Although the Wicklow Mountains are a stone’s throw from Greystones, I rarely manage to reach them. It is a minimum twenty-minute drive to get to any decent hill, meaning travelling alone takes a whole forty-minute chunk out of my allotted crèche time. This, in my mind, is an inefficient use of childcare.
With Pete agreeing to mind Aran at home on Sunday morning, I decide to indulge in a couple of guilt-free hours of mountain running. The Irish Mountain Running Association have scheduled a race out of Glendalough in mid-April, coinciding nicely with our new babysitting pact. The race promises twenty-eight kilometres of running over three peaks, with nearly one thousand four hundred metres of climb. It sounds like a perfect way to get reacquainted with the hills.
Long mountain races don’t attract many women. So I’m not surprised when I am the only lady at race registration. Even the men are far and few between, put off by the long distances, steep climbs, and tricky navigation.
With five minutes to spare, a car speeds up to the start. A somewhat flustered Niamh throws herself out of the passenger seat. ‘I’m so disorganised!’ she giggles, throwing a map into her back pocket and sprinting past me towards the registration desk. The last time I saw her was two years ago, when she lugged her newborn baby into the crowded pub. She is a transformed woman from the one I saw that day. I had heard on the grapevine that she has returned to her old winning ways. Just a few weeks ago, she triumphed at a major half-marathon trail race through the Wicklow Mountains. And by the looks of her new streamline, svelte self, she could easily float up and down a mountain or two today.
At the stroke of noon, the race director waves us off. The pace is fast from the start as we climb the forest road and head towards St. Kevin’s Way. I try to keep in step with the leading men. But my haste for speed means I fail to think about the direction in which I am heading. Niamh takes a clever shortcut through the forest, and hits the trail right in front of me. I push to catch up with her, cursing my error, and together we run shoulder to shoulder towards Scarr Mountain.
All of sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I see Niamh flinch.
‘Oh no!’ she exclaims. But even with something obviously wrong with her, Niamh refuses to slow.
‘What’s up?’ I say, between my laboured breaths.
‘My pelvic floor’s just gone.’
Before having Aran, I would have stayed silent, too embarrassed to enquire about her sudden incontinence. But, having gone through childbirth myself, I totally understand what she means.
‘Oh God, I thought that was just me,’ I say, forgetting all about the race. ‘I have to be careful not to wet myself, especially when I sneeze.’
‘You should talk to Maeve,’ Niamh says, barely breaking from her stride. ‘She can’t run downhill any more without her bladder giving out.’
With that last piece of highly personal information, Niamh edges past me.
We battle each other up and over Scarr, then down into Glenmacnass. But as we start the long boggy climb to Tonlagee’s top, Niamh leaves me defiantly in her tracks. I put my head down and keep trudging on, wondering if her descending skills will be up to speed, or if her pelvic floor might crack once more.
Unfortunately for me, neither of these possibilities comes to pass. I commence the final ascent of Camaderry Mountain with one last-ditch effort to catch Niamh before the line. Every now and then I catch glimpses of her on the horizon, just enough to give me hope. I am so busy trying to chase her down that I barely notice overtaking several male competitors. They can’t work out what is up with the ladies today. Niamh and I seem hell-bent on destroying each other and any men who dare to come in our way.
In the end, I fail to catch up with Niamh. She edges me into second place by nearly two minutes. I am convinced she is speedier now than ever before, even after having a few kids.
I come home and tell Pete about my battle with Niamh on the hill. He is in the bathroom, perched on the toilet, supervising Aran’s bedtime bath.
‘That’s amazing,’ he says. ‘She’s never beaten you by this much before.’
‘I know!’ I say. ‘It’s really quite a comeback.’
My attention diverts to Aran, who is manically splashing the bubbles. It’s amazing how much enjoyment he gets from a little bit of froth.
‘How many children did you say she has?’
‘Two,’ I say.
‘Maybe we need to bang out a few more so,’ Pete says. ‘Might make you faster as well.’
I have dreaded the day when Pete brings up the possible extension of our family. Before Aran, ignorance was bliss. But now I know exactly what pregnancy and childbirth entails, and it ain’t to my liking at all.
‘Aran isn’t even one year old,’ I say. ‘Will you just give me a break?’
‘Sure my mother was already pregnant with my brother when I was Aran’s age.’
‘Back in the 1970s?’ I say. ‘I think family planning in Ireland was a little different back then.’
‘You know I want four kids,’ Pete says, looking up at me wistfully from the toilet seat.
We’ve had this conversation already. Pete wants to emulate his younger brother who already has four children. But I feel way too old to reproduce three more times.
‘You can have two. That’s it,’ I say. I can see the value of Aran having a sibling to play with, and occasionally to beat up. But given how we’ve struggled caring for just Aran, I can’t imagine how we’d cope with one more, let alone two or three new additions.
‘Okay, three,’ Pete says.
‘This is not a negotiation.’
‘All right,’ Pete finally concedes. ‘Let’s just try for a second, and then we’ll see.’
I lean heavily against the bathroom door. It’s hard work changing my husband’s mind.
‘So when do we begin?’ Pete says.
I pat him on his head as he flashes me an expectant, cheeky grin. ‘We’ll see,’ I say, before turning and making a hasty retreat from the bathroom.
The answer is, I don’t know when we can begin. There’s part of me that wants to compete in this year’s racing season and use all the training I’ve done. The last race is usually in October, so maybe we can hold off until then?
However, there is a bigger issue for us to deal with; my periods have yet to return. Breastfeeding can often make periods completely disappear. I thought, however, that once Aran started on solid foods three months ago, his reduced number of feeds would allow them to come back. I’m still waiting, and waiting, and there’s no sign of any yet. Not that I’m complaining, but without any periods, there’s little chance of me getting pregnant again.
Apart from that, I don’t have much time to think about another baby. I am too busy running after Aran who is getting into everything. He has discovered the stairs and the excitement that comes from climbing up them precariously. He has found out that drawers can bang and clatter when they are opened and closed ad nauseam. Aran has worked out that he can climb into kitchen cabinets as well. I find him one day perched on a cupboard shelf, hiding behind a mixer and several Pyrex bowls.
Not even Bike is safe from Aran’s reach. Tom and Bike now live together at the back of our hallway, and Tom has managed to teach Aran, through some strategic growls, the importance of keeping away. Bike, however, cannot give such verbal warnings. Aran gets great joy out of spinning Bike’s pedals incessantly round and round. He pulls hard on the chain and gets black greasy oil on both of his hands. It is when he starts venturing near the sharp, spiky rear cogs that I ban Aran from Bike. Those metal things could do real damage to small, soft limbs.
I also set about trying to solve our issues of another car and an alternative wrap. I finally manage to find a strap-on baby carrier that allows both Pete and I to easily transport Aran around. The Ergobaby Performance model fits the bill to a T. With two simple clips, we can strap Aran on to our fronts and keep a close eye on him. Or we can place him behind and carry him around like a backpack. Pete immediately realises the benefits of this design. He can throw Aran on to his back and mow the lawn with his son. Aran is ecstatic with this new elevated, scenic view. And I’m glad that Pete has finally learned how to multitask, skilfully combining lawn cutting with babysitting.
We also succeed in resolving Pete’s car dilemma. We buy a second-hand Renault Kangoo people-carrier van for four hundred Euros from a friend of a friend. It is cheap and cheerful, and breaks down with amazing regularity, but it allows Pete to drive down to the train station and back home again when it rains. The extra couple of minutes he can spend in bed in the morning, and the certainty of dry work clothes, make an amazing difference to Pete’s mood.
The added bonus of Kangoo is that Bike can now come and join us inside our new car. Gone are the days when he has to hang on for dear life off the hatchback door. With Bike stretched out in our spacious boot, Pete now has an unrestricted view outside the rear window while driving. The sliding van doors and higher roof make Aran’s car seat entry and exit much less of a contortion act. Tom has more room to roam around on the floor and underneath the seat. Such small things, but Kangoo makes a world of a difference, and an element of harmony is restored to our family.
With the feuding factions now reconciled, I can turn my attention to the racing calendar. My training thus far has been geared towards one-day adventure races. The Sea to Summit race I did when Aran was four months old was tough but totally thrilling. I enjoyed the epic challenge of climbing Croagh Patrick Mountain, pushing myself to the limit to reach its lofty top. I loved biking around the narrow rural roads, pedalling hard up and over the Maum Hills. And the thrill of racing against top class competitors in these disciplines really spurred me on.
Sea to Summit was the last race of 2013 on Ireland’s National Adventure Race Series. I look up the Series website to see what races are lined up for this coming year. I see events as far south as Dingle and Killarney, and as far North as Donegal. I see races in the west of Ireland, along the wild Atlantic Way, and others in the Wicklow Mountains, in Ireland’s ancient east. With such a range of territories and terrains, I am sorely tempted to enter. There are nine races in total, with your four best races counting towards your final score. Within seconds, I have decided. The National Adventure Race Series is what I will aim for.
However, my series-racing plan gets off to a disastrous start. Days before I am scheduled to compete in the first event, the Beir Bua Waterford Adventure Race, Aran gets really sick. All the breast milk he has consumed since his birth has made his immune system rock solid. But finally, at the tender age of ten months, he succumbs to an ear infection and bad cough.
I bring him to the local doctor to get him checked out. She gives me some strong antibiotics and sends me on my way. What with it being the Republic of Ireland, this consultation is not free. I fork out thirty Euros for the doctor’s visit, and an extra tenner for the medicine.
The next morning, Aran’s ear infection has got no better. He still has a hacking cough. But to make matters worse, he has developed a horrific rash all over his back. In a blind panic, I call the doctor, fearing he may have contracted deadly meningitis. She tells me to return straightaway, fortunately this time at no extra charge.
It turns out that Aran has contracted pneumonia. He is also allergic to the type of antibiotics he was originally given, hence the sudden rash. This means I have to get a different type of medicine, which I also have to pay for. This experience starkly reminds me to be grateful for the National Health Service available in Northern Ireland, where such appointments and treatments are provided free of charge.
I am so busy caring for my sick child that I barely notice when I start to feel unwell myself. I first experience a sore throat, but then the same cough as Aran’s arrives. I start to spit up putrid, yellow-coloured phlegm. I call my coach to inform him of my illness, and ask him what I should do.
‘Don’t train,’ Eamonn says, with an authority I’ve not heard from him before.
‘Are you sure?’ I say. Normally I would have just battered on with my training schedule, and hoped I’d get better soon.
‘Your body needs rest. Get some meds and take today off,’ he confirms. ‘We’ll talk again tomorrow and see how you feel then.’
I hang up the phone, upset that the day’s session is cancelled. I feel like a failure that I couldn’t suck it up, and just go out and train. But soon this sense of regret is replaced with total relief. Someone else has told me to rest. It wasn’t me who chickened out. If I had opted out by myself, I would have second-guessed the decision a million times. But now that Eamonn has instructed me to stop, I have no problem obeying his strict command.
I head to the chemist to buy some medicine to flush away the phlegm clogging up my throat. The chemist gives me some Exputex and instructs me to take it three times a day. I take one dose as soon as I get home, then wait for it to work. The belligerent phlegm refuses to budge, even after several hours’ wait. I decide to take another spoonful to accelerate the process. I idly glance at the bottle label as I pour the liquid out.
‘Do not take if you are pregnant or breastfeeding’ is written right across the glass.
Oh shit.
I forgot that breastfeeding precludes a wide range of medication. I return the bottle to the pharmacy and get a full refund. Now I have no choice but to let my body heal itself without outside assistance.
I take a day off, then another. I wake up every morning, hoping I’ll feel better, but instead spend my waking hours coughing and spitting up phlegm. The race gets closer and closer. I am running out of time to get well.
Eamonn calls me two days before the race.
‘How are you feeling?’ he says, cutting to the chase.
‘Better,’ I say, sounding relatively optimistic. ‘Got a fair amount of phlegm still coming up though, to be honest.’
‘Right, you don’t race,’ he says.
‘What?’ I splutter, realising I should never have told him the whole truth. ‘But . . . but I’ve already paid the race entry fee.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘Let’s aim for the next race after this one.’
There’s no arguing with Eamonn. He is adamant on this issue. And though I am bitterly disappointed, ultimately I know he is right.
When the Beir Bua Waterford Adventure Race results appear online, I can’t help but look them up. And there I see it. Fiona Meade, the spectacular winner of Sea to Summit, has claimed the first Series victory of 2014.
I take the next few days easy as I try to return to fitness. Already I have lost a whole week to this illness. But while Aran and I slowly battle with our infections, Aran is fighting on an additional front. His teeth are erupting out of his gums, making them painfully sore and red. He wakes at night, tossing and turning from the pain that is exploding inside his head.
His fitful nights disturb my own sleep patterns, and we both wake up grumpy and tired. But what makes my life even more unbearable is breastfeeding this little Dracula. I keep forgetting that he has teeth in his mouth when I place him on my nipple. Aran sucks away as normal, then bites down hard on my poor defenceless breast. The pain emanates quickly and spreads throughout my body. I screech, he screams, and we both end up crying from self-pity. I’ve really got to get this little monster off breast milk as soon as possible.
By the time Dingle Adventure Race comes around three weeks later, my phlegm has well and truly gone. Pete and I pack up our bags, and head with Aran and Tom to the race start. The Dingle Adventure Race is a forty-eight-kilometre course around Kerry’s scenic Dingle Peninsula. Starting on road bikes, the route takes you high up and over Conor Pass, before descending via steep, winding country roads for twenty-five kilometres to remote Cloghane village. There the bikes are dumped for a ten-kilometre hike up Mount Brandon. From sea level, you climb a steep, rocky thousand metres to the top, before descending via a gentle grassy slope back to civilisation on the other side of the peninsula. Then it’s a ten-kilometre road run back to Dingle, where boats await for a kayak section near the marina. And if your legs haven’t cramped or you’ve not sunk your boat by then, the race ends with a one-kilometre sprint back into Dingle town, where lies the ultimate finish line.
I arrive at the start line early on Saturday morning to try to calm my nerves. Straight away, I see Fiona Meade, the current Series leader and today’s firm favourite. I also see previous Dingle winner, Emma Donlon, eyeing up the competition. All I can hope is to make my own mark on this, my first adventure race of 2014.
I see Fiona lining up on the start, alongside the main male contenders. My only hope is that I can hang on to these cyclists and not lose too much ground on the initial climb. My hopes are quickly dashed, as Fiona sprints off through the streets of Dingle, and blasts up the mountain pass. I push hard, but before I know it, I am in no man’s land. Soon I hear the gentle breaths of a girl on my shoulder.
‘I’m Emma,’ she says as she glides past me into second place.
‘I’m Moire,’ I gasp in return, taking her third position. I wonder if I should continue chatting with Emma, but before I can think of a conversation topic, she is well and truly gone.
Reaching the pass, I let go of the brakes and descend as best I can, praying not to fall off the cliffs on my left or slip on the wet patches on the road. I soon catch up with a guy pedalling furiously along. I suggest to my new friend that we work together, and we draft each other all the way to Cloghane.
‘You’re second lady,’ a marshall calls as I drop my bike at the village.
‘No, you’re wrong,’ I want to say. ‘I’m third. Fiona and Emma are ahead.’
But then I turn and see Fiona on the roadside, leaning against her bike calmly. She is chatting and laughing with some random bystanders. She is not racing at all.
I don’t have time to ask what the hell Fiona is up to, whether this is a clever race ploy. If I’m second, Emma is first. I set off up the mountain in hot pursuit.
I look up and catch a glimpse of Emma’s T-shirt. She is only a few metres ahead of me. But my closeness to Emma is short-lived. Emma has run for Ireland. There’s no way I’m going to catch a capped athlete on the mountain. I follow the narrow and rocky path up Brandon, sliding on the patches of wet bog that intersperse the track underfoot. To my left, I catch the sight of beautiful shimmering lakes, with only a sharp precipitous drop separating me from their cold waters. I pick my way carefully up the mountain, praying that I won’t slip down a surrounding cliff.
After nearly an hour of climbing, I encounter a massive wall of stone. There is no obvious way up and over this section, until I see another athlete snake his way up through the strewn boulders. It looks like we’re entering Valhalla, and there is no other way out of here than up.
I manage to find the summit just as an old adventure-racing pal passes me.
‘Good to see ye back racing,’ he says.
Despite the pain, it is definitely good to be back again.
I relax as I run down the mountain, following the white pilgrim markers at first, then enjoying the fast grassy descent. Emma is nowhere to be seen as I reach the road at Bally Braic. Pete, Aran, and Tom are waiting for me at the transition with news I do not expect.
‘Emma is four minutes ahead of you,’ Pete shouts. ‘But she is looking pretty tired.’
I flash him a quick smile as I set off down the road. I push hard to see if I can make up some of this precious gap. Pete takes off after me in the car. He loves a good photo finish.
Soon I can just make out Emma’s blue T-shirt in the distance, but she still seems so far away. The road section is relentless after the freedom of Mount Brandon’s terrain. I hammer the tarmac for what seems like an eternity, trying hard to catch the leader.
After fifty minutes of running, I reach the kayak section. Pete is already there with Aran and Tom, waving his arms excitedly.
‘She’s only ninety seconds ahead of you,’ Pete shouts. ‘You can do it!’
I stop to allow the marshals to throw a lifejacket on my body. But the sudden stop and pounding road have battered my full bladder. My weak pelvic floor can’t cope. All of a sudden, urine gushes down the inside of my leg.
‘Oh no!’ I shout, without thinking.
‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ Pete says, worried I might have pulled a muscle or something.
I don’t have time to explain to Pete that I have accidentally wet myself. I jump into the kayak and hope I don’t leave a puddle behind in the seat when I exit.
The sea is choppy from the wind. Immediately I feel the boat wobble beneath me. My heart beats fast, fearing I might overturn and take an unexpected swim. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I start to sing out loud. ‘Hello Aran, hello Aran, hello Aran, we’re glad to see you here.’
Oh my God, why is the baby swimming song belting out of my mouth? This is not the time or place to be shouting silly songs. But surprisingly, it seems to calm my nerves. The thought of Aran splashing around is a perfect distraction from the waves.
I paddle hard, reaching the shore with Emma now forty seconds in front. She must have heard me coming, as she bolts out of her boat and sprints down the road. Despite my best efforts, I fail to close the gap and take second place, thirty-four seconds off the pace.
‘Was that you singing in the kayak?’ is the first thing Emma says to me as I cross the finish line.
‘No, not me,’ I reply. ‘Must have been the wind you heard.’
I soon find out that Fiona Meade never intended to finish the race. She used the road bike section as a training session, and was happy to leave it there.
Pete, Aran, Tom, and I drive back to Greystones the following day. I am looking forward to more adventure races, now that I have some points on the Series board.
We are still not sure though if Greystones is the right place for us to live. Fortunately, the decision is soon made for us: my friend tells us she wants to sell her house. It’s a perfect excuse for Pete to finish his job and for us to move back north and home to Derry.