Finding Gobi - Dion Leonard

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stopped, and our dwindling finances forced Mum to go out and find work. Whenever she was at home, she spent hours repeatedly cleaning the house and listening to Lionel Richie songs played loudly on the stereo in the pristine dining room.

      In my mind, it seemed like all my friends came from perfect families, and because they all went to church, I’d take myself on Sundays as well. I wanted to feel as though I belonged, and I also liked the fact that I could help myself to a handful of small cakes after the service. I didn’t mind the sermons so much—sometimes they even made me feel better about myself. But the way people responded to me, as I hovered near the tea table at the end of the service, made it clear to me that they saw me differently from everyone else. I could hear them whispering behind my back. As soon as I turned around, the awkward silence and fake smiles would come out.

      Mum started getting phone calls as well. I’d try to creep out into the hallway and watch as she stood, her face turned to the wall, shoulders hunched. Her words were clipped and the calls short, and sometimes when they were over, she’d turn around and see me watching and tell me about the latest gossip people were spreading about us in the town.

      Soon enough I encountered the ostracism myself. When I went to a friend’s house to visit one Saturday afternoon, I could see his bike on the grass out front, so I knew he was in. His mum, however, said he couldn’t come out to play.

      “You can’t see Dan,” she said, pulling the screen door closed between us.

      “Why not, Mrs. Carruthers?”

      “You’re a bad influence, Dion. We don’t want you coming around.”

      I walked away devastated. I didn’t drink, swear, act up at school, or get into trouble with the police. Okay, so I was a little greedy with the small cakes at church, but other than that I was always polite and tried to be kind.

      She could only have been referring to one thing.

      I didn’t have a name for it at the time, but I quickly developed a strong dislike for being made to feel I was being excluded. By the time I was fourteen, I was well aware of precisely where I belonged in life: on the outside.

      I sat, as I always did, alone and away from everyone else as the race staff welcomed the runners and started the safety briefing. The race was organized by a group I’d not run with before, but I’d been in enough of these meetings to know what was coming.

      The biggest danger for anyone running a multi-stage ultra in desert heat is when heat exhaustion—your standard case of dehydration, cramps, dizziness, and a racing pulse—tips over into heatstroke. That’s when more drastic symptoms arrive, including confusion, disorientation, and seizures. You won’t know it’s happening; you won’t pick up the signs yourself. That’s when you end up curling up in a ditch or making wrong decisions at precisely the time when you need to be getting out of the heat, replacing salts and liquid, and drastically reducing your core temperature. If you don’t, you can slip into a coma and end up dead.

      The race organizers said that anyone they suspected of being on the edge of heat exhaustion would be pulled from the race immediately. What they didn’t say was that six years previously, one of their competitors in the same race had died from heatstroke.

      The microphone was passed to an American woman. I recognized her as the founder of the race. “This year we’ve got some great runners competing,” she said, “including the one and only Tommy Chen.” There was a round of applause from the hundred runners in the room, who all shifted focus to a young Taiwanese guy who had his own personal film crew standing beside him, capturing the moment. We then listened to a whole load of stuff about how Tommy was going for the win, how he already had some great results behind him.

      When I was back home, I had researched the runners I thought were the main contenders, so I knew Tommy was one of the best around. I knew he was a genuine multi-stage superstar and would be tough to beat.

      Before I’d left Scotland, I’d read an e-mail from the organizers listing the top-ten runners they expected to do well. I wasn’t mentioned at all, despite having beaten a few of them in the past. A bit of me was still annoyed about it but not because my ego was bruised. There was no reason why they would have expected me to do well. Having not raced since a 132-miler in Cambodia eight months before, I felt I had become a forgotten nobody, and I didn’t blame them for passing me over.

      I was annoyed with myself. I’d started running only three years earlier but already had enjoyed a few podium results. Coming to the sport so late, I knew I had only a tiny window in which to prove myself, and taking eight months off to recover had felt like a waste of precious time.

      Before the briefing we had a kit check to make sure we each had the mandatory equipment required for the race. Even though we carry all the food, bedding, and clothes we will need for the entire six-stage, seven-day race, the aim is to keep our bag weights to a minimum. For me, that means no change of clothes, no sleeping mat, and no books or smartphone to keep me entertained at the end of the race. All I bring is a sleeping bag, a single set of clothes, and the absolute minimum amount of food I can get away with. I bank on 2,000 calories a day, even though I know I’ll burn closer to 5,000. I return home looking like death, but the lighter bag is worth it.

      Later that day we were boarded onto buses and taken to the site where the race would begin, a couple of hours outside of Hami. I made small talk with a guy next to me, but mainly I kept quiet and tried to block out the noise of the three guys who had come from Macau behind me who were laughing and talking loudly the whole way. I turned around and half-smiled at them a few times, hoping that they’d pick up on my subtle hint for them to shut up. They just grinned back and carried on with their party. By the time we stopped, I was pretty fed up and hoping to get off and find some peace and quiet to start mentally preparing for the race ahead.

      The locals put on a beautiful exhibition of regional dancing and horse riding, including a game that looked like polo but was being played with a dead sheep. I snuck off to find the tent I’d be staying in to claim my spot. On most multi-stage ultras, runners get assigned tent mates to camp with throughout the race. You never know who you’re going to get, but you can at least make sure you don’t get stuck with a terrible sleeping spot.

      I stood in the old army surplus tent and wondered where to put myself. I never liked being near the door because of the draft, and the back of the tent often got a little cold too. I decided to chance it and take a spot in the middle, hoping that my fellow campers wouldn’t keep me awake by snoring or making a fuss.

      I gave my kit a final check as the first three tent mates arrived. They looked sound enough and didn’t cause a ruckus as they chose their spots.

      My heart sank when I heard the sound of laughter, looked up, and saw the three guys from Macau walking in.

      Even though it was summer, the temperature was noticeably colder when the sun started to set. The local mayor gave a speech that I couldn’t understand, but the display of Mongolian dancing and high-speed horse riding was enough to keep me occupied for a while. Some of the runners were sitting around, eating their evening meals, but I wandered around. I got sidetracked looking at Tommy Chen’s film crew, but soon enough I was thinking about getting back to the tent. When people started asking one another what type of shoes they were running in, how much their bags weighed, or whether they’d brought any extra supplies, it was definitely my cue to leave. Getting involved in those kinds of conversations on the day before a race starts is never a good idea. The minute you encounter someone who is doing something different, you’ll end up doubting yourself.

      I checked my watch—six thirty. Time to eat. Even though waiting can be hard when I’m nervous and it’s dark already, I always make sure I eat at the right time the night before each day’s race. You don’t want to eat too early and have your body consuming the calories before you’re actually running.

      I got my food, climbed into my sleeping bag, and ate in silence in the tent.

      I made sure I was asleep before anyone else came back.

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