Bump, Bike & Baby Page 16

  The most fleet-footed females will make it home in around four hours. Those less able may have to endure this course for well over ten.

  Before I can even think about tackling the course, reaching Westport with Aran in tow poses my first logistical challenge. Westport was the starting place for the Sea to Summit race. And just like Sea to Summit, Aran must accompany me on the journey as I am still breastfeeding him. I live in Derry, in the far north-west corner of the Emerald Isle. This race is as far west as I could possibly travel.

  Registration is at Killary Adventure Centre, a five-hour drive from my home. If I were still young, free and single, this long trip would be a piece of cake. Now it is a journey I dread.

  A key task is to find a babysitter for Aran while I race. Pete is out working in Cambodia for several weeks before Gaelforce West. We have agreed that he’d be back in time to look after Aran while I compete. His flight, however, does not get into Dublin until Friday morning, just as I need to leave Derry to make my own way to Westport. It seems like our ongoing parental juggling act gets more complex with time.

  After a flurry of internet searches, Pete works out that he can catch a train from Dublin that will deposit him in Westport at 4 pm the day before the race. We agree that I will finish registration just in time to pick him up from the station.

  Aran and I set off in our spacious Kangoo bulging beneath all our needs. I intend to set off good and early, but it takes a little longer than expected to get Aran fed and clothed and changed. Despite this delay, we make good progress along Donegal and Sligo’s network of minor roads. Aran thankfully dozes off to sleep within half an hour of leaving.

  Aran eventually stirs from his sleep halfway through our journey. There is no gradual yawn or loving sleepy smile at Mummy. He starts screaming wildly, flailing his arms around, and tearing out his blond toddler hair. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ I say, throwing random glances in the rear-view mirror while trying to keep one eye on the road. His squeals grow louder and louder, while my stress levels escalate.

  Suddenly I spot a pub ahead with a large parking lot to one side. ‘Are you hungry, little one?’ It is an educated guess. The easiest thing is to pull in, grab him out of his car seat, and stick him on a boob.

  It works. The sobs subside as he sucks long and deeply until he is finally satisfied. I stick Aran back in his seat, and pray that this will be our first and last unforeseen pit stop.

  Killary Adventure Centre is found on the remote southern banks of Killary Harbour. Ideally situated as a staging post for wild and remote exploration, the centre is less suited for the onslaught of over a thousand participants who need to park and collect their race numbers on the eve of race day.

  Fortunately, we make it to registration in the early afternoon without any further delays. Aran is wide awake as I pull in to park. I cannot leave him in the car alone. I pick him up and carry him inside, hoping he will be on good behaviour. Aran soon spots the stairs that lead up to number collection. He wriggles and writhes out of my arms. He wants to climb up the steps, one by one, all of them without Mummy’s help.

  Slowly, he puts one foot on the step and grasps on to the handrail with all his might. With one long pull he heaves himself up, his other leg dragging behind him. This is going to be a very long stair ascent. I dare not lift him less he freaks out and causes a terrible toddler scene. But I have to get moving. I have my number to collect, my bike to drop, and a very jet-lagged husband to collect from the local train station.

  I seem to be the only one carrying a baby into registration. I feel embarrassed. I can’t work out if everyone else has wisely left their kids at home, or if there is some kind of mother apartheid system. Or maybe the others were astute enough to realise in advance that having offspring might complicate, or even severely curtail, their adventure-racing plans.

  Having a child in tow does, however, prove somewhat advantageous. The crowds part out of pity and I pass smoothly through the process.

  A quick nappy change in the centre’s loos and we are off to nearby Delphi Centre for the bike drop. But though we are in deepest, darkest rural Ireland, traffic is at a standstill. Cars laden with racing bikes squeeze along the slender roads designed for farmers and their sheep. The race organisers have imposed a one-way system, but this does nothing to relieve the gridlock. I am delayed even further, painfully aware that Pete’s train is relentlessly chugging its way to its final destination.

  I eventually arrive at Westport train station very late. Pete is sitting on the platform, idly scanning through a book.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I say, as I jump out of the car to greet him. Aran is crying, hungry again, but I have not had time to stop and feed him.

  Pete is silent. We hug without warmth.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I say again, but I know this will not cut it. He has flown halfway around the globe, then travelled the width of Ireland just so I can race. He is sleep-deprived, his face is unshaven, and his clothes smell of stale sweat.

  Being late is understandable. But it is also unforgivable.

  Before Aran arrived, there is no way I would have apologised so repeatedly for my lateness, or so obviously tried to make amends. I would have resolutely stated that it wasn’t my fault that I got delayed, and that therefore an apology was unnecessary. Now, with a child on the scene, Pete and I know that arguments must be quickly resolved and relationships healed for the greater good of our family. Marriages can easily break up over the wrong word said too many times. The greatest casualty, in our case, would be Aran.

  ‘Is the Bed and Breakfast far?’ Pete asks as he slumps into the passenger seat.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I reply. ‘Really close in fact.’ I am eager to smooth things over and to start the weekend again. I hope the proximity of the B&B will do something to lighten his mood.

  I had struggled to find a place for us to stay. Having a baby that moves by himself means our choice of accommodation is somewhat curtailed these days. It needs to be family-friendly, with big enough rooms for a double bed and travel cot and all our bags. It also needs understanding owners who do not mind if we pace the corridors with a baby squealing blue murder at midnight.

  No one has thrown us out of a B&B yet, but I know that several proprietors have been happy to see the back of us.

  All is soon well again. The B&B is fine and functional. Pete is able to shower in the en suite and settles down for a snooze. Aran is happily deconstructing the room, opening and banging closed every drawer and door that is within his infant reach. And I am all ready to go race-wise.

  Training has been good. I am as fit as I could possibly be at this stage of the year. The form guide suggests that I am one of the pre-race favourites based on my Gaelforce North win. Now all I need to do is rest, relax, and wait for tomorrow.

  Or at least, that’s what I think – but all is not well in Westport town.

  It does not start as anything major, just an overwhelming need to lie down. ‘Shift over in the bed there, Pete,’ I say, pushing his jaded jet-lagged body over to one side.

  He grunts and turns as I curl up in a ball beside his back. ‘Pre-race nerves?’ he slurs out of his hazy slumber.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘Probably.’ Hopefully no more than that, but something is just not right.

  I pull myself closer to his body, and scream. ‘Feck! That hurts!’

  Pete jumps up. ‘What? What? What’s going on?’ His eyes dart around the room, trying to work out where he is and who I am. He comes through, looks down, and sees me screwed up, tight as a foetus, clutching myself in agony.

  ‘My boobs!’ I scream. ‘They feckin’ hurt.’

  ‘Calm down. You’ll upset Aran,’ Pete whispers, though it is clear that Pete is the one most upset by this confusing scene.

  ‘I think I’ve got mastitis,’ I groan through a contorted grimace. I have had mastitis before, but never as bad as this. My right breast is as hard as a rock. It is noticeably larger than the other one. The slightes
t touch makes me scream in agony. A glance with a feather would be sufficient, but instead, curling up beside Pete’s back has started this painful onslaught.

  ‘The milk,’ I try to explain. ‘It must be stuck.’

  I have been rushing around all day. First to get packed up and go, then to drive halfway down the country to the race. I had to do all the administration and bike drop before finally picking up Pete from the station. Aran had fed just once that day and from only one single breast. There had not been enough time that day to stop and feed him from the other side. The milk has now built up in the neglected boob. It looks like an over-inflated balloon that is on the verge of bursting.

  If only it would burst, that might alleviate at least some of this agony. By now the localised pain is being augmented by sweeping waves of nausea.

  This is ridiculous. How could a blocked milk duct inflict so much bodily grief?

  ‘You can’t race in this state,’ Pete says. ‘We better just go home.’

  ‘Home?’ I shriek. ‘You’re kidding me. I need race points for the series.’ Even as I say it, I know it sounds ridiculous. But I have prepared so much and travelled so far. I have even made my husband literally travel from the other side of the world so that he can babysit for a few hours. I cannot give up so easily.

  ‘Well then, do you want to go to hospital?’

  ‘No. No. Please no,’ I say. ‘All I have to do is get the milk out.’

  Pete stands over me as I cower on the bed. The pain and feelings of sickness have now been joined by flu-like symptoms. I feel hot, then cold, then shiver constantly. My body aches all over. I am a total mess.

  I slowly sit up and try my best to squeeze some milk out of the offending breast. But the mere touch of my hand starts me squealing again, this time out of inconsolable frustration.

  ‘How can I help?’ Pete asks.

  ‘Aran,’ I whimper. ‘I need Aran to get the milk out.’

  Pete finds Aran in the bathroom, investigating the water in the toilet bowl. He picks him up and hands him to me. I gingerly tilt his head towards my body.

  Aran is having none of it. He was having a great time splashing in the latrine. He arches his back, kicks his legs, and contorts violently away from me. Not that I blame him. Getting milk out of my mammary glands now is akin to sucking blood out from a stone. He is not interested in such hard work, especially when he still has a whole bathroom right there that he intends to explore.

  I placate Aran for a while as he unravels the toilet tissue and drapes it over the towel rail. Finally, hunger gets the better of him, and he agrees to finally suck. Aran manages to latch on and soon the milk begins to flow.

  ‘Ahhhhh,’ I purr. ‘Oh God, the relief,’ as I feel the liquid leaving.

  Once Aran starts the milk flow, the milk struggles to stop, so I pump and dump as much as possible. But even with the milk levels low, the damage has already been done. The breast is still sore, the flu-like symptoms persist, and the mere thought of food makes me want to vomit.

  I have booked us into a lovely restaurant, An Port Mor, for a bit of fine dining before the race. Despite the current circumstances, I figure we might as well use the reservation. Pete is starving after a day of airplane and airport food, and Aran needs some solids after his liquid lunch and dinner.

  ‘I’ll have the Connemara smoked salmon to start with, and the maple glazed pork belly for the main,’ Pete instructs the waiter. An Port Mor is renowned for its excellent local fare, hence why we made the booking.

  The very idea of consuming such flavoured food renders me instantly queasy. But I still cling to the idea of competing in the race tomorrow. ‘I better eat something, just to keep up my strength,’ I say. So I keep it simple and order the chicken.

  Aran is not interested in the dishes on offer. He is much more intrigued by the street outside, and decides to go for a wander. The waiter sees our predicament and kindly seats us outside.

  ‘You have your starter,’ I say to Pete. ‘And I will keep an eye on Aran.’ So I follow Aran as he waddles up and down the pavement. When he stumbles, I am there to catch him. He is still learning to walk without falling.

  Pete is left alone at the table while I keep tabs on our son. He downs his salmon mechanically, without savouring the slightest mouthful. Rare are our days of intimate dinners, enjoying a glass of wine together and appreciating each other’s company. Eating food is now a perfunctory task, done hastily before Aran cracks up or toddles off.

  As Pete finishes his starter, our mains soon arrive. ‘My turn,’ Pete says, as we tag-team the parenting role. He gets up and jogs after Aran, who is threatening to round the corner and disappear out of sight. I look at my food, delicious and delectable, and feel like I want to puke.

  When both of us have eaten as much as we can, Pete, Aran and I start our short walk home. The food I force-fed myself at the restaurant makes me feel a little better, but I am still a little wobbly on my feet. Pete loops his arm around mine and I am thankful for the support. I am so woozy, however, that I nearly miss the duo walking towards us on the street. I glance up and at the last minute realise that Emma Donlon is one half of the couple.

  The last time I saw Emma was at the Dingle Adventure Race two months ago. After a gruelling three-hour battle, she won the race, beating me into second place. But Gaelforce West is a race that plays exactly to her strengths. She won it in 2011 and 2012. She is now back to reclaim the title. Emma is also a personal trainer, with qualifications in pre- and post-natal exercise.

  ‘Hi, Emma, how’s things?’ I ask. We don’t know each other that well, but Irish adventure-racing circles are exceptionally small.

  ‘Grand, thanks,’ replies Emma. ‘All ready for tomorrow?’

  I hesitate. I always play it cool before a race. I never admit to any weakness. If it had been any other female competitor, I would have told her I was all good to go. But, knowing that Emma trains women who have just had children, I am desperate for some advice.

  ‘Not sure I will make it the starting line tomorrow, Emma,’ I reply. I glance up at Pete and make the understatement of the year. ‘I’ve got a bit of mastitis.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Emma says. ‘That’s horrible! It’s really painful, I hear.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not feeling the best. Any tips about how to get over it?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not too sure,’ replies Emma. I lean a little heavier on Pete. ‘My sister had it once while breastfeeding. Screamed in agony, she did. It got infected and she ended up on antibiotics.’

  Oh God, I think. If it is that serious, there is no way I will be able to get antibiotics in time. It is late on Friday evening and I have no idea how to even find a doctor in Westport.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Emma adds. ‘I was really looking forward to going head to head after the race we had in Dingle.’

  She wishes me a speedy recovery, then Emma and I go our separate ways.

  ‘So are you going to race tomorrow?’ Pete asks when we get back to the B&B.

  I think for a moment. ‘I still don’t know,’ I reply. ‘We have to stay the night anyhow, as it’s too late to head back home. I suppose I’ll just see how I feel in the morning.’

  The alarm goes off at 4 am. If I want to catch the 5 am bus to the start, I have to get up now. The night was restless. Sleep had come in fits and starts. Pre-race nerves had stolen some slumber, but at least the nausea is gone. Before lying down for the night, I had put my sports bra on under my clothes to keep my breasts strapped firmly in place. And though the offending breast still feels sore, it is not as bad as yesterday.

  I decide to get up and go. Maybe it is the fact that I have already paid my race entry, that I spent money on new puncture-proof tyres, and that I have dedicated hours and hours of training towards competing in Gaelforce West. So much has already been invested that it seems silly not to at least toe the line.

  Dawn breaks as I arrive at a blustery Glassilaun beach. Two hundred other competitors are milling around th
e dunes waiting for the elite start at 6.30 am. I spot Paul Mahon, my former adventure-racing teammate, warming up on the shore. We were racing together on the twenty-four-hour Cooley Raid Adventure Race when I figured out I was probably pregnant, unbeknownst to my team.

  ‘Howaya, Moire?’ Paul asks as he limbers up. ‘All ready for the race?’ This time, I refrain from disclosing my current feminine issues. I sincerely doubt anyhow that Paul can give me any reasonable, practical advice.

  ‘Sure, we’ll give it a lash,’ I reply.

  ‘Ye better,’ he says. ‘Emma is looking well fit these days. She’ll be definitely hard to beat.’

  We line up under the inflatable starting arch that has been shipped to this remote beach for the day. Before I have time to concur with Paul about Emma’s current form, the horn blasts, and everyone sprints off on the run. I see Emma’s heels kicking up sand just ahead of me. Within seconds, she is gone. I have no choice but to let her go as there’s no way I can match her pace.

  I take it handy as we race along the rutted, rocky famine track that traces the southern bank of Killary Harbour. After sixty-six minutes of running, I reach the second stage, the kayak north across the harbour. Emma is nowhere in sight, but I am at least in second place.

  The waves beat against my single kayak as I struggle to steer it towards the opposing shore. The Atlantic wind too plays its part, buffeting my little boat’s bow. And as I fight to keep the vessel afloat and going in the right direction, my stomach decides to add to my maritime woes. It feels at first like seasickness, but I know its true source. I slowly start to drown in the same waves of nausea that the mastitis drenched me with yesterday. Any race plans I might have had sink slowly into the waters below.

  I struggle to reach my bike that I had so fastidiously placed in Delphi Centre just the day before. With not finishing a real prospect, survival is now the new plan. I drink heavily from my water bottles on Bike, drawing a little strength from the sugar suspended within. I then work out the pace that I can just about manage without feeling I have to get off my bike and vomit on the roadside. The slightest change in heart rate, and I know my stomach will rebel.