Dion Leonard was competing in a 115-mile ultra-marathon in China when Gobi, a stray dog, appeared and started to run the race with him. Here, he tells his story.
They say it takes a village to raise a child. When I fell in love with a stray dog in China, during one of the most gruelling endurance events in the world, I discovered it takes much more than a village to rescue a pet. I needed the help of half the planet.
The dog’s name is Gobi, because I first saw her on the cold, rugged slopes of the Tian Shan mountains bordering the Gobi desert in Western China. She was born to run in the hills, a true climber. When she gallops ahead of me, she becomes more alive with every bound. Her tail wags so fast it blurs, her whole body bounces and pulses with joy. She looks back at me, and I could swear she’s grinning.
But the very first time I saw her, she wasn’ t running. She was begging.
It was the end of the first day of an ultra-marathon; a seven-day, 155-mile run in some of the most forbidding territory anywhere on Earth — freezing peaks, incessant wind and that desolate, lifeless scrubland known as the Gobi desert. And I was going to run across it.
After dark, the other runners were sitting round a fire, chatting about how tough the first stretch had been.
I joined them to boil some water for a packet meal — dehydrated chilli con carne. And then I saw a small dog, sandy-coloured with great dark eyes and a funny-looking moustache and beard.
It was walking between the chairs, getting up on its hind legs and charming people into giving it bits of food. Getting ultra-marathon runners to part with any of their food is no mean feat — they need every calorie they can get. Clever dog, I thought, but I won’ t be feeding you.
At the start line next morning I looked down and saw the dog again. It was standing by my feet, apparently transfixed by the bright yellow gaiters on my shoes (gaiters are pieces of fabric that trail runners wear around their ankles to keep debris from getting into their trainers) . Its tail was wagging constantly.
Then it did the strangest thing. It looked up, right into my eyes, and I couldn’ t look away. I heard the marshal counting down to the start of the race. ‘Go on, get away,’ I told the dog. ‘You’ ll be trampled.’ I waved my foot at the dog, and it took a playful bite at the gaiter.
And then we were off, and the moving gaiters made the game even more fun for the dog, who was dancing around my feet. It kept this up for a quarter of a mile and then disappeared. I told myself I was glad to see it go, because I had been worried I’ d trip over it. But then, after hours of hard going through steep forest, there it was again, trotting alongside me — as if running nearly two miles up towards the sky were second nature.
When we crossed the line at the end of the day, I sensed people were cheering more loudly for the dog than they were for me. A volunteer brought it a bucket of water, which it lapped greedily. I sat down next to a tent and pulled out some dried meat. The dog’s eyes were fixed on me.
With a piece of biltong meat half-way to my mouth, it struck me that I hadn’ t seen the dog eat a thing all day. Even now, though it must be famished, it wasn’ t trying to steal food. ‘Here you go,’ I said, tossing half the meat down. The dog chewed, swallowed, spun round a few times and lay down. Within seconds it was cuddled up beside me, snoring.
Some of the other guys came over to tell me how cute my new friend looked asleep. ‘You’ ve got to give it a name,’ said one. A quick check told us that this dog was a female. ‘I’ m calling her Gobi,’ I said.
Gobi was there at the start line with me next morning and for the rest of the week. On the sixth day, we reached a river, at least 150ft wide. I waded in, concentrating to keep my balance on the slippery rocks and in the fast current. My pack was high on my back but my provisions would be ruined if I fell into the water.
I assumed that Gobi would be paddling along behind me, until I heard her barking and whining. With every step I took, the sound became more desperate. I was a quarter of the way across the river when I did something I had never done during a race before. I turned back. I tucked Gobi under my left arm and, using my right for balance, edged back out into the fast-running water. Gobi didn’ t wriggle. Her head was level with my face and when I looked at her I could swear she gave me a look of love and gratitude.
When I finally struggled up the other bank, in soaking wet running gear with a dog clutched to my chest, there was an old man sitting on a donkey at the side of the road, watching us. I can’ t imagine what he thought of Gobi and me.
For the last section in the desert, with temperatures rising as high as 135f (57c) , I was afraid that Gobi would get tired and dehydrated. I gave her to one of the organisers, who promised to take care of her in their convoy. She’ d be waiting for me at the finish line.
I missed having the dog at my side. The way she ran — determined, consistent, committed — inspired me, too. She didn’ t let hunger or fatigue slow her down. I couldn’ t wait to see her again.
As I came round the final bend, I could see Gobi, sitting in the shade and scanning the horizon. When she saw me, she was a blur of brown fur, tearing over the ground towards me, tail up, little tongue flapping.
That night, I told some of the other runners that I had reached a decision out there in the broiling desert. When I flew home to Edinburgh to rejoin my wife, Lucja, I was going to take Gobi with me. To my surprise and delight, my friends immediately offered to chip in towards the costs. They wanted to see Gobi safe, too. ‘Any dog that tough,’ said one, ‘deserves a happy ending.’
First, though, I had to break the news to Lucja. I picked up the phone and dialled with trepidation. But before I could say much more than ‘hello’ , Lucja was asking about Gobi — she had been reading the blogs written by other competitors, and they were all talking about my dog. Some of them had even uploaded pictures. ‘She’s a pretty little thing, isn’ t she?’ Lucja said. ‘Are you bringing her home? As soon as I read about her, I knew you’ d want to.’
She began to research how to get Gobi home, and we quickly realised that it would not be easy . or cheap. Apart from the cost of the flight back to Heathrow, she would have to spend months in quarantine.
And first, we’ d have to get her out of China — a country that wins the international prize for red tape. The authorities there insisted she had to remain in the country for 30 days for medical examination.
After that, Gobi would have to be transported across China from the remote city of Urumqi, near the border with Kazakhstan, where the race had been held, to Beijing. Then we’ d need a crate, and a flight home. I was looking at a minimum of £5,000, even before the £1,500 cost of quarantine.
But, strange as it may sound, Gobi was already part of the family. And you don’ t count the cost of family.
I flew back to Edinburgh, leaving Gobi in the hands of one of the race organisers, Nurali, who promised my little dog would be kept safe. By the time Lucja and I were reunited, I’ d already had emails from complete strangers who had read on the running blogs that I had gained a pet. Several people offered to donate money towards the expense.
Lucja and I realised that Gobi’s courage and determination had touched a lot of people. We set up a crowdfunding page, an online appeal for donations small and large, and immediately we saw a response. My phone chirped every time someone gave a pound or two, and I loved reading the donors’ comments. Helping Gobi made people happy.
Within 48 hours, I had a call from a newspaper which ran a page of pictures of me and Gobi, under the headline ‘I will not desert my ultra-marathon pal’ . Then the donations really took off. My phone went wild. Someone I’ d never met gave £25, and moments later another £25 arrived, and then £100.
I was astounded. I could barely believe it was happening. Within 24 hours we had reached our £5,000 target, and I was suddenly in demand for TV and radio stations from Scotland to New Zealand. Even the official media in North Korea wanted to talk to me.
My worries about hidden expenses and red tape evaporated overnight. Thanks to the generosity of so many people from all over the world, I knew beyond doubt that we could bring Gobi home.
