Chapter 10 – Altitude Sickness
by Salted FishAfter leaving Chaka Salt Lake, only Fang Xiao and Boss Zheng’s cars remained in the group.
The highway from Xining to Lhasa hadn’t been opened yet, so they followed the Jingla Line forward, surrounded by the plateau scenery of yak-dotted grasslands. The elevated roadbed gradually leveled out, distant mountain ranges stretched ahead, and the long gray-white road cut through the grasslands, extending toward the horizon.
On the day they reached Nagqu, they got lost shortly after setting off at noon. After driving for nearly three hours without seeing any Nagqu signs, they simply pulled over to rest.
By the time Gu Yiming got out of the car, Fang Xiao was already asleep. Tall and lanky, he lay curled up on the back seat, his long legs awkwardly wedged into the narrow gap between the two rows of seats, looking rather uncomfortable. His face also showed signs of fatigue from altitude sickness. Gu Yiming dug out a blanket from the trunk and draped it over Fang Xiao before joining Tang Shao and Qi Fan as they studied the map. They had taken a wrong turn at an intersection about ten kilometers from Nagqu and now had to turn back.
Boss Zheng, who had been leading the way, shrugged off responsibility: “Hey, we’re not the only ones who messed up. Look, there are over a dozen replies here—all from people who took the wrong turn. Who knows, we might even run into another group of idiots soon.”
Those words came true just minutes later.
Less than ten kilometers into their backtracking, Gu Yiming spotted a car parked on the roadside with all its lights flashing, clearly signaling distress. Qi Fan pulled over, and Boss Zheng went to check the situation. Soon, he returned with a man and a woman heading toward Fang Xiao’s car. Their sharp features, mini Italian flag pinned to their caps, and brown hair peeking out from under their earmuffs made it obvious they weren’t Chinese.
“Foreigners, English—these two only speak English,” Boss Zheng said, glancing at Tang Shao, who responded with a helpless shrug before suddenly remembering something. He got out of the car, gesturing and saying, “Wait, wait. He, English, OK.”
He was referring to Fang Xiao, who was resting in the back seat.
Before Tang Shao could wake him, Gu Yiming stepped forward: “He’s asleep. I’ll handle it.”
Gu Yiming’s English wasn’t particularly polished, but the exchange between Chinglish and Itanglish went smoothly enough. He quickly figured out their predicament and relayed it to Boss Zheng—they were also lost, and worse, their car had run out of gas and stalled midway.
Boss Zheng’s Jeep Grand Cherokee was well-equipped, and he soon produced a plastic fuel pump to solve the problem. The foreigners thanked them profusely and gifted them a box of chocolates as a token of appreciation.
By the early hours of the morning, the group finally arrived in town and settled into a hotel. Tang Shao, peeling chocolate wrappers in their room, marveled at the encounter. Drawing from his own experiences, he assumed athletes, like art students, weren’t particularly strong in English.
Fang Xiao, curled up weakly on the bed, perked up slightly at this generalization and spoke up in Gu Yiming’s defense: “Xiao Gu is the only Team China member who’s ever done commentary for the ISSF… full English live broadcasts for international competitions. Pretty impressive, huh?”
At every ISSF World Cup Final, athletes who didn’t qualify were invited to pair with professional sports commentators as expert analysts. Due to scheduling conflicts and language barriers, no Chinese team member had participated in commentary work before Gu Yiming.
For Gu Yiming, commentary wasn’t something to be proud of—after all, the prerequisite was failing to qualify for the finals. But he had indeed put effort into language learning. His formal education was practically nonexistent, and he’d taught himself English later on. The motivation came from a past tournament where a Taiwanese competitor, a strong contender for the title, misheard the instructions during a tiebreaker round and fired a shot prematurely, resulting in a penalty of zero points.
“To understand the match commands…” Gu Yiming murmured, his voice trailing off. He thought back to the anticipation and effort of his early international competitions—feelings that now seemed like a lifetime ago.
Since losing his shooting rhythm, he had been trying to understand his mistakes, searching for ways to improve. Shooting was a sport directed inward—Gu Yiming couldn’t blame anyone or anything but himself.
Because of his poor performance, he interpreted his introversion as selfishness, his contemplation as hesitation, and his aspirations as greed. Having labeled himself this way, he tried to change by doing the opposite—but what exactly he was striving for, he didn’t know. Such attempts were doomed to fail, and over time, even Gu Yiming stopped believing he had control over himself.
He remained diligent, but there was a difference between proactive training and habitual practice. Training was a process of feedback and correction—every shot required thought. Gu Yiming feared thinking because, in those moments, his thoughts only foresaw his own failure.
Gu Yiming was empty—not because he truly didn’t care, but because he was running away.
Tang Shao, “In your line of work, winning a championship must come with a huge paycheck, right? Feels like you guys are under a lot of pressure, pushing yourselves hard.”
“The team pays a monthly salary,” Gu Yiming replied after some thought. “There are bonuses for competitions—the prize money for a champion depends on the event level, ranging from a few hundred to tens of thousands. The provincial government also awards extra money for the National Games.”
“…Isn’t that a bit low?”
Fang Xiao, having recovered somewhat after taking his medicine, joined the discussion: “Because shooting is a niche sport. Broadcast rights aren’t worth much, and there aren’t suitable domestic sports equipment sponsors.”
Tang Shao wasn’t convinced: “So all those world champions are just running on passion?”
“Olympic champions earn a decent amount,” Fang Xiao said. “Other competitions are also undergoing reforms—same logic as when table tennis switched to the larger ball, trying to make the sport more spectator-friendly.”
“So that’s why they added that square-dance disco?” Tang Shao curled his lip. “Aesthetic nightmare, and way too noisy.”
“It is noisy,” Gu Yiming agreed.
But his thoughts went beyond the samba music. Applause, whistles, boos, cheers… it wasn’t just that. Environmental noise did have an impact, but it wasn’t worth complaining about. Shooting wasn’t a head-to-head sport—controlling the shot depended entirely on oneself, and the one disrupting the rhythm was also oneself. Gu Yiming was his only enemy.
The sound of gunfire, heartbeat, breathing, blood flowing, pulse throbbing, thoughts… all living beings made noise. Every shot sounded different.
During official competitions, there was a real-time display screen next to the firing point. Gu Yiming was used to checking it to adjust his point of aim, but the first shot had no reference. The feel of aiming during practice was hard to carry over to the first shot of the actual match due to the time gap—Gu Yiming always felt uneasy because of this. He couldn’t control himself.
It was a despairing feeling. Gu Yiming knew how to relax his muscles, how to stay steady, how to aim, how to shoot—but he just couldn’t do it. His heart was rejecting him.
In theory, one should forget each shot immediately after firing, but who could completely erase the memory of the previous shot when firing two in succession? Adjusting from an 8.9 to a 9.3 was easy, and moving from a 9.3 into the ten-ring wasn’t hard either—but a first shot of 5.7 was devastating, both to the score and to one’s mentality.
Fang Xiao had already burrowed under the covers. Gu Yiming tidied up the dexamethasone1A corticosteroid medication used to treat altitude illnesses, among other things. he’d left out and sat by the bed, asking, “Tang Shao said your job is arranging music—do you like doing that?”
Fang Xiao pulled the blanket down from his forehead, revealing his eyes. He seemed to have a casual response ready but suddenly swallowed it, falling silent under Gu Yiming’s gaze. After a moment, he said, “I like music.”
He glanced toward the bathroom and lowered his voice: “Don’t tell Tang Shao, but I’m actually a singer. A singer-songwriter, even—almost got an album released.” He chuckled softly. “In the end, it never happened.”
Fang Xiao continued, “Xiao Gu, when I like singing a song, I don’t feel sad just because it’s unpopular. When I sing poorly, I do feel a little sad, but only a little. Even if the album fell through, even if no one appreciates it, as long as I want to, I can keep singing. I’m not afraid.”
If this shot fails, take the next one. If this match ends in elimination, move on to the next. If the national A team doesn’t select you, join the B team. If the B team doesn’t take you either, return to the provincial team, the city team, the shooting range. Equipment and venues might differ, but those weren’t fatal problems. Gu Yiming had plenty of fallback options—if he simply loved shooting, he had nothing to fear.
Fang Xiao asked, “Xiao Gu, what about you? Do you like shooting?”
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