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How mountain biking saved my pregnant sanity
By Monique Cole
Photos by Phil Mislinski
It was on a mountain bike ride in September when I first suspected I might be
on my way to motherhood. My heart and lungs were on overdrive even though I
was at my peak of high-altitude fitness having run a half-marathon up a
14,000-foot peak a month prior. At the crest of each hill I had to stop, sit
upright, and let out a hearty belch to relieve a gastrointestinal war being
waged inside me. After one such expulsion, Phil asked, "What's wrong?"
"I think it's morning sickness," I answered, smiling as his eyes grew as big
as a Japanese cartoon. It wasn't that we did not plan on having children,
this was just a couple years ahead of schedule. We rode on to catch up with
the rest of our group, each locked in our own thoughts. As I pedaled and
pushed my bike up the steep inclines, I battled with my fears and
insecurities. Were we ready? Could we afford a baby? Would I be a good
mother? What about that trip to Moab next spring?
By the time we reached the turnaround point, I had more or less come to terms
with this unexpected life change. On the downhill I splashed through mud
puddles, hopped small moguls and soaked in the beauty of the golden aspen
leaves shimmering against a Colorado blue sky. I mused about sharing these
experiences with my own child, of rediscovering the natural world through his
or her wondering eyes. Dismounting for the more technical sections, I was
surprised that my protective instincts were already surfacing.
I looked up "exercise" in all of my pregnancy books and, although I've never
been prone to paranoia, I began to suspect there was a conspiracy against me.
They advised:
--Keep your heart rate below 140 beats per minute (at altitude that precludes
almost everything but walking downhill, especially since pregnancy raises
your heart rate)
--Avoid any activity where a blow to the abdomen or a fall would be likely
--Avoid prolonged aerobic exercise, longer than 30 minutes (a half-hour would
barely get me to a trailhead)
--Exercise at high altitude can deprive your fetus of oxygen-rich blood (I
live in Boulder, Colo., and always head uphill to seek adventure)
These books did recommend exercise, however, including walking, swimming,
calisthenics and yoga. "Where's the rush?" I wondered, unwilling to give up
adrenaline along with my other vices, coffee and beer. Convinced the
conservative advice was based on old-fashioned prejudices, theoretical
assumptions and fear of malpractice suits, rather than scientific evidence, I
delved a little deeper into the medical journals.
I just wasn't ready to trade in my outdoor adventuress persona for the woman
wearing a flowered frock and seated in a rocking chair that graced the cover
of "What to Expect When You're Expecting." Lo and behold, I discovered most
recent research shows that continuing even a high level of aerobic exercise
benefits both mother and baby (with some contraindications).
My nurse midwife counseled me to continue doing most of my sports as long as
it was comfortable, but at a slower, more conservative pace. "Let your body
be your guide," she said, sounding more like Luke Skywalker's mentor than a
medical professional. "If you have any pain, or get out of breath or
exhausted, then back off."
Through the fall I continued biking, trail running, and rock climbing. Some
friends were concerned for my baby's comfort through all my bouncing and
jolting, but I explained that he or she was safely floating in a pool of
amniotic fluid that rivals even the best Rock Shox. When overcome by nausea
or a fear of depriving my child's developing brain of oxygen, I would slow
down or stop to catch my breath.
In many ways it was pleasant to be able to stop and smell the roses, to have
a built-in excuse to not keep up with the guys. A friend called me to tell me
about a new race he was organizing, the Iditasport Extreme, a 350-mile,
unsupported version of the 160-mile Iditasport race on Alaska's Iditarod
Trail. "There aren't any women signed up yet," Dan Bull said, "and you
qualify since you already finished the shorter race."
"I wish I could," I answered somewhat insincerely, "But I'll be six months
pregnant in February."
One day in mid-winter I hit a low point. One by one I had to give up my
favorite sports - body boarding in the fifth month (on vacation in Hawaii),
trail running in the sixth month, snowboarding in the seventh month.
"It's like having a nine-month injury, only instead of healing it gets
progressively worse," I tried to explain to Phil. As soon as the words
escaped my mouth, I felt guilty about comparing our cherished child to an
injury. But it wasn't just the sports I missed, it was my entire lifestyle --
interacting with the landscape, having fun with my husband and friends,
exploring new trails. I felt trapped and alienated.
That night I had a bizarre dream inspired by a Star Trek episode about
"Trills," symbiotic beings who survive in the bellies of their humanoid
hosts. In my dream my stomach rippled and convulsed like that of a Trill
host. Then, all of a sudden, I caught a view inside my uterus of my baby --
he had a disproportionately large penis that resembled a Vienna sausage.
"See, I knew it's a boy," said my husband after I recounted my dream, "and
judging by his proportions, sounds like he takes after his old dad."
He was missing the point, side-tracked by the surreal and penis-oriented
twist of my dream. The true significance was that I had begun to see my body
as a host for an alien being. I had lost control. The mini dictator inside me
decided when and how often I would exercise, eat, sleep, and pee according to
his demanding growth schedule. I felt like a helpless backseat passenger on a
tandem bike, my fetus at the handlebars guiding me recklessly down the
hormonal (and extremely technical) single track of pregnancy.
Somehow I survived that low point. My Barracuda with its aluminum frame, Rock
Shox, and Shimano XT components was relegated to the closet along with all
the clothes I had outgrown. Its low-rise stem kept me in a riding position
where my uterus put unbearable pressure on my bladder and my thighs rubbed my
belly. There just were not enough pit stops along Boulder's crowded winter t
rails to satisfy my needs.
Instead, I dusted off my Bridgestone MB 6, with its steel frame, rigid fork,
and gears that had to be coaxed into changing. It only seemed natural that
impending parenthood forced me to trade in my sports car for the Volvo
station wagon of mountain bikes. The extra 10 pounds of bike were nothing
compared to the extra 20 pounds of amniotic fluid, baby, and maternal fat
stores (a.k.a. cellulite) I was toting on my body. As I plowed downhill on my
stable Volvo, the wind in my hair, my knobbies parting the slushy snow, mud
splattering my T-shirt, I felt free and unfettered. No longer the host for an
alien being, my body was my own.
It was exactly one month from D Day and we were headed for Moab with bikes on
the roof with a stopover at the Fruita Fat Tire Festival. I had switched back
to my Barracuda thanks to my favorite bike mechanic, Colin, who attached the
highest stem he could find allowing my belly clearance. Of course it also
resulted in a riding position that made me look like a pregnant version of
Peewee Herman.
I had slit the seam of my favorite pair of bike shorts and added a triangle
of stretchy fabric to accomodate my blossoming waistline. Then, I made a neon
orange diamond-shaped sign that said, "Baby on Board," and pinned it to my
water pack. Donning an extra large jersey, I was ready to ride.
Despite my orange sign and bulging jersey, no one on the trail that day
seemed to notice I was pregnant. I think they were in a state of denial,
"Surely a pregnant woman wouldn't be mountain biking." We had chosen Mary's
Loop, a 13-mile trail of dirt road and scary single track carved into the top
of a river canyon. I took it slow, walking technical sections I had easily
ridden before and setting a good pace for our friend Elizabeth, a well-honed
runner and mountain bike virgin.
The PeeWee Herman position, while comfortable, did have its disadvantages. My
handlebars kept rearing up when I hit larger rocks and steep uphills.
Instinctively I would try to get my weight forward by bending at the waist.
Then I would remember I had no waist. As my quads bounced off my belly I
realized that was not going to work anymore. By shifting forward out of the
saddle a bit and rotating my wrists toward the ground, I could make some of
the climbs.
Breathing for two meant a much slower ascent than normal with more frequent
rest breaks where I admired the view up the canyon carved out by the mighty
Colorado River.
I practiced my Lamaze techniques of breathing, focus points and visualization
on the road ride home. Hills and head winds were conspiring with sore
abdomenal muscles and low blood sugar to defeat my spirit. The day before I
spent snowboarding and I think I slightly strained the ligaments and muscles
that were already overworked by supporting my enlarged uterus. I choked down
a banana-flavored Power Bar someone else had left at our house and that I
brought along as emergency rations. "Stop being such a wuss," I said to
myself. "If you think this is hard, how are you going to handle labor?"
With labor on my mind, each hill became a contraction to be endured by using
my recently acquired Lamaze techniques. "Ah hee, ah hee, ah hee, ah hoo," I
breathed my way through the first long hill. Focusing on a tree in the
distance, I concentrated on pedaling and breathing my way through the pain.
At the top when it should have become easier, I got blasted by a headwind --
just like a contraction with a false peak. On the short descent before the
next hill I took a cleansing breath, relaxed and shifted my position. "This
stuff actually works," I thought.
A block from home I saw some teenage boys in their backyard. Bare-chested and
overweight, one of them treated me to a combination polynesian dance and
jiggle-fest while the other laughed. "Your belly and boobs are bigger than
mine and I'm seven months pregnant," I shouted. The jiggling came to an
abrupt halt (with some aftershock ripples) and the friend's laughter
increased. "Maybe I just inspired the poor idiot to get some exercise and
lose weight," I thought to myself.
"Weren't you afraid of all that bouncing," my mother asked me after I told
her about driving on a rugged jeep road near Moab. "Bouncing doesn't make you
go into labor, Mom," I replied. As I bounced down a rocky hill on my mountain
bike three weeks from D Day, I hoped to God I had been right.
People assume that I am impatient to deliver. But I need at least three weeks
to get ready for my new dependent. Besides it's going to be a lot harder to
mountain bike with an infant trailer attached. Anyone know of a bike trailer
with shocks that is narrow enough for single track? I can hear myself now,
"Really, Mom, the bouncing and jostling just rocks the baby to sleep."
Monique Cole, Senior Editor of Trail Runner Magazine, is also the busy mother
of two little girls. She lives in Boulder, Colorado.
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