by Murray, Lee
‘I’d like to join,’ I say. ‘If you’ll have me. How much is it?’
‘Thirty five dollars. Give it to Bryce. He’s our Treasurer which means he’s in charge of buying the biscuits. Try to be nice to him so he’ll buy us chocolate ones.’
‘We’re the only running club that gives you tea and bikkies after a run,’ says Steve.
‘We do other stuff, too,’ says Gavin.
Tim pipes up. ‘We sometimes team up for events. We did the Whangamata Walk/Run Festival at the end of last year. Rented a bach over there and some of the wives came, too.’
‘We usually go down to Taupo for the half-marathon. Pile in someone’s car and share the cost of the gas. Or Aaron over there picks us up a car from the yard.’ Aaron is the quiet one, a mild-mannered Clark Kent. He’s hardly said boo all morning, but you get the impression he might do something heroic if circumstances demand.
‘Taupo half was a stinker last year, wasn’t it?’
‘Weather was ugly. Teeming down.’
‘Remember that year Rhys went down with us? Fell in a culvert?’
Once again the group breaks into spasms of laughter as they rehash the mishaps of poor Rhys, a member some 12 years ago who gave up running after stuffing his back. He still comes down occasionally for coffee. I sip my tea and listen to their banter, marvelling that a whole year’s membership costs less than 30 minutes of torture with Olaf. No offense to Olaf, but that’s good value for money. And Olaf doesn’t allow biscuits either.
All too soon we’re packing up the chairs and washing the cups ready to stow in the cupboard for next week. Tim got the short straw and he’s taking home the dirty tea-towel to wash and dry for next time.
‘Nice to have you with us, Melanie,’ says Scottie.
‘See you next week, then.’
‘Hey, Melanie. Your turn next week to bring the milk.’ They all hop into their cars and pull out of the lot and I’m thinking how am I going to run on my own after that?
34
‘It’s that English chef, the naked one, who’s a runner,’ says Ben. Jack and I are at Charlie and Ben’s watching the cricket.
‘No,’ says Charlie, ‘you’re thinking of his wife, Jules. She does the odd fun run which the women’s magazines cover.’ Who coined that term, I wonder? Fun run? Total oxymoron.
‘The other one, then.’ Ben rests his chin on the back of his hand in the classic thinker pose. ‘The kitchen nightmare guy. Used to be a soccer player…’
‘Gordon Ramsay?’ Jack ventures.
‘Yeah, that’s the one. Gordon Ramsay…FUCK!’ screeches Ben, leaping off the couch and adopting a haka-ready stance. ‘Did you see that? Flynn just whacked it for six. Late cut straight over third man and into the stands. Beautiful! Look, here comes the replay.’
Given the game of 20/20 cricket (India versus the Black Caps) is being projected onto a screen only marginally smaller than the surface area of Africa, there’s not much chance that either Jack, perched on the arm of my chair, or Charlie, three metres away at the kitchen island, could possibly miss the action replay.
Normally, I’d expect Ben and Charlie’s weekend television viewing to be more extreme, like Fear Factor or Man vs Wild, or an attempt on the world land speed record. Cricket seems way too tame for Ben, who’s the type that thrives on risk. His motto for life is probably ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Ben’s hero is the Kiwi fisherman who catches swordfish by diving out of a moving aircraft, pouncing on the brutes and wrestling them into submission. Everyone else thinks the guy is totally wacko, but not Ben. Ben sees the entrepreneurship, the originality.
Charlie carries through a tray of stuffed spring rolls; the translucent rice wrappers revealing Chinese mushrooms, spring onion, carrot, radish, shredded lettuce and fat pink prawns. Immediately, Ben attacks the platter, twisting a packet deep into the scarlet dipping sauce before pushing the whole morsel into his mouth.
‘These are good,’ he mumbles. “Help yourself, Jack. Don’t hold back, man.’
Charlie takes a seat beside him. ‘I remember now. It’s Gordon Ramsay who’s a runner. I read somewhere he used to be a fatty. 100 plus kilograms. Took up running to keep his weight down. He’s run the London Marathon about a dozen times, I think. I’ll bet he’s got a book out on pre-race recipes for runners.’
‘Charlie, that’s brilliant! A book. What if we were to do a coffee table book? Complement the hospitality courses? It’ll be a doddle. All we need is a photographer, since the menu development is already done. I can see it already. All glossy pages of non-fat, fab food to satisfy the globese world. What about those peanut and teriyaki skewers for the cover? They’d photograph well. Colour, texture, shape...if we pulled finger, we could launch it at food festival week. And I’ve got a mate from college who’s in publishing. Fucking brilliant!’ Ben says, mimicking Ramsay. He points the remote at the cricket, turning down the volume. ‘I’d better bash out some notes while I’m thinking about it. Keep an eye on the cricket for me, will you?’ Grabbing another spring roll, he whips off to his office. We hear his laptop whirr as it boots up.
Charlie groans. I can’t tell whether it’s an over-reaction to the leg bye bowled onscreen, or a pained response to Ben’s enthusiasm for yet another project. Jack gives me a swift nudge, seeing an opportunity for me to get to the point of our visit.
‘Charlie? I don’t like to bother you, but my trainer says I need a specific nutritional plan.’
Charlie groans again, but this time it can’t be the cricket, because it’s the end of an over and the bowlers are changing. Still in their creases, the Kiwi batsmen prod nervously at the turf with their bats.
‘I know it’s not a good time for you,’ I put in quickly, ‘what with the restaurant menu changes, the hospitality course franchise and now a book…’
‘Could you give Mel some advice?’ says Jack, leaning across and scooping up a second spring roll.
‘Just a few tips, would be fine,’ I witter, ‘I don’t want to put you under any pressure. I was supposed to ask you a few weeks back, but the timing didn’t seem right, but then there was the diarrhoea episode…’
‘Let me guess. You’re up Poo Creek without a paddle? Your running career is going down the toilet? The shit has hit the fan?’ He grins at Jack, the perfect stand-up audience, who grins back.
‘Charlie! I’m serious,’ I wail.
‘Sorry.’ He doesn’t look remorseful. ‘Look Mel, what you have to realise is that first and foremost I’m a chef, and not a nutritionist. And my job, as a chef, is all about taste. And taste means sometimes you might add cream or butter, or, God forbid, cream and butter, and let’s throw caution to the wind here, a heaped cup of sugar to make food taste satiny and rich. My job as a chef is to tempt people, infuse them with epicurean desire, make them salivate, make them want to eat. So you see? You’re asking the wrong person.’
‘But Charlie…’ At that moment, Ben comes back, helps himself to another canapé and turns up the volume on the cricket.
‘Since we’re talking salivating, what’s the goss on gorgeous Rico Black, Mel? Can you get us his phone number? We know someone who would die for his number, don’t we Charlie? Whoa, who took the last wicket?’
‘Varun Aaron, LBW,’ says Jack.
‘Damn.’ The men study the screen as the match statistics are up-dated.
After a moment Charlie says, ‘I’m not convinced the anti-globesity push will endure in the restaurant industry. I know it’s the talk of the moment, but I don’t buy it. People can have steamed beans and brown rice any night of the week at home, but when they go out for dinner they’re there to be seduced. That’s when food should be special because people don’t eat out every day. A restaurant meal has to be appetising and delectable, so people can play with it, savour it, and impress their friends with their good taste. Food becomes part of the entertainment.’
I’m not sure Charlie’s last speech is for my benefit. His practiced delivery suggests it could be a
view he’s expounded before now.
‘But if this skinny food thing is a fad, all the more reason to capitalise on it,’ says Ben, who has his feet up on the coffee table and is shooting the screen with the remote, channel surfing in the break before the Indian team come out to bat. Charlie stifles another groan.
‘Charlie?’
‘Eat plenty of good healthy food, Mel.’
‘But I tried that. That’s what Olaf said and look what happened.’
‘Okay. Try to cut down on excess fat and sugar. Fuel your runs with good carbohydrates; pasta or rice or potatoes the night before and porridge or a sugar-free cereal with banana the morning of your run. During the race keep your carbohydrate intake up and afterwards recover with water and electrolytes and protein for muscle repair. Make sure you get enough iron, and plenty of calcium. And be careful not to overdo the fibre. Simple really.’
‘Can you say that again in English?’ Jack laughs. He’s not wrong. Charlie may as well be speaking Gaelic. Apart from the words ‘potato’ and ‘porridge’ I haven’t understood a thing. I must look bamboozled because Charlie sighs deeply.
‘I’ll email you something okay?’
‘Thanks Charlie.’
‘We appreciate it,’ adds Jack. ‘This running caper means a lot to Mel.’
‘Just don’t forget to text us that phone number, will you Mel? There’s no such thing as a free lunch-menu,’ says Ben.
Having extracted a promise from Charlie, I bite into a spring roll, the one with the biggest prawn. That’s when the blood-chilling scream nearly chokes me.
‘GOOOGLY!’ In perfectly-choreographed living room tradition, Charlie, Ben and Jack leap in the air in unison, their mouths open, their arms outstretched, and touch down together in textbook haka formation.
35
It’s Tuesday morning and I’m running late for my metabolism-boosting early-morning round of torment with Olaf.
‘Jack! Have you seen my running shoe? One of them is missing.’
‘Did you try under the bed?’
‘I looked already. It’s not there. Someone must have moved it.’
I haven’t got time for this. I’m not dressed, I haven’t had breakfast yet and if Derek finds out I’ve missed even a minute of personal training time that Sportzgirl has paid for, he’ll have my guts for garters. I open Jack’s wardrobe, poke my foot in and shuffle through the stuff on the floor. No sign of my shoe. Where is it?
‘Mel?’ Jack puts his head through the door. ‘It’s your personal trainer on the phone.’ He hands me my phone with one hand and a mug of coffee with the other.
‘Olaf, you just caught me. I’m on my way out now,’ I fib.
‘Melanie, I am glad I’ve captured you. I’ve seen the format for the next Racing Feat event and I’ve decided to modify today’s workout. Could you meet me at the Mount main beach? Shall we say next to the Memorial Cenotaph in 15 minutes?’
‘Jaack!!’
‘Get dressed, Mel. I’ll bring the car around. There’s your shoe there. Under your jeans.’
‘Well, I never put it there!’
Jack drives while I put on my trainers, eat the toast and finish the hot coffee he’s made me.
‘Over there,’ I shout when I catch sight of Olaf’s spiky Bart Simpson haircut. I introduce Olaf to Jack. They shake hands in the manly way blokes do, then they chat standing side on, their arms folded. They’re full of macho good humour and the joys of spring. How can they be so cheery at this hour? Then Jack excuses himself, saying he’ll grab the paper and a coffee and enjoy some time-out on the beach before school. He kisses me quickly on the cheek, saying he’ll be back to pick me up in an hour.
Olaf and I take the beach access over the dunes to the start of the tiny rocky peninsula known locally as the Blowhole. In the summer, hordes of overgrown kids delight in diving from the Blowhole’s rocky outcrops, fishermen throw lines, and summertime visitors walk the track for views of the ocean, the mountain and the beach. But it’s early autumn now and the Blowhole is deserted.
‘No need for shoes today, Melanie. Leave them here and get in the water.’
‘But it’s freezing!’
‘Don’t be silly Melanie. The sea temperature hardly changes from season to season. It just feels fresh. Now get in.’
I wade in up to my knees. Shooot! Goose bumps spring up all over me. I hug myself.
‘Aren’t you getting in?’
‘No, I cannot be wet. I have another client after you. Now, you must run along the length of the beach,’ says my intrepid trainer from the relative warmth of the sand. ‘You must go a little deeper and keep the water at hip level. Pull your legs through the water against the resistance of the tide and the waves…’ I shiver. I’m going to need help from the fifth Chinese brother who swallowed the sea. ‘You should feel this workout in your quadriceps and your buttocks.’ Olaf pronounces the word buttocks the same way he says my name, in discrete syllables, but with emphasis on the Tocks. But-tocks. ‘Run in the water to that little group of rocks over there. But go deeper first.’
I eyeball the cluster of rocks about 100m away. Still wet from the night’s spray, they glisten sandy sparkles in the morning sun. Okay, it’s not far and the sand feels nice between my toes, says my Pollyanna-self.
I wade a few steps. Jeepers! It’s cold. Poking my feet into the sand to create footholds, and using my arms to drag me through the swell, I half-walk half-swim along the beach.
‘Pull with your legs,’ instructs Olaf, who’s walking parallel with me on the sand. ‘Use your thighs. And stop stooping, you’re not a little old lady.’
This is hard! My legs are on fire and freezing at the same time. I’m like hot volcanic lava hitting the ocean. I’m making the hissing sounds, too. I’m so heavy, I feel like I’m dragging the mountain down to the sea. I thought water was supposed to make you buoyant?
‘Melanie, stop cheating. Put your hands on your head. Pull those legs through the water.’ Secretly, I hope Olaf gets a sore throat. Shouting at people like that, in the chilly morning air. It’d serve him right.
But I do as he says. I put my hands on my head, like a fidgety school kid at mat time. I promptly fall on my face. I get up spluttering only to be bowled again by the next wave. The next time I get up, I check for waves first. Then I continue to inch my way toward the cluster of rocks.
A friendly golden lab bounds away from its owners and splashes into the shallow water near me, thinking if this is a game, can he join in?
‘Come on, Mack,’ call the owners.
Yeah, come on Mack, shake yourself dry beside Olaf. He has another client after me. Mack gives me an encouraging woof and bounds off after his owners.
Chicken.
‘Upright, Melanie. That’s better. This is a good exercise for you. Your core muscles are weak. You need to work on your balance and stability.’
When I finally reach the rocks my legs are trembling from exertion. I can’t believe it took so long to go just 100m.
‘Excellent work, Melanie. Now we will go sideways. Facing the waves first. Step together step. Step together step. Back to the Blowhole,’ shouts Olaf, my Personal Torturer. Oh, I know it isn’t fair to call him that because Olaf has my best interests at heart. He wants to help me win. I shouldn’t blame him for my misery. It’s just that it’s so miserable. I’m out here, in the middle of the night almost, freezing my butt off when all my friends (apart from Jack) are only now switching off their alarm clocks. I imagine Winston won’t leave for home after spending the night at his mistress’s for another hour at least. In my mind, Olaf is the physical embodiment of the all pain and despair and cold I’m enduring right now. Which is why I’m experiencing a maniacal desire to kill him.
At the end of the session I crawl up the beach and sink into the sand.
I don’t have a towel so Jack peels off his sweatshirt and hands it to me. Even cuddled into his oversized fleece, I’m shivering so hard it’s like I’m getting a free session on a Vi
bra-train machine. Olaf is jovially explaining to Jack that the workout I’ve just done is based on techniques used to train racehorses.
‘But I mustn’t keep you,’ says Olaf. ‘Melanie here will be starting to get cold and I have another client.’ Starting to get cold? I’m already gellified.
‘Y-yes,’ I say, teeth chattering. ‘Bit, c-c-cold. I d-didn’t have time for much b-b-breakfast either.’ But, Olaf doesn’t get the hint and I don’t get any jellybeans.
36
‘Aunty Mel! I’ve finished grating the cheese. I had to cut some more though because some of it accidentally fell in my mouth.’ Caro giggles. She’s seated at the breakfast bar at Jack’s, her atrophied little legs dangling into space from her perch on a high-backed stool. At the fry pan, I’m adding tomato puree to a browning mixture of onion, grated carrot and minced beef.
‘You scallywag!’ I scold in mock anger. ‘Pass me that plate quick-smart young lady or there’ll be none left for my super-dooper cheesy-weesy topping.’ Caro dutifully passes over the plate, but not before stealing a last pinch from the mound of grated cheese.
‘Yum!’
Tonight Janeen is out with Nandor and I’m not expecting her back till late, but Jack should be home in an hour when his PTA meeting finishes. Meanwhile, Caro and I are trying our hand at one of Charlie’s running menu dinners. Earlier the two of us leafed through the folder of photocopied recipes, and after Caro vetoed anything containing chickpeas, mushrooms or small dead creatures, we agreed on a beef and spinach lasagne recipe that Charlie has lifted from an old Institute of Sport cookbook.
‘What does it say to do next, hon?’
Caro consults the page and reads aloud with confidence.
‘Whisk together beaten eggs and yoghurt. Can I do that Aunty Mel? Please? I love cracking eggs.’
‘Yes, but only if you promise not to scoff any more of the ingredients?’ I rummage in Jack’s utensil drawer until I find a slightly bent whisk which I hand to my trusty assistant.
