by Murray, Lee
‘He’s a far cry from Ants, isn’t he? She’s pretty taken with him.’
‘You right. He’s definitely not Ants. It’s funny. I see Nandor more as the radical Greenpeace activist-type than a market gardener.’
‘I know. Apparently, he used to work at the aluminium smelter at Bluff. I can just picture him as an outspoken union member. Janeen says he came up here to get away from an awful domestic situation.’
‘Kids?’
‘Uhuh. It’s nasty. He doesn’t get to see them anymore.’
‘Poor bastard. That’s gotta be tough.’
‘Janeen’s thinking of introducing him to Caro.’
‘Look,’ Jack whispers suddenly. A frail white-haired lady in a floral bathing costume has just emerged from the change room. There’s a hush as everybody in the pool watches as she totters to the pool’s edge where she’s joined by a thin equally-aged man in pair of Bobby Darren swimming trunks. They’re straight out of the 1950s. All that’s missing is the flowery rubber swim cap. Gripping his arm in support, the woman descends the steps to the pool. The action complete, the other bathers resume their conversations.
‘There we are in 40 years time,’ Jack says fondly.
No need to wait 40 years, I’m wrinkly now. I hold my hands palm up out of the water, and show Jack my soggy digits. Time to go.
44
I’m three kilometres into the run trying hard to get into my usual suck, suck blow rhythm. Beside me the regular slap of Fran’s trainers is helping, but the mass of runners in front is pulling me forward like free tastings at Kerikeri’s Matakana Chocolate outlet. I can’t seem to find my own rhythm.
‘Slow down, Mel!’ says Fran beside me. ‘Run your own speed and forget about the people in front. Remember, you haven’t done this distance before. The idea is to eke out your energy so you have just enough, and nothing left over.’
‘Hooky,’ I huff. It’s good advice. Fran’s completed over thirty half-marathons, which in my book makes her a half-marathon guru. Mind you, the half-marathon distance wasn’t what Fran’s physio was recommending for this weekend, given her recent return to running. But Fran runs closer to my pace than the other Road Runners so she volunteered to mentor me through my first distance event. I’m truly grateful to have someone dedicated to seeing me through 21km. Runners, the people, are really really nice.
‘Mel, did you have breakfast?’ Except she’s starting to sound a lot like Olaf.
‘Uhuh. Bowl of oatmeal blow and banana blow with skim. Coffee blow and water,’ I say in staccato bursts. It’s the pre-event breakfast listed on Charlie’s diet plan, which I’ve been trying to stick to (apart from the odd relapse into ice cream addiction.)
‘Perfect. You’ll have plenty in the tank. We’ll make sure we top up your fuel with a carbohydrate squeezy at about 16km, setting you up for a comfortable finish.’ She makes it sound easy. I try to filter out the people around me and find my own pace.
Today is sunny and freezing, although the forecast predicted light breezes. That’s weather-speak for howling blimmin’ gale. The wind is whipping at my face, stinging my skin and making my eyes water. I’m thankful for my thermal top and the fluffy woollen hat protecting my poor ears.
Earlier, when I finished my third pre-race toilet stop (a trick I learned in the aftermath of the Blue Lake run) Annalise’s body language indicated severe displeasure with my choice of outerwear. Her lips pursed, revealing great gouges under her upturned nose. I didn’t dare mention her dermal fillers could do with a touch-up (she is my boss), but I was tempted. It isn’t realistic to run without thermal gear on a glacial day like today. The skimpy custard-yellow ensemble underneath my winter woollies may look sunny and cheerful, but it doesn’t keep out the cold. Fortunately, Martine helped ol’ Snooty-Booty see reason, and in return I promised to take off my winter coveralls before entering the finish chute.
Lovely Fran has moved in front of me now, acting as a wind-block as we approach the first water station. Over-jovial volunteers hold out the blessed nectar. I’m about to wave it away, but I remember Tim’s advice from a couple of Sundays back.
He said: ‘Slow right down, or even walk, at the drink stations. Take on as much fluid as you can. It doesn’t slow you down as much as you think, and it saves all the drink station people from holding out cups all day for nothing. Here’s the trick for drinking out of a waxy cup, Melanie. If the cup is full to the brim, tip a little out, then close the cup by pushing the top edges together. Fold one corner over and then open half of the cup up again. You’ll have made a little spout to drink through. That way you can drink while moving without spilling liquid down your front.’ Then Karl had added, ‘Wet t-shirt exhibition. Phwoar!’ At which point, Scottie’d thrown him a warning look.
Fran slows for a drink so I accept a goblet, too. It’s plastic. I skilfully pour half the liquid down my front. Yeeck. Luckily, I still have my thermal on, so I’m spared the ignominy of Karl’s prediction.
‘The boys forgot to let me in on the trick for drinking out of a plastic cup.’
‘There isn’t one,’ says Fran as she takes a noisy slurp from her own goblet. A few metres on we splash the last of the water on the road and throw our cups away. They make a satisfying boing as they hit the curb.
Bryce and Mark go by us in the other direction. They have already passed the first turnaround point so they’re ahead by about a kilometre. They give us a cheer. Mark sticks out his hand for a high-five on his way past. That little slap is as effective as Prozac.
Today’s run is shaped like a hairpin with the Mount at its apex. It starts from the Surf Club at the base of the Mount and goes out and back parallel to the ocean, then out and back for half a length of Pilot Bay on the port side of the peninsula, before looping the Mount base track. And then, heaven help us, we have to complete the entire course again. On the plus side, there are plenty of opportunities to spot and re-spot fellow runners. For example, at the moment Big Karl, Aaron and Sparkles are ahead of us with Rico, whereas Scottie and Gavin are about a kilometre behind.
A number of friends are supporting me from the roadside: Tim, who’s not running is hanging around the surf club carrying supplementary thermals and emergency squeezy fuel packets, Janeen and Caro, who waved enthusiastically from their blanket on the grassy bank opposite the Memorial Cenotaph, and Shane and Kelly who’ve promised to be stationed somewhere on the base track.
Ben and Charlie could possibly be here, too. ‘We might come down and take a gawp at your famous race, Mel,’ Ben teased when he and Charlie rang to wish me luck. Also on the course (and in my corner) is my man, lovely understanding Jack, who is lurking discreetly on the surf club balcony. I give him a little wave right before Fran and I switch from the ocean side to the port side. As we make the return down Pilot Bay, I pinpoint Sione, in front by 500m. Carline and Simon are behind me, running together, and further back still is Asteroïde.
My fitness has really improved. I’m in no danger of giving out after a few kilometres like a small appliance the day after the guarantee expires. I’m no longer dragging every ragged breath into my lungs and my legs don’t burn time every time the terrain rises. And occasionally, lately, I’ve been able to get out of bed, stand directly upright and make it all the way to the bathroom without using an old man’s shuffle like I did a couple of months ago. Running isn’t easy, but it’s definitely becoming easier, especially if I plod along at a comfortable talking pace and enjoy the scenery. Olaf says there should be a place for this kind of joyful running in every programme.
The latter half of our second lap is a different story. Up until now, Fran has pushed me on the straights, especially when the wind’s been behind me. It’s been a good strategy because here around the Mount the trail is gnarly and undulating, difficult to pick up the pace, let alone hold a comfortable rhythm. I’m feeling cranky and jaded. Even my sugar shot, and the cheery wave I got from Janeen and Caro, didn’t seem to help. I’m well prepared for this event. I know I am.
But anything over 17km is new territory for me and naturally scary. I’m feeling as worn out as Colin Farrell’s mattress. I could be on the slopes of Mount Ventoux in the last week of the Tour de France. I try to pin Fran down on the remaining distance.
‘5.63km.’
‘Oh, come on, Fran.’
‘It doesn’t matter how far. It’s whatever it is to get to the end of the race. It’s not as if you’re going to stop this close to the finish line and pack a sad, is it?’ I’m so tempted. I pull a face.
‘You’re doing great, Melanie. Convince your brain this is a piddling three kilometre run, starting…from…now! Mind over matter, hon. Straighten your back, lighten your step and let’s plug our way to the finish.’ She’s right. I’ve come this far. I don’t have to finish heaving and breathless either, because I haven’t made any stupid time predictions. I’m hoping for a half-marathon time of under two hours. Fran says we’ll be close to that. All I have to do is finish. I’ll slow down and keep going, that’s what I’ll do. If I keep moving, then I’ll get there. I take solace in the next couple of little descents, because Olaf says they’re excellent periods for micro-recovery.
Up this little hill. Recover on the way down.
Next little rise. Recover on the down.
On the last hill, it’s Fran who slows down. Because of her injury, she hasn’t done enough training, but as a determined runner (read stubborn) she’s not admitting anything.
‘I’m going to drop back now, Melanie. I’m not keen to be seen on national television in a pair of compression pants, thanks very much. You give it everything you can for a good finish. I’ll be just behind you.’ I throw her a grateful grin and take off on my own over the last rise, and through the gate (held open by a boy scout frigid with cold.) From here, I can see the finish line by the Surf Club and hear the muffled announcements that sound like underwater whale-speak from this distance. I’ve nearly finished. I’m about to complete a half-marathon! That is, a run with the word marathon in it. I wish Colin were here to see me.
At the last minute, I remember my promise to slip off my warm gear and reveal my Tweety-inspired get-up for the cameras. I cast off my cosy hat, heaving it over the fence (to retrieve later), then helter-skelter down the last flight of stairs and onto the boardwalk. Only 150m left to run.
Hey, there’s Asteroïde out in front of me. Wait a minute, she can’t possibly be in front of me! She was behind me when I started my final loop of the Mount. She definitely didn’t pass me. She must’ve taken a bloody shortcut. I bet she’s missed the Mount base track entirely, snuck through the camping ground, and come out in front.
Cheat!
Thinking black thoughts, I do battle with my stupid thermal, dragging it off one arm, then the other, then over my head.
Can’t see. Can’t see.
There we go. I look up to see sneaky cheaty Asteroïde crossing the finish line. I fling my thermal off to my right, but the daft thing is picked up by the wind, catching my foot.
Faaaalling.
Whump! I land painfully on the boardwalk, my right knee twisted under me. Yeeow! Blinking away tears, I notice the announcements have stopped. There’s an ominous hush. Intuitively, I know cameras are pointing at me, waiting to record my glorious finish and rewarded instead with my indecorous plonk on the planks. I struggle to my feet, supporting myself on one of the rope-strung bollards intended to keep beach-goers off the regenerating dunes.
Oh cripes, that hurts.
Hobbling to the finish, I look up and see Jack on the balcony of the Surf Club, his fist in his mouth. Olaf, looking anxious, runs toward me from the finish line.
Less whale-like now, Tony Bloxham’s voice reaches me. ‘It looks like she’s okay. She’s favouring her right knee. Yes, she’s limping, but making a brave effort to reach the finish. Let’s hope that’s not a serious injury. How about giving her some encouragement people? Big round of applause...’
Damn! Brave effort required, Melanie. Don’t cry. But it’s so sore! I’m mustn’t wince because a grimace won’t look attractive on camera. Everyone’s applauding me. All I want to do is crawl under a rock and lick my wounds. But before you can say ‘Bibbity bobbity boo’ Fran’s beside me, egging me on. Clearly, she’s forgotten that she’s wearing compression pants.
‘Come on, Mel. Nearly there.’ And she runs with me as I limp across the line to a round of applause from the crowd.
Asteroïde: Reality Star Implodes. By Ross Sully
Scandal has rocked reality show Racing Feat this week as its eldest competitor Asteroïde Waters cheated, blatantly lopping 3km off the half-marathon course to finish in the leading three. In an event now referred to as ‘Watergate’ it seems her keen desire to keep pace with the younger competitors led Waters, a naturopath, to self-prescribe a course of herbal ecstasy (a legal stimulant) along with three cans of a potent caffeine-energy drink prior to the run.
While not illegal, our experts suggest this high dosage of off-the-shelf stimulants may have severely clouded Ms Waters judgement, prompting her to ‘take a short-cut’ and precipitate her arrival in the finish chute.
A close friend informs this paper that Ms Waters zeal to propel her natural vegan approach into the mainstream may have affected her better judgement and, paradoxically, brought those very lifestyle choices into disrepute.
Ends do not always justify the means, especially where cheating is involved. However, in her defence, commentators on the reality phenomenon have begun to question whether the excessive stress of reality television forces competitors to behave in ways which are out of character, whether the intense pressure of the challenges induces participants to misbehave.
Alarming figures point to a significant number of post-reality competitors suffering from severe depression as well as mental and physical exhaustion. Ms Waters has been summarily disqualified from the series. No other competitors were eliminated.
From: Brittany Bryers, Candygloss Cosmetics, [email protected]
To: Melanie Short, [email protected]
Subject: Colin Short Itinerary
Dear Ms Short,
Colin acknowledges receipt of your recent email, although Ms Grant has requested you refrain from any future use of the Candygloss address for personal business (Mr Grant Snr was particular about segregating personal correspondence and Ms Grant insists these standards be upheld). Colin has asked me to inform you he and Ms Grant will be visiting New Zealand in the near future in order to promote the new Candygloss boutique in Devonport, Auckland. Colin has expressed his interest in meeting with you at this time. I will be in contact in due course with the relevant details.
Yours Brittany Bryers
Personal Assistant to Ms Candy Grant
45
Good: ‘For those of you who’ve joined us after the break, the winner of event four, the Mount Maunganui half-marathon, was Sione Mulifanua with an overall time of 1:51:46. Mulifanua’s cumulated time predictions were only 16sec outside his actual time results. Congratulations Sione for a great effort! (Sione, embarrassed by the attention, looks at his toes.) Runner up was Sportzgirl’s Melanie Short, followed by Rotorua’s Carline Spick, NZTV’s Rico Black and lastly businessman, Simon Cleary. Many of you will be wondering about Black’s name being down the results table, given his finish time of 1:28: 28. Rico?’
Rico: ‘Yes, thanks Sabrina. The only thing I can say is I underestimated the time loss on the trip around the Mount. I should’ve run the course in advance.’
Good: ‘The rolling terrain slowed you down?’
Rico: ‘No, Wellington isn’t short of a few hills, so my training has included plenty of hill work. No, the problem was the congestion around the Mount. That’s where I lost the time. I thought I could do a comfortable 1:25, but I didn’t account for the rubber-neckers getting in the way. Turns out the base track is one of New Zealand’s busiest walks. I really should’ve done my homework.’
Good: ‘Contestants will certainly want to do their homework bef
ore our next event. It’s a demanding trail run along Whakatane’s Toi Challenge track, an event which will involve competitors Black, Mulifanua, Short, Spick and Cleary. Unfortunately, Asteroïde Waters was eliminated from the series after officials discovered the Te Puna naturopath cut 3km off the final lap of the half-marathon. Ms Waters declined our invitation to come in to the studio, but we were able to catch her earlier in the week. Here’s what she had to say.’ The studio set fades out. An aerial view of Tauranga zooms in on the Te Puna Wellness Centre, swooping through the window of the upstairs apartment. Waters is mixing a beverage at the kitchen sink.
Good: ‘Would you care to explain to viewers why you cut 3km off the half-marathon course? Was it the result of a marshalling error?’
Waters: ‘No.’
Good: ‘So you were aware you were taking a short-cut?’
Waters: ‘Yes.’
Good: ‘Were you not sufficiently prepared for the event? Did you feel unable to finish the distance?’
Waters (juts her chin in the air): ‘I should have come in first, that’s all.’
Good: ‘You expected a better time? Except your own predictions were for (she reads off her notes)… 2 hours 13 minutes and 30 seconds, a time you would’ve made if you’d continued on. Instead, you finished inside your predicted times. Even if you hadn’t cheated, your fourteen minute time differential would’ve meant elimination.’
Waters: ‘I would've had the best time, if I wasn’t the oldest. It wasn’t fair.’
Good: ‘But the time prediction system should’ve allowed you to compete with the younger runners without the need to cut corners.’
Waters (stamps her foot in frustration): ‘I am the fittest, because I’m the cleanest.’
Good: ‘The cleanest?’
Waters: ‘My diet! My diet is completely devoid of saturated animal fats. My cells are not bunged up with nasty cloying fat. They’re more efficient! They’re super-cells! Resistant to diseases like diabetes. I should have won. People need to know, they need to understand you perform better, you are better, if you are vegan.’
