This year, I ran the GP Bern. And by “ran,” I mean I hobbled through 10 miles in a time so humbling it may have violated local dignity laws—1 hour and 54 minutes. Turns out three weeks of “training” (read: minimal movement and maximum denial) is not the golden ticket to athletic success.
Naturally, in the glow of post-race shame and throbbing calves, I swore I’d get serious about sport again. Luckily, my wife and son had just returned from visiting her family, and I figured what better way to multitask than to turn the baby stroller into a rolling gym?
Surprisingly, the kid enjoys it. He’s always been a fan of motion—stroller rides, bouncing, anything with a bit of a thrill. Meanwhile, I’m out there trying to be all scientific and heart-rate-obsessed, keeping my training in “Zone 2.” For me, that’s roughly a heart rate under 140 bpm, though honestly it feels like trying to do calculus while riding a unicycle.
Here’s the problem: the first 2 km pushing the stroller? Fine. Heart rate stable, ego intact. But by 3 km, that lovely heart rate window between 129 and 140 just…vanishes. So now I’m doing this awkward run-walk combo—sprint 50 meters, stop, pace, curse under breath, repeat—trying to coax my heart rate back down like it’s a toddler refusing bedtime.
The result? An 8 km run with the stroller now takes me 1 hour and 20 minutes on a good day. It’s the kind of pace where even the local snails start judging. Without the stroller, I’m faster, more efficient, and don’t have to bribe myself with ice cream at the halfway point.
The old me would just run faster, ignore the data, and enjoy the winded glory. But now, between wanting to beat my smug running friends next year at the GP and the added parenting logistics, I’m stuck playing the long game. That means structured training, heart rate zones, and the soul-crushing realization that “fun” runs are now a thing of the past.
Still, there’s a silver lining. The baby gets a kick out of watching me suffer. My wife is thrilled that I’m at least trying to be active and not just complaining about it on the couch. And who knows—maybe this old, slow, slightly out-of-shape dad will surprise everyone.
Also, I have to admit: there’s a weird satisfaction in pushing a stroller uphill and pretending you’re Rocky Balboa training for a comeback. The people you pass either look at you with admiration or concern. Sometimes both. One guy offered me a protein bar. It was kind of beautiful.
So the plan? Mix up the runs. Do some faster intervals. Keep up the Zone 2 work. Maybe even sneak in some solo runs while the baby naps (assuming he ever naps again). There’s a race to redeem, dignity to recover, and possibly a very judgmental cat watching from a nearby garden.
To be continued (with sore legs and hopefully less wheezing).
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