by Murray, Lee
‘Hello Allison,’ Olaf beams, pleased to be recognised.
‘How can I help you today?’
‘It’s my client,’ says Olaf. He looks at me as if I’m a smudge on his windscreen and waves her over to look at my dead alligator.
‘Oh my,’ says Allison. ‘I see. Has she sustained any injuries?’ Olaf shakes his head no. ‘We’re not too late then...’ Leaning over suddenly, she grabs my foot, nearly sending me toppling, and examines the sole of the shoe. ‘The heel-strike wear on these shoes points to an injury waiting to happen. I gather we’re talking about running?’
‘Exactly. Running.’
‘Sprint, middle distance, or endurance?’
‘Endurance.’
‘Trail or road?’
‘Some trail, some road.’
‘Difficult,’ says Allison. Then she looks me up and down and squeezes her eyes shut in concentration. Abruptly, she opens them again and fixes me intently. ‘Of course! You’re on the television, aren’t you dear? What do you think your weight is?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Melanie, what is your weight?’ prompts Olaf.
‘Uhm. Normal. 58kg.’
‘Hmm. Okay let’s say around 60kg.’ I do not weigh 60kg. I said 58!
‘And what shoe size?’
‘Melanie?’
‘It depends on the style,’ I say. ‘In certain shoes I’m…’
But Allison interrupts. ‘Perhaps we should have your client try some shoes on, Olaf. There are some variations across the brands.’ Olaf nods vigorously. ‘Would you say she has a neutral gait?’ asks Allison.
‘Yes, I think so. In any case, I do not think she is a supinator.’ Too right. I so do not supplicate.
‘Let’s get her on the running track, shall we? Since her shoes are...damaged…it’s best if she runs in bare feet.’
Olaf instructs me to take off my shoes and makes me run up and down on the short length of rubber matting bisecting the store. I run there and back, slow and then faster, displaying myself like prime horseflesh for sale. Meanwhile, Olaf and Allison go um and ah, rub their chins and make me run up and down some more.
After enduring ten minutes of this, Olaf points me toward the treadmill which he sets to a 12.5km/hr for five whole minutes. 12.5km/hr! That’s an outright sprint! I wheeze and splutter like an old zip kettle, unable to speak. I dare not slow down either because I’ll be chucked unceremoniously backwards. Olaf seems to have forgotten about me. He’s deep in conversation with Allison.
Look. Over. Here. Hurry up, Olaf!
Finally, the treadmill reaches the cool down phase. By the time I step down my bare feet are tingling from five furious minutes of slapping the rubber belt.
‘A pronator then,’ declares Olaf. A procrastinator? I ran as fast as I could.
Allison’s climbing up a dwarf-sized step ladder, pulling boxes off the shelves and yanking the stuffing out of the middle of the shoes inside. Olaf directs me to sit down and put my socks back on. My socks are looking a tad worse for wear, too. My big toe is protruding from a perfect round hole that Janeen’s Mum would laughingly call a ‘wee potato.’
‘Try this, Melanie,’ says Allison. It’s a good shoe for your particular running style, but see how it feels.’ I put them on and bounce up and down a few times. They do feel spongy. I do a couple of lengths of the running mat in Olaf’s tiggery style, but by the second turn my feet feel like they’re suffocating. Allison opens another box and I try the next size up. My toes are still squished, but now my feet are sliding back and forth in the shoe.’
‘You have quite a wide foot. We’ll need to try something with a wider toe-box,’ says Allison.
‘What about those?’ I suggest. I point to a gorgeous pair of grey trainers with understated silver piping. ‘I bet they’ll be comfortable.’
Olaf frowns. ‘Don’t be silly. Those are walking shoes, Melanie.’
‘What about those ones?’
‘Those are basketball shoes.’
‘And those?’
‘Yoga.’
Rats.
‘Hey, I like the sound of those ones. Nike Air Pegasus. What a terrific name. I bet I could practically fly in those.’
‘Yes, those are designed for runners, Melanie, but they’re for mid-foot runners who are biomechanically efficient and don’t require a great deal of support. That isn’t you.’
‘Oh.’
‘These may suit you,’ says Allison, who’s pulled down another box and is now eviscerating its contents. Boxes, paper and rejected shoes are scattered about me. It could be Christmas morning. ‘This is the new Brooks Adrenaline GTS,’ she says. ‘We’ve only recently got this model in, and they don’t tend to stay on the shelves long, particularly in your size.’ I take the shoes from Allison, wriggle my feet to the end, twist my heels in, and wait for her to tie the shoelaces for me.
‘I’ve laced them up runners’ style, with the minimum of lacing over the mid-foot, so your feet should feel less constricted this time. See how you go,’ she says.
I walk about a bit. It’s like gliding on ice-skates, but without the scraping. I’m a hovercraft. A will-o-the-wisp. I soar across the running mat to prove to Olaf and Allison that these are the ones I’m having. They’re perfect. As perfect as Cinderella’s glass slipper, as Katherine Mansfield’s little lamp, and Harry Potter’s phoenix feather wand.
‘I always say…’ says Allison.
‘…that it’s the shoe that chooses the person and not the person who chooses the shoe. And you’re always right, Allison. Evidently, these are the ones. Melanie will take two pairs.’
‘Two pairs? You mean two shoes, Olaf. Just one pair,’ I say while bouncing up and down in my new shoes, appreciating their pogo-like sensation.
‘No. I mean two pairs, Melanie. You will need to alternate pairs if you wish to retain the springy cushioning you are enjoying there.’
I pick up a box and check the price tag on my new shoes. Fuck! These shoes are worth three matching bra and panty sets from Seduction! And Olaf wants me to buy two pairs! Two!
‘Ah, Olaf…’ But Olaf is talking to Allison, who’s scrambled back up the tiny ladder and is scanning the shelves again.
‘Allison, since this shoe has adequate heel support, and…’ He turns over a pair of display Adrenalines and examines the soles ‘…reasonable tread, we could possibly scrape by without the additional expense of trail shoes. However…’
‘Just the cross-trainers, then?’
‘You read my mind,’ he beams.
‘But Olaf…’
‘These shoes are going to be your running shoes, Melanie. They’re strictly for running. You may not use them for anything, but running. Therefore, you will need another pair of shoes for your gym workouts.’
‘Another pair? But that makes three, right? Olaf, there’s no way I can afford three pairs of shoes. That’s going to cost me…’
‘Melanie, it’s up to you, but a serious injury caused by poor feet-wear could cost you your place in the running competition,’ says Olaf. ‘But if you would prefer to save a few hundred dollars now and sacrifice an excellent opportunity to stand on the winner’s dais…’
‘I’ll take them,’ I say.
50
It’s the next day and I’ve just returned from a 15km run with the Road Runners where we took the covered rail-bridge to the Matapihi peninsula, trekked through a farmer’s field (thankfully the bull was in the far corner, but just in case I kept to the other side of big Karl), ran along a short stretch of beach that made my legs ache, clambered up onto the bridge and came back through the suburb of Maungatapu into town. As a result, the pristine white webbing of my new trainers has faded to a dull grey.
We’re back in the clubrooms now, and over coffee I ask for tips on training for a distance event. Things going well, I’ll be facing that challenge in a few weeks. No sooner have I mentioned the word marathon, than it’s as if I’ve opened Pandora’s Box and the bad things es
cape.
‘Tape your nipples,’ says Sparkles. There’s an uproar.
‘No, women don’t have to worry. It’s only men who get nipple rash,’ says Tim.
‘You should’ve seen Steve the time it rained at Rotorua,’ pipes up Alec.
‘Was that the 40th anniversary year?’
‘Yeah. He forgot to tape or Vaseline his nipples, didn’t he? The whole front of his t-shirt was stained red from chafing. Poor bugger.’
‘Where is he today, anyway?’ asks Bryce.
‘His daughter’s moving house this weekend.’ There is more uproarious laughter. I’m beginning to wonder if this is a code for something.
‘That part by the airport is ugly,’ says Gavin. He’s taken his shirt off and is wiping himself down with a small towel that has seen better days.
‘I hate that bit,’ groans Tim. ‘I hate long boring straights. The wind hits you in the face all the way down that stretch. It’s gutting.’
‘And don’t forget, no sex the night before the marathon,’ says Alec. ‘Saps your strength, doesn’t it? That’s why the All Blacks don’t get to travel with their girlfriends.’ I should be fine then, the way things are between Jack and me.
‘Don’t listen to a word of it, Melanie. Alec’s full of shit. It’s an old wives’ tale,’ says Sparkles.
‘Yeah, an old wives’ tale,’ says Bryce.
‘Alec’s wife made it up!’ chirps Sparkles.
‘Shaddup!’
‘I recommend wearing a hat. It keeps the sun off your face, the wind and rain out of your eyes, and if it gets too hot you can wet it and cool yourself down.’ This pearl of wisdom is from Bryce.
‘It’ll keep your hair from getting in your eyes too,’ says Mark. ‘Oops, my mistake, Bryce. You don’t have any hair.’ He goes on. ‘It’s time on your feet that counts. Lots of slow steady running. We all do our marathon training together and yet none of us run the same kind of time on race day. Big Karl can pull out 3 hours 10. Scottie does 5 hours 15, although in his day, he was a sub-three hour runner.’ Scottie blushes crimson while his fellow club members sip their coffee and reflect on this incredible achievement by one of their own.
‘When it comes to training, it’s the time on your feet that counts,’ concludes Mark, repeating his earlier comment.
‘You still have to cover a reasonable distance. It’s no good only running a slow 25km in training if the event is 42km long. You should probably do a couple of runs over 30km,’ says Tim.
‘Rubbish!’ says Gavin. ‘That Kerre Woodham chick only ran 27km before the New York Marathon and she made it, didn’t she?’ A good-natured argument breaks out about whether a long run of over 30km is absolutely necessary to achieve the marathon distance.
‘And what about food?’ I ask, interrupting the debate.
‘Flat Coke is great,’ says Alec. ‘Keeps your blood sugar up. It has to be flat though, or you’ll suffer from gas. At Rotorua, Mark usually hides some in a secret place just over Heartbreak Hill.’ He takes another biscuit making the plastic packet crackle.
‘Those little squeezy carbohydrate gel packets are good, and you can fit them in your pocket,’ suggests Sparkles. ‘They taste revolting though.’ Everyone agrees the squeezy packets are ghastly. ‘Have too many of those on a long run and they can make your stomach go sour. I don’t reckon you should take more than four or five. I think it pays to have something solid for your stomach to work on…’
‘A honey sandwich is good.’
‘I like muesli bars. I’ll get you one from home and you can try it if you like.’
‘Thanks, Aaron. That’s kind.’
‘Bananas are good too because they’re packed with carbohydrates and sugars and potassium,’ says Gavin.
‘I never eat bananas. They make me want to…’
‘Karl, that’s enough!’ says Scottie sharply. ‘There’s a lady present.’
Aaron says quietly, ‘Try some energy-rich foods. See what works for you, Melanie. Everyone is different. Just don’t eat anything on race day that you haven’t tried beforehand.’
‘What about carb-loading on the days before the marathon?’ I read the fancy runners’ term in a running magazine and the idea’s appealing.
‘The best thing the night before a marathon is a big feed of fish and chips,’ says Gavin. The rest of the group heckle loudly. ‘No seriously,’ says Gavin, raising his voice over the din. ‘Fish and chips are great. They’ve got everything you need; potatoes, they’re carbohydrates right, then the fish is your protein and then you’ve got salt which is like your electrolytes, and some fat. It’s the perfect pre-race meal.’
Put that way, fish and chips don’t sound so bad.
‘Geez Gav, why don’t you suggest she have a couple of beers too? Beer’s chock-full of carbohydrates and sugar,’ adds Scottie.
‘What about muffins?’ I venture. Charlie’s nutrition plan is heavy on steamed potatoes and pasta and rice. I’m gasping for a sugar fix. I could kill for a white chocolate and raspberry muffin. Scottie doesn’t seem convinced. He pulls an ‘I’m-not-so-sure’ face and gets up to take his cup to the kitchen. Mark picks up his chair and stacks it on a pile of three against the wall.
‘Well, we are all different,’ says Aaron, as he clicks shut the biscuit box.
‘That’s true enough,’ says Gavin, ‘and none of us are girls.’
‘What’s right is whatever works for you,’ says Tim.
‘What the hell then,’ says Mark, ‘let the lady eat her cake.’
51
A few days later, I meet Janeen in Starbucks, the halfway point between her stall at the Dive Crescent markets and my apartment. Janeen carries her venti hazelnut latte to the polished wood table of her choice. A keen people-watcher, she takes the seat facing the bustle of the square. I sit opposite her with a view of the roundabout, the fountain, and the rickety railway bridge the boys and I took on our run to Matapihi last weekend.
‘Haven’t seen much of Jack, lately. Did he get those reports done?’ Janeen hooks her patchwork bag on the back of the chair.
‘Mmm? Reports? Yes, he did. Thanks.’
Recently, Jack’s been cool, as if he’s distancing himself from me. Even a shimmy in my scarlet Elle MacPherson bra did little to get his attention, which isn’t like Jack at all. We’re still together, but it’s as if we’re just going through the motions, a technically perfect piano concerto performed without passion. It’s the Black Affair that’s got his back up, but I can’t cry off now because I made a commitment. I had hoped that meeting Rico would help, but instead the two of them seemed to dislike each other instantly. Like John McEnroe and a line judge, they’re never going to see eye to eye. I guess Rico’s just a not a man’s man. He’s more of your consummate charmer. And it didn’t help that I had a fit of the giggles.
‘So Rico Black?’ says Janeen, reading my mind.
‘He was in town and at a loose end. That’s all.’
‘Made quite an impression on your family, didn’t he? Cherry was positively green. I heard her telling him about her new beauty franchise. I’m surprised she didn’t offer him a free back waxing. I can’t see what all the fuss is about. He’s much too smooth for my taste. I prefer my men a little rough around the edges.’ I throw my eyes to the ceiling. We laugh. It’s a good belly laugh. I take a sip of my green tea.
‘Do you know that guy over there, Mel?’
‘Which guy?’
‘The one across the road pretending to read the travel agency posters.’ She nods in the general direction of the agency. I peer out. A well-built man in his thirties has his back to us and is examining the posters.
‘How do you know he’s only pretending to read them?’ I say.
‘Because those same posters have been there for about three years. I think the travel agents use them to keep the sun out of their offices. See, they’re all faded.’ She’s right. The posters are so sun-bleached only pale blue and yellow hues remain. Our object of interest darts a fu
rtive look back toward us, but turns away quickly when he sees us staring. I don’t recognise him.
‘Nope. He’s no-one I know. Do you think maybe he’s a fan?’ As soon as I mention the word fan a look of relief blooms on Janeen’s face.
‘Of course! A fan. And here’s me thinking I’m going crazy. The last few weeks I’ve had this premonition as if I’m being watched. I’ve noticed guys like this one loitering nearby, and it was starting to creep me out. I bet they’re not watching me at all. I’m just collateral damage. They’ll be reality star stalkers mooning after you!’
‘You don’t seriously think this guy’s a stalker, do you?’ I say, suddenly alarmed. A fan is one thing, a stalker is something else. ‘He’s not going away.’
‘Oh no. This is New Zealand. It’s more likely that he’s not sure it’s Mel Short, billboard model and reality series star, sitting over here in Starbucks enjoying a cuppa with an irresistibly gorgeous redhead. Let’s face it Mel, you are almost fully-dressed. Maybe if you got your boobs out...’
‘Very funny!’
‘He’s probably just too shy to come over and ask for your autograph. Next time he looks, let’s wave and see what he does.’ We keep our eyes on the bloke across the road. After a bit, he turns around to look in our direction. Janeen and I wave our arms enthusiastically. Even from the other side of the road, we notice him colour, embarrassed at being made. He scurries up Devonport Road and out of sight.
Janeen giggles. ‘Yep, too shy.’ She finishes the last of her coffee, removes the plastic lid and begins to spoon out the residual foam. ‘Did you bring the last Sportzgirl outfit for me to adjust?’ For once, I don’t have a garment to give her. There are no more televised runs until the marathon event. After months of full-on training we’ve been given several weeks off to prepare for the 42.2km challenge, and to campaign for votes.
‘I’m wearing the same outfit I wore for the five kilometre run. You remember, the azure-orange one that gave me the underarm razor burns? You’ve already altered it.’
‘Oh, okay. That’s good, because Nandor is keeping me really busy.’ I raise my eyebrows wickedly. ‘With work orders.’ She grins, and under the table she nudges my knee with hers. Behind us I hear the clink of cups being removed from the dishwasher. The girl at the counter announces a Mochachino with cinnamon ready for pick-up.
