by Murray, Lee
We gather in the NZTV tent adjacent to the start line (which is also the finish line.) There’s Terry (Tazza), Simon, Sione, Rico, the college girls, the new-age lady, Asteroïde, and myself. Carline is dancing about on the starting transponder line. We’re leaving in five minute intervals and she’s to be the first away. She throws me a cheery wave. I grin and wave back. Andrew Plumley does the pre-race briefing, although judging from the amount of fidgeting, most of us would prefer to get on with it.
‘Ahem. As you know, the field is mixed in terms of gender, age-group and ability, so the event scoring will be calculated according to your own estimates of the time it will take to complete the different parts of the course. In today’s case, each contestant has provided us with their time predictions...’ Someone with a clipboard gives Plumley a nudge and presents the clipboard for him to see.
‘Ms Waters, please see Hayleigh here when I’ve finished speaking to register your time predictions. Thank you. Ahem. Each of you has given us your best estimate of the time you expect to run past the five recording points; the first at Red Square in the centre of town, the second at the Maori waka on the northern end of the Strand, another at the Elms historic chapel, then again at Red Square – because it’s an out-and-back course – and finally, at the finish line here at Memorial Park. Transponder strips bisect the route at these points. The winner of the event is the person who is best able to predict their actual running time. Ahem. We’ve chosen to calculate the results this way, so the faster or fitter people don’t automatically win. It’s a kind of handicapping.’
And presumably all sorts of unexpected things can pop up during an event which might affect the actual times; the odd ornery hill, a convoluted trail, pot-hole, twisted ankle, disgruntled college student toting a paintball gun...
‘Ahem. Naturally, wearing any kind of time-piece will result in immediate disqualification,’ Plumley says sternly. I’ve already tucked my watch in my sports bag, but to be on the safe side, I check my wrist again.
‘Ahem. Marshals posted along the route will ensure none of you are, ahem, assisted by supporters who might be tempted to give you time information. Because of the staggered start times, today’s challenge is atypical. There’ll be no point deductions for the last competitor to finish; those penalties come into effect at the next event. And of course, today’s event is not an elimination round.’ Loud clapping from the back.
‘Ahem. Each week the time points will be tallied with the viewer votes and a final score reached for each contestant.’
I’m pleased popularity counts toward the final result. It adds an element of unpredictability. One year the British version of Dancing with the Stars included a highly popular contestant who couldn’t dance to save himself. He was so bad even a doused dog having a shake-down could outdance him, but the likeable fellow kept getting voted back and back. The public loved his quirky try-hard performances. I’m hoping the billboard recognition factor will work in my favour, at least for the first few races, and afterwards I’ll give one or two scintillating on-screen interviews which should wow the audience with my charisma, too.
‘Ahem. I’d like to wish all of you the very best of luck in the challenges to come over the next few weeks. In the immortal words of…those immortal words of...on with the show!’
Weak applause rises from the crowd and then Tony Bloxham takes over the sound system and starts the count-down.
‘FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE and they’re off in the first ever Racing Feat event. Leading them out is Rotorua business owner and mother-of-three, Carline Spick. I had a wee talk with Carline before the race and she tells me she’s been training hard in the run up to this event: jogging, doing Pilates and watching her food intake. She expects her time to be slow, but consistent. More tortoise than hare, she says. I guess we’ll see whether that policy pays off later in the race. Good luck, Carline!’ We watch as Carline traverses the park and makes her way over the curb toward Devonport Road and town.
‘Karen Thompson will be the next contestant to start, ladies and gentlemen,’ says Bloxham. ‘This young lady is one to watch. Just 16 years of age and running on behalf of the Community Foodbank. Karen’s been training regularly in the school gym and on the sports field. But our Karen’s not just a sporty chick. She also plays the cello and is a member of her school barbershop choral team. Here we go now, let’s count her in people, give this young lady a big send-off, FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE….’
Karen leaps away the instant the gun sounds, her long, tapered girl’s legs free of wobbly cellulite, advancing in confident strides. A cacophony of teenagers chants ‘KAR-REN, KAR-REN at the top of their voices, as if she were the rock star of the moment. In a few minutes the blue and grey colours of her Phys Ed gear vanish around the corner. The noise dies away in the same instant.
‘Look at her go, ladies and gentlemen. What a competitor!’
Karen’s classmate goes next. Shorter than her friend, Julie is more of a zebra than a gazelle, with thick ankles and an unfortunately wide bottom. She heads out at a heavy canter. The frantic screeching restarts, this time with the mantra JU-LIE, JU-LIE, JU-LEEE and stops as soon as the teenager reaches the corner and disappears from view.
Next it’s Asteroïde. She’s been limbering up at the edge of the course, stretching, doing jumping jacks and touching her toes. I watch as she swallows a handful of capsules with a swig from her water bottle. She catches me looking and shoots me a steely look.
Weird!
The gun signals her start and she does two more full toe-touches before she deigns to set off as if she’s got all the time in the bloody world. Still, I can’t be thinking about her anymore because Hayleigh is pushing me to the start line, handing Bloxham the clipboard with her thumbnail notes about me.
‘Last of the ladies and this one needs no introduction. You’ve seen her on billboards all over the country. It’s,’ Bloxham checks the notes, ‘Tauranga’s own Melanie Short! Now, in spite of what you might think, Melanie here has only recently taken up running and she’s taking this challenge very seriously, so seriously I understand she’s working with a personal trainer to help improve her fitness.’
Bloxham is right. I’m taking this challenge very seriously. My future hangs on the outcome of this series. I can hardly wait to get running.
At the start line, I’m as jittery as Carline. Leaned up against the rope barrier that separates the competitors from the spectators, Olaf is shouting instructions, although I can’t hear a word. His face has turned purple with effort and veins are sticking out in his neck. I must look the same, pumped up with excitement and terror.
‘Let’s give Melanie an example of real Tauranga home-town support shall we? Count down now with me…FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE!
BANG!
Blimmin heck! I’m off.
26
Still blowing hard, I fold myself over and put my head between my knees, letting blood and relief wash back toward my brain and revive me. I suck in some deep breaths, controlling the air as I exhale, slowing my heartbeat and infusing myself with calm. Around me the air is full of shouts and applause. People jostle past me in every direction, as if I were an acrobat’s plate on a stick to be kept twirling. At the edge of my consciousness, Bloxham’s voice booms incoherently like an alarm clock. A familiar voice rouses me.
‘Mel, over here.’
I raise my head and see Shane shouldering his way through the crowd. Shane’s a hardwood tallboy: dense, immovable and built to last. To look at his oversized frame, you’d think he’d be slow and inexorable, like lumber floating downstream, but according to Jack nothing could be farther from the truth. On the bike, Jack says Shane’s all explosive power, like a battering ram.
‘Hey Shane. Thanks for coming down.’ I reach up and give him a quick hug. He’s slick with sweat and his hair is flat where he’s removed his cycling helmet. His beige t-shirt advertises the Matapihi timber fascia fabricant where he’s the company foreman, while his black bike
shorts have the letters NZ emblazoned in white across his rear.
‘Congratulations Melanie. Sorry, I’m a bit sweaty..’
‘Don’t sweat it, so am I!’ I giggle.
‘Great run, sweetheart! Jack and I saw you on that last stretch at the top of Devonport Road. You probably didn’t see us. We were standing on the corner by the church? You had your head down, looking focused. I was cheering so loud I almost went deaf inside my helmet. If I need a hearing aid later, I’m sending you the bill.’
‘Thanks, Shane. That’s so kind.’
‘Hey did you win the time thingy?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ I glance briefly over the sea of heads to see if the results are posted on the projector screen. They’re taking a long time. ‘They should be announcing the results soon. How was this morning’s ride?’
‘Pretty good, yeah. I did okay. But Jack, shit, he had an unbelievable ride.’ Shane lays his index finger against his nose. ‘He might’ve been tanked up on nervous energy on your behalf. Stormed up Rocky Cutting Road like a bull elephant, did our Jack. Could’ve pulled the entire cast of the Biggest Loser up in his wake.’ Shane catches me looking over his shoulder for my man. ‘He’s waiting over at the play equipment with Kelly and Emma. Heaps of kids from school are here apparently, and Jack’s trying to keep a low profile. He’s not keen on doing a stream of impromptu parent interviews. You know how it is.’
‘Yes. I do,’ I laugh, getting a flashback of Moontide bikini.
‘He’s chuffed for you, Melanie. But he’s not the kind to come swooping in and steal your thunder, is he? Sees himself as more of a supporter. Wind Beneath Your Wings and all that.’ Suddenly, Shane looks embarrassed. His complexion has gone from walnut to polished cherry. ‘Anyway, I said I’d find you and tell you where he was.’
‘That’s okay. Thanks. I’ll know where to find him later.’
‘I’m off now to get them both a take-out coffee. Kell has press-ganged Jack into giving her a few minutes break from chasing the baby. Em’s walking around the furniture now and getting into everything. While I was out cycling, the little minx squished a piece of toast in the CD player. Kell said it took her half the morning to clean it out. The joys of parenthood, aye? That’ll be you and Jack soon enough, I reckon….Cripes Melanie, I’ve been monopolising you. Looks like the media want to talk to our newest star. I won’t hold you up. I just wanted to say congratulations for me and Kell, you know? You did great. You’ve made us all proud.’ The white NZ on Shane’s shorts flashes as he steps away.
‘Ms Short? Ross Sully. Sunday inSight. And this is my photographer, Gary Frame. A quick interview if you please.’
‘Of course,’ I say, smiling widely, although something in Mr Sully’s tone seems less than pleased. I straighten my back, suck in my stomach, smile sweetly.
Think famous, think famous, think famous.
‘Congratulations on the first win of the series, Ms Short,’ says Sully.
‘I won? Oh, that’s incredible. Thank you,’ I gush. ‘Yes, obviously I’m delighted. It’s such a surprise to win. It’s been a wonderful day; getting to meet the other competitors, running this terrific, historic course, and the turnout by Tauranga has been truly exceptional. I think we’re all overwhelmed by the response.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are. You’re a local, I believe?’
I laugh. ‘So local I walked here. I can almost see my apartment from where we’re standing.’
‘I see. Do you think your living in close proximity to the event location gave you an advantage over the other contestants? A home team advantage? For all we know, you could’ve run this course a hundred, indeed a thousand times, and timed yourself each time. You could’ve known down to the very last second how long it takes you to do this route.’ A stab of indignation hits me in the chest. This Sully individual is implying I cheated. Cheated! And now he’s trying to goad me into making a confession. Well, I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.
‘Yes, technically that’s true, Mr Sully, but I hardly think I had a serious advantage. The route was only announced a week ago. I couldn’t possibly have guessed where the electronic recording devices would be set up.’ Well done, Melanie. Dignified and above reproach.
‘But you’ve run the course before?’
‘Actually, no.’
‘Part of the course, then?’
‘No.’
‘It’s step-outside-your-door close and yet you tell me you’ve never run this route before in your life?’
‘No, never.’
‘Oh, come on. You expect people to believe that, Ms Short?’
‘It’s the truth.’ Teeth clenched, I bite back a rude retort. It does not do to piss off the media. Thankfully, Sully appears to have exhausted that particular line of questioning.
‘Why don’t you tell our readers about the charity you are supporting, Ms Short? Riding for the Disabled, I believe?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I smile my most benevolent smile. ‘A worthy cause.’
‘Oh, undoubtedly. Would you care to explain to our public the role of the Riding for the Disabled group? In your own words?’
‘Oh. Yes…they… have horses and saddles…and riding gear and people who know how to ride horses and…they provide…’ I could kick myself. Why didn’t I get the run-down from Caro before the series started? I had the manager lady on the phone just the other day, too. ‘…opportunities for...’
‘…for the disabled to ride, perhaps?’ smirks Sully.
‘Exactly. For the disabled to ride.’
‘Mmm. A couple more questions, if you don’t mind, Ms Short.’
‘Of course. I mean, of course not. Go ahead, Mr Sully.’ I force myself to produce that wide smile again.
‘Do you think you’re appropriately dressed for a prime-time show?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Are you aware your bum cheeks are exposed when you run in those shorts?’
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
‘It’s okay, I got it,’ says Sully. ‘No comment, right?’ Smirking on one side of his face, Mr Smarmy closes his notebook and pops it in his top shirt pocket.
Short and Curlies? By Ross Sully
Today witnessed the kick-off race in the reality series, Racing Feat, a show aimed at increasing awareness of the need for the bulk of New Zealanders to get off their paisley couches and get their bodies moving to prevent obesity and obesity-related diseases. Staged in Tauranga’s CBD, the 5km race was won by apparel retailer Sportzgirl’s Melanie Short. Short, clearly benefitting from a local advantage, started out slowly, but made up time in the latter stages, beating out Auckland’s Sione Mulifanua and former NZTV cameraman Rico Black in the timed points event. Short’s accessibility to the circuit in the weeks leading up to the run would have made it easy for her to predict her run time, an aspect organisers evidently overlooked. That aside, perhaps the most controversial aspect of the day’s racing was Ms Short’s skimpy attire, an azure and orange ensemble which at best barely covered the contestant’s derrière, and at times, did not. Ms Short’s shorts were too short, over-exposing viewers to jigglier parts of her anatomy. Given the wide appeal of reality television, and the prime-time programming of the show, one could expect the Broadcasting Standards Commission will be inundated with calls of unsuitability in Short order.
27
Hours later I’m so sore I’m moving like a Neanderthal, knees bent, back aching, and my arms held out from my body. I open the door gingerly and Janeen charges in, dumping her overnight bag on the floor and drowning me in a torrent of praise and adulation.
‘Oow!’
‘Mel, honey I’m so proud of you. Ohmigod, I was screaming so loud I nearly lost my voice, especially when you came back past the Craft Barn that second time. You must’ve heard me. I wanted the whole town to know I’m your best friend. I mean, the distance you made up on her with the bird’s-nest hair. You were incredible!’ She pulls away and looks about. ‘Jack
here?’
‘He’s coming over later and bringing Chinese. I told him I couldn’t be bothered cooking.’
‘I don’t blame you, the effort you put in today. Put your feet up, Mel. You’ve earned it.’ That said, Janeen plops herself down on the sofa and puts her feet on the coffee table.
I’m rather pleased with myself. Not only have I managed a stay of execution on my apartment, but I’ve taken up a new sport, got myself on television (I will have when the programme airs in a couple of days) and I’ve improved my personal exposure. Not a bad day at the office. I feel so good I ignore the fact that Janeen has her feet on my coffee table.
‘Hey, what’s that under your arm?’ Leaping up, Janeen grabs my hand and lifts my arm above my head.
‘Oow! Careful. It’s a graze. It’s been stinging ever since the run. It was worse in the shower.’ Janeen inspects my underarm area.
‘No wonder it stung. Your skin is raw. It’s starting to go all weepy.’
I twist my arm backwards for a look. In the fleshy part under my armpit an angry red graze has erupted and clear yellowy lava is oozing from the wound. It stings even more now I can see it. How do you get a graze on your arm from running anyway? You run with your legs, for goodness sake!
‘It’s a friction burn caused by contact with your clothes,’ says Janeen.
‘Of course, I was in contact with my clothes!’ I say. ‘You have to be in contact with your clothes when you wear them, otherwise you’re not wearing them. You’d be naked!’
