Orienteering in the “Pregnant” Category
When Dana visited London, our local bouldering gym had a casual ungraded competition meant for trying out new shoes. The competition form had a blank space to fill in "category" but none were suggested. Rob wrote "tall guys." Dana wrote "leisure." I wrote "pregnant."
The category is meaningless, but helpful for remembering I'm not trying to actually compete.
Big orienteering meets often have a pre-event called the "model" to help you get a sense of the cartographer's choices, and the terrain. It's good training: often, I'll do the model with one of my parents. We'll trade off navigation, calling out features as we expect to see them, going out of our way to see what a particular feature looks like on this map.
When we get to the model for the Welsh Six-Day, I'm exhausted. I was sick last week, brainfogged all pregnancy, and I've just driven a stressful extra hour up into the hills. My plan is to take a nap in the back seat as soon as my family members go out on the course.
But the view over the grazing lands is lovely. It's misty, but not really raining. I step out of the car, chat with the meet organizers. Rick asks if I want to come with him, whatever pace. This one isn't a race.
One control, I figure. The first one should be fine; it's mostly a flat trail.
The first control is fun: subtle hillocks, distinct cliff shapes. Sheep along the hillside bleat and move out of our way. The second control isn’t much further. Then I want to figure out the navigation for number three, test the stony ground and the steepness of the hillside.
An hour later, I'm wading knee-deep through bracken, wringing out the hem of my jersey cotton dress with one hand, thumb compass on the map with the other.
Either the physical therapy is really working or I've gotten a lot better at applying kinesio tape. Through my belly muscles start to get a bit sore and I'm definitely tired, I manage nearly two hours free of pelvic pain trudging the uneven ground.
Heartened by the model event, I rent an e-punch for the week and pay for day-of entry for the first day's race.
"Short," I request, "but difficult. What categories are available?"
I get talked into the "light green" course, the hardest of the open categories. After all, I figure, I can always skip controls to cut length.
Day one is in the sand dunes of Methyr Mawr: tiny, detailed contour features, knolls popping up, depressions down. I walk: up the sandy trails, through the hollows of thistle and nettle.
It's hard to take it easy doing a sport you're used to being fast at. I have to remind myself a couple of times not to run, that my time doesn't matter, that I really don't need to do anything steep or where I can't see my footing. But there's joy in being a non-competitor too.
On a ridge above the dunes, I watch racers all around me: running faststopping in obvious confusion to relocate, muttering evocatively. "Thank you, my darling," says one older woman as I step out of the path to let her run by.
"Bloody hell," blurts another, reaching the ridge top and wheeling back from the steep down slope on the other side.
I do actually manage to cut the course short. I'm moving slowly enough to realize when I'd like to be halfway done. I cut from control five to twelve and start heading back. When I'm done, I'm tired, thirsty, satisfied with my course. I orienteered for an hour. It was enough.
"Oh, bless you, you did all that and you're radiant!" A woman tells me after I finish, gesturing at my belly.
I'm pretty sure I am not radiant, but I smile and do not roll my eyes.
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