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Quest
The 2016 adventure-racing calendar is published in late January. I go online to see what events are included this time round. This year’s race series is made up of a total of nine events. My five best race results would go towards my final score.
I scroll through the list to see which events would suit me most. Like in 2014, Dingle and Killarney adventure races are both included in this year’s line-up. I make a mental note to enter both of these, seeing that I already know and enjoy their routes. I also feel compelled to do Sea to Summit this time, given my envious online encounter with the race while Cahal and I were confined to hospital.
A new company called Quest Ireland has also made it on to the series. They promise new adventures, firstly in the heart of the Wicklow Mountains out of the early medieval village of Glendalough, and then on the remote island of Achill on the western Atlantic-beaten coast of Ireland. Tempted by these destinations and landscapes, I add Quest Achill and Quest Glendalough to my final event wish list.
Quest Glendalough is earmarked to take place in mid-April. It is only January, so there are still three months of hard training to do before I can turn up at the race start. And though three months seem like forever, it is a very short time considering the crude fitness base I am coming from.
Eamonn knows that time is of the essence as we embark on my training plan. He gives me short, sharp sessions day after day to build my strength and stamina. One day he gives me a two-hour bike to do, with twenty one-minute efforts, and a ten-minute run afterwards. The next day, it’s seventy minutes of strength and conditioning exercises, followed by an hour’s bike. The day after that, it’s a ninety-minute run with twelve one-minute efforts.
I do the sessions, tick them off, and then move on to the next one. Granted, I grumble to Eamonn about how hard the training is whenever I get the chance. But when he advises I skip a session if I’m too tired, I’m the first one to take exception, insisting I can complete them all.
Despite how difficult the sessions are, or how much I dread doing them, I know this training is my lifeline. It is the one thing in the day that I have complete control over, an antidote to all the baby mayhem strewn around me at home. And admittedly, without exercise, my temper is shorter and my mood is terrible. Without training, I become a monster mum.
What with Aran becoming an increasingly independent child, I need to be in tip-top form to deal with whatever he throws my way. I need to be firm yet calm when he flings his dinner to the floor. I need to keep my cool when I discover he’s scribbled in ballpoint pen all over the white wall. If I’ve not slept enough, or had an unforeseen break in training, such coolness and calmness can quickly elude me, and I’m the one throwing the temper tantrum.
Though my children can bring out the very worst in me, I’m surprised sometimes by how they can also drag out the very best. I’m surprised how patient I can be when Aran wants Fireman Sam books read to him for the umpteenth time. I’m astonished that I listen to Aran’s mispronounced words so carefully, and try to make him feel heard and understood. I’m amazed that I automatically kneel down and hug Aran tightly whenever he is hurt or tearful.
While I’m having my own ups and downs with the children, they seem oblivious to it all. They are too busy forging their own bonds with each other to be concerned by my ongoing parental woes. Cahal is now seven months old, and Aran is two and a half. And though Aran’s initial encounter with his newborn brother was one of sheer disdain, he is now starting to realise that Cahal could be a possibly useful playmate.
Cahal can now sit upright on the floor, and enjoys the jumperoo as much as Aran did. However, unlike his older brother, Cahal shows zero interest in crawling. I resurrect Aran’s old walker to see if Cahal would appreciate moving around with this alternate mode of transportation. But even when I place him in it, he just sits there and dangles his feet while sucking absentmindedly on his thumb.
Aran seems to understand my dilemma, and decides to help me out. He positions himself behind Cahal and the walker, and gives the two a firm push. The walker, with Cahal in it, trundles across the kitchen floor. Aran runs after it and pushes it again, only harder, as it starts to slowly dawn on him the potential fun this game could have. Soon Aran, Cahal, and the walker are careering around the house, with Aran pulling handbrake turns around corners and scraping long skid marks along the corridor floors. Cahal thinks it’s great craic altogether and giggles endlessly, as he sustains repeated whiplash from Aran’s erratic turns.
Maybe Aran and Cahal will be good friends after all.
The days pass in a blur as I watch the boys grow up side by side. And before I know it, my own training plan tapers and Quest Glendalough arrives. I soon realise I need to travel with the entire family if I want to compete in the event. Just like with Aran, I am still breastfeeding Cahal who is eight months old by now. And if I travel with Cahal, Pete has to come along as well to mind him while I race. And if Pete and Cahal are with me, there is no leaving Aran behind alone in the house. Everyone has to come along if Mummy wants to compete.
Shifting a whole household for a weekend away is easier said than done. There are more bags to pack and more things to forget. I need to bring double the nappies and double the snacks. There are specific toys that need to be brought if Aran is going to sleep. And then I have to carry all my racing gear, and last but not least, I mustn’t forget Bike.
Despite the dreadful logistical tasks, I’m really looking forward to Quest Glendalough. First of all, the course sounds incredible. The route starts off on bikes, with a short and sharp uphill cycle out of Glendalough Valley to the top of Shay Elliot pass. From there, it’s a quick six-kilometre hill run to two summits, returning to the transition via mountain forests. Back on to the bikes, the route throws competitors down to the base of neighbouring Glenmalure Valley. From there, you can only emerge again via a steep climb up Slieve Maan to Drumgoff Gap. It’s then another hill run, this time a five-kilometre loop up and over the rocky slopes of Croaghmoira Mountain. And then, back on the bikes for the final time, to cycle all the way back to Glendalough Valley.
Despite this long arduous loop, the route is not done with its participants yet. Yet another hill run beckons, this time up through the forest via zigzag trails, providing athletes with spectacular views of Glendalough itself. Far below, its imposing round tower and monastic settlement provide a welcome distraction, but these views are short-lived, as you follow the route back down to the glacial valley’s floor, where the upper lake plays host to a short kayak section. You may have wet feet as you disembark from your boat, but there’s still a two-kilometre sprint before you finally cross the finish line.
It’s a brand-new course on the racing circuit, so it’s anyone’s guess what the winning time will be. And what with the sheer number of changes from bike to run and back again, no one knows who will cope best with all these transitions.
The entry list is released three days before the race, and I eagerly scan through it to see the competition. I note the names of athletes who performed well last year, but against whom I have yet to compete due to my enforced maternity absence. I don’t see Emma Donlon or Fiona Meade on the list, the two women I had epic tussles with in 2014. This means I have no idea how I will fare in this opening race of the season, against unknown competitors on an unknown course. It makes the race an exciting, yet daunting, prospect.
I hit the road with my family entourage early on Friday morning. I need to do the customary registration on Friday afternoon in Glendalough before the race starts bright and early at 8 am the next day. Though the drive is a mere three hours from home, it is not without its issues. Cahal sleeps for part of it, but then wakes up when we are forced to stop at some traffic lights. He is soon upset with his car seat confinement, and objects to it loudly and ferociously. I try to distract him by talking to him, then singing, and finally by tickling his feet and toes. All these strategies fail royally. At last, a bread stick works its magic, an
d he chomps quietly on it for thirty seconds, before demanding another one, then another.
Aran meanwhile sits quite happily in his own seat, too old to nod off on the journey. But when he sees his brother getting an unending supply of bread sticks, he too wants part of the action. He screams at me to give him his share. My stomach sinks. I’ve only one left. And Cahal is demanding this last one.
Pete and I endure our two young children’s screams all the way to Glendalough. My attempts at entertaining them for the trip’s duration are totally exhausting. I have practically no energy left to race. But if I think I am tired now, there is far worse yet to come.
Our roadshow rocks up to the place we are staying for the night. We plan to sleep all in one room, with a bunk bed for the kids. Aran is delirious with the arrangement. He clambers straight up the ladder, and claims the top bunk for himself. Though I’m terrified he will fall out of it at night, I dare not move him less he puts up an almighty fight.
Cahal is too young to sleep in a single bed, however, so we’ve brought along a travel cot. But, for some reason, Cahal takes fright as soon as I put him inside this netted cage. He grabs hold of its sides and pulls himself up. Then he stands there bawling until I relent and lift him out.
‘He’s going to have to sleep with us,’ I say to Pete apologetically.
‘Whatever keeps him quiet,’ Pete says with a yawn. He looks wrecked from a week’s hard work and from having to drive all the way down to Wicklow today with two screaming kids in the back.
I put Cahal in my arms and lie down with him to get some rest. Cahal falls soundly asleep within minutes, confirming my change in strategy. But his heavy head and motionless body prevent me from getting comfortable. I really can’t sleep together with him in my bed. I go to put Cahal back in his cot, but he wakes as soon as he hits the cold, hard mattress. I resign myself to bringing him back into my bed so at least he won’t wake the others. Then I spend the rest of the night starring at the ceiling. It is less than ideal race preparation.
‘I’m so wrecked,’ I say to Pete as I fall out of bed at 6 am.
‘Me too,’ he says. ‘You were wriggling around all night.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. I suppose I need to apologise to Pete on multiple levels. I’m sorry I disturbed his night’s sleep. I’m sorry I’ve dragged him all the way to Wicklow for the weekend, when he really needed to stay at home and rest. I’m sorry I’m making him look after the kids all morning so that I can go off and race. I wish I wasn’t the way I am, and didn’t have this restlessness to compete. If only I could be content as a full-time stay-at-home mum, it would make our lives a whole lot easier.
I go down to the kitchen and drink copious amounts of coffee to wake me up for the race. I don’t want to start cycling, then drop off to sleep on my bike.
Fortunately, when I do get to the start, I miraculously click into race mode.
Just do your own thing. Get around the course. Collect some points for the series.
Before I know it, we’re off.
The first bike section is the remedy I need to shake me awake. The relentless road climb to Shay Elliot is a brutal shock to the system. And aided by all the caffeine I’ve consumed this morning, I reach the transition in first position.
It remains to be seen, however, how long I can hold on to the lead. I take off on foot, following the winding forest trails to the foot of the first two hills. I’m hoping my mountain running prowess will stand me in good stead as I hop, skip, and jump between the two boggy summits, then back on to Bike in just over half an hour. I power on down the hill towards Drumgoff village, pulling hard on my brakes as the road steepens dangerously. I can’t help remembering that, once this race is over, I’ve still two young children to look after. I can’t fall off at high speed and end up in hospital when they need me to return to them still in one piece.
It’s on the long drag up to the top of Drumgoff Gap that I’m thankful for all the hard winter training I’ve done. The section is painful, but definitely not as bad as when I had to do hill reps in the Mourne Mountains in the freezing wind and rain. As I crest the hill, Pete pops up out of nowhere, cheering me on. He is standing by the roadside, holding Cahal in one arm. Aran is balanced on his shoulders clapping for all he’s worth.
‘I’ve timed you as three minutes ahead of the next woman,’ Pete says. ‘Go, Mummy!’
I glance up from Bike to see Aran bouncing up and down manically. How did I manage to end up with such a crazy team of fans?
Much to my surprise, I find myself still in the lead as I arrive at the next transition. The race is, however, taking a massive toll. As I begin this second run section, a marshal asks me to present a piece of mandatory kit before allowing me on to the mountain.
‘Where’s your rain jacket?’ she says.
I look at her vacantly for a split second. Rain jacket. Now where did I put that damn thing? I start to search around in the back of my cycle jersey, and find everything but my coat. Finally, I locate it in a random side pocket. I pull it out proudly and present it to the marshal to gain access to Croghanmoira Mountain.
The mental energy I use finding my jacket means I can’t work out how to put it away again. The easiest thing is to wear it, I think. But then, within a minute of donning it, I realise I’m too warm. I pull it off and stuff it away again. In my confusion, I’m losing precious seconds to the second-placed lady who’s surely chasing me down.
When I finally complete the five-kilometre mountain run section, I’m about to keel over. I’m still not as fit as I thought I’d be, and I have obviously pushed too hard too early on. And though my body is feeling worse for wear, my mind has completely deserted me.
I arrive back to the transition realising I’ve no idea where I left Bike. Mislaying my jacket was one thing. Losing Bike is sheer stupidity. I look around for him, then start frantically running up and down the racks as if searching for a lost child. I’m about to confront a marshal and ask them where they’ve hidden him when, on a far-distance rack, I see Bike’s saddle poking up all forlorn.
My heart is pounding as I mount Bike for my final cycle back to Glendalough. The idea of being separated permanently from Bike is too much for me to handle. This distressing thought helps distract me, however, from the cramp that suddenly seizes up my quads. I yelp from the pain, then shift down some gears so I can pedal softly and safely back to Glendalough.
Pete catches up with me in the car and starts shouting out the passenger window the latest update.
‘You’re six minutes ahead now,’ he says. ‘Keep going!’
I look up to see Aran and Cahal wedged into their respective car seats. I can’t begin to imagine what they’re thinking, as they see their daddy conduct a high-speed chase after Mummy across the Wicklow Mountains.
I have run and biked for over three hours but still have not finished the race. The final hill run to the kayak section drags on forever. And though the route description larked on about the stupendous views on this section, all I can see is a bird’s-eye view of how far I have to go before I can finally cross the finish line.
I eventually drop down into the valley floor and run towards the kayaks. I grab an unsuspecting man to paddle with me in the double sit-on tops provided. As soon as we hit the water, I’m bowled over by the lake’s tranquillity. Though I have visited Glendalough’s lakes many times, I have never kayaked on them before. Those who manage them have granted the race organisers special permission to use the waters today. We are a privileged lot.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ I say to my impromptu kayak partner, suddenly forgetting about the race.
‘Amazing,’ he says between heavy breaths, as he paddles frantically to the first buoy.
‘Your first adventure race?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You too?’
‘Well, it’s been a while.’
It’s such a beautiful day that I would love to be out on the waters for a while longer. There are no crazy waves or wind to contend w
ith like in Dingle or at Gaelforce West, just lovely soothing lake waters. Unfortunately, we paddle too quickly and complete the circuit in under ten minutes. I try to jump heroically out of the boat, but end up hobbling to the shore as my cramps re-appear.
‘Nice paddling with you!’ I shout, as I shuffle off with soggy feet along the final strait. I duck and dive through the mass of tourists that lie between me and the finish. Little did they know they would have to contend with a horde of adventure racers trying to bowl them over on their day’s excursion. I narrowly miss taking out a bunch of Germans before finally crossing the line. I’m the first lady home in three hours forty-one minutes, and I take home the maximum number of series points.
Pete and the kids are hanging out at the finish, busy sampling the free food on offer. Aran has already drunk a pint of alcohol-free beer, and is now running up and down a banking like a crazy man. And though Aran is full of beans after his comfortable ten-hour bunk-bed sleep, I collapse on the grass with Cahal, jaded from sleep deprivation and racing.
Though I’m proud to win Quest Glendalough, I don’t have much time to bask in this achievement. No sooner am I home, than I’m back to the daily routine of childminding, training, and house cleaning. It sounds like a terribly boring, monotonous lifestyle, something I would have fled from before having children. But somehow this routine seems to suit Pete, the kids, and I just fine, at least for the foreseeable future.
Six weeks later, I’m in Dingle once more, again with my entire entourage. It’s billed as a rematch between Emma and I, Emma the clear victor from 2014. We battle it out from the get-go as soon as we start biking up and over Conor Pass. Dropping the bikes in Cloghane, this time around, I reach the summit of Mount Brandon just ahead of Emma. But I know I can’t relax at any moment on this course. And true to form, as soon as I reach the ten-kilometre road run back to Dingle, Pete tells me Emma is closing in.
Bump, Bike & Baby Page 24