Okay, I get it now. This is karma. See, when Frank and I were in our early 20s, on New York City marathon day, we’d sit outside our apartment. We were positioned on the course at what is known as ‘the wall’ for most runners – the three-quarter mark just before entering the park. It’s not unusual for people to stand on the sidelines and cheer, but that’s not what we did. We sat on folding chairs with our feet up, drinking from a pitcher of Bloody Marys set on a card table like a lemonade stand. We taunted the runners as they passed, telling them to give it up, get a life, have a cocktail. It was sick fun.
I had forgotten until now that I thought running a marathon was a ridiculous way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
I have a bottle of Gatorade with me in a pouch, along with enough money to convince someone to bring me back to life. At the three-quarter mark, I chuck the bumbag. I can’t stand the way it’s bouncing. It is the most annoying bumbag in the world. I hate this bumbag. I see it bobbing in the river. Drown, bumbag! Oh, shit, I forgot to take out the money. That’s one rich, dead bumbag.
Well, well, well, now I meet ‘the wall’ and it is laughing at me with Bloody Mary breath. I think I might fall over. I need a cool sponge. Instead, a bus almost swipes me and I have to wait at a red light. Where are the officials? I should not have to wait at lights or worry about traffic. The good news is: I’m angry. So, adrenaline, a lucky break after all.
With two kilometres to go and early onset rage, I find my stride. I’m gonna be looking good for any photo ops. I have no idea where the finish line is and stop to ask someone. I learn that it’s on the track in the stadium. I sprint though I’m sure it looks more like a geriatric jog.
As I cross the finish line, Samantha is already there and dry. She hugs me and I cry. I don’t know why, really, just because I am so drained I guess and because I am glad to see her. I thought I had killed her for getting me into this thing. Thank goodness it was just a daydream … but it seemed so real. I loudly proclaim that doing this makes about as much sense as pushing an orange across town with my nose. Some finishers find that offensive. Sadie and Huxley jump up and down, pumping the air, and Frank, now hoarse from screaming out ‘Run, Fran, run’, brings me a cold drink.
Maj and Mag trot over. Immediately I’m feeling guilty. I didn’t run it in 3:20! That’s not what they came over for, though. They give Samantha and me each a big hug and deliver the news. It isn’t official, they say, but it seems Samantha came in third and I came in fourth. They hand us something they’ve been saving for a special occasion … a Biosplighten, yes, same low polyoxen-free, but now in a bar. Yeah!
I go to the awards banquet that night with Samantha and Priscilla, our friend, who came in fifth. By the time we get there, I feel strong and proud. I walk up on stage to receive my prize money and consider maybe the heels weren’t such a terrific idea just this one night; my feet are throbbing.
Later, they give us our food. Sweet and sour cuttlefish, char swee, yam ring – nauseating stuff, not for consuming. Frank calls me on my cell phone to tell me the evening paper has the results: seems a Flan Littman came in fourth, not me. I miss Frank terribly. He tells me to come home, he’s rented a movie. Indeed, what am I doing here? I look around at this goofy gaggle of health nuts and tell the only two normal people in the room, Samantha and Priscilla, that I’m going to split. The others at my table are aghast: ‘And miss the lucky draw?’
I’m smiling in the cab. I feel a bit special. I’m wrecked and my feet are killing me but can’t seem to finish the job. I did a marathon and now, never again, I say to myself in the taxi as I chug wine all the way home. I pass out before the movie starts.
‘Clambake?’
‘You bet!’
Samantha and I are having a light run. It seems I have just agreed to do the Borneo Challenge in Malaysia. This is not a marathon. It’s a triathlon held near Mt Kinabalu, where they also hold an annual run up and down the mountain. Maj and Mag just came back from that and were positively outraged, militant even, because a local sherpa won the race. I mean, it’s not fair, is it? This guy gets to practise every day. With luggage on his head!
We have about six weeks to train. I can’t say I have any bike-racing experience at all, except for one time when I was taking a bike and camping trip with my old boyfriend, a British schoolteacher called Mark. We were going to Scotland from his folks’ house in Goldhanger. (Goldhanger is a small town in England that is about two blocks long on one straight road. If you write a letter to someone in Goldhanger, England, you have to write a lengthy note to the postman saying, ‘Yes, it does exist. It’s near Maldon. Take the M10 and stop at the farm stand, lovely strawberries this time of year, and ask them to point out the Dog and Sparrow Pub. When you get to the Dog and Sparrow Pub, ask for a man named Pete. If Pete’s not in, ask for Darcy. If Darcy’s not in, look for Ebin; but, fair warning, he is, on occasion, demented. Any one of them will pull you an honest pint and, if they’re of a mind, let you know how to get to Goldhanger. If they aren’t, they’ll pretend they are and you’ll wind up in Festershire and there’s no way out until the following Tuesday. Good luck and Godspeed.’)
Mark and I rode four or five hours a day and found bed and breakfasts and fields to sleep in. I had beautiful new panniers on my bike and four pairs of running shorts, several jerseys, sweaters, heels for nights out. Mark had some shopping bags looped on his handles containing a change of clothes, a washcloth and toiletries. He carried the tents and camp stove, bits of groceries, wine, some books and maps, and a Scrabble game in a backpack. Most of the time, we rode at a nice pace, facing daunting hills and gusty winds, and would stop at a pub when it opened for a sunny farmer’s lunch and cider, or Guinness, or cider and Guinness, or lager, or whatever-you-have-that’s-cold-on-tap. We’d stay until the pub closed for the afternoon, get back on the bikes and pick a reasonable destination, say, a mile from the pub we just lunched in, set up camp, cycle back to the pub with our Scrabble board and wait for it to open. You wouldn’t have known it, but Mark was actually job-hunting at the time, undercover. One day, he called his answering machine, otherwise known as his mom, and found out that he was wanted for an interview at a school in Leicestershire the next day at two. His mom – worried to a frazzle that he wouldn’t ever find a job and more worried still that he would marry me and what with all my fancy notions, I’d never live in a council house and he’d have to have a proper job – informed the school board that he’d be there with bells on. She didn’t mention bicycle bells. Leicestershire was miles away and that was if you took the highway. Which we did, on our bikes, and which pissed off a lorry or two. We had to get there an hour early so Mark could buy shoes, a shirt and tie, and some trousers and nice socks. That was my race. We made it, and Mark not only found the necessary clothes but also got the job.
Point is, I’m not a real cyclist. I don’t have a speed bike so I borrow Priscilla’s 18-year-old son’s ten-speed. It predates Schwinn.
Maj and Mag continue to email our workouts. On Wednesdays, we practise the entire race – swimming, climbing out of the pool, scuttling over to our bikes, donning the helmet and shoes, jumping on our bikes and riding for 40 kilometres, ditching the bikes and running for ten kilometres. Susie has to wait for me in the parking lot to receive my bike and put it safely upstairs so I can run. ‘Deux minutes faster this time, Madame,’ she sometimes says. More often, she looks at me like she cannot believe this is how I spend my time.
Running immediately after riding is difficult. It’s hard to be in one position – arms locked, legs spinning – and then tell your body you changed your mind and now you’d like to lurch forward and pound your knees. It’s awkward. I feel like Clara, toppling off her wheelchair, Heidi taunting, ‘Last one in sits with Grandfather.’ I really don’t move well.
On Thursdays, we ride out on the airport road, challenging head winds, dump trucks and frisky monitor lizards the size of stegasauruses. We peddle through the army base at Changi and then up a steep hill ten times, all
the while captivating the young army lads as they sneak a cigarette or check to see if their socks are dry. Samantha once threw herself onto the sidewalk to avoid being flattened by the Number 9 bus. The foreign workers who were weed-whacking that particular stretch of grass looked up to heaven and gave thanks for the woman who landeth on their turf. In their wonder, they didn’t turn off their machines and Samantha, bloody and sweaty, became quite verdantly hirsute.
‘Fran, can you get that? I’m in the shower,’ Frank calls as the telephone rings. I roll my eyes, put upon. I pause the Swim Perfect tape, just at the good part about double-sided breathing.
‘Frannie!’ It’s my mom. ‘I only have a minute because Joe is picking me up. Trudy is still at the dentist so he’s getting me and then we’ll go there to get her. We have reservations at Chips and you know how they are on a Friday night. We can’t go on Saturday because Viola is there and she talks and talks and drives me crazy. How are the kids? How is Frank? I called Pat but her mother answered and said “Pat is busy with me” and hung up. The reason I’m calling is I want you to take a look at my jewellery. I don’t want any fights. I’m sick about the idea that you girls might bicker over this jewellery. It’s what happens. Are you ever coming home again? Listen, I’m thinking about coming in three weeks or so. Dorothy says she can get a good deal for me and Cathy’ll be out of town so I won’t have my hair appointment. They say there’s nothing to do in Singapore and the real Far East is Bangkok and Bali. Eileen and Stan came back from a Tauk Tour and didn’t bother because her butcher said that they say there’s nothing to do in Singapore. I can’t wait to eat those kids up. You never tell me anything about what they’re doing. Oh, there’s Joe. I love you. Can’t wait to see you!’
‘Mom!’ I shout.
‘Oh, honey, what? Let me just flick the light so Joe knows I see him … Okay.’
‘Mom, I won’t be around that week. See, I came in fourth in the marathon and now I’m going to do a triathlon in Borneo.’
‘Frannie!’ She says it with her ‘another hair-brained scheme’ tone. ‘You’re a mother!’
She hangs up, perturbed.
If you look up ‘You’re a mother’ in the Lebowitzionary, it means: Don’t do anything that might (a) make you die young; (b) cause your husband to leave you; (c) keep you from being home when the kids get off the bus; (d) interfere with a good dinner; and (e) be different to what your own mother did.
I figure I better make this next hideous call now and get it over with. I dial the phone.
‘[Client Zip?] Hi, Fran here, when did you say you were coming?’ I ask.
‘Three weeks from today,’ she says.
‘Great! Can’t wait! Don’t forget to bring me that new book you’re writing!’
‘I sent it to you four weeks ago. It’s already been reviewed,’ she says.
‘Duh! So, what, now you’re retired? I mean the next next one, you nut.’ She is silent. I clear my throat and go for inconsolably disappointed. ‘Did you say three weeks from today? Oh shit, I was sure you said five weeks. Well, I won’t be here when you come.’
‘Fran,’ she pauses, ‘is it because you don’t know the romance market?’
‘Oh, [Zip], that again? No, I’m doing a triathlon in Borneo and that’s the same week.’
‘Can we have a phone date on Friday after you talk with my publisher and find out what she plans to do to get me on the bestseller list?’
‘Done. Call me any time.’
How am I going to prepare for this race with Client Zip harassing me, obsessing about everything? Can’t she just talk to her husband or that little bunny she dedicates all her books to?
‘Frank, what are you doing home so early?’ I ask as I lace up my shoes.
He drops his briefcase and gives me a puzzled look.
‘I’m heading out for a masters swim class,’ I say and grab the car keys.
‘It’s Wednesday, Fran.’
Tennis night.
‘Oh.’ I swing the keys.
‘Yeah, oh,’ he grimaces. ‘I put off an important call to get here on time. Where are the kids?’
‘Sadie! Huxley!’ There is no answer. ‘I guess they’re outside with Susie.’
‘That’s a good game, Fran. Do all the moms play? Guess where the children are.’
‘Don’t be mad. Tennis tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, sure. I’ll walk out with you and find the kids. Maybe the trail’s still warm.’
The following night at the New Barrel, we look into Frank’s daily planner and read our future. He has marked out Monday and Tuesday for Borneo and then he flips a few pages and asks me if I’d like to go with him on a business trip to Sydney. Just us. Sneak up to the Blue Mountains after.
‘Oh, God, what a treat that will be after all this hard work. You have gone and saved me again. I love you so much.’ I kiss him, but public displays of affection are generally unwelcomed by him (though he would not consider sex in an alley to fall in that category).
‘We’ll just lay around and sleep in and take naps,’ I muse.
‘And hiking, right? And probably river swims, mountain sprints and boulder rolling, knowing you.’ He pops a few peanuts, kerrrunch, chomp, chomp, chomp.
‘Frank, I will be so ready to relax. I’ve earned it. This will not be a boot camp vacation. This will be about the love.’ I go to kiss him and he lets me. With my eyes closed, I am picturing a meadow of soft grass and swaying wheat, lilies and buttercups. We are in the middle of a big white spread, the lovely picnic’s been eaten, everything is peaceful, because I am sleeping, for a while maybe even. There are no ants in Australia for me right now, no snakes that can kill you in one one-billionth of a second, no spiders that can kill you in half a billionth of a second, no completely missing ozone that can kill you real slow and painful-like. Just that clean sheet and gentle breeze and a couple of empty bottles of that chardonnay they rave about. We’ll wake up, trudge home and go to bed …
‘Done,’ he says. He’s just written us in there, in pen. ‘Fran and Frank, Australia.’ Fate sealed.
‘I miss you, Frank. This will be a good chance to really focus on each other.’
‘Definitely. It’s about the love.’
We kiss again.
‘Are you doing okay?’ I ask meaningfully.
‘There’s a lot going on. Like this last meeting in Manila …’
‘Frank? Let’s save it so we have something to talk about in Australia. I really have to get to bed. My workout’s at 2 am tomorrow.’
Singapore airport is packed with people going to Borneo for the race. Old friends gather in clusters and confess how slack they’ve been this year: ‘This is just the third race I’ve done since June.’ – ‘I’ve been partying every fifth Friday night!’ – ‘I totally didn’t buy any Biospliven.’ And lots of talk about bike components. Most people have special suitcases for their bikes. I have an old box covered in electric tape. I know they talk like this so they have an excuse for losing: ‘Well, if I had done four races this year, partied never and ate every last bit of Biospliven …’
The Rittmans and the Burnses will travel together and stay in Borneo an extra day. The kids are so excited to be together, sharing activity books and swapping snacks. The plane ride is about four hours’ long. Samantha is ebullient, relaxed, truly looking forward to the race.
‘Fran, what are you doing?’ Frank asks me, amused. I didn’t realise anyone could see me. I was trying to read Samantha’s mind. How does she do this upbeat thing time and time again? It must be Canadian. I have been imitating her, saying things into the window like ‘Oh, it’s in the baig’ and ‘It’ll be a lark, ey’ and ‘You’re gonna do great!’
‘I’m getting psyched,’ I answer truthfully.
‘Why are you saying “baig”, though?’
‘Oh, you heard that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘If you didn’t know me, would you think I’m Canadian?’
‘You mean if I didn’t know you w
ere secretly Indian?’
I get my own room for the night so that I can get to sleep early and wake up early. Frank and the kids are in adjoining rooms on the fancy floor that has great views and complimentary drinks. Tomorrow, I will shift over.
I decide to join Frank for a wee bit of courage, two glasses of wine. We go downstairs to meet the Burnses for dinner. I order a ‘whatever she’s having’ and point to Samantha.
Back in the room, I read and pray tomorrow I wake up with a raging fever so I can get out of this race. I turn off the lights, comforted to know that Mecca is 90 degrees southeast, at least according to the neon arrow on the ceiling.
The next morning, I am faced with crippling doubts. I can barely make it through my breakfast of champions, ie, two cups of coffee and two cigarettes (well, at some point Samantha ends and I begin, right?). I think I’m not going to do this after all. I so so so so so don’t want to. I am so so so so soo nervous. I’m going to throw up. My heart is racing. What have I got myself into? How can I get out of it?
I have brought the whole family along for this. The kids are looking forward to watching. Well, even if they aren’t, how would they feel if Toby and Heidi’s mom ran the race and I didn’t? I need to know what Samantha is thinking now!
I take my gear to the starting camp. You have never seen such women: long-legged, broad-shouldered, made of rock, the shape of things to come. The bikes are sleek. Some still have their price tags on – $15,000.I tell Priscilla’s son’s bike not to look. Triathlon suits? Who knew? Protein gel packs, shoes that click into the pedals, heart-rate monitors, water bottles? I don’t even have a water bottle. Here I am with my friend’s son’s old bike, a hand towel that says ‘Hyatt’ and some flat Coke in a sippee cup. I am the Ellie Mae of the race.
‘Oh, wave all you want, you jerks,’ I think as I smoke.
This event, this one I am participating in, qualifies you for the Olympics. So, it’s packed … with people from all nationalities … people who apparently have a problem with second-hand smoke.
Tales From A Broad Page 29
