Bump, Bike & Baby Page 10

  Pete, Aran and I drive back into town and find our accommodation, a local bed and breakfast.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ the lady of the house says as she opens the front door. B&B hosts are notoriously friendly in this part of the country. ‘My name is Helen. And you must be Pete and Moire. And who’s this little man?’

  ‘This is Aran,’ I say. ‘He’ll be four months old next week.’

  ‘Ah, will you look at the cute baba. Doesn’t look any trouble at all.’

  If only she knew the full story.

  Helen shows us up to our room, which comes complete with a travel cot installed. It’s the first time we’ve seen such a contraption up close. ‘So you’ve come to do tomorrow’s race?’ our host says, directing her innocent question at my husband.

  ‘Ah, yes . . . Well, no,’ Pete says. ‘My wife is doing the race, not me.’

  I plunge my hands deep into my pockets. I don’t know who’s more embarrassed, Pete, me or Helen.

  I know it sounds completely crazy to compete in an adventure race less than four months after giving birth. But I want to explain to Helen that, in fact, more and more women are proving that it can be done. Having a baby doesn’t automatically mean I have to stay at home and forsake forever my identity. In fact, the training I’ve done after Aran’s birth, and the goal of racing again, has kept me happy and healthy during these post-natal days.

  But I don’t tell Helen any of this. I just shrug my shoulders and thank her for the room.

  I regret entering the race as soon as I arrive at the start line. Fifteen hundred participants have gathered in the early morning darkness outside Westport’s Castlecourt Hotel for the start of the Sea to Summit race. The skinny triathletes have arrived en masse. I feel intimidated. These girls and guys have been busy competing and winning all round them for an entire season. In addition to the superb looking triathletes, I also see Fiona Meade and Marie Boyle, the current top two females in Ireland’s National Adventure Race Series. I recognise them from my trawl of last year’s race photos.

  What worries me most is not the race, but leaving my baby for the next four hours. The longest I have left him thus far is two and a half, by which time he was starving and bawling for milk. So, on the pavement outside the hotel I give him a top-up feed, before leaving him with Pete and a promise to be back before one o’clock.

  On the stroke of 9 am, the adventure racers are let loose and take off at a gallop. I see Fiona and Marie sprint off at great speed. Much as I want to join them, I know I will never keep up. I opt instead to run at my own pace and see how I get along. After the four-kilometre run, we arrive at the quays and our bikes. I am currently the fifth lady, a position I am happy with. Bike and I team up, without Bump this time, and we draft as much as possible on the short cycle to the base of Croagh Patrick.

  For many, ascending Croagh Patrick is Ireland’s ultimate penance, the country’s Holy Grail of pilgrimages. Legend has it that Ireland’s very own patron saint fasted here for forty days and nights in AD 441, preparing Patrick for his mission to convert the Irish to Christianity. At seven hundred and sixty-four metres in height, Croagh Patrick is certainly not Ireland’s highest peak. But its steep, rocky paths have put the fear of God into many who have attempted to scale its slopes. And it is to this very top that the race route now beckons me.

  I can quickly tell I haven’t mountain run for a while. The ascent is sharp and painful, forcing me soon to walk. I stutter and stammer over the boulders that litter the entire track. And as the path steepens towards the summit, my lungs beg for this torment to come to a merciful end. I touch the top and turn to run downhill, but notice I have lost descending courage. I skid to a stop on the rocky descent, then lurch down the rest with short, uncertain strides. Still, my time earns me the second fastest woman on the mountain, and by the bottom, I have worked my way up to third place.

  Much to my surprise, my family are at the base of Croagh Patrick to give me some welcome support. Pete is there, smiling and clapping softly as Aran slumbers in his wrap. I give both of them a quick peck on the cheek and assure them that all is good before continuing on with my race.

  I grab Bike and head out towards the Maum Hills. By now racers are spaced out along the road, the Croagh Patrick ascent having separated the field. The road steepens to ridiculous slants, forcing me to dismount Bike. Eventually, as we get to the top of the final hill, I remount Bike, and together we push hard all the way down to Westport. I cycle as fast as I can, knowing that brilliant triathletes and bikers are just behind me. But despite their foreboding presence, I get back to the bike transition without another girl passing me.

  The last four-kilometre run nearly kills me. I failed to bring enough water and am now dying of thirst. I grab an abandoned bottle I find on the roadside and slug its entire contents. I am so tired I don’t give a damn whose mouth it was previously around. It gives me just enough sustenance to shuffle back to town, all the time waiting for a woman to pass me and take my podium place.

  I reach the finish in three hours forty-seven minutes, well under the four-hour time limit I had set myself. And less than a minute later, another female competitor crosses the line behind me.

  ‘Third place!’ Pete shouts. ‘Well done!’ he says, giving me an enormous bear hug. Aran is in the wrap on Pete’s chest, and gets squashed in the celebrations. I am too exhausted to reciprocate his embrace, though I silently share his excitement.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, my amazing wife!’ he tells me as we walk back together to the B&B.

  And I’m so proud to be married to such a wonderfully supportive partner. Though, of course, I’m too tired to tell him this myself, to vocalise those grateful words out loud. Hopefully I’ll remember to reciprocate his thoughts and feelings once I’ve had a little lie-down.

  Later than night we return to the Castlecourt Hotel for prize-giving. The hall is full of adventure racers, all clean and dolled up for the after-party. Pete and I look distinctly out of place in our obviously sleep-deprived state. Aran, on the other hand, snoozes through the event, snuggling up to my bosom in his wrap. Afraid to wake him when my name is called, I carry him up with me to share in my third placed result. There’s a minor gasp when the partygoers realise the bundle I’m carrying holds a tiny baby.

  Pete, Aran and I can’t stay awake long enough to take part in the celebrations. Gone are the days of racing hard and partying to all hours afterwards. Instead we slink back to our beds and slip back home the next morning.

  10

  Stress

  I am on a high after the Sea to Summit race. Not only did I manage to come third overall, but I’ve proven my post-pregnancy body can still race after all. I am also so proud that Pete and I managed to travel across half the country with a young baby, and that we successfully looked after Aran while so far away from the safety of home.

  But the elation doesn’t last long. A few days after the race, I develop a painfully sore throat and a rattling cough. When I tell Eamonn of this unforeseen sickness, he is not surprised. He could tell my body was unwell from my training data and elevated heart rates. It seems like I can hide nothing from this man.

  Eamonn gives me a few days’ rest to let my body heal. With loads of free time now on my hands, I decide to go along to the water babies’ classes I had signed up to at Sure Start.

  The changing room is crammed full of babies the same age as Aran. I didn’t realise so many women were busy reproducing at the same time as me. I do, however, seem to be one of the oldest mothers at the swimming pool. Maybe bearing children on the cusp of forty isn’t really what’s done around here. Fortunately, we are all in the same boat when it comes to our post-natal bodies; all of us are struggling to hide sagging bums and tums under our swimming costumes.

  As soon as we’re submerged though, our bodies can’t be seen. Most of the babies start to bob around in the pool without the slightest flinch. Aran appears too busy sucking his fist to be bothered by the water lapping around him. It�
�s only when I see one mum arriving with her baby girl that I realise not all babies are partial to the pool. The child has no more than her toe in the water than she starts to squeal violently. The poor mother is startled by the child’s reaction, confined then for the rest of the session to the water’s shallow edge.

  ‘Well, hello everyone,’ the female instructor says as the session begins. She tells us to make a circle, each parent holding their respective child. ‘So, let’s start with singing our water songs,’ she says, clapping her hands with glee.

  Water songs? Oh no, you’re not serious. I don’t like singing. I despise nursery rhymes. And I definitely don’t bob around in a pool with other mums and their offspring reciting silly songs. Are we not meant to be teaching our kids how to do breaststroke and butterfly? When do we teach them how to dive underwater, like on Nirvana’s Nevermind album cover?

  Only memories of Pete’s warning stop me from fleeing the swimming baths. I could still be a target for the child welfare watch list if I refuse to participate in mother and baby stuff.

  Before I know it, the instructor breaks into verse. ‘Hello Aran, Hello Aran, Hello Aran, we’re glad to see you here.’ All the mothers are holding their babies’ hands, and waving them directly at my son. I avoid all eye contact with these women by staring down at baby Aran. He is too taken with trying to catch a plastic duck floating past him to register any sort of shame. Well, if this set-up isn’t embarrassing Aran, I guess I can suck it up for his sake.

  Fortunately, the song’s next victim switches to the kid right beside me. ‘Hello Thomas, Hello Thomas . . . ’ There are ten babies in this circle. This song could take a while.

  I am next inflicted with renditions of Incy Wincy Spider, Five Little Ducks went Swimming, and the ultimate classic, Do the Hokey Kokey. Aran seems happy enough to endure it all, as he floats around in the water. I am surprised how proud I start to feel about Aran, who is obviously coping so well. I can’t help but compare him to the other children, especially those who are not taking to swimming like proverbial ducks. But my pride in Aran is soon, unfortunately, annihilated.

  The instructor decides it’s time to sing it’s raining, it’s pouring. As we hum along, the instructor comes around and sprinkles the entire contents of a plastic watering can on top of Aran’s head. As the water makes contact with his eyes, Aran starts to wail. ‘Oh, poor, poor Aran,’ I say, hugging him, then chuckling a little, trying to humour him. Little does Aran know that he has just gone way down in my estimation.

  The humiliation continues as we leave the pool and return to the changing rooms. I overhear the other mothers swapping stories about their sons and daughters.

  ‘Our John is nearly crawling,’ one mum says. ‘Really early for his age.’

  ‘Our Linda never cries,’ I hear another mum telling her friend. ‘Such a happy baby.’

  ‘Oh, Brian is a great sleeper. Has slept through the night ever since he was three months old.’

  I wish I could draw solace from such storytelling. It seems like these mums really appreciate the friendships they make through these swimming sessions. But hearing how well their kids are doing doesn’t make me feel supported. Instead it makes me feel like a terribly bad parent. Aran still pees and poos in his nappy. He is nowhere near walking or talking. And I am lucky if he sleeps more than three hours in a go. These comparisons with other children do nothing for my confidence. I quickly slip away before the mums notice I don’t even have a stroller or plush travel system to carry Aran back to the car park.

  Aran’s short sleeping blocks are proving particularly problematic to our household. He is nearly five months old, but still wakes up at least two or three times a night for a quick breastfeed. The midwife told us that Aran should sleep in the same room as Pete and me for the first six months of his life. That means Aran wakes both of us up when he’s feeling a little peckish. Pete wants to get up and help, but there’s absolutely no point. Well, not unless Pete wants to start lactating as well.

  More importantly, Pete is now our sole breadwinner. It is important that he gets a good night’s rest so that he can go to work the next day. Pete doesn’t function well when his slumber gets disrupted. In fact, neither of us is coping well with all the interrupted nights.

  Eamonn too is on my case about having insufficient kip. My training timetable has a column solely dedicated to the subject matter. Every day I have to note down how much rest I’ve had and Eamonn comments on it. Though he fully understands my situation, and knows it won’t last forever, I get totally wound up every time he reminds me to get a bit more rest.

  After a particularly bad night, I lose my rag with Eamonn. ‘Aran just keeps waking up!’ I say. ‘And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t let him cry too long, or it will wake up Pete, then Pete will be a nightmare to deal with the next day.’

  Sometimes I think I treat my poor coach like my personal agony aunt. All I seem to do these days is complain about being sick and tired.

  ‘Listen, try to sleep when Aran does,’ Eamonn replies very calmly. ‘If Aran has a nap during the day, just lie down with him.’

  ‘But I can’t sleep during the day!’ I say. There’s part of me that just wants masses of sympathy from Eamonn instead of a practical, proactive solution.

  ‘You don’t have to sleep,’ Eamonn says. ‘Just close your eyes for fifteen minutes, and get to that point where you’re just about to drool.’

  It’s not a pretty vision, but I suppose anything’s worth a shot.

  Meanwhile Pete is trying his best to chip in with Aran whenever he can. He holds Aran after a breastfeed, wiping his spew from his shoulder when Aran vomits it all back up. He bounces Aran up and down on his lap when I’m busy, even if Aran is kicking and screaming, wanting just his mammy. Pete changes Aran’s dirty nappies, even though he still can’t stand the sight and putrid smell of baby poo after all these months.

  Pete is trying to be a good husband and a modern man. Something my own father is particularly perplexed by when he sees us interacting with our son.

  ‘Never changed a nappy in my life,’ my father says to Pete and me repeatedly, without a hint of shame. Pete shrugs his shoulders and looks in my direction.

  ‘Is that daughter of mine forcing you to do all this baby stuff?’ Dad says, reading into Pete’s glance. Dad is puffing on his pipe, in strongman Popeye style.

  ‘No, Dad, it’s got nothing to do with me,’ I say. ‘But these days, if men want to have children, then they are expected to also lend a hand.’

  ‘Children should be seen and not heard,’ Dad continues, divulging his antiquated parenting philosophy.

  Pete and I stay quiet. Having Aran has really shown us how everyone has an opinion when it comes to child-rearing. I know there were people who frowned at me for exercising while pregnant and so soon after giving birth. There are some who covertly criticise me for disrupting my entire family’s rhythm just so I can train and race. There are others who raise their eyebrows at the fact that I’m staying at home to look after Aran while wilfully letting my career slide.

  We find it especially hard when these alternative views come from our own nearest and dearest. At times, their voices make us sincerely wonder if we are doing the right thing. Though we fully understand and appreciate their opinions, there are other times when we know we have to stand our ground, and do what we believe in.

  It takes me several days to recover from the cold I contracted after the Sea to Summit adventure race. Finally, after what seems like forever, Eamonn allows me to go back training. But as soon as he starts giving me sessions, I regret that I am well again.

  The racing season is over for the year. Now that it’s winter, and officially off-season, athletes have to do long gruelling mileage on the road and trails, and they are forced to hit the gym.

  I hate going to the gym. It’s far too much hard work. What makes it worse is that Eamonn has me on the rowing machine, the ultimate instrument of torture. It provides a total body bea
ting, working every one of my major muscle groups. My legs, hips, and glutes heave with every stroke. My back, shoulders, and arms strain with every pull, while my trunk and core strain to keep the peace between my upper and lower bodies. What makes it even worse is that I’m not allowed to just sit down and simply row-row-row my boat. I have to push hard for a couple of minutes, and really grunt and sweat. I’m then allowed a little break for a minute or two, before rowing hard again. It is a truly evil exercise.

  The only advantage I can see to gym sessions is that it allows me to train inside. Wet and windy weather has arrived in Ireland with all its wintery might. It makes biking outside miserable to say the least. However, when I complain to Eamonn about the weather, he tells me it’s character-building.

  I’m not in a particularly good mood when I drop Aran to the crèche one day before going for a bike ride. I really don’t want to do the session Eamonn has assigned me. It’s far too long and hard. I reluctantly wheel Bike in through the crèche’s front door, past the admin office, then place him as usual with the other baby buggies in the crèche’s corridor. After taking a few minutes to hand Aran over to the kind crèche staff, I take Bike by the handlebars and, using all my powers of self-control, I will myself outside. But before I can reach the front door, a member of the crèche administration calls me into her office. I’m sure she has something to tell me about Aran; I’m worried it may be bad news.

  ‘You can’t leave that there,’ she says, pointing out to the corridor.

  It takes me a while to realise she is referring to Bike.

  ‘No, of course I’m not leaving it there,’ I say, laughing at the slight misunderstanding. ‘I’m going for a bike ride.’

  ‘No, you can’t leave it there when you’re dropping off Aran,’ she says, trying to clarify her point. She is sitting behind her desk, looking far too important. But I don’t want to get into a fight.