Bump, Bike & Baby Page 3

  ‘Moire, Moire!’ he shouts down the phone, as if I can’t hear him calling all the way from Ireland. But I also know he shouts out loud when he is very drunk. It’s a trick he taught himself in his youth when he used to frequent rowdy pubs.

  ‘Pete, I hear you!’ I say, shaking myself awake. ‘Why are you calling at this hour? Is something up?’

  ‘It’s your father!’ he shouts.

  Oh God, what’s happened? What’s wrong?

  ‘He made me go drinking,’ Pete stammers. ‘Oh God, I’m so drunk.’

  My dad is in his seventies. He is still strong and fit for his age, and can be very persuasive when he wants.

  ‘Pete, go home,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t,’ he says, holding back a sob. ‘I’m going to be a father!’

  ‘Oh no, you didn’t tell them, did you?’ I was going to wait for the first trimester to finish before giving my parents the news.

  ‘No, no, I—’

  The phone goes dead.

  ‘Pete, PETE! Where are you?’ It is now my turn to shout down the phone line.

  ‘Moire? Moire, is that you?’ This time it’s a female voice.

  ‘Mum, is that you? Why have you got Pete’s phone?’

  ‘Oh, hello, dear. How is Ethiopia?’ My mother hasn’t understood I am about to freak out with the sudden disappearance of my husband.

  ‘Mum, where’s Pete?’

  ‘Oh, he’s just fallen over,’ my mum says, as if this was totally normal. ‘He dropped his phone and I was going to give it back, but then I heard your voice. Is it true that he’s going to be a father?’

  This was not how I planned to convey the news of their impending grandchild.

  ‘Mum, can you pick Pete up and bring him home? I’ll be back in Ireland in a couple of days.’

  She puts Pete back on the phone.

  ‘I love you, Moire,’ Pete slurs. ‘I miss you,’ he says, before abruptly hanging up.

  Well, at least I know he cares.

  I start to feel a bit better before I’m due to leave Ethiopia. So I join a weekend running club to go for a little canter. We meet up in town and travel to the outskirts of Addis Ababa. There we jog along meandering trails, through hilly forests and brush-filled fields. Though the pace is quite sedate, I struggle to keep up. I find my lungs unable to deal with the city’s high altitude. Or perhaps my breathlessness is yet another random symptom of being bloody pregnant.

  When the runners invite me to join them for beer and raw beef afterwards, I reluctantly yet politely decline, without revealing my real reason. It seems that pregnancy is curtailing every aspect of my life, even before having this damn baby.

  I think it’s time I go back home and deal with this situation.

  3

  Acceptance

  I arrive home in Ireland, trying hard to accept my pregnancy predicament.

  Running in Ethiopia was hard. I felt tired and sick and breathless. How will I cope when I actually have a bump to lug around with me as well?

  I am very aware, however, that keeping fit is paramount. Pregnancy, labour and birth are apparently so much easier if the mother-to-be keeps active. But in terms of what to do, how much and when, I still absolutely have no clue.

  I start searching for information, eventually finding some online articles that give me clearance to run. But when I look to see how hard and how far I can push myself, the authors refuse to provide specifics.

  It depends how fit you were before.

  It depends on how hot the weather is.

  It depends on how pregnant you are.

  It depends on how you’re feeling that day.

  I am so frustrated by this dearth of concrete guidance. Though I always strive to be self-reliant, I need to reach out to someone, anyone, who has lived through and survived this pregnancy ordeal.

  I decide to contact fellow adventure racer and brand-new mother, Susie Mitchell. A mutual friend had introduced us via email just before I got pregnant. As soon as I tell Susie that I am now expecting, she kindly offers assistance. I am sure she will understand what I am going through, and provide me with some solid, prescriptive advice.

  ‘Oh God, it’s so frustrating, isn’t it?’ Susie says when I meet her for the first time. Susie is tall and athletic, with long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Despite her steely appearance, she sports a warm smile and a friendly manner that puts me right at ease. We are meeting in the national library in the heart of Dublin City. Our location forces us to speak with hushed, secretive words.

  ‘When I got pregnant, I looked everywhere for some practical tips on how to stay fit,’ Susie says. ‘I am a vet by profession, so I needed any advice to be backed by scientific proof.’

  ‘Any luck?’ I ask. I don’t have the energy or brainpower to engage in any extensive research like Susie did. I just want to be told what to do and what to avoid, and to just get on with it.

  ‘I suppose you could call it luck,’ Susie says, leaning a little closer. I feel like she is about to divulge the where-abouts of the Holy Grail. Could it be lying on these dusty bookshelves around us, waiting to be found?

  ‘I finally tracked down a Dutch researcher who did a study on the benefits of exercise during pregnancy,’ Susie says, revealing the extent of her mission. ‘He gave me two bits of decent advice.’

  I grip the wooden table tightly.

  ‘Number one: listen to your body.’

  I nod slowly. I think I understand.

  ‘Number two: avoid sports with a risk of blunt abdominal trauma.’

  Susie searches for my second nod. Instead I am staring blankly back at her.

  ‘Don’t take up kick-boxing.’

  I have found the Holy Grail. ‘So, that’s it?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Susie replies.

  ‘Makes sense,’ I say, once I’ve had time to digest her palatable suggestions. ‘I suppose I’ve been listening to my body for ages, what with all the training I’ve done over the years.’

  ‘I am sure you’re finding that your body is doing strange things at the moment,’ Susie says. ‘You’re just not too sure how to react to them.’

  ‘Exactly!’ I scream. I feel like lunging across the table and giving Susie a big bear hug. Suddenly I remember that we’re in a library and I don’t know Susie well enough for close physical contact. ‘Like I can normally jog along quite easily at ten kilometres an hour, at a heart of rate of around one hundred and fifty,’ I say, finding it hard to contain my excitement. ‘Now if I attempt that pace or heart rate, my lungs feel like caving in.’

  ‘That will be the progesterone,’ Susie says, delving swiftly into her medical compendium. ‘That hormone increases your breathing. It’s to make sure your baby has a good supply of oxygen and that you don’t overheat yourself.’

  ‘So how hard can I go?’ I ask, not sure if I want to know the answer. From out of nowhere, I feel real fear; fear that I may have already damaged my baby from the running and adventure racing I’ve recently done.

  ‘Probably best to just use the “perceived effort” scale,’ Susie says, without batting an eyelid. ‘Think about a continuum of one to twenty, where one is easy and twenty is really hard. Fifteen is about as hard as you should go.’

  ‘Thanks, Susie,’ I say with some relief. In the space of a few minutes, she has helped me more than all those endless hours of Internet searches.

  ‘The problem I had was that I discovered I was pretty good at track cycling just before I got pregnant,’ Susie says. ‘I spent the whole nine months worrying that I wouldn’t be competitive once the baby was born.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘I have seen a fair few girls from mountain running who simply disappear once they have children. Or if they do return, their results just aren’t the same.’

  I dare not tell Susie that my deepest fear is that I will become one of them.

  ‘To be honest, I shouldn’t have worried,’ Susie says, flashing a wide, triumphant grin. ‘Just six weeks after
the birth, I won an Irish National track medal.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘I’m serious,’ Susie says. ‘I managed to win a World Masters title four months after Tori was born.’

  ‘But how?’

  Her claims are at odds with everything I know about pregnancy thus far.

  ‘I think I benefited from a bit of a post-partum boost!’ Susie says, shining with pride. I bask in her glow for a moment. ‘There are a number of physiological changes that happen during pregnancy,’ Susie starts to explain. ‘Your ribcage expands to help with breathing. And your heart’s chamber capacity increases, so it can hold much more blood. This means your muscles can be supplied with oxygen much more efficiently.’

  ‘So you are effectively blood doping,’ I say, before quickly clarifying, ‘but in a legal way?’

  ‘Well, if you consider all the negatives, like weight gain and loss in fitness while pregnant, a little physiological boost probably can’t hurt, can it?’ Susie says.

  For the first time in a long time, I find myself smiling. At last, I have found a silver lining.

  ‘But remember, it won’t last forever,’ Susie says, as she pops my party balloon. ‘You’ll have the gains for about a year before your system returns to normal.’

  Twelve months of natural doping? Have I found an advantage to this whole pregnancy thing at last?

  ‘So what type of exercise did you do when you were expecting?’ I ask, as I start to formulate my plan. I’m going to get fit, really fit, after this baby is born.

  ‘I actually spent a lot of time in the gym, weight training if you can believe it.’

  ‘That must have been a sight,’ I say. ‘A pregnant woman squat lifting!’

  ‘Totally! Especially when I was overdue by two weeks and was still pumping iron,’ she explains. ‘I actually lifted a personal best of one hundred and seven kilograms when I was seven months pregnant, thanks to all the extra testosterone. I’ve not got even close to squatting that weight since.’

  Susie is a slim, slight lady, not exactly what I would term a bodybuilder. But if she’s a track cyclist, she is probably hiding a pair of rock-hard thighs underneath the library desk we’re sitting at.

  ‘The only reason I kept going to the gym up to the delivery was that I was afraid of going into labour while out on my road bike.’

  ‘Road biking?’ I say. Now there’s an idea. My doctor had already informed me that walking and swimming up to my delivery date was okay. But she never prohibited me from exercising on two wheels.

  ‘Sure I biked right up to my due date,’ Susie says proudly. I am so jealous of Susie. She is totally amazing.

  ‘But was it . . . safe?’ I ask, surprising myself with my caution.

  ‘As long as you’re careful, you should be fine,’ Susie says. ‘Like no riding on the roads if there’s frost or rain.’ I figure Ireland’s cold and wet weather might hamper my spins, but I’m sure I’ll find a workaround.

  ‘Probably best not to ride in groups in case of any crashes,’ Susie continues. ‘If you avoid groups, you can also choose your own pace and route, so you can avoid serious hill climbs and scary descents.’

  It all sounds logical, but still pretty conservative. But given that Susie has gone through all of this herself just lately, I am willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  I thank Susie profusely for all her help, and leave her in peace to do her library work. Anyhow, I’ve got stuff to do, like find myself a road bike.

  I decide to go and buy one before there’s the remotest sign of a bump. I don’t want to have to waddle into a bike shop and have a salesman stare at my midriff while I ask about chain-rings, pedals, and cranks. I’m also afraid he’d refuse to sell me one on health and safety grounds.

  I search out my adventure-racing teammate, Peter Cromie, who just happens to own a bike shop.

  ‘I need some new wheels,’ I tell Cromie. ‘A road bike, to be precise.’

  ‘Not a bother,’ he says, leading me into a room packed with bikes of different shapes, sizes and weights. They all look so tantalising, but I have no idea which one to choose.

  ‘I’ve got two grand to spend,’ I say, deciding to be pragmatic. ‘Which one do you recommend?’

  Cromie leads me over to the ladies’ bikes, which already limits my selection.

  ‘This one will do the job,’ Cromie says, getting straight to the point. ‘Carbon fibre, women-specific size, and Shimano Ultegra group-set.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘Does it come in pink?’

  Cromie decides to ignore my question, and suggests I take it for a spin instead.

  I wobble slightly as I balance on the saddle and try to change its gears. But once I get it going, I marvel at its speed. I race down the high street, blowing the pedestrian lights. I swoosh around the roundabouts as if on a merry-go-round.

  ‘I love it,’ I exclaim as I pull up outside the bike shop. Cromie knows he has a sale. ‘Just please don’t tell my husband how much I’ve spent on it,’ I say.

  It is still winter when I take my bike home and decide to go for a proper ride. It is cold out, but no frost, so I’m at least following Susie’s advice. The only problem is that I don’t know anybody to go biking with, so I have to go on my own.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ Pete asks, as I give my tyres a quick pump. He is standing over me, all concerned, as I do my final checks before heading out.

  ‘Of course I will,’ I reply, though I’m a little sick with nerves. I’ve got brand-new clip-in pedals and I’m still not used to the strange brakes or gears. ‘I’m just going towards Carndonagh and back. Should be home within two hours.’

  I give him a quick peck on the cheek and wheel my bike out the door.

  I am less than five kilometres down the road when I feel the rear wheel slowly deflate.

  Feck, that’s embarrassing. Good job I brought a spare inner tube.

  I stop the bike on the roadside and flip it over on its handlebars and saddle. That’s how mountain bikers usually repair their wheels. I get out three levers, and try to claw off the tyre.

  Oh my God, this thing is on tight. My mountain bike tyres are wide and spacious, and I can pull them off the rim with my bare hands. But now I’ve discovered that road bike tyres are thin and skinny, sticking like limpets on to the wheel rim.

  Eventually I manage to remove one side of the tyre and extract the tube from inside. There’s no visible damage to the tyre itself, so I quickly set about replacing the tube. I have to work fast as my fingers are now freezing, the cold winter weather trying to foil my biking plan.

  Replacing the tyre with its new inner tube inside is easier said than done. I try to push it on with both my thumbs, until blisters form on both pads. Then I use the levers with brute force, until I come close to snapping all three. Eventually, the tyre agrees to comply, and everything is back in place.

  All I need to do is fill the tube with air, and I’m on my way. I press the pump and the air goes in . . . then it comes out again.

  No, no, no, air that’s pumped in stays in. I push more in, but there it is again, that bloody hissing sound.

  I am standing there, totally bereft, when two male cyclists breeze past. I must look like a damsel in distress, for they halt their trusty steeds, and come and have a look.

  ‘I’ve just put a new tube in,’ I say, trying to appear somewhat competent.

  ‘You must have got a pinch flat,’ one says. ‘Often happens when you force a tube in and it nips itself against the rim.’

  I don’t have another spare. Damn it. I didn’t want it to come to this. ‘I suppose I better call my husband.’

  At the mention of another male, they quickly remount their rides.

  ‘Next time you need to change a tyre, best if you don’t flip over the bike,’ the other says before leaving. ‘You’ll damage your bike computer on the handlebars.’

  Having bestowed their wisdom upon me, they cruelly cycle off.

  I am mortified when Pete
pulls up in our car less than five minutes later, yet ridiculously happy to see him. I need rescuing as my sweaty clothes and my oil-stained hands have frozen solid from standing still on the roadside.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, throwing my bike into the boot. ‘Got a puncture I couldn’t repair.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says as he drives us away. ‘Let’s go home and have a cup of tea.’

  I am so glad when he says nothing more about the incident.

  My disastrous solo outing makes me reconsider some of Susie’s wise advice. After much consideration, I join a cycling club.

  I turn up on a cold Saturday morning in January at Foyle Cycling Club’s meeting place, in the car park of Templemore Sports Complex on the outskirts of Derry City. No one knows me, or my current disposition. I resolve to keep it that way for as long as possible.

  Though I know I shouldn’t be riding with them, it does me the world of good. Together we cycle along the banks of Lough Swilly and up through the Donegal hills. We stick together in intimate formation, closing ranks if anyone punctures or falls behind. As the bell rings, and we all change places, I get to chat to everyone in the group. Not that I get to know any of them that well; without their bikes or Lycra uniforms, I would never recognise them on the high street in civilian clothes.

  I do see on occasion what Susie sternly warned me about. I see a lady fall from her bike, and the pile-up of bodies that ensues. I am glad I wasn’t in that pack, but know I could have easily been one of those who landed slap bang on the hard tarmac. At the start of another spin, I am following a rider, only for her water bottle to fall out of its cage and land right in front of my wheel. I am lucky enough to swerve out of its way and still stay vertical. If I had hit the bottle head-on, it would have been a different tale.

  Despite these hazards, I decide to keep on riding with the club. I need to be with other athletes to maintain my mental health. These are the risks I have to take to preserve my sanity.