I know this is a running blog, but it’s still fitness. And right now, all fitness is pregnant fitness.
Like running, pregnant skiing (even at only 12 weeks) was completely different. At first, I didn’t think I would be able to do it. The first morning started out rough. I woke up still getting over my flu, coughing my lungs out and blowing my nose out, and recovering from puking up my dinner before bed. I was a hot mess.
I ate a small breakfast, but when I hit the slopes, I was so shaky and just did not feel right. I have been on skis since I was three years-old (I think?), but I found myself nervous. I found my legs fumbling. Something was just not right. I felt just completely depleted. And one of the bindings on my boots were causing me pretty relentless pain.
I attempted two runs, but I was just not right. I couldn’t make it down a run without wanting to sit down. I just ran a half marathon; no matter how different the type of exercise, this was just ridiculous. I retired to the lounge and forced down a couple bottles of fluids and a packet of energy chews.
The shaking subsided. My head cleared.
I waited until after lunch then returned to the slopes. I felt more like myself; however, it was still different. My balance was not quite on; speed made me nervous. Lactic acid poured into my legs after so many turns. I have not skied in a long time, and the powder was quite intense, but it still not feel normal. I think dehydration from the flu and then having morning sickness puking the preceding four days had a lot to do with it.
So I took it easy. I went slower than I usually would. I took more breaks while my family swooshed off in front of me. I skied for a couple hours then called it a gentle finish in the lodge to be able to ski again the next day.
However, I was not to be able to ski the second day. I had taken special precautions all night to keep food and fluids down to start the day better than the previous. However, I threw up as my daughter brushed her teeth. And at my father’s house. And on the side of the road on the way up. And in the lodge.
I figured it was worth the shot to go up in case it broke like the day before. It did not break.
I threw up every drop and bite I put in my body. I spent my day in the lodge, alternating between heaving over a public toilet and napping awkwardly on a table beside the bar. By lunch, I was sure there was no hope that I would grace the slopes of Loveland, so I concentrated on just making it through the day.
By the time my forehead turned yellow, I called my doctor. She said if I could not keep fluids by the next day, I needed to get to the hospital.
I keep trying; everything kept getting rejected. I struggled my way through the ride home and a stop in Denver. I had never been so dehydrated in my life. My muscles felt like achy raisins strung on my bones; my brain felt like it was sitting heavy on the back of my skull; my eyelids were sticking to my eyes; I was starting to cramp.
And I was worried for my poor little fetus.
I made it home, took my anti-nausea meds, and passed out. When I woke, I could thankfully eat and drink. No hospital required.
I don’t know if it was pregnancy or flu or food poisoning or all of the above, but in this case, pregnant skiing was a vivid fail.