Dear Samantha,

Thanks for your note. Can’t believe we’ve been in New York this long. Good news is we leave in a week! Here’s the lowdown:

Not many people attended the service. In fact, it was four Rittmans – me, Frank, Walter and Pat – and one Bybell, Anne Bybell, mother-in-law of the deceased. The last funeral I attended with these people was for her husband, Frank’s grandfather, Pat’s father. I was pregnant with Sadie, and Anne thought I shouldn’t view the body, bad for the baby or something. The way I remember it, I didn’t need to make a special trip to view the body. He was perched way up on a pedestal, the walls were mirrored and the casket was spinning round and round like the prize car on the showroom floor. I could clearly see the entire head reflected to infinity around me. After that initial excitement, I mostly thought about getting a slice of pizza across the road. Anne seemed in a rush, burdened in a very busy-person way, someone who simply didn’t plan for this glitch in the day. Frank’s grandfather was a lovely man. He was the sort to don a hat and tie every day of his life. He took Frank and Walt to see fire engines and feed ducks. He loved Pro Wrestling, knew every character on the circuit and was either a very good actor or one of the few clean souls in the world who, with all his heart, believed it was a real sport. We’d egg him on and try to get him to admit the stuff was staged but he’d become glossy-eyed and recount wonderful rounds he’d seen on the television between Buster Butt and Wild Man Marvin. I bought him linen handkerchiefs every Christmas. When he was very old and very feeble, one day I saw him patiently, with true self-acceptance but not without great effort, get out of an easy chair. Uuuuuup he heaved with shaky limbs, slowly, thump, thump, dragging his old and feeble body down the hall. At last, he almost reached the bathroom door. He paused, took a breath, and suddenly a blur confronted him, a whirling dervish, who swung open the bathroom door, slipped in and slammed it shut, locking it for good measure. It was his wife on her battery wheelchair. I don’t know why Anne couldn’t have used one of the other four bathrooms on the ground floor. She’s like that. Every time I ask Pat to babysit, Anne shouts, ‘Pat, you promised to take me to the hairdressers.’ Hey, it’s important to look your best when you’re a 94-year-old widow who never goes anywhere. But I do admire her. The day I saw her thwart her husband, a prostate cancer victim, on his way to the loo, I also saw her reading the stock pages while watching the Bloomberg report while phoning her broker.

As for Frank’s father’s service, it was fine, and while I could smell the bubbling cheese and sauce from the pizzeria across the road, I was able to meditate on the man who was my father-in-law. He took the place of my own father for a few years. He listened to my tales of woe and offered considered advice. He wanted to know his boys as they grew to men and was saddled with regret that he travelled so much while they were young. He could take a joke, make a joke, get a joke. He was intolerant of democrats but he didn’t know his family was infiltrated with ’em. He thought we should move to Australia because ‘America is turning into a third-world country’. He didn’t like to show affection but became tearful easily. Whereas my parents planted us in a nice safe pot on the windowsill and pruned us and watered us and cooed to us, he and Pat tossed their seeds out in the yard and let them grow, viewing them from the window and delighting in their wildness, their freedom and their thorns. He liked scotch, he liked my cooking, he liked the nice, long birthday cards I wrote, and he liked our kids but was scared to hold them. He liked Super Market Sweep and Rush Limbaugh. He collected exotic foods that would sit on the kitchen shelves until we were around and then he’d pull some jar out and say, ‘Fran! Frank! Come in here. Get a spoon, Fran. Here. Have you ever had stuffed gerbil brain? You don’t know what you’re missing.’ He had rules: you don’t touch your sons past the age of three; you don’t meet people from three destinations at a restaurant; you don’t ask for a raise. He vented about his mother-in-law, who stole his wife and his chair every chance she got, coming along for the ride some 50 years ago when Anne clearly said, ‘We do.’ But he never complained to her.

The minister closed the service with the prayer for the living, ‘In life, in death, oh Lord, abide with me.’

‘Amen,’ we said.

‘I win,’ Anne said.

We hung close, surrounded by a brown, warm, tucked-in calm, straightforward emotions, the lack of ambiguity in bereavement, the slight sweetness of missing someone who was loved. Frank and Walt and Pat sat in the kitchen until two in the morning reminiscing.

Bill would have been embarrassed if he heard Walt remembering that last hug, 37 years ago, as if it were yesterday.

A day or so later, Frank checked in at his New York office. I checked in at my New York office and the kids went to daycare. Frank stayed late for a conference on new top-secret business (I’ll tell you more when he tells me), I picked up the kids. Next day, I stayed late to meet with people and Frank picked up the kids. The only thing that isn’t back to the way it was – besides Frank not having a father – is that we’re just visiting. It’s a vacation from my vacation. ‘Enjoy an exacerbating two-week holiday! Renew your tension! Reactivate your ulcer!’ I’m getting lots of stares, too. I don’t know if it’s because I look like a negative with all this fake blonde hair and charred skin or maybe it’s the jogging shorts and platform shoes, but I catch people looking. I think they’re trying to figure me out, work out where I fit. New Yorker? Tourist? Tannist? I seem busy and heading somewhere without being dulled by routine or strung out on anxiety or wowed by the fact that I am in New York City, hot damn!

The other day, we went to visit our house. I guess we should have called but we just took a chance. I mean, if we had said, ‘Hey, we’re in town, not more than 500 yards away, thought we’d stop by’, they would have had a chance to screw in some bulbs, take out the trash, weed the garden, sweep the deck, fix the wallpaper, rinse out the toilet, make a bed or two … But we just pulled on up the drive.

‘Hi, sorry to intrude. The kids wanted to see the old place. If it’s not a good time?’ I gave her a chance. She could have said, ‘No, but in 48 hours I’ll be happy to let you come in.’ Instead, she smiled warmly and hugged us and offered us drinks and told us how much they love the house and asked us how we were doing. I couldn’t answer because I was busy being bewildered at the state of the place. As I took Sadie upstairs to her old room, I passed a hole in the wall. ‘What happened here?’ I called down the stairs.

She came bounding up.

‘Ya, the paint chipped.’

‘Paint is not eight inches thick. We are missing pieces of the house here. I can see its innards, for God’s sake.’

‘Oooh, maybe you’re right,’ she said, moving her hair from her face and tilting forward to get a better glimpse of the panoply of exposed pipes and wires that you could not fail to notice even if you just had both your eyes poked out. ‘Does look like a little of the wall came off.’

Tell Maj and Mag that I am receiving the workouts and doing them under much cooler conditions than you are. The weather’s good, actually. I will miss Diet Snapple – I wish they could come back with me. And I wish Frank’s mom would, too, for a visit but if I dare suggest it, who knows what Anne might do to me. There she was taking a shower when … Seriously, Pat is sad, so deep-down sad.

I’ve been thinking, life just isn’t long enough to be sure you got all of it sucked down. When you lose someone, it seems you wonder why you didn’t just sit in a room and stare at each other because one day you won’t be able to ever, ever again. Frank was lucky to have had a great last conversation with his father but he wasn’t lucky enough to have had it sooner. It was six months ago.

I’ll save the rest of the sermon for our next long run.

See you soon.

Love, Fran.

‘Jet lag means one day off! Drink Biospliven and meet us tomorrow at 0500 at the track. Time trials! Condolences! Yeah!’ reads the message on my email.

I have three weeks to acclimatise before the marathon. I train hard and only see Frank as he lumbers up to bed and I heft myself down to coffee.

‘Hiya Frank.’

‘Hiya Fran.’

‘Everything okay?’ Big yawn.

‘Not really.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Have a nice run, Fran.’

‘You too, Frank.’

But at last, the marathon.

Frank and I go to an early dinner the night before at a nice, boring place offering ‘red’ and ‘white’ wine. I have something simple and forgettable, just like Maj and Mag told me to. I wake up the next morning at three, drink two cups of coffee, smoke two cigarettes, feel nervous and sick and want to be dead, but somehow I rally when Maj and Mag get on the boom horn and call up to my balcony: ‘We are waiting in the cab. I repeat, we are waiting in the cab.’ Columns of lights go up around Fortune Gardens but it’s ever so brief a disturbance.

I have sewn my number on wrong so I have to wear my shirt backwards. I wait at a portaloo, in the middle of the line, for ten minutes but someone obviously moved in there, and, looking at my watch, I have to abandon the ablution.

The runners are called to the line-up and I humbly take my mark way in the back of the line to make it clear to all that I am casual. As I look around at the eager faces, the ready loins, as I feel the ruckus of pent-up energy, I take a moment to berate myself lavishly. Why in the world didn’t I just do the right thing for once in my life? Why didn’t I work out smarter, stop smoking, stop drinking? The gun goes off. Got me?

It is still dark but the humidity, though a mere fraction of what we can expect by the time the sun comes out, is thick. I am dabbing and dabbing with my wristbands. I need a bathroom. I spot a Mobil station and veer in. My luck, the bathroom is being cleaned. Double happiness: the attendant is a deaf, toothless guy from China who hadn’t noticed the 1500 people running by and doesn’t understand why I am doing some monkey dance. I yank him out of the bathroom, forcefully pee on his scrubbing bubbles and thank him as I join the ranks again.

I feel much better, much springier, and sprint a few clicks, trying to make up for lost time. I almost lose my footing leaping over a pig’s head in the middle of the road. Yes, that is correct: a pig’s head. Middle of the road. Just the head. I might like to read the entrails for wisdom but they’re not about. No doubt I’ll trip on the large intestine later.

The course takes us past thousands of eating houses, coffee shops, hawker centres and food carts. The smells can make you hungry or sick, depending on a number of variables, like: do you want to eat fish-head soup at 7 am? Do you like the odour of last night’s chilli crab? I am assaulted every block with noxious fumes until I hit Serangoon Road, Singapore’s Little India. There is the scent of curry, cinnamon, tandoori – now that’s aromatherapy. But it’s a short road and I am now on Balestier and shop house after shop house is festooned with shellacked dead ducks, row upon row of them, waving to and fro like gamey wind chimes.

I slip on a mound of rice and am totally blinded by the gold outside a Buddhist arts and crafts shop. People are passing me left and right.

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 were 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.

We’re led to the beach for the start. Samantha’s chatting away, making new friends. I hang back again in a great show of deference. The gun goes off and we run into the water. I am ready to quit in five minutes. This isn’t swimming; this is underwater wrestling. Bodies are covering me, arms are tugging at my legs, elbows are conking me in the head, someone is most definitely trying to drown me every time I get near. I would avoid her but I can’t see my hand in front of my face. The water is a muddy, oily, churning death pool. I know that I am the last person in the swim. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter, the family will love me anyway and we’ll have a good vacation.

When I get out of the water and do the little run on the beach to my bike there are, like, four people left to cheer me on and they seem either bored or hired. I lope dejectedly over to my bike, towel off, pick sand from between my toes, swig a sippee of soda, put on my socks, tie up my runners and get into the saddle. ‘Have a good ride!’ says some jolly fuckwit.

I ride like a madwoman because I am competitive. I do not want to be last. I can be not first, but I will not be last. The locals laugh and shout every time I pass. I am sure I have something hanging out of my bathing suit but, fuck it, I’m not wasting a second to adjust. I won’t even grab the water for fear it will slow me down. I will pedal until my legs turn to fucking ghee. I see Samantha on the other side of the loop. ‘Lookin’ good, Fran!’ she shouts, fresh as a daisy. Behind her are Vilja, Christine, Tamami. Everyone is a lap ahead of me.

And then, I’m on my fifth lap and I am despairing. I have five more to go. The temperature must be 200 degrees and we’re riding – and soon to be running – on bubbling tarmac.

Here we are on this gorgeous, exotic island surrounded by sea, covered with mountains and jungle, but the race is four laps on a stretch of highway that offers nothing to look at except for one big, gaudy mosque. We might as well do laps around the Miami K-Mart parking lot in August. They are so damned proud of their new road and that neat yellow line. And why is a country so full of poverty giving out entire bottles of water to riders who take one swallow and throw it away? What’s wrong with a Dixie cup?

I finish the bike, jump off and do my Clara step for ten minutes. My friends ride by me on their bikes and cheer, ‘Run, Frannie.’ – ‘Looking Great.’ – ‘It’s in the baig.’

‘Omigosh,’ I think, ‘I’m actually ahead. They’re still riding.’ Now it starts to matter. I have a chance here. I’m totally not last. I run in earnest. I don’t care if I collapse. I pass tons of people. At about the six-kilometre mark, I get the chills and feel woozy. I shake it off when someone overtakes me. I grab some water and catch up to the bitch who dared. I high-step it to the finish line, hearing Frank’s hoarse voice shouting, ‘Yeah, Fran! Go Fran!’

Sadie fingers my medal and Huxley hands me water. I have finished in the top quarter. People come up and tell me what a wonderful run I had and say, ‘Boy, you’re some runner’, and suddenly hick is chic. I have qualified for an Ironman and am offered a spot on a relay team. As I’m basking in the glory of it all, I say a sad farewell to my bad habits. Smoking, I’ll miss you most of all. My innocence is gone. This might never be fun again.

Frank and I have hired a babysitter for the night and plan to have a romantic evening. But so far, I’ve been sitting alone for 20 minutes in the lounge while Frank talks to New York. I don’t mind, though. I have some lovely cold champagne and all the feel-good endorphins galloping around in my head.

‘Hey, I thought you were going to quit?’ Frank enters, nods at the cigarette I’m lighting.

‘New plan,’ I say, through a plume of smoke. ‘I’m going to ask Marlboro to sponsor me. We’ll have the warning changed to “Smoking might take two minutes off your time. Have a nice run!”’ I pour a glass of champagne for Frank.

‘Better yet, I’ll have my podiatrist sponsor me. I can wear a T-shirt that says “Ask me about my bunions!”’ I pour myself another glass.

‘You could design triangular-shaped running shoes. You know, for people with enormous bunions like you,’ Frank adds.

‘Thanks, Frank.’

‘Sorry, I thought we were kidding. Well, here’s to you. That was pretty amazing.’

‘Wasn’t it!’ My hands keep running over my shoulder muscles. I can’t help it. It’s late in the evening … I’ve put on my make-up and brushed my long, blonde hair and … oh … I look wonderful tonight.

I continue, ‘You know, in all seriousness, Frank, I’m serious about this racing now. Seriously.’ I flash the bartender a bicep as I motion for another bottle. ‘I’m going to do that Ironman.’

‘Are you serious?’ asks Frank.

‘Do I look like I’m joking, Frank?’ I light another cigarette.

‘You should know, sweetie, you haven’t taken your eyes off yourself since I got here,’ Frank quips. It’s true; the wall in front of me is mirrored.

‘I’m looking at the bottles,’ I say, gazing ahead, thinking, ‘This is what I look like when I say, “I’m looking at the bottles.”’ I turn to Frank. ‘Okay, yeah, you’re right. I can’t help it.’ The laughter suddenly goes out of me and I tamp down my cigarette. ‘I just feel good … like from the inside out, like the search is over. For once … oh, this is hard to say … I don’t know, Frank … I don’t really know … It’s everything, everything’s good … for once, I feel like a winner. I really do. I tried something and, for once, it worked.’ I tear up at the sad truth of that.

‘You are always so hard on yourself, Fran. Look, do the Ironman if you think it’s what you want to do but it won’t define you to me or the kids. In fact, I’m not sure what it really means. You really want to go through it? You really have the time? I think it’s crazy. But if it will make you happy, do it.’ Frank looks into my eyes.

‘Frank,’ I say, ‘I’m serious.’

‘Of course you are.’ He hands me a cocktail napkin and lights my cigarette.

The next day, Greg’s lined up a speedboat to take us to a small, uninhabited island. I call down for a picnic basket and Frank and Samantha get snorkelling gear for everyone. The kids have a wild time, bumping across the South China Sea. The captain looks for every chance to help them fly overboard into the roiling water. I’m trying to sit on both kids to keep them down but I’m bouncing around the vessel randomly, suddenly, violently. Finally, we stop at a lush little beach and it appears we’re the only people on the island. The boat drops us off and makes a quick u-turn and disappears.

‘Greg,’ I say, ‘how can we be sure he’ll be back?’

‘Calm down, Frannie.’

Uh, these Canadians! Not a care in the fucking world, eh?

‘So,’ I whisper to Samantha, ‘where should we run?’

‘No!’ everyone shouts, including Samantha.

‘Frannie, one day off. It’s not gonna kill ya,’ Greg, Mr Mellower-than-thou, says like he knows.

And maybe he does. Despite my anxiety – knowing as I do that a body at rest stays at rest and tomorrow it’s going to be that much harder to get off the sofa and just do it – the day unspools gloriously. It is a day where thousands of moments seem blessings. Two families playing, enjoying our children. The kids exploring their strengths, investing energy in running up and down the white, soft beach. We snap wonderful pictures of them in their snorkelling gear and we all flipper through the water, swimming up to each other and tapping a shoulder, pointing to a clownfish or a sea anemone. Greg tries out his new underwater camera and tracks down a huge turtle, which we all spend about an hour following and losing. We picnic on rolls and butter because I guess when I asked the hotel for sandwiches, they decided to give me their national favourite. We hike, draw messages in the sand and, just as we’re growing tired of being sticky and salty and even weary of feeling grateful, our man with the boat returns, grinning like a hellhound.

The following day we return to Singapore and Frank immediately goes into the office for a few hours. He must have felt buried with work. On the plane he alternated between flipping through sheaves of paper and playing with his calculator. For lunch, he had fingernails.

I check my emails: 35 from work, which I’ll ignore for now, especially the one that has ‘YOU DIDN’T CALL ME FRIDAY’ for a subject. Maj and Mag wrote: ‘Good work! Ironman is serious. We need to upgrade your Biospliven. Bring a sample of sweat. Visit our website www.fitnessisallthatmatters.com. Yeah!’ Every nut has a website now.

‘Susie?’ I call.

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Can you hold this cup under my chin while I run in place here?’

‘Of course, Madame.’

Plink, plink, plink.

‘Okay, will you take this over to Maj and Mag?’

‘Right away, Madame.’

Hmmm, I think, this is what I have to put up with, a maid with attitude. It’s just a cup of sweat. She didn’t have to be so sullen. She could have made it more fun if she tried a little. I go into the kitchen and see she baked a torte. ‘Sadie! Huxley! Want some?’ There’s a sign sticking up: ‘Congratulations, Ma’am’.

I line up friends to pop in and check on Sadie and Huxley for every day that we’ll be in Australia. I hire two more babysitters for day and night shifts so that I have constant, vigilant supervision of the kids. The kids have playdates every day. Susie tells me not to worry, she’ll call if there is any problem.

Frank pulls some string or another and manages to book us into a penthouse at the ANA with quintessential panoramic views of Sydney Harbour. The minute I’m there I see no need to leave the room to have a satisfying vacation, but I want to walk around before it gets dark.

‘But this is about the love,’ Frank says, coming toward me.

‘You’ll be working tomorrow. Don’t you want to have a quick look at the place?’ I say. ‘And, then, the love.’ I wink.

The weather is chilly and I’m happy to wear my motorcycle jacket and black jeans as we cruise through this ancient section of town. The Tildons were named after the sandstone bluffs where the first convicts cut bricks for gutters and buildings in the 1700s. It was also where prisoners were piled up in dosshouses run by drunken marines. Now, it’s just full of drunken investment bankers and thick-necked yobbos and the odd maritime folk, depending on the bar.

We wander through the warren of streets and go into every pub that looks interesting. One has two lovely big old stone fireplaces. A dog is sleeping on a woven Aboriginal rug and an old sailor sits propped at the bar. Behind the bar is a bosomy girl in her mid-30s and an ancient man, probably the bartender’s dad. I get the feeling that, even though they have plenty of vacant seats and probably need the money, they don’t want our type. American. My Australian and British (and German and Irish … and Singaporean … and Indian) friends always say, ‘… oh, but you and Frank are different’ whenever they’ve just finished saying ‘Of course they were American’ or ‘leave it to an American’ or ‘bloody fucking wankers, those Americans’. Anyway, I’m rather indifferent to the snub.

We go to a few more pubs and walk down to Woolloo-moolooo. We take a ferry to Watsons Bay and have dinner on the wharf. The afternoon had been like a New York early fall day. The city is quite nice, but it’s the weather and the Australian way of life – a passion for pleasure and ease – that makes me say, ‘Frank, Australia has got to be your next gig. Let’s start scheming.’

‘What next gig?’

‘Well, wouldn’t it be great to get a job in a new place in a few years? I mean, I’m not ready to leave Singapore, but when we are, then, Australia! That would be so fantastic. The weather is awesome here and they’re like us even though they hate us. Then we’ll do Europe … but I can’t learn a new language …’ I take a bite of my lobster. Why hadn’t we thought of this before? We’re on to something here; we have discovered the wonderful worldwide expat scene. We are part of a whole secret society that knows how good it can be. Frank doesn’t say anything more. He is looking off into the ocean, pensively. I have planted a seed. Or, it is entirely possible, he is thinking ‘Ocean’.

When we return to the ANA, we undress for the love. Is it a sign that they really care when they make a bed so tight it’s shrink-wrapped? As I use every ounce of strength I have to get a small corner of sheet down I see the message light on the phone.

‘Frank, we have a message.’

‘Can’t we ignore it?’

‘I don’t think so. It could be the kids.’

‘They don’t make phone calls.’

‘I mean, it could be about them.’

Frank dials in for the message. He sits down heavily on the bed as he listens. He hangs up slowly.

‘Fran, I’m sorry. I don’t think we can make it to the Blue Mountains. Ken’s here. He wants to see me tomorrow. He’s invited us to dinner after.’

‘Ken? Your boss? From New York?’

‘Yeah. It’s a big meeting. I told you there might be a chance he’d show up.’

‘No, see, because if you did, I would have brought a dinner-with-Ken outfit and I didn’t.’ I jump up and swing open the closet door to display my all-blacks. ‘And why can’t we still go away?’ I huff back into bed and make no headway on dislodging the sheet, scratching and pawing at it.

‘Fran, my boss doesn’t come around the world so that we can piss off on a vacation we’re only taking because he was on the other side of the world.’

‘Ahhhh. See, you never said that.’ I find a way to slither in. ‘Okay, don’t worry. I mean, now that we know how easy it is to get here, we’ll do it another time. We’ll bring the kids. And then when you get a job here … just kidding … good night. I love you. I’ll find something to wear, don’t worry.’

And I fall asleep.

Had we asked someone, we might have learned that St Leonards is to Sydney as Brooklyn is to Manhattan. We could have done it in a taxi ride. But we didn’t ask. So, instead, because Frank’s meeting is in St Leonards, we move into a dank, drippy little motor lodge in the heart of a suburb.

‘What am I going to do here?’ I complain.

‘Didn’t you bring your laptop?’

‘Actually, no.’ And it occurs to me that I didn’t even bring a manuscript or a contract. I have completely forgotten about work.

‘I gotta go. Just take a bath and get your nails done. Go shopping. I’ll be back soon.’

The minute he leaves, the walls start coming toward me. I’m making them do that because I’m bored. I could lie on the bed and pretend I’m a junkie. I’m going crazy. Why? What do other people do when they are on vacation? Relax, read … but the walls … it’s for real this time … ahhh!!! I cave. Much as I wish I could deviate from my routine, it seems I can’t. There simply is one thing to do. I put on some shorts and tie up my shoes and go out for a run.

In front of the motor lodge I spot a guy, about 60, tying up his shoes, a fellow jogger.

‘Hey,’ I call out, ‘you know a good route around here?’

He says, ‘Yeah, come with me.’

I don’t really want to. I mean, I’m training for an Ironman for God’s sake and this man is, well, not. But I can’t be rude, that’d be so American, so I run with him. And, actually, he keeps up fine. Our conversation is crackling. He’s a doctor and a writer and a very interesting man. He takes me on a wonderful path through Aboriginal caves and cliffs and bushland and into exclusive neighbourhoods. He asks about my kids and I ask about his. One is an actress.

‘Oh, that’s tough,’ I say.

‘Yeah, she lives in the US but she comes to visit.’

‘Is she getting work?’ I ask as we round a cliff wall.

‘Oh, she and Tom do pretty well.’

Nicole Kidman’s dad and I had a great run together. Next time, I’ll get the vacation that includes tea with Elle’s mum.

I get a book and take a walk, come back in time for a shower, and lay out all my clothes. Frank returns. ‘Frank! You’ll never believe who I ran with today.’

‘Fran, Ken and Jill are waiting downstairs. I told you six.’

‘Frank, there’s no downstairs here. It’s a motor lodge. I’ll be ready in a second.’

While I’m putting on my make-up, I call out to Frank, ‘We have to play this carefully, you know.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, someone’s going to ask, “How are you, Fran?” and I don’t want to seem too happy or else Ken’ll be, like, “Hmmm, they have it too good”, but then we have to get him to know we’d love to be here four years, five years, forever … Okay, how do I look? Like I can wrap him around my pinky?’

Frank doesn’t take in the gauzy shirt and black jeans, he looks at my face. ‘Fran, you’ve had a long run.’

‘I usually have good colour after a long run.’

Frank pulls me close for a moment, tightly. ‘That’s not what I mean. Listen, let’s go. The boss is waiting.’