Bump, Bike & Baby

by Moire O'Sullivan

  I pound the tarmac section, too scared to glance back over my shoulder. I just about hold on, reaching the kayaks before Emma. I paddle furiously around Dingle harbour, and then sprint towards the finish. Both Emma and I improve our previous times considerably. And, in the end, I manage to swap my 2014 runner-up spot with the 2016 first place prize.

  With two wins out of two, my season is off to a flying start.

  Cahal soon follows suit. He is nearly a year old, but still refrains from crawling. He is happy enough sitting on the ground observing everything from afar. But then, one day, Cahal pulls himself up to a standing position and takes not one step, not two steps, but three. The next day, he takes a total of ten steps on his own. The following day, he is walking.

  Now the trouble really begins.

  23

  Family

  With two children walking, and one of them talking, my work is really cut out. However, having lived with Aran as a mobile one-year-old, I already know the drill for Cahal. Kitchen cupboards are locked and doors are kept closed. Toilet tissue is taken off the dispenser so it can’t be unravelled Andrex-puppy style. Dangerous items like knives and bleach are placed on shelves six foot high. I surprise myself at how efficiently I childproof the house this time around. And, just like Aran, Cahal gets frustrated as I foil every one of his destructive plans.

  Friends had warned me how different a second-born child can be, but both Pete and I are surprised how similar Cahal and Aran are in many regards. Cahal has pretty much the same sleeping and feeding patterns as Aran had at this age. By the age of one, they were both walking but not really talking. They like the same toys. They enjoy comparable foods. They rebel over similar things.

  If anything, it is Pete and I who are different now. When we only had Aran, we ran to hold him when he tried to walk, and freaked out if he got the slightest bump. Though Cahal has exactly the same behaviours and reactions, we are much more relaxed this time in our approach.

  Slowly but surely, over these last three years, Pete and I have learned to become parents. And though we have struggled to adapt to the children’s varied and changing behaviours, they are finally starting to knock us into pretty decent shape.

  July and August come and go, with Aran and Cahal both celebrating their respective birthdays. And though the summer months promised warm, sunny weather, both the kids come down with nasty winter-like colds. I don’t think much of it as I wipe their runny noses and tell them to cover their mouths when they cough. It is only when I end up contracting their illness myself that I realise how serious their condition is.

  It is three weeks until my third adventure race of the season, Quest Achill. I am meant to be doing a week of heavy training in preparation. But as soon as I inform Eamonn that I’m coughing up phlegm, he cancels all the sessions, and prescribes Vitamin C and rest instead. He tells me my body can’t heal itself properly if it’s put under undue stress. And though I’m itching to keep training, I know my priority is getting better. I can’t race in three weeks’ time if I’m unwell.

  Each morning I wake up feeling slightly better, only to later hack up mounds of green phlegm into the sink. I curse the children for making me sick, but they refuse to show me any sympathy. And though I want to go back to bed and try to get rid of this cold, they insist on making me stay awake to feed, clean, and entertain them.

  It takes days for the sickly phlegm to subside and to morph into whiter tones. And when Eamonn finally allows me back on my bike, my heart rate is much higher than normal and my legs feel distinctly weak. But I’ve no choice. I must get back in the saddle and do what I can to be ready for Quest Achill.

  At the start of September, Pete, Aran, Cahal and I all journey to Achill Island on Ireland’s far western coast. It’s pissing down rain as we leave the mainland and drive on to Achill itself. An Atlantic swirl whips up the sea’s waves, battering the island’s tall cliffs. The weather forecast looks surprisingly mild for tomorrow’s race, but anything can happen on this exposed and barren outcrop. The race will be hard enough without having to contend with wind and rain as well.

  Fiona Meade is making a late-season appearance at this event. I know it will suit her strengths perfectly, given the course’s format. The race starts with a short sprint inland to Keel Lake for a quick kayak on its waters. Fiona is a stronger paddler, so I guess she will be looking to push hard here from the start. Then it’s straight on to Keel Beach itself, for a fifteen-kilometre off-road run. This run route starts off on Keel’s sweeping sandy shore, before ascending Minaun hill. It’s a steep boggy descent back to the beach, to return to the start for the final bike section. This is where Fiona, one of Ireland’s most formidable female cyclists, will certainly look to dominate. The bike route circumnavigates the southern part of the island, a forty-five-kilometre loop taking in rural windswept roads teetering above the Atlantic Ocean.

  It’s a relatively simple kayak, run, bike format, with only two transitions to make. Compared to other adventure-racing courses, it is also fairly short, flat and fast.

  My husband Pete, as ever, is looking forward to the race far more than I. He enjoys driving around and pulling over in random places on the course, and watching the contest pan out. He is also convinced Aran and Cahal benefit from watching their mother compete. He thinks it will motivate his children to also take up sport one day. And if that sport is competitive rugby, then all the better, according to him.

  As I line up at the start, I know the only potential advantage I have over Fiona is a turn of flat running speed. I bolt out of the blocks on the starting gun, and try to get ahead of her for the kayak. And though I reach the boats first, I am not surprised when Fiona paddles right past me at the final buoy.

  I leap out of the boat and push hard, too hard, on to the beach. I’m just so focused on passing Fiona, which I eventually do, that I run way past my limits. I ignore everything I’ve ever learned about endurance racing.

  I’m breathless as I reach the base of the hill we must now run up. But at least I’m first, and I need to use the mountain run section to get as far ahead of Fiona before she tracks me down on her bike.

  I am united with Bike an hour and forty into the race, and rush out of the transition. I see Pete in our car on the roadside, revving up the engine. He waves at me, unable to contain his excitement. He can’t wait to watch this race unfurl.

  I feel sorry for Bike as soon as I begin. My legs are already shot. I can barely push us both up the hill out of Keel village, having expended too much energy on the run. My legs are also trembling knowing that I am now bait, and that Fiona is starting to hunt me down.

  As I round the southern peninsula, Pete drives up beside me.

  ‘Who’s that blonde girl behind you?’ he asks out of his wound-down window. ‘Is she in the race?’

  Blonde girl? Fiona has brown hair. Pete is obviously mistaken.

  I shake my head, and keep pedalling, annoyed by this silly error that Pete’s bothering me with mid-race.

  I get to the bike turnaround point at the top of the island’s western cliffs. Pete is already there, waiting with the kids.

  ‘That blonde girl is getting closer,’ he says. ‘She’s four minutes off your pace.’

  I look at him and sigh from exasperation. I don’t have the time or desire right now to start an argument with my husband.

  I bike off, wondering what the hell is going on behind me. I push hard just in case Pete’s got his story right for once. But even as I pedal hard, speed still eludes me. I seem to be going backwards.

  The next thing I see is Pete zooming up in the car beside me.

  ‘She’s catching you!’ he shouts. ‘You’ve got to time trail it to the line.’

  I’m so confused. What and who is he talking about?

  Within a kilometre I find out that Pete wasn’t lying after all. A girl with blonde hair, who is definitely not Fiona, sails past me up the last hill. And with her passing, my body gives up. My head sags from the weight of my effort
.

  I am so consumed by fatigue and confusion that I barely notice Fiona cruising past a minute later. It seems like I’m the least of her worries as she hones in on this mysterious blonde female.

  Then out of nowhere, a third girl cycles past.

  What? Where? Why? How?

  I’m so close to giving up that I contemplate freewheeling up the hill.

  This is ridiculous. I’ve not driven the width of the country just so that I can come home in fourth place. I grab on to this new girl’s wheel, and ride with her to within a kilometre of the finish. Then I use every iota of power and pig-headedness within me to push past her with metres to spare.

  I cross the line and immediately collapse on the grass. Pete comes running towards me with both boys in his arms.

  ‘That was so exciting!’ he says. ‘That’s the best race I’ve ever seen!’

  I look up at him from the ground, drool hanging from my mouth. Aran jumps out of Pete’s hold, and wraps his tiny arms around me. I am unable to return his hug.

  ‘But I didn’t win,’ I say, when I regain my ability to speak.

  ‘It was amazing though,’ Pete explains. ‘It’s no fun if you lead from start to finish.’

  It might not be fun for Pete, but the race scenario he’s just described does make my life a lot easier.

  I’ve fought so hard during the race that it takes me a while before I can get back on to my feet. My quads are screaming in so much agony that I have to cling on to Pete to make it back to our car.

  At prize-giving that night I discover the amazing blonde girl is called Laura O’ Driscoll, an Irish triathlete who has lived in Canada until recently. Her name hadn’t featured on the original starting list, so she was an unknown entry to us all. Fiona closed in on her throughout the cycle, but was ultimately unable to bridge the gap Laura opened up on Fiona on the beach run.

  I wake up the next morning, barely able to walk. I am totally drained from the race. I feel this way, not because I came third, as I know I was definitely beaten by better girls on the day, but because I left every part of me out on the course yesterday, and now there’s nothing left to give.

  I shake Pete awake.

  ‘I’m going to bring the kids to the beach,’ I say. ‘A dip in the sea might do me some good.’

  Pete rolls over in bed.

  ‘Great idea,’ he mumbles. If it means I babysit the kids while he gets some extra kip, of course he’s totally fine with it.

  I drive Aran and Cahal to a beach close by, and get them changed into their wetsuits. Large waves roll in from the Atlantic, and both the boys run straight into them at full steam. I dip my own toe in and yelp from the cold. The boys don’t mind a bit. They are too busy crashing and splashing into the sea to even notice its temperature.

  They are having such fun that I can’t help but be distracted from my own woes. The sun is shining, the sea is sparkling, the beach is soft and golden. On yesterday’s race, I had forgotten to take a moment to look around me at this beautiful island. Sometimes it is Aran and Cahal who force me to stop and take in the bigger picture.

  I return home to Rostrevor with four weeks to prepare for the Killarney Adventure Race. This race has also been re-branded, and now is known as Quest Killarney. It is September, and Aran has started going to a local playgroup. And thanks to being surrounded by a new cohort of children at the start of a cool autumn, Aran succumbs to yet another cold. He duly passes it on to me, and to the rest of the family. I moan about being sick yet again and having to take more time off. Most athletes are plagued with injuries that force them to stop training abruptly. And though my joints and muscles have remained remarkably intact for the last three years, it seems like coughs and colds are the recurring injuries I must deal with.

  I arrive in Killarney, having finally shaken off the illness. I am also equipped with all the lessons I learned from Quest Achill. So when the race starts, I run at my own pace and try to forget about the other female competitors. Knowing the course also helps a lot, so I know when to push hard and back off. This experience, combined with all the training I’ve done, allows me to come home in first position.

  This means, out of four adventure races, I have three firsts and one third place to my name. I only have to finish a fifth race to regain the National Series title I won two years ago.

  Getting to the last race in the series, Westport’s Sea to Summit, is always easier said than done. Just before the event, Pete jets off to Papua New Guinea, an island off Australia, for ten days of work. He agrees to fly back to Dublin on Friday morning, the day before the race. The plan is, I am to pick him up from the airport at 7 am, and then we’ll drive together cross-country to Westport in time for registration. It is our most ambitious rendezvous undertaking to date.

  We are both pleasantly surprised when our crazy arrangement proceeds without major hitch. I arrive at the terminal just as Pete steps off the plane. Even Aran and Cahal are well behaved for the four-hour journey to Westport. I have enough games and breadsticks to keep them entertained for its entirety. Pete is also able to sleep off some of his jet lag in the front passenger seat. It looks like our family are becoming experts at relocating ourselves to remote places for adventure races.

  The only thing we’ve yet to work out is how to make Cahal sleep soundly throughout the night when in a new place. But even this issue is quickly resolved when Cahal wakes up in our room at 3 am. Pete’s system is still on Australia time. He gets up, grabs Cahal out of his cot, and heads downstairs to the hotel bar. This allows me to get some sort of pre-race slumber, while Cahal and Pete hang out with the Polish bartender, who supplies Cahal with free cookies and milk. Pete even meets some late-night drinkers originally from my birthplace of Derry. He swaps stories with them from back home while he waits for Cahal to nod off again.

  But even with Pete’s impromptu night-time babysitting, my pre-race nerves prevent me from settling. I’ve tried to give myself some realistic goals, like beating the time I did when Aran was four months old. The problem is, I’ve seen the race line-up, and there’s some serious competition. Sea to Summit is one of Fiona Meade’s favourites, and she wouldn’t miss it for the world. Rachel Nolan, who was third last year, is also entered. Rachel is one of Ireland’s best multi-day adventure racers, and is universally known to be tough as nails. Then there are a number of iron-women and triathletes who are testing the adventure-racing waters now that their own season calendars are over. Every athlete has their respective strength, and I’m not sure I stand a chance against them.

  ‘Just finish the race,’ I tell myself as I make my way to the starting line. It’s cold and still dark on this early November morning. All I want to do is go back to the hotel, and snuggle up in bed with Pete, Aran and Cahal. The only thing that stops me is knowing I’ve dragged all three of them to Westport, so the least I can do is complete what I’ve come for.

  As expected, the race starts at a furious pace, with everyone throwing down their own gauntlet. Girl after girl streams past me as we sprint towards the greenway for the initial five-kilometre run to our bikes. The lessons of Quest Achill reverberate in my mind.

  Go at your own pace. Run your own race.

  I have no idea where I’m placed when I reach Bike after seventeen minutes, but I don’t have time to stop and work it out. I jump into the saddle, and pedal after a group of guys who are just ahead of me. I catch them as they begin to work together for the eight-kilometre section that leads to the base of Croagh Patrick Mountain.

  Suddenly, I hear a dead whirring sound approaching from behind. I can’t work out what this ghostly wail is until it pulls alongside. It’s a girl, a very fast girl, decked out in a super tight-fitting triathlon suit with the name Aileen printed on the back. The sound I hear is her wheels cutting through the air as she powers at forty kilometres an hour past me. All I can think is, quick, draft her.

  I edge into her slipstream, and immediately take advantage of her pull. But even though drafting saves thirty per c
ent of your energy, I struggle to keep up with her. She is a total bionic machine.

  Croagh Patrick arrives quicker than expected, thanks to Aileen, and I drop Bike on my slot on the rack. I then turn and take a deep breath. I know this mountain ascent will hurt.

  I pass a race marshal as I start on the stony trail.

  ‘First lady,’ he says. ‘Well done.’

  Now, I definitely didn’t expect that. It must have been during the bike section that us female competitors switched up our places. The superwoman triathlete must have dragged me into second, and she is probably still with her bike now, changing into her trail shoes.

  While I am doing this mental calculation, I lose this precious first place.

  A blonde girl in a triathlete top bounces up the hill past me. I take a second look to see if it’s Laura from Quest Achill, but quickly realise it’s not her. There must be something about blonde female triathletes from Ireland that makes them all very speedy.

  A couple of minutes later, Fiona Meade storms past me. Her biking strength stands her in good stead when power hiking up steep Croagh Patrick. We greet each other between laboured breaths. I now am in third position.

  Reaching the top, I know these podium places could easily be swapped on the descent. I soon catch Fiona on the massive boulder section that covers the top third of the mountain.

  ‘Poor Saint Patrick,’ I mutter as I rock skid past her. ‘How did he get up and down this by himself without the tourist track?’

  I get on to the compacted trail section that leads back to our bikes. But as much as I throw myself down this rock-strewn path, I can’t seem to close the gap with the blonde girl. Regardless, I continue to weave my way past other athletes who are still climbing up the mountain. I am struggling to find the best line down when suddenly I feel myself airborne. I land with a bang at the feet of a fellow competitor who is making her way to the summit.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she says, bending down to lift me up.