‘Never touches the garden,’ whispers Wendy when we’re heading for the water. ‘Never frowns or smiles for fear of developing a wrinkle.’
‘Botox,’ contradicts Laura.
‘The embalmed look,’ Karen agrees.
‘I think,’ says Cate, ‘that nerves have turned us into a pack of bitches.’
Our laughter does wonders for easing of the tension.
Down by the river’s edge we see that hundreds of competitors have begun to cluster on the shoreline. There are far too many to all start at once, so categories are scheduled to leave in waves a few minutes apart. The individuals go first, split into different age groups and sex groups, followed by the teams. Lee and Doug, as individual men, will be in one of the first waves. The girls go next. To our horror, we learn that the wave starting directly after us is the men’s teams’ wave. This contains the big guns – swimmers like Kieren Perkins. These guys aren’t triathletes, they are swimmers, Olympic swimmers. The fifteen hundred metres swim will take us about twenty-six minutes. Swimmers in Kieren Perkins’s league can do it in less than fifteen.
It’s a terrifying thought. A tsunami of superhuman, highlycompetitive masculinity is going to sweep straight over the top of us within a couple of minutes of the start. I check Laura’s face for signs of oedema, but she’s fine, just a little pale and trembly like me. Wendy and Karen are holding hands.
Too late to back out, too late to approach the organisers and say, Don’t you think it might be a good idea to let all those overgrown men start first? The individual males are lining up. We spot Doug and Lee and give them a wave. They don’t wave back, both are focused, goggles over their eyes. The gun goes and they’re off in a frothing of white water, looking like thousands of piranha in a feeding frenzy.
Our turn soon. We inch to the shoreline. I look over my shoulder, see a wall of massive blokes. About two hundred of them lining up behind us; huge shoulders, narrow hips, loosening up, shaking their arms and legs. I experience a not irrational urge to bolt for the car. But the gun goes off and I find myself in the fermenting water, blind, deaf, churning along at a frantic pace, reliving the panic of catch-me-if-you-can.
This, however, is far, far worse than any game of Sean’s invention. This time it is not the gentle hands of Laura on my heels. This time it is a mountain of highly trained, powerful men behind me, every one of them bursting with testosterone-driven killer instinct. These guys aren’t just going to catch us, they are going to mow us down. Pace yourself, pace yourself. You have fifteen hundred metres to swim, you can’t keep up this speed. I steady myself, measure my strokes, try to find a rhythm, hoping to get sucked into someone’s slipstream and pulled along.
I don’t hear the gun go for the next wave, but I sense a turbulence in the water. I feel it like a snake feels vibrations in the ground. Just keep swimming straight. Perhaps they’ll see you and go around. The vibration builds. They start to pass. It’s going to be okay, these guys aren’t fools, they’re professionals, looking where they’re going. Then a fist gets me on the back of the head, shoving me about a foot under the surface. I come up gasping, treading water, looking around. My head is throbbing, my ears ringing, but the big swimmers have gone, the wave has passed, moved on to become a wall of white water way ahead. Shaken, I start to swim again, trying to pretend I’m in the Lochiel Dam.
When I leave the water, my legs feel better than they did in the novice event. I run for the transition area, tugging cap and goggles off as I go. I overtake a couple of veterans and feel absurdly pleased with myself. It’s a massive relief to have the swim leg out of the way. Physically, I find it the least tiring of the three, but mentally, it’s a real horror. The one, to quote Mikey and Dan, I’m most likely to die in. Sitting down, I yank on my shoes and socks. Don’t dry between the toes. Quick, quick. I’m all thumbs in my haste, so much to remember. Swift dab of sunscreen, I grab my helmet and strap it on tightly, then snatch my new bike out of its bay.
Laura’s bike is still in its slot and there’s a fleeting stab of concern. Laura should have done the swim in less time than me. I remember the fist on the back of my head and for a moment hesitate, watching for swimmers emerging from the water. It’d be a miracle to find her among the thousands. I could stand here all day, and I know what Cate would have to say about my dithering. Telling myself Laura just didn’t get as smooth a path through the crowd as me, I’m astride my bike and on my way.
Forty kilometres done straight from the water is a huge test, but we’ve done it in training. As long as I pace myself and don’t allow delusions of actually doing well to creep in. I settle into a comfortable rhythm on the bike. A few cyclists pass me. I pass a few others. Don’t worry about placement. Just enjoy it.
But I keep looking over my shoulder for Laura, who surely can’t be far behind. Now I think about it, she was more subdued in the car than the rest of us, and I’m increasingly convinced that there’s something amiss beyond a normal attack of nerves. Either she’s not feeling well, or there’s been another drama with Sam that she’s not telling us about: protecting us on our big day, which is precisely the sort of thing she’d do.
Distracted by my thoughts, the time flies and soon the leaders are heading back, passing me like human cannonballs, hunched over handlebars, crouched into tight, low forms to minimise wind resistance. The sight of their efficient posture reminds me that I’m not supposed to cycle upright, looking like I’m off for a picnic in the country. I lean forward, as Cate as shown us in training. I lean as low as I can over the handlebars. Whether I achieve faster travelling in this unnatural posture is debatable, given that I’m unlikely to pick up enough speed to create the sort of wind that needs resisting. But hunched I am determined to be. I am an athlete among athletes.
Doug and Lee zip past, suitably hunched, heading home. They wave, but I’m too nervous on my bike to lift a hand and return their greeting. I reach a killer hill. Close to four kilometres of winding climb over a rough, potholed surface. The major bends mounting the hill are numbered, which means you can gauge how much further there is to go. It’s daunting to start with. Bend One. Bend Two. Quads are already burning, but there’s no way I’m getting off to walk. Walking the run leg is acceptable – just. Getting off one’s bike to push it up a hill is another matter altogether. I cycle as slowly as it is possible to cycle without the bike slumping over. Other riders pass me, accelerating on and up, sweeping round the bends. There’s still no sign of Laura.
At last I’m into double figures. Bend Ten. Bend Eleven. Almost there. When I hit the top, it’s smooth tarmac, an undulating open road. Easier going, but my bottom is starting to feel chaffed from the seat, and my hands and wrists ache from gripping the handlebars too tightly. I turn at the halfway mark and at last spot Laura heading out. Relief swamps me, and I want to stop and demand if she’s all right. But there’s no wave or sign of recognition from her, just a dogged pumping of the pedals, eyes on the road ahead, then she’s gone.
The return loop takes us down a straight, steep halfkilometre descent lasting no more than a few hair-raising minutes. We’ve heard that cyclists fly down this hill at speeds of eighty or ninety kilometres per hour. The thought of hitting a stone or getting a flat tyre and being thrown off is terrifying. I creep down the hill at a very sedate pace. Only eight kilometres to go. Nearly home. The final stretch is flat, but it’s hard to keep going, very hard, and I’m getting really worried about the run.
Back in the transition area I look at my watch. The cycle leg has taken me just over one and a half hours. I toss off my helmet as I leap from the bike. My legs are gone: a dead weight of uselessness beneath me. It’s tempting to wait for Laura, but there’s no doubt what Cate would say if she caught me, so I tug on my sun visor, smear on more sunscreen and wipe Vaseline between my thighs, all the while hearing Cate’s voice, Not too long with the toiletries, Charlie. Remember you are an athlete.
As I head off, the first of the elite competitors are crossing the finish line.
Ten kilometres ahead of me. I’m envious and experience the craven temptation to just stop. I don’t have to do this. No one will punish me if I fail. But when I see the hundreds of spectators lining the road ahead, patting backs and shouting encouragement, I know I have to press on. Even if I never complete another triathlon in this lifetime or the next – which seems a very fine idea right now – today, just this once, I am determined to reach that finish line.
Familiar faces start to pass, heading in as I head further out. I see Lee, his singlet glued to his chest. He’s loping along, stretching out, enough resources to smile and lift an arm to wave at me. Arm-lifting is way beyond me at this stage, but I do just about manage a grin. Doug is next. Another wave. To my astonishment, not so far behind them, comes Cate, long legs flying. ‘Go Charlie!’ she yells, and slaps me on the shoulder as she bounds past.
But despite the Vaseline, my thighs are soon chaffing, and despite the special cushioned socks, my feet are very sore. I stop and walk a while. The run might not be a mental test like the swim, but it is pure physical hell. Other runners pass me and spur me on, urging, Come on … you can do it … almost there … And to my amazement I realise they are right. Every metre I travel is a metre less to go. A sense of being within reach of the finish dares to enter my consciousness. Little bubbles of excitement lighten my heavy limbs, an intense feeling of camaraderie towards the other competitors swells in my chest.
Today there is no ute on my heels collecting orange cones. I come in three thousand, two hundred and twentieth out of three thousand, two hundred and sixty-three. Laura comes in ten places later. We are all poised to catch her at the finish line. She’s drooping and weaving, then most worryingly slumps to the ground, holding her head between bent knees.
‘You should have stopped,’ I say, dropping down beside her.
She lifts her head and manages a half-smile. ‘I have stopped.’
‘No. Earlier.’
‘I’m fine,’ she insists, ‘just a bit knackered.’
Then to our horror, she crawls to the edge of the path and, with a great wrenching spasm, vomits onto the grass. Cate sprints to the nearest water station and grabs two cupfuls of cold water.
A course official appears. ‘Do you need medical assistance?’ he asks.
Laura, sitting up again, shakes her head. She reaches for Cate’s water, pours one cup over her head then sips slowly from the other. ‘I’ll be okay,’ she says.
‘Are you sure?’ asks the official.
‘I’m a doctor,’ she snaps. ‘I know what’s wrong with me.’
Alone with us Laura apologises. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to be cross.’
‘You can be cross,’ I tell her and stroke the wet coils of hair from her eyes. ‘You just endured three hours of physical torture and you were off-colour before we started.’
‘Were you?’ says Wendy. ‘You should have told us.’
Doug and Lee appear. There are some excited, sweaty congratulations before they notice Laura, then they both squat down beside her. ‘Heat exhaustion,’ says Doug.
‘We should get her into the shade,’ says Lee.
We all move beneath a large blue gum growing near the transition area. Laura continues to take little sips from her cup. She admits she’s been feeling a bit off since yesterday. ‘Probably some sort of a tummy bug.’
Lee volunteers to get more cold drinks, and vanishes in the direction of a nearby cafe. We sit and wait, fussing around Laura until she pushes us all away, saying, ‘For God’s sake, I’m fine. You’re like a pack of bloody mother hens.’ Then she leans over and retches again.
My feet are sore, my limbs are dead weights, I’ve got a slight dehydration headache, and my back hurts from maintaining such a hunched posture throughout the bike leg. But I’m floating on a euphoric cloud. Forty-three competitors behind me. Forty-three! Never mind that, with the exception of Laura, they were probably all old enough to be my grandparents.
With armfuls of cold drinks and gourmet ice creams, we’re heading for the beach. Mabel and Caleb are running on ahead. I suspect three hours of standing around watching thousands of maniac adults has bored them stupid, and am grateful that Mikey and Dan had the option to play Skirmish with Sam instead. I cast Laura an anxious glance or two, but she looks amazingly together for someone who was spewing her guts all over the grass only ten minutes ago.
‘I don’t know how you made it, Laura,’ I say, ripping open an ice-cold can of cola. ‘However did you hold onto your stomach till you were over the finish line?’
‘Had to,’ she replies. ‘Or they’d have pulled me out of the race.’
‘Such self-control,’ murmurs Karen.
‘Admirable,’ agrees Wendy.
I tell everyone about being thumped on the back of the head during the swim. They all have similar stories. Everyone’s discussing their times, their dramas, the chances of Laura collapsing before she’d reached the finish line, except Doug, who seems a bit quiet. Cate whispers to us that Lee did a better time than he did, and we swiftly switch to admiring the scenery, extolling the virtues of the luscious ice creams we’re devouring.
When we arrive at the beach the five of us wave goodbye to Doug, Lee, Anya and the kids, and set off to walk along the sand. The site where Adam drowned two years ago is barely a kilometre away, and I couldn’t be prouder of Karen. In only two short years she’s become as strong a swimmer as the life guards patrolling this beach, and she clocked an amazing time in the swim leg, three minutes ahead of Wendy. ‘Adam spurred me on,’ she tells us. ‘I swear I could hear him in my ear from the moment the gun went off.’ No prizes for guessing where she wants to go now.
We stroll along the beach, weaving past family groups, sunbathers and clusters of numbered athletes, until Karen comes to a halt. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘It was right here.’
I look out across the opalescent water. It’s a beautiful day: the air is clean and still, the rippling waves are gentle and inviting. But we don’t venture in. For a minute all I can imagine is the horror of Adam being dragged from the surf, the gathering crowd, the absence of hope, Karen’s life altered forever. Until I look at Karen and see the serenity that’s settled over her face. It’s one of those moments when you wish you had a garland, or at least a few flower petals to toss into the waves.
Instead we sit down in a neat circle. We’re probably being stared at by tourists for doing something weird, but who cares? We link hands, and I swear I feel a current of something powerful crackle through me. I close my eyes, all the better to lose myself in the sensation. And if I have to interpret the experience, it would be to say that I feel a confirmation that none of us is alone. I feel a flexible, stretchable, but unbreakable bond joining us. Remembering a line out of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, I repeat to myself: It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame …
After a while Laura says, ‘Let’s go to the dam tomorrow night. Like we did last time.’
‘Will you be well enough?’ asks Wendy.
‘You bet. We deserve a reward.’
CHAPTER 20
ONE EVENING EARLY IN December, Laura calls in on her way home from work.
‘Hi Mikey, hi Dan,’ she says. ‘What are you watching?’
‘Reruns of The Simpsons,’ I tell her – the brief wave the boys bestow on her is all Laura is going to get when The Simpsons are on.
I open a bottle of champagne and fill two glasses. I always love a chilled drop of something sparkly at cocktail hour, but today I have a reason to be celebrating. This morning I tied up my manuscript with a wide pink ribbon, sealed it with a kiss and posted it off to my publisher in Sydney. No one else knows. And no one will know until I have gauged my editor’s reaction to Antonia and her torrid adventures.
I hand Laura a glass and we head for the verandah. ‘Thanks,’ she says and takes a seat. ‘This might be my last for a while.’
Thoughts of pink ribbons and completed manuscripts evaporate. Is Laura going to demand we take our training that step further and give up all pleasurable vices? Counterarguments are ready on my tongue, but she’s not looking at me, she’s staring over the verandah railings with the air of one on the verge of a big revelation. Suddenly I’m frightened of what she’s going to tell me. Is she ill? Is Sam ill?
‘I’m pregnant,’ she says.
The words are expelled boldly. But I, who know Laura so well, am not fooled. She’s shocked to the core, in a state somewhere between horror, disbelief and ecstasy. As am I.
Laura is forty-two years old.
‘You’re pregnant,’ I repeat, as though the news is too startling to take in with a single hearing.
She nods.
‘Okay.’ I regroup. ‘Is this good news or bad?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.’
I take a sip of icy champagne. More of a swig really. ‘Well I think it’s splendid news,’ I say.
She turns to face me. ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re going to be a mother. You’ve achieved so much already. You’re educated and wise, you’ve looked after half the community, brought other people’s babies into the world, sat with others as they’ve died, listened to people’s fears, kept them going, survived the shock of discovering Sam’s pethidine habit, seen him through it. You’ve learned to swim miles, cross dams, compete in triathlons. You’re superwoman, but you’ve never given birth to or raised a child. It’s a new challenge.’
‘But I’m so old.’
‘No you’re not! Look at that woman in England who had a baby at sixty-three. You’ve got twenty years on her.’
She’s silent.
‘I assume it is Sam’s.’
‘Yep.’ She takes a swig of champagne. ‘We did it the night of Lee and Anya’s party, and …’ she hesitates, and I spot a hint of the tilting smile, ‘maybe once or twice more. I chucked my pills in the bin ages ago, back when I decided celibacy would be the way of my future. Me, who lectures women about contraception on a daily basis, being slack about it myself. It would be funny if it wasn’t so momentous.’
The Swim Club Page 24