Finding Gobi - Dion Leonard

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heavier than I had ever been in my life. I didn’t do any exercise, was an off-again on-again smoker, and had created a dent in the sofa where I lay and watched sports on TV. I was twenty-six and eating myself to death.

      The change came when Lucja made some new friends who loved running and fitness. She got onto her own health kick and started slimming down. She explained that she wanted to look good in a bikini, and I—like a typical guy from my part of the world—told her she was being ridiculous.

      But I didn’t believe what I said. I knew she was made of strong stuff, that she was determined and was going to see this through.

      Lucja quickly got into running and found that she was completing her three-mile loop faster and faster.

      “You’re so unfit and unhealthy, Bubba,” she said, calling me by the name I was now beginning to dislike. “I could beat you.”

      I was lying on the sofa at the time, watching cricket. “Don’t be stupid. I could beat you easily. You’ve only been at it for six weeks.”

      In my mind, I was still a sportsman. I was the same kid who could spend all day playing cricket or running about with his friends. Besides, I had something that Lucja lacked—a killer competitive instinct. I’d competed so much as a teenager and won so many matches that I was convinced I could still beat her at any challenge she threw at me.

      I found some shorts and tennis shoes, stepped over Curtly, who was sleeping on the front step, and joined Lucja on the street outside.

      “You sure you’re ready for this, Bubba?”

      I snorted in disbelief. “Are you kidding? There’s no way you’re winning.”

      “All right then. Let’s go.”

      We kept pace—for the first fifty feet. After that, Lucja started pulling away from me. My brain was demanding that I keep up, but it was impossible. I had nothing to give. I was like an old steamroller whose fire had gone out, gradually getting slower and slower.

      By the time I’d covered another hundred feet, I stopped moving altogether. Up ahead, the road made a slight turn and went up a hill. The defeat felt heavy within me.

      I stood bent over, hands on knees, retching, coughing, and gasping for breath. I looked up to see Lucja way ahead of me. She looked back at me for a second, then carried on running up the hill.

      I was enraged. How could I get beaten? I turned around and walked back home. With each step, the anger was joined by something else. Panic.

      The healthier she became and the more weight she lost, the greater my risk of losing her. On the day of the run, I knew she wouldn’t stop, that this wasn’t just a phase or a passing fad. She was determined, and I knew she’d keep going until she was happy. And when she reached that point, why would she stay with a fat bloke like me?

      I woke up again but this time to the sound of the Macau boys coming back into the tent. They were all pumped up at having completed the first stage and were spreading out their kits, looking for their evening meals. That was when Richard pulled off his headphones and started talking to them in what sounded to me like perfect Mandarin.

      Judging by their reaction, they understood every word he said, and they were taking it seriously. They looked like schoolboys being told off, not knowing where to look. As Richard was finishing, he pointed at me. They all stared in silence, grabbed their food from their bags, and slipped out of the tent.

      “What did you say?” asked Allen, one of the British guys in the tent.

      “I told them that tonight they had to be quiet and more organized. They’ve got to get their stuff organized before dinner, come back, and rest. That guy’s here to win.”

      They all turned and looked at me.

      “Is he right?” asked Allen. “Are you here to win?”

      “Well, yes,” I said. “I’m not here for fun, if that’s what you mean.”

      Richard laughed. “We got that impression. You’re not exactly sociable, are you?”

      I laughed too. I liked this guy.

      “Yeah, some of that’s because I’m cold, and some of it’s just how I get through these races.” I paused. “But thanks for saying that to them.”

      It was six thirty in the evening when I shuffled out of my sleeping bag and wandered outside the yurt carrying a bag of dehydrated whatever-it-was I was going to eat that night. While we have to carry all our own food, bedding, and clothes on a multi-stage ultra, at least our water is provided. I found the fire where water was being boiled and made up a chilli con carne–flavoured meal. It tasted pretty bland, just like it always did, but I reminded myself I wasn’t there for fun. It had the bare minimum calories I required to keep going, and I needed to eat every last bit of it.

      Everyone was sitting around the fire and chatting. I liked the idea of resting in its glow and soaking up the heat for a while, but all the seats were taken, so I crouched down on an uncomfortable rock and ate. After scooping the very last traces of food from the corners of the bag, I headed back to the yurt. It had been a good day—a really good one, in fact—but I’d need a solid night’s sleep and an equally good day tomorrow to keep my number three slot. I’d started the day as an unknown. I guessed that from now on people would be a bit more aware of me in the race. And that could make things difficult.

      It was when I got up that I saw a dog. It was maybe a foot tall and sandy coloured with great dark eyes and a funny-looking mustache and beard. It was walking around between the chairs, getting up on its hind legs and charming people into giving it bits of food. Getting runners to part with any of their food this early in the race was no mean feat.

      Clever dog, I thought. There’s no way I’d feed it.

      The yurt had been so hot I’d barely been able to sleep all night, but as I walked out the next morning, the air was cold enough to make me shiver. The ground was wet, and the Tian Shan up ahead appeared to be covered in low dark clouds that were surely going to dump more rain on us.

      With a few minutes to go before the eight o’clock start, I took my place on the start line at the front of the pack. After coming in third yesterday, I felt as though I belonged there.

      People were a lot less nervous than before. I could even hear some of them laughing, though I tried my best to block out all distractions and focus on the challenge ahead. I knew we’d face mile after mile of ascent as we headed up into the mountains, followed by some dangerous descents. We were already at an altitude of seven thousand feet, and I guessed that some runners would already be struggling with the lack of oxygen. Today was going to make things harder by taking us up to more than nine thousand feet.

      My concentration was broken by the sound of more laughter and a little cheering behind me.

      “It’s the dog!”

      “How cute!”

      I looked down and saw the same dog from last night. It was standing by my feet, staring at the bright yellow gaiters covering my shoes. It was transfixed for a while, its tail wagging constantly. Then it did the strangest thing. It looked up, its dark black eyes taking in my legs first, then my yellow-shirted torso, and finally my face. It looked right into my eyes, and I couldn’t look away.

      “You’re cute,” I said under my breath, “but you’d better be fast if you’re not planning to get trodden by one hundred runners chasing after you.”

      I looked about to see if anyone was going to come and claim the dog and get it out of the way before the runners took off. A few other runners caught my eye, smiled, and nodded at the dog, but none of the locals or the race staff seemed to notice.

      “Does

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