Milkin' it

There seems to be a lot of baby talk around me these days. I'm finally at the age (old) at which my friends are procreating with increasing frequency. (Judging by the profile pictures of my Facebook network, one would think that my friends are, on average, fourteen months old.) I never imagined that I would hear and talk so much about bellies, labour, breastfeeding, childcare, maternity leave, and much, much worse (and by "worse," I mean gorrier and more frightening). These discussions have been kept mostly between the girls, hence why I was a bit surprised to hear Zdenek say on Sunday that he, too, was lactating.

During the last two miles of our 10 miler on Sunday, Zdenek suddenly found some unusual reserve of energy and began to push the pace. I was still feeling the effects of the previous day's brick workout (or so I like to think), and so I told him to just go for it and meet me at the end. He took off more quickly than I had anticipated and I soon lost sight of him altogether. Later that evening, he told me that, while he felt good and was enjoying himself, he was actually lactating during those final two miles.

In fact, Zdenek meant to say that he was running at his lactate threshold pace, or the "running speed above which lactate (a by-product of glucose metabolism) begins to accumulate in your blood." He did not, I think, mean to imply that he was producing milk in any body part. After laughing at him (I mean, with him) for a good few minutes, we seriously pondered how one could properly convey that one was "running at LT pace." Lactating seems as good a word as any, really.

So yesterday, while running a very fast (for us) five miles, I asked, through shortened breaths, "You lactating yet?" "Yeah," he panted. "Me, too," I replied. Maybe some day that word will take on a different meaning (for me, at least; hopefully not for Zdenek), but for now, we are happy to be lactating together in our own, unique way.