Having been a recreational runner for awhile I didn’t really think anything of it when I found out I was pregnant and decided to continue to do as I had always done – exercise. My husband and I have been regularly going to a HIIT style bootcamp for almost a year pre-pregnancy so it just seemed logical to continue to go to class. I was healthy and in shape and was lucky enough to be spared the morning sickness and fatigue that plagues many pregnant ladies.
How it Began
So first run of the season I go. At this point I am about 5 months pregnant, still feeling awesome, hardly showing at this point and the envy of a bunch of pregnant people I know because of it. My husband and I and a friend of ours start out running together and I quickly realize I can’t keep up. My legs are tired, my breathing isn’t right and I feel heavy and slow. So I signal to them to let them know I’m ok and they take off ahead. Within a kilometre I can’t see them any more. Tired and frustrated I continue on to finish the distance. I make it. I come through the door and my husband is already inside stretching.
Call it pregnancy hormones, call it my stubborn nature but he asks me how I feel and I immediately start bawling. I was so frustrated and hurt that he didn’t even think to check back on me throughout the run (even though it was me who told them to go on ahead) and that I couldn’t keep up that I practically melt into a bundle of tears and sobs. All because I couldn’t keep up. Stubborn nature kicks in – I WILL continue to do this.
Flash forward a month. My husband and I meet some amazing friends at our bootcamp and they decide they’re going to run a marathon. Marathon race date? 3 weeks after my due date. Go figure. I will obviously not be participating in this event. But something inside of me says “Hey, I wonder what my body can do?” so I start the early stages of training with them.
Humbled by my first run attempt and keeping in the forefront of my mind my new responsibility to my body, I resolve to keep my sh!t together when we go running. No one likes a running buddy that cries. On this particular day the gang needs to go 6km. So we go out. They pull ahead, but I continue to remind myself that I am running for ME at this point. Still getting used to my new pace and running on some old sneakers, I make the decision to only go 5km. So when they turn left to add the extra km to a familiar route I go right and continue on along the route I thought we were taking.
Trekking along, doing my own thing, rocking out to some good music, I’m almost home when I get a phone call from my hubby asking where I am and if I’m ok. I let him know I’m really close and I feel awesome. Minutes later I get in and he’s already stretching as expected. Then I check the time. Devastation hits me yet again. It has taken me almost an hour to finish. An hour. My old pace time was roughly 30-35 mins for 5km and now I’m pushing the hour mark. Hubby politely asks me where I ran while I’m freaking out about my time and then stops and just looks at me. “That wasn’t an hour long 5k. Your route was almost 8km exactly from start to finish. That’s why it took you an hour.” And then he laughs and says “I guess you could have done the 6k with us.”
And that’s how you accidentally run 8km at 6 months pregnant.