Bump, Bike & Baby Page 5

  I scrunch the ultrasound printouts into my back pocket, without the slightest thought.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to frame those things?’ says he who has a photo of Tom our dog on his office desk.

  ‘Are you? Really?’ I say, genuinely surprised by his question. ‘But sure you can’t really see much apart from an outline. Like it doesn’t really show what he’ll look like.’

  I gain from Pete’s silence that these black-and-white blurred pictures should take pride of place on our mantelpiece. I extract them from my jeans pocket, smooth them out as best as I can, and place them carefully in the maternity file I’m carrying, earmarking them for future mounting.

  I don’t think of these pictures as keepsakes, however. For me, the photos serve as concrete evidence that the baby is okay. Since Bump started to show himself back in the Lake District, I’ve been wracked with guilt and worry. What if I severely damaged the baby by taking malarone in Ethiopia? Did I push myself too hard on the bike, and deprive him of his oxygen supply? And what about that glass of red wine I drank after taking the pregnancy test? Did it adversely affect the development of his brain and spine?

  I realise now how reckless I was during my first trimester. But now that I have a bump, and an actual photo of what’s inside, I decide to sober up and be more responsible from now on.

  But it’s not just my belly that is increasing in size. My boobs have expanded exponentially.

  ‘I need to get some new clothes,’ I tell Pete. ‘I’m going to Mothercare.’

  ‘I’ll come too,’ Pete says. Even though it’s a maternity store, he can’t resist the prospect of a shopping expedition. I sometimes think Pete represents our relationship’s feminine side.

  Our initial enthusiasm for this shopping trip is quickly tempered. We both recoil when we enter the store and see all the crap we could buy. There are cots and baskets; bibs and car bottles; baby monitors and highchairs. I feel distinctly overwhelmed.

  ‘Why don’t you have a look around while I try and find the maternity section?’ I say to Pete, trying to regain my composure. Pete still looks bewildered.

  ‘If you don’t move,’ I say, shoving him past the sliding doors, ‘I’ll make you look for bras with me.’ With that threat, Pete scampers off, in the direction of baby clothes.

  A young lady approaches me, sporting a Mothercare name badge.

  ‘Need any help?’ she says with a chirpy smile.

  ‘Ah, yeah. Sure,’ I say. Where the hell do I start? ‘I need a new bra. A bigger one.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘We can easily measure you.’

  She leads me inside a changing room. There I receive the devastating news that I am no longer a 34A. The attendant seems to derive great pleasure in announcing, that in the space of five months, I have become a 38D. Thanks to my pregnancy, my cup size and chest circumference have spiralled out of control.

  ‘You might want to also buy some larger ones later,’ the attendant says. ‘When you’re in your third trimester.’

  The changing room starts to seem very small. I think I’m about to faint.

  ‘And if you decide to breastfeed, you can get specially designed bras for that.’

  Faint? No, I’m literally about to suffocate.

  I run out of the cubicle with a fistful of random brassieres. I need to find the checkout as quick as I can, and get out of this store immediately.

  Pete. I forgot Pete. Oh God, I’ve got to rescue him.

  I search the aisles for my lost husband, fearing the worst. I eventually track him down in the pram section. I can tell by the way he is standing that he too needs to abort this shopping mission.

  ‘Have you seen how much this thing costs?’ he says, pointing to a multi-digit price tag. It is attached to what I can only describe a souped-up, Formula One stroller. Pete’s face has gone distinctly white.

  ‘But what is it?’ I ask.

  ‘A “travel system”.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pete says. ‘But apparently we’re meant to spend a thousand pounds on one. We bought our whole car for less!’

  We are lucky to get out of Mothercare with just some underwear.

  ‘I can’t cope,’ I say, as we get into the car and do a high-speed getaway.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, looking nervously in the rear-view mirror. ‘I’ll talk to my sister. She’ll know what to do.’

  So while Pete finds out what purchases we really need to raise a healthy, normal child, I get on with the business of making us a baby.

  I keep on going out for daily runs whenever I feel up for it. Each time, I come home a little later as it takes me longer and longer to complete my ten-kilometre circuit. My slower times are due initially to Bump weighing me down. But when I finally get used to the extra weight, I develop frequent urges to stop and urinate. My uterus is pressing down on my bladder, expelling whatever liquid is in there. The literature suggests planning runs with toilets available on the route. I opt instead to run off-trail, and pee behind bushes and trees.

  My ten-kilometre times start to depress me so much that I have to take evasive action. I need some sort of distraction, to stop this manic clock-watching. I decide to go back orienteering, a sport I gave up five years ago. I figure that having to read a map and compass on the run will force me to momentarily forget all about my pace and current shape.

  ‘You know there’s some rough terrain out there,’ the race organiser tells me when I line up to register. I look at him blankly. Orienteering often takes place in forests and on mountains. Today’s race takes in some small, trackless hills. It looks wet and slippery up there, with a scattering of boulders and cliffs, but it is nothing I haven’t navigated before. Why is he warning me today of all days, when the course is nothing different from the norm?

  I quickly catch myself when I realise he’s referring to my bump.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘I’ll be careful.’

  He doesn’t seem convinced.

  I bite down hard on my tongue to stop myself from yelling, ‘Are you discriminating against me for being pregnant?’

  Pete has come along with me to my event in Fermanagh, a two-hour drive from home. Pete has never beaten me at orienteering, but today he has high hopes that this is about to change.

  The orienteering does wonders for me. Within a few minutes, I am totally lost on a steep, grassy hillside. My mind doesn’t have time to think about my breathing or my belly. It just wants to get me out of there. I line my compass up with my map, and take a direct bearing. If I am where I think I am, the control should be right over there.

  I try to run across the boggy hill, but clumps of heather seem intent on tripping me. My balance is a little off, what with the frontal load I’m carrying. I’m also aware that I’m being bombarded with relaxin in preparation for childbirth. This hormone is making my ligaments and tendons more elastic, causing my joints to loosen up. This is all great when preparing for baby’s arrival, but inconvenient for runners like me. A knee or an ankle can easily pop, when normally they are solid and injury-free. Running over rough terrain like this, with bog holes and hidden rocks underfoot, is akin to me attempting to jog through a minefield.

  I think it’s best if I walk.

  Though I reduce my speed considerably, my orienteering times improve. This sedate pace means I actually take time to look at my map and figure out the right direction to go. Normally I would sprint around like a headless chicken and take ages to complete the race. But this time, I actually plan my routes and take the terrible terrain in my stride.

  I reach the finish and wait to see how Pete has done. I wait. And wait, until finally he limps across the line.

  ‘How did you get on out there?’ I say, feigning total ignorance.

  ‘Got lost,’ he says, peeling off his wet, muddy shoes, and flinging them into the car.

  ‘Oh no,’ I say, confirming my suspicions while trying not to appear too smug.

  ‘Couldn’t find t
he fifth control, so gave up and came home,’ he says. ‘Disgusted with myself.’

  I totally kicked his ass. ‘Ah well, maybe you’ll beat me next time, when I’m in my third trimester.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he mutters, as he throws himself into the passenger seat and slams shut the car door. Conversation over.

  The orienteering makes me realise I am still able to compete, so when I find out there’s a multi-sport event close to home, I’m sorely tempted to sign up.

  ‘There’s a race across Inishowen Peninsula next weekend,’ I say to Pete when I’m nearly five months gone. I take a deep breath. ‘Is it okay if I go?’

  I have no idea why I am asking for his approval. I know wives are allowed to do whatever they like these days, without their spouse’s express consent.

  ‘Ah, sure,’ Pete says, searching for his words. ‘If you want. Like, if you feel up to it.’

  Normally I inform Pete of my pre-ordained race schedule and it’s up to him to work around my plans. This is the first time I am specifically seeking his consent to race. Pregnancy is making me do very strange things.

  The race itself involves road biking; running on roads, trails, and mountains; and kayaking, but no navigation is required. Unlike normal adventure races where co-ed teams of four are required, these adventure races are for individuals. However, to make them sound sexy and exciting, this type of race is also called an adventure race, albeit of a slightly different format. They are basically a type of triathlon, with kayaking instead of swimming, and a few lakes and mountains thrown in.

  I have to ask for Pete’s permission, as I need his help to get me to the start. The race begins on the eastern side of the peninsula, in a village called Redcastle. It starts with a thirteen-kilometre run up and over Puckan Hill to the bike transition near the town of Carndonagh. The race route continues over mountain roads for eighteen kilometres, where it brings you and your bike to the base of Slieve Snaght, Inishowen’s highest peak at six hundred and fifteen metres. From there, it’s a question of summiting the mountain, and returning to the bottom again. It’s downhill then on your bike until you reach Lough Fad, where kayaks wait for you to complete a short paddle. Next, it’s a pedal up and over twenty more kilometres of hills, with a last two-kilometre sprint to the finish in the town of Buncrana, on the other side of the coastal head. I need Pete to drop me on one side of the peninsula, and to pick me up on the other.

  Thirty-seven of us turn up to the starting line on Saturday morning, on a surprisingly dry and sunny day in March. I immediately see Peter Cromie, my adventure-racing teammate who carried my bag in the Sperrin Mountains, and the man who sold me my bike.

  ‘Howaya, Cromie,’ I say. ‘Grand day for a race.’

  ‘How ye keeping yerself?’ he says, without stating the obvious. My bike jacket is tightly stretched over my bump. It makes me look enormous.

  ‘Good, good,’ I say, with two hands on my belly. ‘Hope this thing won’t slow me down. It isn’t too aerodynamic.’

  Cromie has his own weird contraptions to improve his race performance. He has lightweight bike gear on, and a strangely shaped plaster stuck right across his nose.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I ask, pointing right between his eyes.

  ‘This? It’s a nasal strip,’ Cromie says, without a hint of shame. ‘Keeps the airways open. Supposed to make me faster.’

  Maybe I should get one of them too to help me with my pregnancy breathing issues.

  ‘So when are you due?’ Cromie asks. I tell him in July.

  ‘Just the one I hope,’ he says.

  I nod.

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘One’s enough. I’ve a four-year-old boy. He’s great craic altogether, but wouldn’t want another.’

  I refrain from telling Cromie my husband’s intentions to keep adding to the brood. I don’t want to even think about it myself until I’m done with the one I’m currently bearing.

  There’s no more time for small talk as we’re soon under starters orders. I place myself firmly at the back of the pack, to keep Bump and I out of trouble.

  Cromie rushes off from the beginning. I, on the other hand, just aim to make it to the finish. I’ve had to lower my racing goals considerably since getting pregnant.

  I trot along the first tarmac section, trying to keep a steady pace. I find it hard not to speed up when everyone starts disappearing out of sight. We soon hit undulating roads, and I finally find my advantage. Though the other racers power up the hills, my greater weight, with the help of gravity, allows me to overtake them on the downhills.

  Soon, though, this downhill running becomes too much for my bladder and I have to pull over for a pee. The other competitors run past, eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending not to notice. But it must be hard not to stare at the race’s only pregnant lady, squatting behind some long roadside grass, having a quick leak.

  I finish the first run section and arrive at the bike drop. I am convinced I am in last place. It is only when I take a quick glance up the rack that I see some competitors have still to collect their bikes. I bounce on to my bicycle and start to pedal ferociously, stopping briefly for a moment to readjust Bump’s position. What with Bump’s growing girth, he is forcing me to sit more and more upright on the bike every week. I need to put my hands on the bars in just the right place so he doesn’t get too squished.

  Though this race is for individuals, Bump, Bike, and I are now an adventure-racing team. We career down the bog-lined, rolling road, pedalling fast on the descents to give us some momentum to get back up the other side. Sheep on the roadside watch us as they lazily graze on the marsh reeds and tough grass. I swerve nervously to avoid hitting one. I don’t want to do irreparable damage to Bump, Bike and me. I take a swig of water from my bike bottle when I get a chance; I’ve got to make sure we are all well hydrated for the remainder of the race.

  We soon leave the rolling boglands that heated so many Irish homes in centuries past, leaving Bike all alone at the transition while Bump and I climb Slieve Snaght. The going is tough, with glacial marshland freezing my feet as I begin the ascent. The climb takes forever; time enough to watch Peter Cromie bounding down the hill with ease and back to his bike in first place.

  ‘Not far to go now,’ he says, as he passes me on my ascent. I look up and see a wall of rocks that Bump and I must clamber over to reach the top. I have been racing for nearly three hours. I am feeling really tired.

  It is only when I touch the cairn that I realise I am in trouble. I spin around to start the return, only to be stabbed in the side by a sharp, piercing pain.

  Oh God, was that the baby?

  Or did I just turn around too fast?

  Am I about to miscarry?

  Or did I just drink that water too quickly, and now have a stitch?

  There’s nothing I can do but descend the mountain and get help. If I am in trouble, the race marshals can call an ambulance. But if the pain is a mere figment of my imagination, I’ll just continue on with the race.

  It takes forever to get back to Bike, as I stagger down Slieve Snacht’s steep slopes. But once Bump, Bike and I are all successfully reunited, all thoughts of the stitch dissipate.

  I tell myself not to worry. We are officially back in the race.

  Within fifteen minutes, Bike brings Bump and I safely to the next race section, a kayak leg on Lake Fad.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I shout out to the marshals above my screech of brakes. The kayak officials stare at me blankly, not sure if they’ve heard me right. I don’t have time, however, to repeat myself.

  ‘Is it okay if I don’t kayak?’

  I have difficulty getting out of the sofa these days. Heaven knows how I’ll get in and out of a floating boat.

  ‘Ah, sure,’ one says. And, just to be fair to my opponents, I tell the marshals I’m happy to take a time penalty.

  Bike, Bump and I cycle away before the officials can stop me. I don’t want them pulling me out of the race out of concerns for my safety.

/>   We complete the race without further incident, and gladly cross the finish. I discover I am so far behind my friend, and overall race winner, Peter Cromie, that he has already gone home long ago.

  I sit down in the finish-line marquee to bask in my successful race completion. Everyone who congratulations me politely ignores the fact that mine was a team effort.

  But Bump doesn’t like to be ignored.

  From out of nowhere, an almighty kick reverberates around my core. It is delivered with such force that I can’t stop myself from roaring.

  I don’t think Bump is happy. I promise him I’ll race no more.

  However, I am not long recovered from the weekend’s event when the racing bug hits again.

  ‘Once this baby is born, I want to race,’ I say to Pete.

  We are in our kitchen at home, where it is much easier to corner him. He slurps his tea, then hugs his mug close. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘I want you to promise me that, whatever happens, I’ll have the time to train and compete again after I deliver.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ Pete says, putting his cup down. ‘I know how important it is to you.’

  I lean against the counter top, wondering if I should get him to put this down in writing.

  ‘Stop stressing,’ Pete says. ‘Have the baby, then we’ll make sure you have a couple of hours each day to do the training you need. Trust me, I won’t leave you holding the baby on your own.’

  This is probably a promise that Pete will live to regret. But, now that he has given it, there is no way I will let him break it. Training is far too important to me.

  When I was in my twenties, I let exercise slide. I ended up gaining weight and feeling horribly round. Maternity wear and my currently ever-extending belly are giving me vivid flashbacks of that plump stage in my life. All I want is to fit back in my size eight clothes, and to be slim and strong once more.