by Murray, Lee
STUFF IT!
I can do this. I take a deep breath. I grip the first bridge support and put one foot out toward the wooden slats. A wave of nausea engulfs me. I swallow it back. The steel rope in my right hand, I grope carefully for the rail on my left. Once I have them both, I grip hard, scarcely opening my hands to slide them along the reinforced shaft. I take a step. The bridge rocks wildly. I grip harder, my knuckles mottling white. I hold my breath until the movement subsides. Then I take another step. And another. I’m completely on the bridge now. I want to crawl, hand over fist, hugging the planks, close to the ground. Falling means shattering like a cheap coffee cup on a tile floor. I will not think about falling. This is so ridiculous. Just do it, Melanie. I take another step. The bridge lurches again. Focussing on the wooden beams beneath my feet, I push away the image of the ravine below. I concentrate on the centre of each individual plank. This is where my feet are going: solid and centre. Rushing water gurgles below. I barely hear it over my own heart-beat. The bridge swings madly with my step. Again I stand immobile, willing the bridge to calm. Raising my head - slowly, slowly - I see the other bank. It’s not so far away: four big paces. I grip the steel rails and run. A controlled, constrained run with no extraneous movement. The bridge sways sickeningly. I focus for a final valiant leap to regain the track. I’m on the other bank.
I did it!
I’m back on the stable, unyielding earth! Away from the crevasse, I clutch at a tree trunk and let out a cackle of relief. Behind me the bridge rocks gently, like a baby in a bassinette. But I’m so over it. I remember Caro and Jack and I’m off running again, swiftly away from the bridge, burning up residual adrenalin and racing along the track.
66
I tear down a morale-restoring hill, barely touch the ground as I sprint, flouting the trip-me-up roots hiding in the half-light. The path is rutted with savage deep cuts so I leap first left, then right, finding stable footholds on the cambered trail edge in my own peculiar version of a Russian Cossack dance.
Lateral medicine ball lunges do have a purpose!
At last, through the scrub, I glimpse a stretch of grey. Thank heavens! I hurtle along the last few metres of track out of the bush and on to the road, momentarily dazzled by the fading sunlight. Still breathing hard, I pull up and check the map. Left. Stuffing the map back in my pocket as I run, I head for the Disabled Training Centre about a kilometre away. The sound of an engine breaks me out of the zone.
A car!
A green Subaru comes into view. They’ve seen me! Through the front windscreen a couple and their kid stare at me, their expressions a mixture of surprise and recognition. It can be a real advantage being well-known, especially nowadays when motorists think twice before stopping for a random person. The Subaru family honk loudly as they approach. A flush of gratitude sweeps over me. It’s nearly over. I’ll get them to turn back and drop me at the centre, and as soon as I can rouse someone to help, it’ll be almost over for Jack and Caro, too.
The car pulls alongside me and a woman in the passenger seat leans over her husband to talk to me through the driver’s open window.
‘You’re that Melanie girl from the television, aren’t you?’
Still breathless, I say, ‘Yes, I am. Thank you for stopping…my friends are…’
‘We thought so, didn’t we, Hugh? I said, that’s that Melanie Short from the telly, and Hugh said, yes.’
‘That’s great. I need…’
‘Our vote? But we think you’re despicable, don’t we, Hugh? We won’t vote for you! First, you laugh at that poor chap with the fracture and then you steal that nice young man from his fiancée and her expecting, too.’
‘Sorry, but my friends…’
‘And you behave like a shameless floozy, doesn’t she, Hugh? Running around half naked.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but I need a ride because my friends…’
‘A ride? Oh no. We couldn’t do that, could we, Hugh? We’ve got our granddaughter in the back. What kind of example to her would that be? No, no. Drive on, Hugh.’ The window promptly goes up and the Subaru pulls away. Twisting around in the back seat the girl waves a copy of Belle at me. As the car speeds off, I stare at the photograph of Rico and me. There must be a law against leaving people on the side of the road? But they’re gone, so I start running again. Running off my anger.
I pound along the road edge.
Faster.
I can make out the centre’s outer paddocks.
Faster.
I must be running sub-four-minute kilometres. Maybe even sub-three.
I’m hoofing it.
Burning up the road.
For a second, I even wish smarmy Ross and his tabloid tell-all camera were here to cover my spurt of speed, but instead Mr Bill and a couple of the centre helpers rush out to greet me.
‘We were on our way out to look for you. Prancer turned up a few minutes ago and we figured you’d be needing some help. Anyone hurt?’ I show them the hole in Jack’s map and tell them about his twisted ankle. ‘Don’ you worry,’ Mr Bill says. He reminds me of Santa Claus. ‘We’ll go out now and have ‘em back before the dark sets in. Your running back here saved us a lot of time looking, young lady.’
‘Thanks.’ There’s no camera crew to film my best-ever finish, but, I feel great. Imagine me, running over a swing bridge on a rescue dash. I’m proud of myself, whatever those people in the Subaru think. I wonder if I’m cured of my fear of heights - the way Robert the Rose Horse’s big Kerchoo rids him of his allergy to roses. Nah. I’m just happy darling Caro didn’t have to spend a night under the stars. Imagine what that might do to Caro’s fear of the dark? Or her little girl crush?
‘Brigid,’ Bill shouts as he strides off to the shed, ‘we’re going to need the first aid kit…’
I dash into the clubhouse to phone Janeen.
67
Even the cheery flower beds lining the route to the museum at Rotorua’s Government Gardens do nothing to lift the grey of marathon day. It’s dismal, and rain is predicted for later on. The wind is ominous too. The marathon course is a loop of the lake, so it goes without saying there will be a headwind somewhere. I’ve driven over from Tauranga with Martine to pick up my registration pack. At just 7:00am the events centre is already abuzz. gameOn is the marathon’s official sponsor. At registration, participants are herded through their sportswear expo. I stop to examine some ¾-length compression pants. Beautifully made in performance fabric, they’re basic black with contoured knees, good coverage, and less than half the price of Sportzgirl’s offerings. Luckily, the live television coverage hasn’t started yet. I get my wallet out.
‘Melanie! What d’you think you’re doing?’ Martine splutters. ‘You can’t buy these. You represent Sportzgirl!’ I hand her my wallet.
‘I’ll be outside then. Get me two pairs of those in size small. The black ones.’
‘Mel, I can’t!’
‘If you won’t, I’ll have to buy them myself.’ I move to take back my wallet.
‘Okay, okay. Meet me outside. But I better not get fired for this, Mel.’
Later on, after Olaf has given me his last lecture, and Plumley has ‘ahemed’ his way through another pre-race briefing, I make my habitual pilgrimage to the toilets. Everyone waiting in the line keeps asking ‘How long ‘til the start? Anyone got the time? Have I still got time to pee?’ There are new rules this year for the reality show. There’s to be no timing at the transponder check points, and no balloon-bobbing pace groups guiding people to their target goals. Runners are expected to run without watches. Anyone caught providing timing information to the reality contestants will be pulled from the race. An exception’s been made for New Zealand’s athletes attempting to achieve Olympic qualifying times, not that there’s much chance they’ll be running alongside us. While I’m waiting, I watch an elite athlete bounding around on the lawn warming up. As if there isn’t enough opportunity to warm up over 42km. Mind you, standing sideways, h
e’s skinnier than Victoria Beckham. Honestly, he looks like he could do with a muffin. Buttered and with cream.
I make my way to the starting chute and squeeze myself through the barriers at the correct point. We’re still starting in time corrals; 2-hour marathoners, 3-hour marathoners, 4-hour marathoners, to prevent the early race jostling and general hurly-burly. Beside me, an Amazonian in a pink crop completes some elaborate yoga-type stretches which involve folding herself in half. She looks like a real runner. She’s lean and fully focused. She has to be, because she’s putting her foot…on the back of her head. I wonder what she’s doing back here in the 4-hour block? Around me athletes are nervously completing their pre-race rituals; adjusting transponders, applying Vaseline, cleaning sunglasses, fiddling with iPods, straightening caps, slipping gels in shorts, shirt, bra or underpants and taking a last bite of banana. One or two adjust their costumes; a superman cape, a frothy tutu, a breast cancer bra, theatre scrubs. Some are praying. Finally, the siren sounds and we embark on the work of the day.
Running.
The first five kilometres are the usual lolly scramble and I remember Fran’s words about not getting carried away and running my own race. I wish she were running with me, but her Achilles has flared up again, so today I’m on my own.
I’ve got used to being a bit of a Nancy No-friends lately anyway. Ever since Belle published the image of me and Rico alongside his heartbroken cuckolded pregnant girlfriend, I’ve been the scourge of the community. The gargantuan Sportzgirl billboard in Albany has been defiled. Heaven knows how the tagger got up there, but he spelled out my name in big bold black lettering across my face. M-E-L-A-N-I-E. I should be pleased people know my name now, except the tagger was a poor speller, leaving out the L so it reads MEANIE. Frank said the maintenance people had had to go up there and take it down. Winston was all for leaving it there, but the city council decided it’d grant too much kudos to the culprit and asked for it to be removed.
The opening bars of Vangelis’ Chariots of Fire reach me before a party of marathon survivors come into view on the shoulder of the road. Dressed in vintage gear and gaudy wigs, they’re having a ball shouting their encouragement to everyone. Easy for them to be happy. After fifteen years of circuiting the lake, no one expects them to do it again. Barely mid-morning and they’re already half cut on champagne. I munch on one of Aaron’s muesli bars which has been stuffed in my bra and wash it down when I reach the 10km water table.
My first friendly face en route is Gavin. Wearing a Hi-Viz jacket, he’s waiting at the turn-off to Tauranga at around 15km.
‘Mel!’ he yells. I respond by throwing my thermal at him, uncovering my own little Hi-Viz number in azure-orange. Gavin gathers up the top and bunches it in his hand. He’s still waving it when I turn off toward Hamurana. It’s nice to have a supporter. I’d like to think he’s there just for me, but I’m happy to share him with the other Road Runners.
Normally, Jack would be my supporter, but I haven’t seen him since the Riding Centre incident. I think we’ve broken up, but as we haven’t spoken I can’t be positive. He hasn’t phoned me and my pride won’t let me phone him, so we’re at a stalemate. I miss him. I miss hanging out at his place. My apartment seems sterile and empty compared to the noise and clutter of Jack’s. Shane and Kelly are off-limits, since they’ve come down firmly in Jack’s camp, along with Jack’s brothers, and Trevor and Debra.
These hills are a pleasant variation. I’m running through the trees with the lake to my right. Halfway. Someone has put up a banner indicating a shortcut across the lake. Yeah, right. Not surprisingly, they don’t have any takers. Not today. It’d be freezing! Speaking of freezing, I can see the beginnings of a thaw in Janeen. She hasn’t entirely forgiven me for my treatment of Jack, but saving her daughter from a night of terror may have helped to bring her around. We’ve been friends for too long for it to be otherwise. She says she’s still making me a gown for Racing Feat’s gala night because she promised, but she never promised to like Rico.
I catch sight of Fran waving. I must be at Morea. So kind of her to come out and support me from the sidelines. Since my own injury I know how sucky and frustrating it is to watch other people running while you’re grounded. I smile and wave away her offer of a banana. Twenty five kilometres down and coming up next is Heartbreak Hill. Not it’s real name, but it’s where a lot of runners come to grief. I can’t use Olaf’s slalom technique here (I’d get run over) so I shift down a gear and adopt my Duracell bunny method. A man runs alongside me in a psychedelic orange cap, t-shirt, shorts and matching Crocs. The two of us blend in perfectly with the road safety cones. What is it about apparel retailers and their fondness for repellent colours? I share a complicit grin with the Croc-man as he passes me by. It’s a gradual hill, tough, but not heartbreaking, not compared to Tokorangi Pa Road. Glancing up, I can just make out that summit ahead in the distance. Thank goodness, I won’t be climbing it today. I come over the top of Heartbreak Hill and relax into the downhill.
Relations with my fellow contestants have gone downhill since the Belle piece. Sione was shocked. He’s such a family-oriented person and reports of my promiscuity (all exaggerated) and criminal associations (even more exaggerated) have disturbed him. He’s been - not hostile - but less than warm. And as far as Simon is concerned it’s the lack of professionalism that’s the problem. He thought the two of us should leave it out until after the show because Asteroïde had already done enough harm to the objectives of the project. According to Simon we’re here to get fit and advocate for a heart-healthy lifestyle. Our blatant coupledom muddied the waters. No-one was interested in the charities any more, only whether we were seen coming out of this or that hotel mid-afternoon on a weekday. Carline seemed to understand though. She said when couples followed their hearts willy-nilly inevitably someone was going to get hurt. She said I wasn’t entirely at fault. Rico’s behaviour was every bit as despicable as mine. I’ve seen Rico. I could hardly avoid him since we’ve had to convene to film the Racing Feat vignettes, but otherwise he’s made himself scarce. It hasn’t helped, not knowing what he’s thinking and what, if anything, he’s planning to do about Ruby McCabe if her paternity claim is true.
I wonder how the other competitors are faring today? I take a quick look about me, but I don’t see anyone. It doesn’t matter. As Mark says, the marathon’s a personal challenge, your individual effort to conquer the distance. Now that the airport is behind me, I realise I’ve come to the business end of the marathon. Ten kilometres never seemed so far. The road in front looks relentless and the bloody wind is hitting me headlong. I take cover behind a bigger runner. Olaf says by 30km the body has depleted any glycogen stores and finishing the marathon depends on how effectively the body can switch to burning fat. While that particular battle is going at a molecular level inside me, I mustn’t give up eating the squeezies. I slurp up the disgusting contents of another sachet and get icky-sticky syrup dribbled down my azure-orange signature crop and boy shorts.
Oh dear. What a shame!
At least, Annalise is delighted this outfit is getting a second airing, although she couldn’t give a toss whether I finish the marathon. I could die on the side of the road so long as I look good in the process. Anyway, the fact Annalise is pleased means work downstairs in the basement has been a little smoother. And for the moment, Winston has called off the hunt, because the marketing data show the Short-Black hype has lifted Sportzgirl’s market share. Anything keeping Winnie’s bank balance topped up is to be endured in the short-term. I do mean that literally, because whatever the outcome of the reality show, my interim contract ensures he’ll be shot of me shortly afterwards.
Please let it be over soon. I’m reduced to shuffling. Thankfully, ducking in behind the suburb of Te Ngae, there’s less wind. Three kilometres to go. Superman trudges by, his cape hanging limply behind him. It’s the forty-k-kryptonite effect. Olaf says if I’m weary, I should slow down. I can’t win if I don’t finish, so I slow
down. A woman running beside me in a Nike cap must have got the same advice because she does the same. That’s when we hear the celebratory music coming from the finish line. Nike cap looks up and I read the despair in her eyes. So near and yet so bloody far. She looks ready to throw in the towel. I’m fairly close to a tantrum myself. Maybe we can work together.
‘Hey, we can do this,’ I say. ‘All we have to do is finish it.’
‘And I won’t have to do it ever again?’
‘Nope. Not ever. Not if you don’t want to.’
‘All we have to do is finish it,’ she says with determination. So the two of us plod slowly home together.
Nike cap and me.
Step for step.
Past the steaming holes, under the famous wooden arches, through the lines of cheering crowds, along the final stretch up to the museum, into the chute and over the transponder mats to the end.
68
I finish the marathon in 4:03:28, just outside my predicted time (I’m way too tired to figure out the maths.) Around me in the finishing chute runners are crying and hugging. Behind the barriers more people are screaming and cheering. Nike Cap attempts to hug her partner through the bars. She’s sunk to her knees and sobbing. Someone takes my photo. Someone slips a honking great medal around my neck. Someone else is fumbling around with my shoelaces, removing the official transponder. I see only a lightly balding head.
‘Just a second, love. Don’t you move. We’ll have this off in a jiffy. You’ve done well.’ I’d love to hug this stranger for being so wonderfully kind, but I can’t muster the energy. I resort to telepathy. ‘I know, love. You’re welcome. You get yourself inside for something to eat and drink and the ladies in there will give you your finisher’s t-shirt.’ Like a cow to milking, I follow the line of runners into the convention centre and that’s when the reality hits me.