By now you’re well aware of my mediocrity as a triathlete, but did you know that I also fancy myself a mediocre snowboarder? Well, I do. A few years ago Jason and his family took me up to Stevens so I could rent a snowboard and hurl myself down the mountain. When we got there, we saw that Stevens was jam-packed full of people so we ended up hanging out at a family friend’s cabin, sledding down hills and engaging in general tomfoolery. At one point Jason’s sister let me ride her snowboard down the hill. I strapped in, shoved off and rocketed down about 20 feet before catching the front edge of the board and catapulting myself face first into a mound of cold, white, unyielding snow. And wouldn’t you know it, my dumb ass thought, “I should do this more often.” A former coworker of mine gave me her several-years-old Burton snowboard that was too large and weighed about 50 lbs, and I boarded two or three times that season. That’s a picture of me trying to look impressive at Whistler. Don’t let the grin fool you: there was no new snow all week, and my noob self ended up plowing heelside down icy mountainsides and wondering why this gigantically heavy board wouldn’t obey my legs’ commands. I eventually got tired of riding on a “butt-ass ugly” board (as my friend Matt affectionately called it), so at the beginning of my second boarding season I headed over to Evo and bought myself a gorgeous new Burton Lux snowboard. I took my pretty new snowboard to Stevens that season, where I falling leafed down the mountain and killed my quads due to my inept skills. By now I had become skilled at posing for photos on the mountain decked in my gear and holding a board, but I was still pretty craptastic as far as actual boarding skills go. I couldn’t get the hang of going toeside, meaning I couldn’t link my turns when traversing down a mountain. Of course, snowboarding a whopping 2-3 times per season probably wasn’t helping me improve my skills that much. At that rate, I would become a proficient snowboarder just in time to receive the senior citizens lift ticket discount. So here we are at season 3, and this year I’m determined to graduate from being a mediocre snowboarder to a “meh” snowboarder. I’ve gone boarding four times thus far and aim to practice once a week (night boarding at the Summit is the most accessible, though I’ve also gone to Mt. Baker and have planned a trip to Stevens). I also shared a 2 hour lesson with Jason, where the instructor basically told Jason to stop leaning down towards the ground so much and me to stop sucking in general. My goal is to master (meaning “do adequately”) linked turns and to stop plowing down mountains and shredding up my poor board. Hopefully by the end of this season I’ll have made some progress. In the meantime, here are some things I’ve learned along the way: Helmets, albeit dorky looking, are your friend. I finally bought a helmet this season, and exactly one visit after purchasing it I fell hard and smacked the back of my head on the ground. My noggin’ rattled against the helmet, eliciting a noise from me that one of my friends described as “not unlike a baby condor,” but I was otherwise okay. Sixty bucks well spent, if you ask me. I’ll always be depressed by the little kids who whiz by me looking like champs on their boards. Oh well, at least I’m old enough...

My friend Lauren (who as of now I shall dub “L2” because I have another friend named Lauren whom I met before this one, and I don’t want to confuse all ten of you Mediocre Athlete readers whenever I talk about the other one) had taken a ballet Pilates class in the fall and urged me to take it again with her this winter. I had mentioned in my yoga post how I had tried Pilates once before and thought it was lame, but I’m generally a good sport about trying new things (plus I need blogging material for this site), so I agreed to take the class with her and her friend. The class is supposed to be a mix of basic ballet and Pilates stretches, so I went in with the expectation that I’d be a wobbly, awkward mess since I am extremely clumsy and uncoordinated. (Seriously, ask Jason how often I drop something, spill on myself, run into things and trip over imaginary objects on a daily basis. The answer is “often.” The other day he just about died laughing after I squirted butterscotch all over my pants.) I arrived to class and saw that, unsurprisingly, the group of girls who were signed up were all wearing either yoga pants or ballet leotards, tights and ballet shoes. I, of course, was wearing a muddy pair of running shoes, athletic socks, running shorts and a sleeveless shirt. I dejectedly peeled my shoes and socks off, sighing about how sticky the worn wood floors felt under my bare feet. The instructor began the class by having us all hold onto the bar and do little squat thingies down towards the ground. We were supposed to stand with the heels of our feet pointed towards each other and our toes in opposite directions, kind of like Charlie Chaplin. Or a penguin. I dunno. We then did a series of awkward ballet stretches that were in 2nd position or something. I didn’t know what any of these ballet terms were. The only French I know is whatever I can remember from ten weeks of seventh grade foreign language class and that one song from The Little Mermaid. Anyway, the rest of the class pretty much consisted of the teacher explaining something for thirty seconds and then making us do some ridiculous ten step process immediately afterwards. Remember that episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy’s assembling chocolates on a conveyor belt, but then the belt speeds up so she can’t keep up? That’s pretty much how I felt trying to follow the teacher’s directions. It was a lot of “point your toes, pull in your stomach, straighten your leg.” Every so often I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I often looked bewildered and vaguely irritated, and the stuffy studio and piano player weren’t helping. (Yes, a woman plays piano next to us during class while the instructor tries to talk over her. No, she wasn’t playing ragtime. Yes, I wish she were.) L2 and Chelsea asked me how I liked ballet Pilates after our first class finished up. They seemed amused with my reluctance and told me that they felt equally clunky and awkward when they took it in the fall. However, apparently they became much more flexible at the end of the class, so hopefully I’ll at least get some benefit out of skipping across the room and pretending to feel graceful. At the very least, my favorite falafel place is right across the street so I can always reward my efforts with a jumbo gyro and rice (which I did...

On Sunday I dragged my sedentary ass outside and shuffled around Capitol Hill for four measly miles. The following is a transcript of the conversation I had with my body. Enjoy. Me: Hey body, get up. Body: What? Why? What for? Me: We’re going for a run. Body: Ehhhhhh, I don’t wanna. I want to sit on the couch and watch House Hunters while eating Reese’s pieces. Me: Come on, we haven’t gone on a run in weeks, and we haven’t had consistent workouts since October. Body: Meh. Me: You’re looking a little flabby lately… Body: Isn’t big supposed to be beautiful? Me: Yeah, but abs are more beautiful. Body: I wanna sit here and watch tee-vee-eee! Me: Don’t you remember how great you felt when you were 10 lbs lighter and when your resting heart rate was 48? Body: …yeah… Me: And remember how dedicated you said we’d be in 2009 and how we were going to improve all of our race times? Body: …maybe. Me: Well, we can’t improve our race times or achieve our goals if you keep sitting on your fat ass eating candy and watching Top Chef. Now get up and put your shoes on! Body: UGH. FINE. We head out the door and begin our run. Me: See, isn’t this great? It’s not too cold out, it’s not raining, it’s getting a bit dark but hey, that’s okay. Body: I hate this. Are we done yet? Me: No, we just started. Body: Hey, we’re running past the Kingfish! You wanna get some fried chicken? Me: NO. Keep going. Body: But everything’s all hurty and I don’t like it! Me: It’ll get better, I promise. Body: Ok…so how long have we been running? Me: I dunno, I don’t want to check. Keep running for a little while and then I’ll reward you by checking the time. Body: Ok…how about now? Me: No. Body: Fine…now? Me: No! Body: Come onnnnnnn, just look. Me: It’s been six minutes. Body: God damnit. We approach a hill. Me: Come on, we can do it. Body: This sucks! My chest hurts and my shoulder hurts and I can barely breathe and my side hurts and my abs feel tight and I hate this. Me: Don’t you remember when you used to do hill repeats on this hill? Suck it up and run! Body: Grumble grumble… We get to the top of the hill and keep running. Soon we see another runner up ahead. Me: Pass that runner. Body: What? Why? Me: Come on, we’re faster than her. Pick up the pace and pass her! Also, stop crossing your arms. And stand up straight. Stop leaning forward. Don’t run on your toes. Body: Jesus, anything else, your majesty? Me: Shut up and pass her. We pass the runner and reach the turn around point. There’s another long, gradual hill up ahead. Body: I hate you. Me: This is good for you! We live in a hilly neighborhood, and it’s great for training. Body: Arghhhh… Me: Keep running on 15th, I need to pick up a prescription before the pharmacy closes. Body: Fine. Whatever. We get to the pharmacy and quickly duck in. Body: Jesus Christ, it’s freakin’ HOT in here! Ugh, look at me. My face is beet red. I look like Louie Anderson after he’s just tied his shoes. Me: We’ll be back outside in a second. Head over to that counter. We walk over to the counter and pay for the prescription. The pharmacist gives us an odd look. Pharmacist: So, uh, decided to go for a run? Me/Body (trying to act casual): Oh yeah, no big deal,...

Thus far, Mediocre Athlete has been lovingly read by a whopping dozen or so people: me, Jason, Jason’s parents, Jason’s aunt and uncle, our trainer, and some training buddies. In a nutshell, our readership consists of a handful of people who know us in person. This is unsurprising — it’s not like we expect a giant devoted following of people who eagerly await our posts about how sore our asses are after long rides or how much we stink after lake swims. Thus, imagine my surprise when I received this email a few days ago: Hi Rebecca, My name is Sebastian, I’m 24 yrs old and I am a beginner triathlete who started his first (training)season with a little bit too much enthousiasm. This resulted in my first injury ever of which I am still recovering – grrrr – and which is keeping me from doing any running at all. Technically speaking that makes me a duathlete in stead of a triathlete. (Although I am not sure that swimming combined with biking is officially recognized as duathlon.) But hey, that’s why it’s great to read about your triathlon experiences! It helps me convincing myself that – even with a slow start – eventually I will be able to do a sprint triathlon! And maybe later a 70.3 Ironman! And maybe thereafter … Ok, you’re right, stop dreaming, I’ll just start with the sprint triathlon … Please keep writing your blog, it’s really funny and I’ll keep you posted when I finally get started! Regards, Sebastian Fischer Antwerp, Belgium Holy balls! Sebastian marks a series of firsts for Mediocre Athlete: First reader who we don’t personally know First international reader First person to read our blog and actually get inspired by it (seriously, that’s pretty mind boggling) Thanks for being a fan of the blog, Sebastian! We know you’ll kick ass this season–if Jason and I can do it and survive, you sure as hell can, too. Also, we’re pretty sure that you can count swimming and biking as a duathlon. We categorize stuff as being duathlons all the time; hell, just this weekend we did a duathlon consisting of “eat a breakfast burrito” and “watch football games.” I’m happy to report that both of us finished with strong times....

Last February when Rebecca and I decided to tackle our first season of triathlons, my most immediate concern revolved firmly around the fact that I am strongly opposed to drowning. Not only that, but the last time I had done any swimming outside of treading water in a lake or jumping around in the ocean like a total idiot was probably around 10 years ago. So, knowing we had only a matter of months to get from a “dead man’s float” and advanced dog paddle skill level to a manageably decent crawl stroke, we both set off for the local pool. I’m pretty sure our first swim was only 1200 meters, but somehow we managed to drag the ordeal out for almost an hour. In hindsight, I appreciate the fact that the lifeguards were able to keep their laughter to themselves. We both swam with our heads almost entirely out of the water, feet dragging under the surface, gasping for air with every single stroke. It was an exhausting ordeal, and quickly became apparent that we should probably seek out some guidance and try to hone our technique prior to our first race. Over the next twelve weeks we participated in a triathlon swim training class at the Seattle Athletic Club that helped provide us with some basic technique, and took us from being humiliatingly awful swimmers to just being competently poor. During that time we practiced sighting, breath control, and even some simulated group starts. So, as we continued to practice my confidence slowly grew. Here’s where it’s important to note the two distinctly different approaches Rebecca and I take with regard to our training. Where she tends to be extremely hard on herself and constantly question whether or not she is going to be able to accomplish something, I typically inflate myself into believing that if someone else can do it then so can I. As a result, in the weeks leading up to the race she had wisely decided to get in a couple of open water swims with our training group while I had come up with some excuses and quickly rationalized that “swimming is swimming.” Fast forward to the day of my first race, the Issaquah Sprint Triathlon. We arrive at the race with plenty of time to setup our transition area. Rebecca and I were both fairly nervous because it was our first race, and I was suddenly becoming concerned about the fact that despite all of the in-pool training, I hadn’t done a single open water swim. However, after surveying the 400 meter course I was able to calm myself by talking through how ludicrously close each of the buoys looked to the shore. “400 meters is nothing,” I told myself. “I can do this in my sleep, open water or not.” I confidently made my way into the water and prepared for my age group’s start. The gun goes off and I am swimming like I’m in the anchor leg of a 50 meter relay. It’s an all out effort the likes of which I’ve never put forth and I’m in the middle of a strong pack. Unfortunately, amidst my race day excitement and foolish bravado I’ve forgotten that I am NOT a very strong swimmer, and as my lungs begin to give out a sense of panic starts to set in. “What the hell was I thinking?” Now not only am I getting run over by everyone smart enough to go out at a sustainable pace, but I am also one-hundred-percent convinced I’m going to die before I round the first buoy. Somehow I manage to talk myself out of...