Running Up Mountains

This week, I realized that training for a marathon while breastfeeding and sleep deprived was a highly questionable decision.

Don’t worry, I’m not quitting. Or you can worry that I’m not quitting. Either way, I’m still running. But I won’t lie to you – it’s harder than I thought it would be.

I used to think that I was hardcore. Before I was pregnant, I competed in trail running races, hiked above 4000 metres, ran up mountains, and backpacked in Colombia. I ran until I was seven months pregnant. I am one of those people that actually likes interval workouts. But now my softer, lazier post-partum self would much rather spend Saturday mornings drinking strong coffee, eating French toast, and reading the paper than lacing up for yet another long run.

You see, I’m at the point in my training where we are running a half-marathon (21km) or longer every single weekend. It has also been ridiculously cold, so my faithful running partner and I have put in several long runs in -15 or -20 degree weather (and that is without wind chill, my friends). I’ll admit, when I put that in writing it sounds a bit ridiculous.

Another side effect of running so much while still breastfeeding is that I need food. Lots and lots of food. When I get back from a two hour run, I feel like I could eat the entire fridge and everything in it. My husband witnessed this first-hand when he questioned whether I really needed to eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. I just glared and got a bigger spoon. Of course, I am eating so much food to fuel my running that I haven’t shed a single pound in two months, and weight loss was one of my reasons for running the marathon. Shoot.

What on earth was I thinking?

I can tell you one thing: I was not thinking that running during my maternity leave would be so complicated. I thought I would have tons of time, considering that I have no work schedule to contend with, no commute, no volunteer work... maternity leave is “time off,” after all, isn’t it?

Right.

Fitting in regular runs has been surprisingly difficult, especially in the early months when my son needed to nurse every 90 minutes. Despite the fact that we bought a nice car seat attachment so he would be safe and snug in our fancy, shock-equipped, SUV of jogging strollers, the little tyke would not tolerate running (or walking) in the stroller for more than ten minutes at a time. He would cry and cry, and I would run faster and faster, hoping to return to the car before he really lost it.

People on the path gave me disapproving looks (or so I imagined) as I raced by, frantic and sweaty, my poor baby wailing in the stroller. But if I stopped and pulled him out to calm him (which I did every five minutes) he would just cry harder when I put him back in. So every time I ran by someone, I would say loudly, “It’s ok, baby, we’re almost home, baby,” so that perfect strangers would not think I was ignoring my child. Eventually I would surrender, pull him out and trudge all the way home pushing an empty stroller, the victorious infant happily perched on my hip.

By the time he would tolerate the stroller long enough for me to run seven or eight kilometres at a time, winter had arrived with blankets of snow and sub-sub-zero temperatures.

I tried taking advantage of the nursery at my gym, but that too was an epic failure. My sensitive little munchkin, at this time five months old, would tolerate about 20 minutes before an exasperated childcare worker would drag me off the treadmill. Sweaty and out of breath (again) I would calm the frightened little peanut, pack up my stuff and head home, defeated. Another run incomplete.

Out of desperation, I bought a cheap, used treadmill – the perfect solution.

Or so I thought.

I would nurse my baby, gently put him down for a nap, throw on some running clothes and race to the treadmill in our basement. Inevitably, I would get about 35 minutes into my run when I would hear him start to stir and whine on the baby monitor. With two or three more kilometres to go, I would frantically increase the treadmill speed, running faster and faster, willing him to go back to sleep (or at least to let me finish my workout). But my baby was apparently determined to make sure mommy never ran again.

Of course, now that he is older, my son takes nice long naps and I can finish my workouts without a problem.

That is, until my treadmill broke yesterday. It is now stuck on incline level 12 and won’t go down.

I guess I’ll be running up mountains again, after all.