I sat back and tried to think of something else. Anything.
The bus journey back to Hami could not have been more different from the drive we had made away from it a week earlier. Back then I’d sat and only said a few words to my neighbour. I’d grown increasingly frustrated with the noise of the Macau boys behind me, and more than once I’d turned around hoping they’d get the hint and shut up.
On the drive to Hami, I would have paid good money to sit near the Macau boys and hear them laughing and chatting. I would have welcomed the distraction. Sadly, the three of them were on a different bus, and in the quiet that fell upon my fellow passengers as they gave in to the post-race, post-barbecue, post-beer drowsiness, I was left alone with my thoughts.
Why was this so hard? I had no idea I was going to feel this way. And this wasn’t goodbye. I was going to see Gobi again in a couple of hours.
That plan was about as simple as any plan could be. Nurali, the woman who’d been kind of dismissive during the sandstorm, was going to drive Gobi back to Hami, where we’d have the award dinner, and I’d be able to say a proper goodbye to the dog. After that Nurali would take Gobi back home with her to Urumqi as I flew back to Edinburgh. I was then going to make all the arrangements to have Gobi flown back to begin her new life with Lucja, me, and Lara the cat back in the UK.
How long would it take? I didn’t know.
How much would it cost? No idea.
Would Nurali look after her? Absolutely. That was one thing of which I was confident. Nurali might have been a little off with me when the camp was blowing apart, but I’d seen the way she ordered people around and got things done. She was a fixer, and I could tell that without her the whole Gobi race never would have happened. She was exactly the kind of person I was going to need to get things done. Besides, I’d seen her slip Gobi enough food treats over the week to know that Nurali had a soft spot for the dog. Gobi would be fine with her. I was sure of it—just like I was sure that I was bringing Gobi home, even if it cost me a thousand pounds and took a month or two.
Gather together a bunch of runners who haven’t showered, washed, or changed their clothes for a week as they’ve sweated their way across a desert, and they’ll smell bad. Put them all on a hot bus for two hours, and the air inside will turn about as foul and putrid as you can possibly imagine.
So as soon as we arrived back in Hami, I was desperate for a shower. I cleaned myself up and rested a little, guessing that I’d catch up with Nurali and Gobi at the meal in the evening.