A Dash of Reality

by Murray, Lee

  ‘You must take the time to re-evaluate your nutrition, Melanie,’ Olaf is saying. ‘I myself have consumed a large bowl of porridge with prunes and yoghurt, a cup of green tea and a half litre of filtered spring water. I also had a glass of fibre supplement because sometimes, I have a bit of a problem. I do not think you have had enough food to get up this hill. We need to slow down so you can make it to the finish.’ I slow down some more, and pop a couple more magic jellybeans. I still feel a tad woozy, but the instant sugar shots seem to be helping. Thankfully, we’re almost at the summit.

  A bit more.

  A few steps. Five, four, three, two, one…I’m there!

  Grinning, Olaf throws his arm to the heavens and instinctively I meet it with my own.

  High five!

  Then I collapse against the trig station, lean back and take a deep drag of morning air. The outlook is magnificent. Glorious. If I wasn’t so shattered, if I could spare the smallest puff of breath from my heaving lungs, I’d throw my arms wide and stride out to take in the panorama, like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.

  Except without the hideous dress.

  23

  I whisk aside a discarded newspaper so Olaf can slide his tray onto the faux marble Formica table. It’s still early, just after 7:00am, and I’m revelling in the toasty warmth of a beachfront café at the base of Mauao. It’s a trendy place, the menu scrawled in pastel-coloured chalk over the food cabinets and the overpriced coffee strong and copious. I’ve chosen a table in the corner behind the glass folding doors. We still have a view of the ocean, but we’re far enough from the relay of customers not to offend anyone with our whiffy running gear. Olaf removes his second breakfast from the tray, setting each item deliberately on the table; a steaming cup of herbal tea, a glass of pressed orange juice, two poached eggs on a layer of wilted spinach with sliced tomatoes and mushrooms. A second smaller plate holds two thick-cut slices of caraway toast. He props the tray against the leg of the table and sits down opposite me. He has removed his cap and is suffering from an unfortunate case of hat-hair.

  ‘Good work today, Melanie. I think you are making excellent progress,’ he announces.

  I know. He’s right. I was sooo amazing. I ran up a mountain. Up an entire mountain! Before breakfast too. I couldn’t be more elated if I’d spent the night with Hugh Jackman. I’m wearing a grin like gorse; widespread and hard to eradicate. I, Melanie Short, am nothing less than awesome.

  ‘Thanks. Ah, you were great too, Olaf. Very...inspiring.’

  Olaf nods. He lifts his juice, takes a dainty sip, replaces his glass. ‘Hill training is effective at building strength and speed. We are very lucky to be here in New Zealand because there are a lot of lovely hills to practise on…’ I’m only pretending to pay attention. Too busy anticipating my first mouthful of this monumental white chocolate and raspberry muffin. Yum.

  ‘Any long distance event in New Zealand is likely to include some hills and the best way to train for hills is to run hills.’ I take a large buttery bite. ‘It was your own Arthur Lydiard who developed the practice of incorporating hills into runners’ training. Your track athletes were climbing hills back in the 1970s while the rest of the world was running fartlek intervals. A clever man, Arthur Lydiard. A legendary coach…’ He trails off.

  ‘You’re a good coach, Olaf.’

  ‘Thank you Melanie. That’s kind of you to say.’ Olaf hides his embarrassment behind his teacup. ‘The Kenyans have taken hill running even further. They may have even more excellent hills there, but New Zealand is the house of a World Mountain Running Champion.’ He points an eggy knife in my direction to drive home his point. ‘I forget the young man’s name. Runs all over Wellington. Won it six times.’ He takes a bite of his toast, pausing briefly to wipe invisible crumbs from his lips with a paper serviette. ‘Next time, we will work on some downhills.’

  I definitely like the idea of running downhill. Way less work. I nod vigorously so Olaf cottons on that I think it’s a good idea.

  ‘The purpose of running downhill is to improve the frequency of your footfalls, your cadence. Assisted by the force of gravity, you run faster.’ Gravity again. ‘This will teach your muscles and nerves how it feels to run faster, so they will know how to do it on the flat...’ Olaf trails off.

  I finish my mouthful of scrummy muffin and look up. A spinach-loaded fork hangs suspended mid-way to his mouth. He’s staring at me.

  ‘What?’

  Olaf raises a bristly eyebrow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What are you eating, Melanie?’ His eyes shift down to what is left of my muffin.

  ‘This? You said I need to eat more.’

  Olaf purses his lips. ‘I meant real food Melanie. Not that that… overdose of sugar and fat. This sort of food does not build champions. It’s time for a look at your nutritional plan. I wonder if Sportzgirl would be willing to trunk up the cost of a dietician. I suspect not. Your Mr Lissombe made it clear economy was key during negotiations of my own fee. Maximum results for minimum investment, I think were his words. Nevertheless, I think you would benefit from some nutritional advice because what you are eating,’ he looks across at me scornfully when he says this, ‘is not the food of the victorious. Protein, wholegrain sources of carbohydrate, and vitamin-packed fruit and vegetables, that’s what you should be eating!’ In conclusion, he forks another load of spinach in to his mouth.

  Did I not run up a blasted mountain? Do I not deserve this muffin?

  Damn right.

  Quickly, and with as much finesse as I can muster, I cram in the remaining three quarters of my raspberry chocolate muffin. In a single mouthful. In case Olaf decides to confiscate it.

  ‘S’okay, Owaf,’ I say, my lips barely closing and my cheeks pushed out to full capacity. ‘Dooon wowwy abouwit. I mow someone.’

  24

  The day before the first race, Jack holds a good luck BBQ for me. He invites Janeen and Caro, and his best friend and Sunday cycling buddy, Shane Meads, along with Shane’s wife Kelly and their baby daughter, Emma. The weather has turned a bit iffy, so we’re gathered around Jack’s dining room table helping ourselves to sausages, cheesy bread rolls and an assortment of colourful salads in mismatching bowls.

  Seated in her portable baby seat and chortling happily, Em bangs her sippy cup on the edge of the table with one hand while clutching a chewed off sausage in the other. On her plastic Dora the Explorer plate are two rejected rounds: one carrot and the other cucumber. Save for her left cheek and part of her nose, her chubby face is almost completely covered in tomato sauce. Even the butter curls of her fringe sport tomato red streaks.

  Jack taps his Heineken can against the edge of the table, imitating Em’s sippy cup action.

  ‘We’re here to wish Mel all the very best in tomorrow’s race, and for the rest of the Racing Feat reality series.’ He throws me a wink as he holds his can aloft. ‘Win or lose, Mel, we think you’re a star!’

  I wish I were that confident. As the start date’s got nearer, I’ve had misgivings. It didn’t help that earlier in the week Marcus and Cushla sent me a grandiose bouquet of geraniums surrounded by dark green oleander. I looked up the language of flowers on a florist’s website and discovered geraniums represent stupidity, and oleander caution. Janeen says I’m reading too much in to it, but it set me to thinking that maybe I’m being stupid, imagining I can be competitive. Judging from the pilot show, some of the ordinary Joe Blogses they’ve selected are fit and keen. Take that Tazza, for instance. I’m probably more likely to go a round with David Tua, than beat Tazza in a foot race. Doubts have flooded in. Have I done enough training? Will the show raise my profile? Will I be able to salvage my career? Will Colin even notice?

  What was I thinking?

  At the end of the week, Frank from Purchasing dropped a Post-it on my desk that said ‘Give it your best effort, Mel. We’re counting on you,’ making me realise that if my involvement in the series isn’t a success, Winston will make good
on his threat and lay off certain Sportzgirl staff. Jobs other than my own could be at stake. The manager of the Riding Centre phoned me, too. She said the folks there were pinning their hopes for the new arena on my success in the series, which means if I bomb out Caro and her friends don’t get their new facility. Nothing like a little pressure.

  Other people have sent pledges of support. For example, Janeen’s parents, Margaret and Len, sent me a tasteful card with the words ‘Wishing you all the best, Melanie’ inside. Debra and Kevin did the same, and Charlie sent a simple ‘Go Mel!’ text, with an accompanying sideways smiley face. At work, my in-box is brimming with emails from members of the public wishing me luck. Perhaps I should be more positive. After all, people who don’t know me, believe in me.

  Wiping sausage grease from his hands with a square of paper towel, Shane leans over and hands me an envelope.

  ‘It’s our version of a card. From me and Kell, and Em.’ I tear open the envelope. Inside, an A3 sheet of white paper is decorated with Em’s cherub footprints running every which way in vivid poster paint. In the middle of the page, above each pebbly toe of one foot, are the letters G.o.M.e.L in violet felt tip pen.

  ‘Oh, it’s sooo cute! Thanks guys.’

  ‘It was a devil of a job to get the poster paint off her little tootsies,’ Kelly laughs. ‘I had no idea she’s so ticklish. Every time I tried to get near her toes, she squealed and squirmed like piglet. Bathtime took an hour! Don’t know how I’m going to get the paint out of her clothes.’

  I circle my index finger on the tip of Em’s nose, making her giggle. ‘Thank you, Em,’ I coo. ‘The things a girl goes through for her art!’ In response, Em proffers her soggy sausage stump in front of my face.

  Shane grins broadly. ‘Count yourself lucky, Mel! No-one else got offered a bite.’

  Laughing, I get up and blue-tack the poster across the front of Jack’s fridge. When I come back to the table, the conversation has moved on to laundry.

  ‘Just do the same with her clothes, Kell. Soak ’em first for an hour in sudsy water, then bung them in the washing machine. It’s what I do every Tuesday after Art Afternoon,’ Jack advises.

  Janeen nods. ‘Jack’s right. Poster paint isn’t too much trouble, although it’s best to get it before it dries. Just keep Em away from the felt tips though. There’s no getting that off, is there Caro?’

  Caro smiles through a mouthful of cheesy bun.

  ‘Nope! Don’t even think about answering with your mouth full of cheesy bun!’ teases Jack. Caro clamps her lips together and forces herself not to laugh, hard to do when your mouth is crammed with fresh bread. Jack pretends he isn’t looking for a few seconds. Caro almost has herself composed when he whips around and points his index finger at her again. Poor Caro. Her face is pink with suppressed mirth.

  ‘Stop teasing her Jack, you big meanie,’ I say, but really I love the way Jack is so good with Caro. He’d make a terrific dad someday, and Janeen agrees. We’ve talked about it before. What other man knows by heart the recipes for play-doh and slime?

  Janeen’s good luck gift is practical and gorgeous. It’s a lightweight waterproof running jacket in doe-skin grey. Even though she’s been working all hours to fill pouch orders for Nandor, she’s managed to find the time to design and sew this herself. I pull it on and rush to Jack’s bathroom to look in the mirror. The jacket fits perfectly. It has reflective silver piping on the zippers and sleeves, pockets for keys and coins, and is long enough to hide my bum. I dash back to the dining room with my verdict.

  ‘Janeen, I love it!’ I gush, twirling around and displaying her gift for everyone to see. ‘It’ll be ideal for training. Thank you so much.’ I give her a bear hug. I can see she’s pleased by my reaction. When she pulls away, her eyes pass over the jacket, and fix on the left pocket. That’s where I find Caro’s card: a digitised picture of herself on a horse, presumably taken at the riding arena. She’s given herself a speech bubble which says ‘Aunty Mel, your the best.’ Janeen throws her eyes to the ceiling when I open it, but honestly, what’s a little grammatical error when your goddaughter thinks you’re the best?

  ‘D’you like my card, Aunty Mel?’ says Caro, who has finally managed to swallow her mouthful of cheese bread.

  ‘It’s terrific, Caro.’

  ‘I made it myself at school.’

  ‘You made this? Caro, you are clever. It looks so professional. Doesn’t it look, professional?’ I say, passing it around to the others. When the card reaches Jack, he studies it hard, turning it over in his hands pensively before asking exactly how she made it. Huddling together, their heads touching over the card, Caro chatters to Jack about inserting pictures into Word documents, brochure templates and clip art. Most people turn off when kids are rabbiting on, but not Jack. Jack genuinely listens. Right now his face is all concentration and he’s nodding as if Caro is describing Rutherford’s method for splitting the atom. The sight of the two of them makes my heart melt. Over their heads, the other adults throw me conspiratorial grins.

  At last Jack announces, ‘A vote! All those who think Caro’s card deserves a Jellytip?’ Everyone’s hand (including Em’s fistful of mangled sausage) shoots into the air and Caro beams with pride. Jack takes the box of ice creams out of the freezer, and passes one to each of us. Then he sticks Caro’s card on the fridge, in pride of place alongside Em’s running footprints.

  25

  I watch Annalise’s patent kitten heels sink in the soft turf as she stalks off to the Sportzgirl tent, intent on aerating the entire park. Martine, sensibly dressed in a pair of scuffed Doc Martens, scurries along behind, toting a bulky canvas carry-all and a very scribbled-on clipboard. Further back still, photographer Craig trudges across the paddock lugging his camera, juggling the lighting gear, a tripod, and over his right shoulder, Annalise’s glossy patent handbag that Her Grumpiness has inadvertently left behind. Although, it’s possible Annalise left it behind on purpose. I wouldn’t put it past her. I can just hear her remarking to her Annalise-like cronies on a Friday night in the wine-bar, ‘Such an exhausting day darlings, an entire gaggle of little underlings in my employ. It’s so difficult finding things for them to do….’

  We’ve just shot some publicity stills for Kirsten featuring me wearing the all-important azure-orange keyhole crop and matching boy-short, but I’ve excused myself from the clean-up so I can nip across to the porta-potties before the race begins.

  Today’s event, the first Racing Feat challenge, is being staged in Tauranga’s Memorial Park, a sprawling old-fashioned city park on three hectares of central prime waterfront land, built back in the day before self-seeking city councillors and hard-nosed developers had any inkling of how valuable the land would be.

  Nowadays, the park accommodates the tiny metropolitan swimming baths, an elaborate feature fountain, flower beds, children’s play areas, a skateboard bowl, various sports clubrooms, a miniature train track and a mini-golf course, all haphazardly arranged around a crumbling Humpty Dumpty statue repaired and repainted as many times as the nursery character himself. It’s a lovely venue with lots of activities for families to enjoy before and after the event.

  A steady crowd has been forming since we wrapped up the photo-shoot, probably the result of a week of radio publicity. Even the mayor mentioned us during his Mayor’s Monday Minute on the radio. Said he might pop down to watch. He also waxed lyrical about the benefits to be gained from our beautiful city being the focus of a prime-time show. Indeed, today’s five kilometre route passes right through the CBD, starting here at the park, going through town on the main road, along the Strand waterfront, up the hill past the overstuffed Monmouth Street Police Station, then through the antique rose gardens, around the colonial tree-lined grounds of the Elms Mission House, and back along the same route to Memorial Park. Because Sportzgirl’s head office is here, all the challenges will be held in the Bay of Plenty. It’s a terrific opportunity to showcase somewhere other than the main centres. I look around for a
glimpse of the mayor. I don’t see him, but the park is teeming with families now.

  The porta-potties are located in the car park of the indoor netball court. While in the queue I introduce myself to Carline Spick, who dances through the introductions jumping from one foot to the other like a tribal witchdoctor.

  ‘Oooh, don’t you look as cool as a cucumber,’ she says to me. ‘I’m so nervous. Imagine, the whole country watching us. I’ve had to go twice already.’ She inclines her head in the direction of the porta-potty. ‘You don’t think it could be something to do with the Mexican food I ate last night, do you? Beef, beans, cheese and sour cream,’ she says. I shudder. Carline is too busy jiggling to notice. ‘I was so wound up last night, I couldn’t bring myself to cook, so Greg made dinner. I didn’t have the heart not to eat it. Now, I guess I’m suffering for it.’ My own stomach flutters, no doubt remembering the two sausages, cheesy bun, assorted salad and jellytip ice cream I consumed last night.

  ‘No, I’m sure it’s not that,’ I tell her, since there’s not much she can do about it at this point and stewing over it is only going to make it worse. ‘Probably nerves.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Absolutely. You should’ve seen me at my first catalogue shoot. I was a miserable wreck. Had to go dozens of times. Once the event is underway, you’ll be fine. Anyway, no-one is going to be eliminated this time so why not have fun? Leave the worrying until the next event.’

  The door of the porta-potty opens. A lanky youngster and an offensive pong waft out. I take a step back as poor Carline takes a step forward.

  ‘You’re right. What’s the point in worrying? Hey, you have a good run now. It was so nice to meet you, Melanie.’

  On my way back to the Sportzgirl tent, I take some deep oxygenating breaths to de-smellify my lungs and to calm my own nerves, although I’m less affected than Carline. I pass by Racing Feat’s Race Director Tony Bloxham, near the children’s play area. Bloxham is wearing a high-buttoned beige shirt, beige pants and a too-high belt giving an impression of a pair of linked breakfast sausages. He’s talking theatrically to himself, the way a homeless person might. Alongside Bloxham, his petite Indian wife waves to their children on the miniature railway. Over the sound system Plumley booms a five minute call for competitors, so I scurry back to the Sportzgirl tent to allow Annalise a last minute fiddle with my outfit and Martine a chance to cake another layer of makeup on me. Olaf gives me a final rousing pep-talk and then it’s off to the start line.