I ran through possible scenarios, and none of them made me feel any calmer. If someone broke in and tried to take Gobi, I didn’t have a clue how to call the police. And if the guys in suits decided to take me, then I would have no choice but to give in and hope that Lu Xin would take good care of Gobi.
I was powerless. Even though the only thing that had changed about the team was Richard’s departure, I suddenly felt alone again. I was back to being the one on whose shoulders everything rested, and, for once in my life, I didn’t like it. It seemed too much for me to carry.
20
At some point in almost every race, I question why I’m running in it. Sometimes it’s during those early miles when I’m cold, tired, and just plain grouchy because someone in the tent kept me awake with his snoring. Sometimes it’s when my mind drifts to the finish line that’s seven or eight hours away. Sometimes it’s when I need to take on more water or knock back another salt tablet.
But for every time I ask myself whether running a race is worth all that discomfort, stress, or fear, a moment comes when I know the answer is yes. Sometimes all it takes is to crack out a few more miles and let my body settle into the run. Other times I need to block out thoughts that aren’t helpful. And sometimes I need to swallow a salt tablet. In every situation the solution is far simpler than the problem.
On the night before Gobi and I finally left Urumqi, I looked about me and smiled. Even though I had not known any of them two days earlier, I was surrounded by friends. As the laughter got louder and the evening wore on, I knew how grateful I was for the simple way in which their friendships came along at just the right time.
These friendships had started after my second night in the flat. I had spent most of the morning sitting around with Gobi, hoping the door wouldn’t burst open and someone rush in to grab either one of us. Eventually Gobi had to get down to ground level and do her business, and we left the flat. As I waited by her favourite bush near the entrance, I watched people going in and out of a restaurant nearby. A guy was manning a barbecue out front, and the smells coming off it were incredible. So, because I’d had enough of eating instant noodles out of a plastic pot in the flat, I decided to take Gobi back up, make sure she was settled, and then come back down and get a quick meal.
That was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. I’d eaten Xinjiang barbecue on the last day of the race, but this was even better. The waiter brought over great chunks of perfectly spiced mutton on foot-long metal skewers. I licked the grease from my fingers, sat back, and sighed.
I looked up and noticed a couple of people out on the street staring in at me, grinning from ear to ear. I smiled and waved, then mimed how full I was, and they laughed. It was a fun moment, and soon they came in, bringing a dozen others with them. They all were about my age or a little younger, and they introduced themselves to me, said something about Gobi, and invited me to have a drink and more food with them.
They knew the restaurant staff, and as we tried to communicate in broken English and with translation apps on our phones, they fed me some wickedly spicy noodles, put a shot glass of clear liquid in my hand, and invited me to knock it back with them. Whatever it was, I lost my voice for a few seconds after it went down. A lot more laughter followed, and the night ended with me tripping over the doorstep on the way out, full of great food, a little too much booze, and the sound of new friends’ laughter in my ears.
The next night was my last in Urumqi. Kiki had worked wonders and arranged for me and Gobi to fly to Beijing the following day. She’d even flown to Urumqi herself to make sure that everything went smoothly. She knew what a big deal it was, as well as the risks we were facing. Once Gobi was settled and I’d packed what little I’d brought with me, I walked back to the restaurant, hoping to meet my new friends again.
We had another great evening. A couple of shots kicked things off; then before I knew it, the table was filled with skewers and noodles and, eventually, the most amazing cast-iron structure—like the frame of a lampshade but with inch-long spikes sticking out—covered with wonderful-tasting lamb. We laughed about things I can’t even remember, talked about nothing much, and when it came time to pay the bill, they insisted I put my cash away.
“Drink tea?” said the one guy who had a few words of English.
I’m more of a coffee guy, but almost two decades of living among the English has taught me to say yes anytime anyone offers tea. Not because I have grown to love the drink but because I know that the offer is actually an invitation to hang out.
So I said yes and followed them all as they walked up the road and walked through a low wooden door set back from the street. I’d assumed we were going to one of their homes, but once inside, it was obvious that this was no home. It looked more like a high-end jewellery store; only instead of display cases filled with rings and necklaces, there were glass-fronted cabinets containing metal tins as big as a pizza and four times as deep.
“I sell tea!” my new friend said. Then, guiding me to a mahogany table that ran almost the entire length of the room, he said, “Sit!”
I watched as he sat in a chair opposite me and arranged an assortment of earth-coloured teapots and delicate bowls, a wooden-handled knife, and a set of mats in front of him. The room fell silent, and everybody watched as his hands glided across his tools, first opening one of the metal tins and then prying a nugget of tea away from the disk inside. He poured water into bowls and swirled it around with all the precision and grace of a magician at a card table. And when, after a few minutes, he poured me a cup of pale amber tea and invited me to drink, I thought I’d never tasted anything quite as wonderful.
More cups of tea followed, all prepared and drunk in almost total silence. The experience wasn’t awkward or weird; it was special. I’d never known anything quite like it.
Gradually the chatting and laughter returned. They passed their mobile phones and showed me clips of them dancing around a flat celebrating one of their birthdays. They showed me pictures of them hanging out in a park and of getting dressed up for some big night out. They were fun, and being with them reminded me of the way the search team knew how to laugh with one another. Nobody was trying to be cool, and nobody was trying to exclude other people from the group.