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 and 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.