We got to spend one night together back in Beijing before Lucja had to fly home for work. Kiki met us outside the airport, and yet again Gobi was a hurricane of excitement in the back of the van. This time, though, it wasn’t just me she was licking. Gobi seemed to know instantly that Lucja was special and gave her the full welcoming experience.
Gobi showed Lucja her affection all night. I crashed soon after we made it back to the flat, but Lucja didn’t get any sleep at all because Gobi decided that an even longer bonding session was required. By the time I woke up, they were inseparable.
I made some big decisions after the race.
First, I decided I was going to say no to all interview requests for the rest of my time in Beijing. Some journalists had contacted me during the race, telling me they needed to get a photo of Gobi and asking if they could visit her at Kiki’s place while I was out of town. They’d even gone to the point of directly contacting Kiki, who of course said no. I didn’t like this, as I’d tried hard to keep our location secret.
Being with Lucja had made me think about what life might be like when Gobi and I finally got home. I was sure there would be some press interest for a week or two, but I knew I’d want life to return to normal as quickly as possible—whatever the new normal would look like. So I made the choice to stop doing interviews. It was time for Gobi and me to go dark.
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.