Bump, Bike & Baby Page 17

  It takes me ninety minutes to cycle to the base of Croagh Patrick Mountain. Much to my surprise, Pete is there at the bike drop. He is holding Aran high up on his shoulders. Pete’s wide, friendly smile melts my race woes for an instant. Normally he tells me I’m looking great, but today we all know such a statement would be totally untrue.

  ‘She is ten minutes ahead of you,’ Pete shouts, finding something else positive to say. ‘You can do it.’

  Ten minutes! That’s forever in adventure racing. The mountain section is only five kilometres long, and then there is a mere eleven-kilometre cycle to the finish. I flash a quick smile to thank him for the info, and start to ascend the mountain.

  It takes me a quarter of an hour to climb the heathered terrain that leads towards the rocky cone summit. Just as I hit the steep, stony section at the mountain’s shoulder, I see my mate Paul flying down the slope.

  ‘She’s just ahead of ye,’ Paul shouts as he negotiates some steep scree. I look up at him incredulously. But before I can tell him where to go with his lies, he rapidly disappears.

  I look up the mountain to see how far it is to the top. And just before the summit, I can just make out Emma’s shape. I can barely believe it. I push hard, hoping that my body will hold out. Another couple of minutes, and I dare to look up again. She is closer, much closer.

  I overtake her just as we arrive at the peak. Not wanting to pass by without saying something, I place my hand on her back and say hello. She is quiet. She looks tired and confused. Her usual strong stride has gone.

  I don’t understand what has happened her, but I don’t have time to ask or wonder why. We have a race to run and I need to get back to my bike at the base of the mountain. I slip, stumble, and slide my way down its slopes in under fifteen minutes. Pete and Aran are at the bottom, waiting.

  ‘Where’s Emma?’ Pete shouts.

  ‘Up there,’ I yell, thumbing back up the mountain. ‘Gotta go!’ are my last words to my stunned husband and son as they watch their wife and mother pedal frantically away.

  The last bike and final run are a bit of a blur. I dare not look back lest I see Emma hunting me down. I finally reach the finish line in just under four and a half hours. And amazingly, I am the first lady home.

  Emma arrives in Westport five minutes later.

  I approach her as she crosses the line and congratulate her on the race. We have had the head to head that Emma hoped for, but neither of us had anticipated the final result.

  ‘What happened out there?’ I ask out of curiosity.

  ‘I just bonked on the mountain,’ Emma admits. She had tried to race on a minimum of food, and just ran out of energy before the end.

  I went into the race feeling pretty miserable. But I suppose you never know how others are feeling, what injuries or illnesses they might be dealing with on the day. I doubt though that there were many other competitors lining up at Gaelforce West that morning dealing with a major bout of mastitis.

  16

  Killarney

  After my debilitating attack of mastitis, I resolve to wean Aran off breast milk forever. He has just turned one, and so is well capable of digesting normal cow’s milk by now. However, my commitment to stop this habit is met with violent resistance. When he wakes in the morning, Aran looks for his usual breastfeed, and instead is handed a hard, inanimate plastic cup. He duly flings the container across the kitchen floor, telling me in no uncertain terms that he despises this change in plan.

  I pick up the cup of cow’s milk and give it back to him, then sit him on my knee for a nice grown-up chat. I tell him that this is his new breakfast drink and that it is very yummy indeed. My logical explanation is drowned out, however, by blood-curdling screams. Suddenly, he throws his whole body backwards in protest and nearly topples off my lap. He doesn’t seem to understand or care how dangerous such sudden movements can be.

  He bawls and bawls, until I finally can’t stand it anymore. I slip him under my shirt for a quick feed. His screams stop as soon he gets the liquid fix he craves, while I sit there cursing him for disrupting my weaning plan. I can’t help worrying though he’ll be addicted to breast milk forever. For the time being I’m just glad to have quelled Aran’s manic tantrum; that is, until the next time he feels a little thirsty.

  Now that we are back home in Derry, Mum can hang out with Aran again. She loved looking after him as a baby because of all the afternoon naps they could share. But now that Aran is a fully-fledged mobile toddler, the fun Mum and Aran can have together has increased immeasurably.

  I leave Aran with Mum one day so that I can go for an hour’s run. It is a warm, mild afternoon, so they head straight out into the garden to see what trouble they can get up to. I see them making a beeline for the pond, something that would spark fear in most parents of a wobbly toddler. But I need not worry, as Mum holds Aran firmly by the hand, stopping him from toppling in and accidentally drowning. They peer into the pool’s murky depths, and start searching around for frogs. Aran lobs a few stones into the water to frighten them out into the open. When they fail to find amphibians, Mum produces some Peppa Pig bath toys. They spend the next hour throwing George Pig, Suzy Sheep, and Zoe Zebra into the pond, and then fishing them out again.

  I come back from my run, glad to see that Mum and Aran are still dry and alive, and are keeping each other well entertained in the back yard. I pick Aran up and give him a big hug.

  ‘Thanks for looking after him, Mum,’ I say. ‘Sure I can take it from here.’

  ‘No problem,’ Mum says. ‘We had great fun altogether! Didn’t we, Aran?’

  I carry him towards the house to get both of us something to eat.

  ‘I think I’ll just stay out here,’ Mum calls after us. ‘There is a flower bed I want to weed.’

  Back at the house, I put Aran down on the kitchen floor while I open up the fridge. Aran totters off out of the kitchen, to his hoard of toys that litter the nearby sitting-room floor. One of these days, I really must clear them up.

  I don’t hear a bang or any sort of violent thud. All I hear is the wailing sound of Aran’s voice. I drop what I am doing at the kitchen counter to see what’s up now. And when I finally find Aran in the next room, all I can see is blood spouting from his mouth.

  ‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’ I shout, not knowing what the hell to do next. Aran is crying so loud, I can barely hear myself think. I pick him up and hold him close to my body, cupping my hand around his head. I then rush out to the garden, where I find Mum knee-deep in her flower bed.

  ‘Aran’s bleeding badly,’ I shout, my voice breaking from the stress. Mum gets off her knees and comes running to my aid.

  ‘Oh God, how did that happen?’ she says, looking straight at Aran’s mouth. The sleeve of my running T-shirt, which I’ve not changed out of yet, is now totally soaked in Aran’s blood.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I say frantically. ‘We were in separate rooms, and next thing I heard was Aran screaming.’

  Pete hears the noise from our office where he has been working up until now. He comes out to see what all the fuss is about.

  ‘Oh good Jesus,’ he says, covering his own mouth. ‘We need to get him looked at. We have to go straight to A & E.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I say. ‘Take a look first and see where the blood is coming from.’

  My worst fear is that he’s somehow hit his chin and dislodged one of his new teeth.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Pete says, as he peers inside Aran’s mouth. ‘I think he’s cut his tongue in half.’

  A jolt of pain rips through my body. It is a sharp, cutting sense, a type that I’ve never, ever felt before. It is like I’m enduring Aran’s actual pain in my very own flesh. This injury might as well have been inflicted on me, the feeling is so strong.

  Pete and I rush Aran to the local hospital. As soon as Pete drops us off at the front entrance, I run up to the reception desk clutching Aran as if it is my own life that’s at stake.

  ‘It’s my son,’ I say. ‘
I think he’s cut his tongue.’

  She asks me Aran’s details, but in my total fluster, I can barely recall any of them. Remembering his full name, date of birth, and doctor’s surgery are way beyond what my brain can cope with right now.

  ‘Take a seat and you’ll be called by the doctor soon,’ the lady behind the desk commands.

  I find a spare chair, and place Aran on my lap. He has gone very quiet, and is sitting there motionless. I see other patients looking at Aran and wondering what is wrong. The bloodstains on my own top only raise their curiosity.

  I feel so guilty having let this injury happen to my son. I decide to give Aran a quick breastfeed to calm him down, as well to soothe my own nerves. But the sucking motion he makes with his tongue only opens up the wound again. Blood starts to stream out of his mouth and straight on to my bare skin. I jump up screaming. Aran is still in such shock that he fails to make a sound. Pete soon arrives to distract me from this horror story that is unfurling.

  Because Aran is so young, we don’t have to wait long before a doctor is free to see us. We are brought into a cubicle, and wait for him to come.

  ‘And how did the injury happen?’ the doctor asks me straight off when he arrives.

  ‘I guess he must have fallen,’ I say. ‘But I’m not really sure. I wasn’t there.’

  It sounds so negligent. I had taken Aran off Mum’s hands only minutes beforehand. He was my responsibility, and I failed horribly in my duty of care.

  Though his mouth is obviously the issue, the doctor sets about examining Aran’s entire body. I fully understand there might be other injuries sustained that we know nothing of. But the fact that he is looking for other marks and bruises makes me wonder if we are coming under scrutiny. Does the doctor think we did this on purpose? Is he wondering if there were other incidents that we intentionally failed to report? I hug Aran a little closer to show the doctor we really do love our child.

  Eventually, he gives up his extensive search of Aran’s body when he finds nothing to report. He looks inside Aran’s mouth and investigates the blood’s source.

  ‘Looks like he cut his tongue,’ he says, confirming Pete’s suspicion. Pete takes a look too and provides more graphic detail.

  ‘His tongue has been sliced in half on one side,’ Pete reports back.

  ‘He probably fell and hit his chin, and then bit through his tongue in the process,’ the doctor tells us, taking an educated guess. ‘There’s no point in stitching it. Just leave it alone and it will heal itself.’ And with this succinct advice, he bids us good day and farewell.

  ‘But...But . . . ’ Pete says, trying to stop the doctor from abandoning us in this sterile space. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you can do?’

  ‘Mouth injuries can bleed a lot,’ the doctor says, turning to reassure us. ‘But they also heal very quickly as well. If we try stitching the wound, Aran will probably struggle so much that it wouldn’t be worth it. Best we leave it alone. Believe me, it will mend itself.’

  I breathe a hesitant sigh of relief. Poor Aran will be okay in the end. And though I’m reluctant to believe that the tongue will pull itself together under its own steam, it does exactly that over the coming days.

  Aran’s accident and subsequent tongue wound unfortunately does nothing to deter him from continuing to tear around the house. I would normally be fine to let Aran be as noisy and destructive as he pleases. The problem is that Pete is now attempting to work from home, having managed to negotiate a contract whereby he can do some of his job from our place, with trips to Dublin when required. Working from home, however, requires a certain level of peace and quiet. Aran’s manic energy, heightened curiosity, and increased mobility unfortunately causes maximum disturbance instead.

  I thought it would be nice to have Pete work from home, so that we could see him a bit more often. I was also glad that we could move back to Derry and be in familiar surroundings again. But the current daytime arrangement, of Pete and one-year-old Aran residing in the same location, causes unprecedented levels of stress. I am just desperately hoping that this is a phase with Aran, something that he’ll grow out of ASAP.

  Pete’s presence at home provides me, however, with an unexpected opportunity: I have a two-hour bike ride to do one day and my regular childcare options have fallen through. I knock at his office door and poke my head around.

  ‘Are you busy?’ I say.

  Pete is sitting down and thumbing his mobile phone, scrolling through a long list of unanswered emails.

  ‘Sorta,’ he says without looking up. ‘Why? What’s up?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you could look after Aran for an hour or two today?’ I say, hope in my voice. ‘It’s just that Mum isn’t free to mind him.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ he says, giving me his full attention. ‘Can’t you just skip the session?’

  ‘I could, I suppose,’ I say, disappointment in my tone. ‘But I’d prefer not to.’

  ‘Well, I’m not free,’ Pete says adamantly. ‘Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?’

  He returns to his mobile phone, and goes to put in his headset.

  ‘But surely you’ll have some time this evening?’ I say, refusing to take his hint and go.

  ‘Can’t you just be at least a little flexible?’ Pete says.

  I thought I was being flexible by suggesting I train this evening rather than this morning as usual.

  ‘Please, Pete,’ I beg, getting a little desperate. There’s nothing I hate more than failing to do something I’ve committed to.

  Pete pushes his chair back from the table, and turns to face me head-on. ‘My God, Moire, why are you so feckin’ disciplined?’

  ‘I thought you liked that about me!’ When we first met, he said it was one of my most attractive qualities.

  ‘It is a positive thing from afar,’ Pete says. ‘But God, is it painful to live with!’

  I turn to leave. It upsets me when my spouse hates something that is so part of my personality. I don’t want him to see me cry.

  ‘Stop,’ Pete shouts, getting up to prevent my exit. ‘You just have to understand, Moire, you’re just not like most people. Most people would just skip the session and not think twice about it.’

  I think he’s probably right: most mums would prioritise family harmony over their own personal commitments. ‘But you know full well that this is my way of coping with the daily grind of motherhood,’ I say, throwing my back against the wall.

  Pete stares at me for a second. I hold my breath, unable to guess what he’ll say next.

  ‘Look, it’s okay. I’ll mind Aran this evening if you want,’ Pete says, his expression more relaxed now. ‘But please, just try and be a bit more flexible in the future.’

  I leave Pete’s office chastened. Though I know that my training can’t take precedence over everything, and sometimes I will have to indeed forgo sessions, I resolve to plan my training and childcare so it clashes less with family members.

  There is one last race I want to do this year as part of the National Adventure Race Series. The Killarney Adventure Race is one of the oldest and most prestigious on the racing scene. The town of Killarney itself is Ireland’s outdoor capital. It plays host to the two-hundred-kilometre Kerry Way walking trail, the Ring of Kerry cycling and driving route, as well as providing access to Ireland’s tallest mountains, the McGillyCuddy’s Reeks. If you’re seeking adventure within Ireland, this is the place to head.

  Aran is fourteen months old by the time the race comes around. The good news though is, after two months of painful persistence, I have finally forced Aran to kick his breastfeeding habit. With Aran now off the boobs, he doesn’t have to accompany me to the race. But Pete has started to enjoy these family weekends away, with a chance to see some adventure-racing action as well. He enjoyed watching Emma and I fight it out in Dingle and at Gaelforce West. Now he wants to come along to Killarney to see what battles lie in wait for me.

  The event takes place in October, when Ire
land’s warm summer months are well and truly gone. October in Killarney can be cold and wet, with winter fast approaching. The race itself starts bright and early on Saturday morning at 7.30 am. Pete, Aran and I travel down to Killarney the day before so that I can register and drop my bike.

  I head late afternoon to the bike drop at Kate Kearney’s Cottage, at the mouth of the Gap of Dunloe. The race starts from Kate’s house with a nine-kilometre run up and down Strickeen Mountain. The route then returns us right back to the cottage, where we collect our bikes from Kate’s back yard for a thirty-five-kilometre cycle to Muckross Lake.

  I take Bike carefully out of my car boot, and wheel him over to the stands. Bike’s wheels begin to turn for the first time after being stuck in the car for seven hours. But instead of them spinning in silence, all I hear is a horrible, grating noise. This isn’t good. Bikes can easily get knocked about in the back of cars, especially when they have to share their space with luggage. Pete and I often fight if one of his suitcases accidentally touches Bike during long-distance car journeys.

  I bend down and turn the pedals manually to see what the problem is. I soon realise that it’s my back wheel that is making a rather unhealthy crunching sound. I poke and prod at various metal bits before concluding there is nothing much I can do. It could be just a bit of mud stuck somewhere unobtrusive. Or it could be something far more serious. With no bike mechanics around, I reluctantly leave Bike at the start and hope he’ll be better by the morning.

  My rear wheel dilemma is made all the more stressful knowing whom I am about to compete against. Fiona Meade, who did only the bike section in Dingle, has since been crowned Irish National Road Racing Champion. Though Killarney’s course is well known to favour mountain runners due to its ascents of both Strikeen and Mangerton, I can’t lose too much time on the route’s two intervening bike legs. A banjaxed bike wheel would be enough to hand Fiona the win.