Better Late Than Never

Meggie didn't know if she was going to make it - in more than one meaning of the term.

The taxi driver was doing his best to weave in and out of the ever-thickening traffic, but Megs, as she preferred to be known, wasn't feeling hopeful. It wasn't just the prospect of reaching Singapore's Changi airport in time to catch her scheduled Garuda flight back to Surabaya, Indonesia, that she was worried about, but whether or not she was going to be able to make it out of the taxi before she vomited.

Because vomit she would. She knew that. It was a given but if she could just make it from the confines of the icily-cold, air-freshened, immaculately-clean car being driven with admirable skill and pace by the fresh-faced Singaporean university student obviously doing a bit of moonlighting, she would be ever so grateful, thank you very much.

She tried to sit back in her seat and focus her mind on something - anything- to take her mind off the rising bile in her stomach. In doing so, Megs fixed her gaze on a point just in front of the car's bonnet and allowed herself to gingerly close her eyes.

She was back on the starting line. It was only eight hours ago, but it already seemed like it belonged to a different time - a different epoch even. The nerves had been jangling a bit, but that was only to be expected - after all, 26 miles was a long way and making her marathon debut at the age of 41 in the humidity of Singapore was probably not one of her wisest decisions - but, hey, at last, it was another item ticked off her bucket list.

Early December and the sights on Orchard Road, the main shopping thoroughfare in downtown Singapore, were something to behold. As far as the eye could see, the place was lit up with Christmas decorations and gleaming baubles as some 10,000 runners congregated at 4 am for the start of what was sure to be a gruelling ordeal. 

Despite her nerves, Megs couldn't help but get caught up in the excitement and bonhomie of the occasion. Both experienced veterans and total novices like herself were gathered in the holding pens, all wishing each other luck and all wondering whether or not they had got their training programmes right and at what point - not if - they would 'hit the wall', the dreaded moment or patch when the body becomes remote from the brain and starts to play weird mind games with the soul.

Why was she doing this, she asked herself for the millionth time. What on earth possessed her to want to put herself through what she was sure would be an inordinate and unnecessary amount of pain, discomfort and physical as well as mental torture? It was a question that she was sure would scream to her in agonising repetition over the forthcoming few hours.

If she had been able to answer her question regarding her motives as she plodded agonisingly yet determinedly round the course that morning, she would have concluded that she was doing it because it 'was about time'. The fact was she had been thinking about, talking about, considering and putting off running a marathon for at least two decades and had always kidded herself that she was 'too busy' to do the training, too tied up with other things, too immersed in her work, or her relationships or the myriad of other things she had going on in her life at any one time. The truth was, she knew, that she was just a master of procrastination and of putting things off incessantly, and she had ultimately ended up frustrating herself at least as much as she did other people.

The first hour of the marathon had gone reasonably well. Megs found herself more or less on-pace at a steady nine kilometres per hour and having worked out her refreshment and stretching schedule, she was feeling more relaxed than she had at the start and was beginning to 'get into the zone'. 

She should have done this earlier, she reasoned as she took the first of her scheduled water breaks. But then that was her all over, wasn't it? She had always been what her mother had euphemistically termed a late bloomer. It was the same with her getting a degree and finishing her education, she recalled as she set off running again at the beginning of the tenth kilometre.

Upon leaving school at the age of eighteen back in England more than half a lifetime ago, Megs had seen her friends head off in different directions. While some had gone straight into employment and others had spent some time travelling and 'finding themselves', Megs had planned to go to university and then ultimately train to become an elementary school teacher. However, she hadn't and to this day she was not sure why. The only reason she could come up with that made any sense whatsoever was that she was just too lazy and disorganised to get herself into gear and sort out her application.

"I will do it, mum. Really I will," she recalled the incessant conversations she had had with her ever-patient and cajoling mother: "Just give me a chance to sort things out first."

Her mother had just sighed.

It had taken Megs eight long years to 'sort out her application' and another four years to actually get a degree and thus embark on the career that she truly wanted to do rather than a succession of office jobs that fulfilled her neither emotionally nor in terms of her bank balance. 

She grimaced as she passed a sign that told her she had completed 16 of the regulated 42 kilometres. Just over a third of the way there, she reasoned. As usual, when out running a long distance, her mind started to wander. A third of the way there but about half the way through her projected lifespan, she figured, with perhaps another twenty years or so in the workforce. 

What else could she get achieved in that time? How far behind was she in the race of life?

The sun was beginning to rise now and although she still felt reasonably strong, the first signs of fatigue were beginning to tell. She thought of what she had planned upon, hopefully, the successful competition of the run. She was cutting her flight back to Surabaya fine; she would have to get her weary carcass back to the hotel, grab a quick shower and then straight to the airport. She should have booked another day off work, she knew that now. Another half-baked plan.

Twenty kilometres completed. Just under halfway now.

Still her mind continued trying to trip her up. 

20KM. She saw the sign as she trudged on slowly. Her mind was spinning. The marker reminded her of a speed sign. This in turn brought her driving test into focus It was taken well past her thirtieth birthday - a good decade after her contemporaries - again, due to procrastination and apathy. Had she been worried she'd fail? Had she been without means to afford the lessons or the test or to buy herself a car? 

The answer to those questions was the same, she knew. It was all down to her and her lack of zeal or zest, the same failings that came back to haunt her over and over.

Time for another water break. A time to catch breath - literally - and take stock of the situation. She did a personal inventory; legs tired but no real signs of cramp, breathing fine, stomach twitching a little but no embarrassing toilet breaks likely to be required just yet. 

She summarised: all ok, but could be better.

She shook her head and smiled ruefully in recognition of the ironical life metaphor she had just described.

All ok, but could be better. Indeed.

Thirty-two kilometres down and ten to go - more than 75 percent completed, she reasoned. 

Where's the Wall? She started to almost panic. It should be here by now, surely? Why don't I feel the pain I thought I would? Why is it easier than I expected? Thie rhetorical questions flowed through her consciousness as she started to loop for home in the early morning sun. 

Writing her first book had had the same effect on her. Megs loved writing - when she could force herself to sit still long enough to get something down on paper - and had dreamt of having her name in print ever since her teenage years spent with her head in a book and yet…it had taken such an effort. 

Even more than teaching, it was the one goal she was determined to achieve at some point in life and yet it was the one thing she was truly afraid of failing at. She put off commencing her literary efforts not so much due to lack of drive or self-discipline, but because she felt she couldn't - wouldn't - be even a remote success and also that the process would kill her.

Megs was wrong on both counts. After she had managed to sit down and come up with a basic story outline, the words just flowed out of her. Megs found once she'd started writing she couldn't stop and for once in her life, she worked and kept to a schedule. The difficulties she'd anticipated in sitting down each day to write had been conspicuous by their absence and she'd found contentment, almost an inner peace with the constant daily outpouring of words. 

Megs had then half-heartedly offered her manuscript up to a couple of publishers but after a few polite but firm knock-backs, she'd decided to self-publish and again she'd been pleasantly surprised by the outcome. Her first book had sold modestly - just a few thousand copies - but she'd loved the whole process and now was already planning ahead for the next one.

Eight kilometres to go and she felt more or less fine. See, Megs pondered, not so bad, is it? Prepare well, have faith in yourself, and you can do anything you set your mind on - as her parents had always told her.

Her parents. 

She thought of them now as the crowds of spectators along the route started to thicken. They were lovely people, her parents, and had given her so much in both her childhood and her adult life. She hoped she'd made them just the tiniest bit proud over the years and that she hadn't disappointed them too much. She knew they had been delighted when she had finally got her degree and become a teacher but they had been somewhat surprised when, five years ago, she told them she was leaving England to work overseas at an International School in a city called Surabaya in Indonesia. 

To make such a seemingly spontaneous decision was not at all in keeping with Megs' cautious and hesitant nature and her mum and dad had been rather worried at the time, but the move had been a good one. Megs had quickly settled into life as an ex-pat in Indonesia and made plenty of friends, both local and foreign, almost at once. 

These friends included Raymond, a fellow teacher at the school in Surabaya, and a native of Sydney. The two had just clicked almost from the start and now, five years later, were making solid plans for the future which included the prospect of both marriage and children.

Three kilometres out and Megs was cramping up. It was nothing serious and she knew she was going to finish but she also knew she was going to be in a bad way later. Raymond was not going to be there at the finish line - he had to stay back in Surabaya to prepare for a job interview the following week - and Megs knew she would be on her own. 

She didn't mind, however. She felt a calm and a peace washing over her as the finish line came into view. She was going to do it. Everything was going to fall into place and be alright.

Finally.

 Better late than never.

………………………………….

The taxi pulled up outside the departure terminal just as Meg was no longer able to keep control of her stomach. 

As she retched into the plastic bag she'd been holding in front of her face as a precaution the past ten minutes, the driver looked at her with some justified concern.

"Are you OK, maám?" he enquired, worriedly.

Megs did the best she could to reassure the kind gentleman (who was also no doubt worried about the interior of his vehicle). 

"Yes," she managed to smile through splutters. 

"Everything is going to be just fine now."