Finding Gobi

As soon as she saw Dad, she left to call an ambulance. I stayed with him while she made the call, but as soon as she came back, she told me to leave the room.

Christie was asleep in the next room. I stood and watched her, listening to my dad’s breathing grow worse and Nan talk in a voice I’d never heard her use. “Garry,” she said, a little louder than normal. “The ambulance is coming. You’re having an asthma attack. Keep calm, Garry. Stay with me.”

Christie woke up from the noise and started crying. “Dad doesn’t feel well, Christie,” I said, trying to sound strong like Nan. “But people are coming to help.”

I raced across the hallway to open the door as soon as I heard the ambulance pull up outside. I watched as the paramedics carried a stretcher and breathing apparatus up the set of stairs. And I looked on in silence as Mum rushed into the house a few minutes later. I listened to the sound of Mum’s sobbing coming from the bedroom, not understanding what it meant. When they wheeled Dad out a while later, I didn’t want to look at him. He was still struggling to breathe, and his head was shaking. I could hear the noise of one of the wheels under the stretcher as it squeaked along.

I followed everyone outside, where the streetlights and headlights and blinking hazard lights all made the night look out of time. As the medics were loading Dad into the back of the ambulance, he told Mum he loved her. I stood by Nan’s side, the grass cold against my bare feet. “Things will be okay,” said Nan. I didn’t know who she was speaking to.

Christie, Nan, and I stayed back while Mum went off with Dad in the ambulance. I don’t know how long we were alone, or even what we did. But I remember that it was around midnight when the front door finally opened. Mum came in with a doctor beside her. Neither of them had to say anything at all. Nan and I both knew what had happened. Soon Mum, Nan, and I were crying. Not long after, the phone started ringing. Nan answered, her voice low, the calls never lasting more than a few minutes. When the doorbell rang and the first neighbours arrived and hugged Mum tight, I disappeared to my room.

On the day of the funeral, I watched as Dad’s coffin was wheeled toward the hearse. I broke free from Mum’s hand on my shoulder and ran out to stop it. I draped as much of myself as I could around the timber box, but it was no use. My arms couldn’t reach all the way around. When my sobbing got so hard that it hurt my chest, someone peeled me away.

2

Soon after Dad’s death, Mum moved downstairs, where Nan took care of her and Christie and me. It was as if Mum became a child again, and in doing so she couldn’t be a mum to us anymore.

I may have been just a nine-year-old kid, but any fool could have spotted the signs. The day I walked in on her in her bedroom, tears barely dry on her cheeks, confirmed the fact that she wasn’t coping.

That was a few weeks after Dad’s death. It took a few months for me to find out that her troubles were not just caused by grief. She and I were in the kitchen one evening. She was cleaning—a new obsession that had started recently—and I was sitting at the table reading.

“Dion,” she said, “Garry wasn’t your dad.”

I don’t remember crying or running off to hide. I don’t remember shouting or screaming or asking my mum to explain further. I have no memory of what I said next. I have no recall of how I felt. A blank void exists where so many memories should be. I can only imagine how painful that news must have been for me to wipe all trace of it from my mind.

But what I know for sure is that the wound that had been inflicted on me by my dad’s—Garry’s—death became so deep that it changed everything about me.

Even today my mum will cry when she and I talk about Garry’s death. She’ll say it took only a twenty-minute ambulance ride for everything in our lives to change. She’s right, but she’s also wrong: it might have taken minutes for life to be thrown into chaos, but it took only four words for my grieving heart to be ripped completely apart.

I held tight to my secret. Within a year or two of finding out the truth about myself, I was ashamed of my past: not only was I the kid without a dad at home, but I was the only one I knew who also had a single parent. The regular stream of visitors that poured in after the funeral had long since 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.

3

People always get up way too early on the first day of these races. Their nerves get the best of them, and two or three hours before the start, the camp is buzzing with people packing and repacking their bags, eating their food, talking, and worrying about whether they’ve packed their bags right and eaten the right amount of breakfast at just the right time.

I get it. I’ve been there myself. But that’s not how I operate anymore. I have a routine that’s tried and tested.

Start minus ninety minutes—wake up, get dressed, visit toilets.

Start minus sixty minutes—keep warm in tent, eat high-calorie breakfast.

Start minus fifteen minutes—pack up sleeping bag and inflatable mattress, leave tent, and join start line.

To anyone watching, however, the last hour of my routine looks a little weird. I stay in my sleeping bag right up until it’s time to leave, even when I’m eating my can of All Day Breakfast. While everyone else is hopping up and down outside, having eaten their dehydrated meals, I’m curled up in my bag, beanie hat pulled tight over my head, tucking into a cold can of beans, sausage, bacon, and mushrooms. I get a few looks because no multi-stage runner in their right mind would ever carry canned food; it’s just not worth the weight. But I take just one can that I eat before the race starts, and the 450 calories are more than worth the bemused stares as people wonder what kind of amateur I am.

It tastes especially good knowing that for the next six days I’m going to be eating nothing but cold, rehydrated meals that taste like salmon or Bolognese-flavoured pasta, the occasional strip of biltong—dried and cured meat from South Africa—a few nuts, and dozens of energy gels. I’ll be sick of this food before the end of the week, but it’s lightweight nutrition that keeps my bag weight down.

I savoured every cold mouthful. I couldn’t see the three Macau boys anywhere, but I could tell that the rest of my tent mates—two Brits and one American—were staring at me like I was a fool who was way out of his depth. Nobody said anything, and once I’d eaten, I lay back down and curled up as tight as I possibly could in my bag. I guessed they were probably still staring.

With a quarter hour left, I climbed out of the sleeping bag, packed my things away in my rucksack, and headed for the line. People stared as I knew they would. They always do when they see me coming on the first day. My skin-tight running top is bright yellow and covered in my sponsor’s logo. And because I’m tall and skinny, I look like a banana. While confident in my pre-race preparation and training, I always start to question myself, seeing the start line. As much as I try to avoid it, I end up thinking the other runners look better than I do. They all seem to be fitter, stronger, and look more like endurance athletes while I suddenly feel like an amateur again. The only way through it is to clench my jaw, hide behind my sunglasses, and tell myself it’s time to get down to business.

For a lot of runners, the act of lacing up their shoes, heading out the door, and letting their lungs and their legs find their perfect rhythm as they run through nature is a beautiful thing. It’s about freedom, peace, and the moment when all time seems to stop and the stresses of daily life fade.

I’m not one of those runners. My wife is. Lucja runs because she loves running. She races because she loves the camaraderie and the sense of community. Not me. I don’t love running. I don’t really like it either. But I do love racing. I love competing.

It took me thirty-seven years to realize that racing was for me. For most of my teens and twenties, I played competitive cricket and hockey. Right from the start I loved the action of a well-bowled ball, a perfectly struck cover drive, and a rocket of a shot that sails into the top right corner of the goal. To me, both of those sports have the potential to fill me with the kind of peace and happiness that Lucja describes when she runs. But even though I could master the technical aspects of hitting and bowling, I never could deal with the dynamics of playing as part of a team. I’ve watched myself fly off into a rage at my underperforming teammates so many times during matches that I know I’m more of a solo sport kind of guy.

I played golf for a while and got pretty good too—good enough to hustle the weekend players on courses throughout the western suburbs of Sydney and come back home with enough money so Lucja and I could eat for the rest of the week. But there was something about the pressure and the need to fit in with all those etiquette rules that riled me. After I threw one too many tantrums and broke one too many putters, I finally decided that golf was not for me either.

When it came to running, I discovered, quite by accident, that my competitive side returned. We had moved out of London and were living in Manchester at the time. It was New Year’s Eve, and I was listening to a friend from cricket go on and on about how he was going to take part in a half marathon in the spring. Dan was talking about bringing down his personal best of 1 hour 45 minutes. Thanks to Lucja, I knew enough about running to know that was an okay time, not amazing but better than a lot of people could run. Dan was quite fit as well, so I reckoned he was probably right in feeling confident about becoming a bit faster.

But he was just so cocky about it all. So I put down my beer and spoke up.

“I reckon I could beat you.”

Dan laughed. The music was loud, and he had to lean in to make sure he’d heard correctly. “You what?”

“I could take you. Easy.”

“You’re not a runner, Dion. No way.”

“Dan, I’m so confident I’ll even give you five minutes.”

The conversation got a bit wild after that. People were laughing and shouting, and pretty soon the deal was done. If I didn’t beat Dan by five minutes, I’d take him, his wife, and Lucja out for dinner. If I won, he’d be the one paying.

Lucja gave me the kind of look that said, Here we go again. I just smiled back and held up my hands. As far as I was concerned, I’d just won a free sumptuous meal for the two of us.

The race was at the end of March, and I knew I had a double mountain to climb. I’d been running for a year or two, but never farther than two or three miles at a time; any more than that and I’d just get bored and fed up. I’ve always hated running when it’s cold or wet—and Manchester in January and February serves up nothing but cold and wet. So a few weeks went by, and my training had barely begun.

Dan is one of those runners who can’t resist coming back from a run and posting his times on Twitter. It wasn’t long before his overconfidence began to show, and when I started to read how far he was running and how fast he was getting there, I had all the motivation I needed to get off the sofa and hit the streets. I knew that as long as I pushed myself to run farther and faster than the times Dan was posting, I’d be able to beat him.

I lined up alongside Dan and Lucja at the start line. Dan was looking fit and up for it. Lucja was loving the pre-race-hype and crowd-warm-up routine from the announcer whose job it was to get everyone pumped for the race start. I was feeling out of place among the thousands of other runners who all had what looked like better sports equipment than I had.

“You know I have very expensive taste in wine, Dion,” Dan said. “You’re going to need a second mortgage to pay for the meal tonight.”

I didn’t say anything. Just smiled.

“Seriously, mate,” he said, looking genuinely concerned. “Are you all right for this? It feels hot already. Don’t push yourself harder than you should.”

I was feeling nervous. My mouth was dry, and it was all I could do to suck as much air as I possibly could into my lungs.

The gun was fired, and we were off. Dan was at my side, and we were going at a fair pace already. Lucja dropped back, and the two of us carried on together. He seemed strong and in control. I felt fine about keeping pace with him, happy that we were finally under way.

When we passed the first mile marker, it hit me that I had only twelve more in which to gain five minutes on Dan. So I did the only thing I could think of. I decided to give it everything I had, running as hard and as fast as I could. Pretty soon my lungs were in agony, and I felt as if there wasn’t enough air in the sky to keep me going. I wanted to slow down just a little and recover, but I forced myself to keep up the pace. Those five minutes were going to come my way only if I kept pulling away from Dan.

Never once did I look back. Somehow I knew it wouldn’t help. If I saw him close, I’d probably panic, and if he was too far back already, I might end up slowing down. I knew that the race was going to be won or lost in my head. If I kept focus and pushed on, I’d avoid distraction.

Dan was right about it being a hot day. I’d never experienced heat like it at that time of year in Manchester before, and all through the morning the noise of the crowd was broken up by the sound of ambulance sirens as they raced to help exhausted runners.

For me, though, the heat wasn’t a threat. It was like a welcome friend. It reminded me of my childhood in Australia. I’d spend hours on summer days playing cricket or riding my bike in temperatures pushing up to 110 and 120 degrees. It wasn’t anywhere near that hot during the race, but all the same I found myself getting stronger as the heat increased and the miles passed by.

At least I did until mile eleven. That’s when I started to feel myself slowing down. My legs were numb and weak, as if someone had stripped half the muscles from them. But I kept running, pushing hard and reminding myself what was at stake: my pride.

I crossed the line in 1:34, a respectable time for a first-ever half marathon, and nine minutes faster than Dan’s previous personal best. Was it going to be enough? He’d set off pretty fast, and his training had put him in line to beat it. All I could do was crouch at the finish, feel my lungs begin to recover, and watch the clock tick by and hope not to see him.

It was Lucja who crossed a little more than five minutes after me. We high-fived each other and smiled as we waited the best part of another ten minutes for Dan to finally come home.

“What happened?” he said once he had recovered a little. “You just sped off. You must have done more training than you let on.”

I smiled and gave him a pat on the back. “You need to get off Twitter, mate.”

The start line at the race was much like any other start line at any other race around the world; everyone doing their own thing to cope with the nerves. I was at the side, second or third row back from the front, trying to distract myself by looking at the others around me. Tommy Chen was there, looking focused and pretty damn good. He had his camera crew to the side and plenty of fans among the pack. “Good luck, Tommy,” someone called out. “Hope you smash it!”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, shifting his feet back and forth. I watched as the smile fell quickly from his face. He was just as nervous as the rest of us. Maybe more so. I knew he was one of the up-and-coming stars of multi-stage ultras, but he’d come in second in the first of the five races the organizers hosted that year. The pressure was on him to deliver.

To keep myself busy for another minute or so, I did one more final check of my kit, making sure the straps were tight enough across my chest, the food I needed during the stage was in the correct pockets, and my bright yellow gaiters were covering my shoes properly. I knew we’d be running up a sand dune pretty soon in the day, and the last thing I wanted was to spend the four or five hours that followed with pieces of grit irritating my feet, which could possibly lead to blisters and other foot issues.