* * *
But in the end, no miracle was required. Unless you call months of hard work, the best coach in the country (and by that I mean our earlier coach, not last-minute stand-in Koach), the strength of a team who have cheered, encouraged and badgered each other on, and – as Bronwyn predicted – grit, guts and good old-fashioned girl power a miracle.
We ran our great, big, beautiful hearts out.
Even Audrey, who gave so much, she half-collapsed in the impossible heat three-quarters of the way round, then tipped a bucket of water over her head, grabbed her mum’s hand and kept on going.
Even Mel, whose knees finally gave out with three-hundred metres to go, crawling until Dani and Bronwyn ran back to brace their arms either side of her, the crowd going wild as they hobbled on.
Even me, who’d done my best to get a grip on the turbulent thoughts running rampage in my brain and reclaim the single-minded focus that had won me the world championships. That is, until I remembered that this was a fun run, a team event, and one I wanted to actually enjoy, so I ditched the focus and just, well, enjoyed it.
By some unspoken decision, passed along via the power of our unbreakable team bond, each Lark paused a hundred metres from the finish line, smack in the middle of the new athletics field and waited for the rest. I found out later that Nathan and Marjory had been first and second out of the whole race, and yet they were the first ones to stand and wait while the athletics team, the cyclists, the footballers and three out of the four members of the council team ran, walked and limped past.
Like a game of very badly played sardines, as each one of us reached the others, we stopped and huddled, arms around each other, adrenaline pumping with passion.
‘Who cares if we lose the triathlon?’ Isobel yelled, as we watched Audrey and Selena slowly overtake Mel, Dani and Bronwyn, going even slower. ‘We’ve won at what really matters!’
‘Well, yes, but let’s try not to come last at the triathlon as well. We can have both,’ Marjory said, frowning.
‘Come on the Larks!’ someone shouted from the crowd, and they were swiftly joined by a dozen other voices. ‘Come on the Larks!’
The final member of the council team shuffled up behind Mel, amid the hollering crowd. She took a deep breath and shrugged off Dani and Bronwyn’s arms from around her waist. ‘Thanks, girls. Much appreciated, but I’ve got this.’
To everyone’s amazement, she began jogging, face scrunched up in agony, tears streaming down her face, her howled curses thankfully masked by the noise of the crowd.
‘Well, come on then,’ Marjory yelled at Dani and Bronwyn, who were stood there with their mouths hanging open, ‘let’s not be last!’
And as Mel and the others caught up, we linked arms, ten Larks and their trainer, and spread out so far across the track, the council runner couldn’t have got past if he’d tried.
There were fifty sweet, short metres to the finish line. We were only going to go and not be last!
‘Amelia, how does it feel to be scraping fifth place in your first competition for fourteen years? Are you embarrassed to perform so badly in front of your son and newly reconciled love of your life?’
At the end of the line (in an attempt to stay as far away from Nathan as possible, at least until the race was over and I’d had a chance to weigh up what Selena had told me), I was so near the edge of the track that Moira Vanderbeek’s microphone wobbled perilously close to me. As I turned, I could see the freckles on her cheeks, the sharp gleam in her eye.
‘Do you blame the weight gain, or your mental breakdown for such a disastrous comeback?’
It was stupid, and weak, and if I’d not been so careless with my focus it wouldn’t have happened, but as the words slammed into me like a wrecking ball, all I could see was the greedy faces of the spectators surrounding her, ready to feed like coyotes on carrion.
I must have stopped running and dropped arms with Mystery Woman One next to me (Karen? Or maybe Carol?) because I found myself frozen, stricken silent, Moira Vanderbeek’s microphone six inches from my nose.
‘Amelia? Don’t you have anything to say?’
I had no idea if I had anything to say or not. My anxiety, on the other hand, had plenty. None of it printable in a national newspaper. So did the crowd. As my pulse began to accelerate, I could feel more than hear the ripple of morbid anticipation.
And here it was, like one of those old friends you might not have seen for years, but as soon as you do, it’s as if you were never apart. Only this time, an enemy: the reeling head, the convulsing heart, the churning wave of nausea as my lungs wheezed like a pair of rusty bellows.
I bent over, hands braced on my thighs, and closed my eyes. The world kept spinning, forcing me to my knees, hands on the ground to stop from flying off into the ozone layer. I was enveloped by panic. Drowning in fear. Surely I would pass out any second.
Then, as if from the end of a long tunnel, a distorted voice found its way into my consciousness.
‘Ames! Get up! For the Larks! Come on! You can do it!’
Then louder, more voices, like a drumbeat: ‘You can do it! You can do it!You can do it!’
I held on to that chant, I dug down and I remembered to count my breaths, to feel the ground beneath my feet – or, in this case, the grass beneath my palms and knees.
An arm went around my waist, the other lifting me up as fingers gripped my hand. ‘I’ve got you, we can do this,’ spoken into my ear.
