Bump, Bike & Baby Read online

  Buses ferry us from Killarney to the starting line early on Saturday morning. As luck would have it, I see Peter Cromie, who sold me Bike, also on the bus.

  ‘Oi, Cromie,’ I shout out to him as we disembark. ‘Any chance you can take a quick look at my bike? I think it has an issue.’ I sound a little desperate, but it’s definitely worth a shot.

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘Which one is it?’ I know I am distracting him from his own race warm-up, but Cromie is the sort who’s always happy to lend a hand regardless.

  I jog up to Bike and present my rear wheel to Cromie. He takes one look at it and pronounces it race worthy. ‘The tyre was just put on a little off-centre, so it’s rubbing a bit. But it should be fine to get you round the course.’

  I don’t tell Cromie that I’m the one who put the tyre on the rim. If there are any issues during the race, there’s no one to blame but me.

  With that worry sorted, I move on to my next concern: today’s female competition. I look around the starting line but can’t see Emma anywhere. Though she beat me in Dingle, it seems like she has opted out of Killarney. It means that Fiona is the one I must focus on.

  Fiona means business from the start. As soon as the gun goes, she sprints off up the pot-holed road towards Strickeen Mountain. I push hard to overtake her, as I want to get to the narrow mountain path section first, where passing options become severely limited. Up the rocky zigzags, I keep a handy pace, bouncing up and over the bog and stones to get into a nice rhythm. I reach the summit first, but as soon as I turn, I see Fiona coming right towards me. I hightail it out of there and throw myself back down the mountain, hoping the rough rock-strewn path will slow Fiona down slightly.

  I grab Bike as soon as I reach Kate’s Cottage, and whisper a silent prayer that his rear wheel will behave. Little do I know that this mechanical issue will be the least of my concerns. It rained heavily last night, making the tarmac slippery smooth. This, combined with the course’s steep descents, hairpin bends, and a low glaring autumnal morning sun, makes cycling totally treacherous. The marshals at the safety briefing warned us to be careful. I get a stark reminder as I crest the steep Gap of Dunloe and see an ambulance all ready and waiting.

  I keep my fingers on my brakes as I descend into Black Valley. All the time, I am listening hard to hear any rear-wheel grating sounds. Bike, however, puts my worries to bed, and glides effortlessly along the rural roads in total silence. I pedal hard towards Moll’s Gap, before hitting the main road to Killarney. All the time I am waiting for Fiona to come flying past me. At Ladies View, I round the corner to see a lad sprawled across the tarmac floor, his bike in bits beside him. I hear later he missed the bend, then fell off and broke his collarbone. The marshals were right to warn us about slowing down.

  I reach the bike transition at Muckross Lake with still no sign of Fiona. I know she is a strong paddler, so I still can’t hang around. I run the short distance to the lake and jump into a boat. I see Pete and Aran on the shore, madly clapping me on.

  As soon as I start to paddle, my legs decide to cramp. I must have pushed really hard on the bike for them to rebel this early on in the race. I adjust the way I’m sitting, and use my legs a little less on each paddle stroke. Luckily the water section takes most of us only fifteen minutes to complete.

  I crawl out of the kayak and back on to dry land. I glance back out over the waters and see two women paddling straight towards me. ‘Fiona was three and a half minutes behind you on to the water,’ Pete shouts. ‘You can do it!’ he adds. I flash him an already tired smile.

  The race started two hours ago. I know, however, that the real race begins only now. The eighteen-kilometre run up and down Mangerton Mountain is where winners and losers are made. With this in mind, I run towards the mountain, happy to be done with the bike and boat sections for now.

  The initial section through a forest is farther than I expect, and I end up running alone for long stretches. Occasionally, I forget I’m racing as I jog through these pretty woods, daydreaming as if I’m on a training jaunt. I am rudely awakened, however, when I emerge from the trees and see Mangerton Mountain rising impressively from the ground before me.

  The ascent is boggy and rocky, and too rough to run in parts. But I know this is where I have to make up time if I am to break clear of the opposition. After an hour on my feet, I realise I am near the top when I see the leading men sprinting down the hill towards me. I dodge out of their way just in time, leaving them free to continue their masculine battle.

  At the turnaround, I check my watch to see if I’ve gained any precious minutes. By the time I cross paths with Fiona coming up the mountain, I guess I am around ten minutes ahead. However, anything can happen descending the mountain given the jagged terrain, so I carefully pick my way back down.

  I reach Bike just as my watch tells me I’ve been going for four hours. I jump on my trusty steed and carefully negotiate the six-kilometre ride to the finish. Despite all my doubts, Bike has performed superbly. He brings me home safely without the slightest mechanical hitch. I cross the line, the first lady finisher. But more than this, with this victory and my three other race scores, I have clinched the 2014 National Adventure Race Series title.

  Peter Cromie is at the finish line to congratulate me.

  ‘I should never have doubted that Bike could make it round the course,’ I say, a little embarrassed about how stressed I was before.

  ‘No worries,’ Cromie says. He has had a good day too, and is the first over-forty male home.

  ‘So how’s your little man?’ Cromie asks, enquiring after Aran.

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘He was out spectating on the course with Pete today. And how’s your wee one doing?’

  ‘Ah, sure grand as always,’ Cromie says, before thinking for a split second. ‘Remember how I told ye that one child was plenty?’

  I remember indeed how, at the Inishowen adventure race while I was pregnant with Aran, Cromie told me how a single child is enough. He seemed pretty adamant about that at the time.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it has made me think whether we’ll stop with just Aran.’ Considering how hard I’ve found it raising just one child, the thought has definitely crossed my mind.

  ‘Well, my wife convinced me to try for another one,’ Cromie says. ‘And now we’re expecting twins.’

  I cover my mouth just in time to stop myself guffawing. But my laughs aren’t at Cromie’s predicament, but from my own sudden onset of nerves. I am totally petrified I could also end up in his same shoes.

  My husband Pete appears from out of nowhere, holding Aran aloft. ‘Did you win? Did you win?’ he says, knowing full well I probably have.

  I smile a shy grin, and nod my head sheepishly. ‘And how was your morning with Aran?’ I ask, curious how Pete managed to entertain our son for a full four hours’ duration.

  ‘Good,’ Pete says. ‘Only that, when I tried to change Aran’s nappy in the front seat of the car, he peed right in my face.’

  Just like that, I am brought crashing down from the highs of racing and winning, landing with a loud thud right back into the murky realities of motherhood.

  17

  Again

  It is November 2014 and the adventure-racing season is over for the year. This means I have a few luxurious weeks without scheduled training when I can do whatever I please. However, I quickly tire of all this free time I now have on my hands. My attention turns instead towards our garden, which has been severely neglected since Aran’s arrival. While Pete is away for work, I order ten tonnes of gravel, and with the help of my elderly mother, we spread it all over the driveway. I then procure a hundred sacks of washed-up seaweed and spread it on the flower beds as fertiliser. It’s heavy, dirty work that leaves me totally wrecked. I think I might be the type of person who needs constant exercise.

  With Aran finally weaned off breast milk, after fifteen months of no monthly cycles, my periods return. This unfortunately wipes out my primary excuse for not trying f
or a second child.

  Even though I dread getting pregnant again, I know now would be perfect timing. I conceived Aran two years ago around this time of year. He was born towards the end of the summer, allowing me to skip a full year of races, then slot seamlessly back into a winter training regime. Getting pregnant now would mean missing the entire 2015 season, but I would be raring to go by spring 2016.

  Eamonn and I have already signed off on our training agreement for the year. We had originally planned that he would get me fit again after childbirth, and coach me for the 2014 National Adventure Race Series. Having successfully completed our arrangement, Eamonn has told me to get back in contact if I want him to coach me again next season. Thankfully there’s no pressure from his side, which is good, as I’ve not made up my mind myself. I am stuck in this painful conundrum of not knowing the future, namely if I’ll be pregnant or not next year.

  Even though I’ve managed to get pregnant before, there’s no certainty I will be able to a second time. I am approaching the decrepit age of forty, with my fertility decreasing all the time. It’s now or never, so Pete and I decide to try again.

  One month on, and December arrives. I soon realise I need to continue on with life as if I won’t conceive. If not, I’ll be hanging around every month on tenterhooks, doing nothing except waiting for a positive pregnancy test. That’s not how I want to spend my time. So I get back in touch with Eamonn, and I suggest training again together with an eye to competing next year. Eamonn is happy to oblige, and immediately suggests I compete in a winter five-kilometre road race.

  I hate short distances, and I despise races involving tarmac. Basically, my interest level plummets to zero when faced with anything less than three hours in duration and that doesn’t involve mountain terrain. But my protests to Eamonn are met with deaf ears.

  ‘It will be a good to find out what kind of time you can do over that sort of distance,’ he tells me.

  I remain unconvinced. But there is often method to Eamonn’s madness, and he has proven me wrong before. So I put my trust in his suggestion, and go to the local Parkrun on a cold Saturday morning. Parkruns are free five-kilometre timed events held every Saturday throughout the country the whole year round. Derry’s Parkrun is a scenic out and back course along the sweeping banks of the River Foyle. The route climbs up and over the Peace Bridge, put in place after the Good Friday agreement. The bridge joins the two once-divided sides of the city, the largely unionist Waterside with the predominantly nationalist Cityside. The route then delves in and out of the thickly wooded Saint Columb’s Park, named after Derry’s very own patron saint.

  The course is not fast, thanks to its many twists and turns. But it is all that’s available to me now that the road-racing season has gone largely dormant with the festive season approaching.

  I turn up good and early on Saturday morning. The weather was bitterly cold last night, so I want to do a good warm-up. However, even if I warm myself up really well, it will not be enough to melt the thick sheets of ice that have since frozen to the ground.

  I find a Parkrun official to see what the story is.

  ‘The Parkrun is off,’ he tells me. ‘Far too slippery out there.’

  I feel slightly disappointed but, at the same time, hugely relieved. I need a really good excuse to give Eamonn if I’m going to bail from this race.

  ‘If you want to run it and time yourself, you’re more than welcome,’ the official says.

  I jog up to the starting line to consider his offer, and in the process, nearly fall flat on my face when I hit a patch of black ice. There is no point risking a broken ankle for the sake of a local time trial.

  I go back home, glad to have dodged a bullet. However, even after this lucky turn of events, I’ve a terrible feeling something else is up.

  I’ve only had one period since Aran was born. If my calculations are right, my next one should be due very soon. But if that’s correct, I should be experiencing full-blown premenstrual syndrome right now, and my stomach should be really sore. But I feel fine, far too fine in fact.

  I rush to the local chemist to buy an early detection pregnancy test. I’m just not in the mood to sit around and wait for my next period to not arrive. As luck would have it, Pete is currently in Cambodia working. He was also in Cambodia when I found out I was pregnant with Aran. So yet again, I have to take the test alone, with no one nearby to calm my unsettled nerves.

  My hand shakes when I open the kit and read the test result. The positive line is faint, much fainter than before, but it is most definitely there. With Aran, it took us several months of trying before I finally got pregnant. Now, at our first window of opportunity, we’ve hit the mark bang on. I suppose practice does make perfect, but this is totally ridiculous.

  The bottle of red wine is all ready and waiting for me on the kitchen counter. As tradition dictates, I pour myself a large glass and make a call to Cambodia. Pete whoops and hollers down the line as I tell him I’m pregnant once again. My only hope is that this is the last time I have to drunk-dial him with such news when he’s halfway around the globe.

  My next issue is how to deal with Eamonn. I’ve recently committed to training with him for next year’s racing season. Fortunately, our weekly call first focuses on the Parkrun cancellation.

  ‘It was really icy and slippery out there, so wasn’t wise to run,’ I tell Eamonn.

  ‘Look, you did the right thing,’ he says, confirming my suspicion. ‘But how are you feeling otherwise?’

  I hesitate for a split second. To be honest, I’m feeling totally grand, all things considered.

  ‘It’s just I see that your resting heart rate jumped five beats over the weekend,’ Eamonn says. This would be perfectly normal if I had actually done the race. My body would have been tired from all that extra exertion. But I’ve not done anything difficult training-wise in the last couple of days. ‘Are you getting sick?’ he asks.

  There’s no hiding anything from this man. I can’t help but blurt out, ‘No, I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Congratulations, young lady!’ Eamonn says straightaway.

  I’m a little taken back. I thought he would be disappointed that I’ve just written off next season.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ I say immediately. ‘Pete knows, but I’ve not told my parents yet.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  I don’t even know why I’m begging for his silence. Eamonn is the most discreet person I have ever met. To this day, I still don’t know who else he trains or even how many athletes he works with. He never mentions a single name or even tells me random anecdotes that might permit me to deduce their identities. I suppose when he knows so many personal details about so many sporting individuals, it is best he keeps all that information closely to his chest.

  But even though Eamonn knows my situation, there’s a more pertinent issue that needs resolved.

  ‘Would you be able to guide me through this pregnancy?’ I ask Eamonn, fearing that his answer will be no. I have really appreciated Eamonn’s support since Aran’s birth and throughout my return to racing form. However, my experience with fitness professionals while pregnant first time around was that they didn’t want to touch me with a barge pole.

  Eamonn doesn’t even hesitate with his answer. ‘Of course, I will. No problem.’

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief. At least this time round I will be told exactly what to do and specifically what to avoid. In addition, I don’t want to lose all the fitness I’ve just recently gained. I also hope to hit the ground running once this baby is born.

  With competitive racing off for the next nine months, Eamonn gets me to do other exercises that are typically sidelined when preparing for events. He instructs me to get someone to take a video of me running on a treadmill, from the front, side, and rear. I do as I’m told, and send him the results. I doubt that he will find much wrong though with my current running form.

  ‘You’re heel striking,’ Eamonn says as so
on as he watches the film. ‘You should be landing more on your mid-foot.’

  I am taken aback. I thought I had corrected that issue years ago when I was trying to improve my running efficiency and decrease the amount of injuries I sustained.

  ‘You need to lift your knee more when you are running,’ Eamonn explains. ‘Think about where your heel is during your knee lift, and try to shorten the gap between your heel and your glutes.’

  Changing your running style is easier said than done. Thankfully, Eamonn is well aware of this challenge. He tells me that, when I do skipping as part of strength and conditioning exercises, I should try to have high knee lifts to mimic this new action.

  The next time I take up the skipping rope, I attempt to do as Eamonn suggests. I throw the rope in front of my body, and jump with my knee in the air. The rope gets caught in my raised foot, and my skipping motion abruptly stops. I try again, but my exaggerated bum kick means the rope gets stuck elsewhere. How is this change in skipping style meant to help me run more efficiently, when I can’t even complete one jump?

  Eventually I get the hang of this exaggerated leg motion while skipping on the spot. The question is whether I can do this while trying to run forward simultaneously. I take to the tarmac and start to jog along. I lift my knee, pull my heel towards my glutes, and concentrate on landing mid-foot. I feel like I am prancing around like a palomino pony. Is Eamonn trying to make me into a dressage horse while I’m pregnant?

  When I look down at my watch, I realise I am going ludicrously slow. Though I complain about this reduction in pace, Eamonn tells me to persevere. It’s a good job that I’m pregnant right now and not preparing for any events. If I had to compete with this new running style, I would definitely come last. I will just have to wait and see whether, once I’ve delivered, this new prance will make me any faster.