In part 2 of my three part bullshit series, I thought I’d talk about the bullshittiness that is biking. My trainer scheduled us for a 55 mile bike ride over the weekend, and since it was a sunny, lovely day on Saturday we decided to finally break free from the bike trainers and our stuffy, dark living room and allow our bicycles to touch actual pavement. Jason insisted that we do the Ironman Lake Stevens 70.3 course, to which I begrudgingly obliged. We rode the course twice last year, and I hated it both times. It’s a fairly technical course, with a lot of turns and a number of irritating hills. Also, it’s in Lake Stevens, which means that as you’re riding you get passed by huge pickup trucks that blare their horns at you for daring to venture out on the road in anything that’s not Hemi-equipped. Our track record with Lake Stevens isn’t great. The first time we rode it went okay, but we were with a giant group who actually knew where they were going. The second time we did the course, Jason’s friend broke his rear derailleur while miserably cranking up a hill and had to wait around in a combination general store/bait and tackle shop while Jason and I rode back to the car so we could pick him up. (Naturally, we got lost on the way back.) This time around, we packed up our bike stuff and headed to Jason’s parents’ house to meet up with his dad who also wanted to ride the course. We got to “downtown” Lake Stevens (meaning the street with the Subway), parked, used the bathroom, checked our maps and ventured off for our hardcore 55 mile bike ride. When we came to the first intersection we immediately made the wrong decision and ventured in the completely opposite direction of where we were supposed to head. We biked for about 4 miles before realizing that we had to be horribly lost because we ended up riding directly into a construction zone. Barriers were placed right up against the white line, forcing us into the lane as hoards of vehicles zoomed past us. I prayed that I wouldn’t get clipped by a car while trying not to pass out from the mixture of exhaust fumes and construction stink. After another mile or two we managed to wrangle free from the construction zone and stopped to check our maps again. We found the road that led back to where we parked, so we decided to take it all the way to the starting point so we could get our bearings and find the proper course. After riding for a bit, we stopped again to check the map to make sure we were on the right track. It was at this point when Jason’s dad realized he had broken a rear bike spoke. Great. Okay, Plan B: Ride back to the car, head to Jason’s parents’ house so his dad could swap out the tire with his other bike’s spare rim, then find a new goddamn course that’s easy to navigate and relatively free of toxic fumes. We rode onward: me in front, Jason a bit behind me and his dad bringing up the rear with his broken spoke. I was pedaling pretty steadily when I happened to run over something pretty hard with my front tire. I had about enough time to mentally utter “Shit” before my tire imploded. GAHHHH. I stopped and Jason rode up next to me, exclaiming that he had heard my tire pop when it happened (and he had been a ways behind me). I started...

Recently I wrote about how Jason ate pavement at the Vancouver half marathon last year and signed up for the 2009 race for redemption (aka Operation De-Bruise the Ego). His goal was to run the half in 1:40 to 1:45 and spare himself a trip to the medical tent this year, whereas my goal was to do between 1:50 and 1:55. How’d we do? Well, we headed up to Vancouver on Saturday, stuffed our faces at Cioppino’s, and got to bed at a reasonable time so we’d get a little shuteye before our 5:45 wake up time. When I got up I was sportin’ a lovely headache and did my usual morning-of-the-race grumbling. I sucked down some Advil and geared up for the run. We ducked out the door and jogged to the start of the race for an early morning warm up, then shoved our way as close to the starting point as possible. When the race officially began, Jason and I both spent the first two miles dodging people and trying to run at a decent pace. Much to Jason’s annoyance, he had to pass a ton of people who had no business being at the start of a half marathon (like people with walking sticks who had positioned themselves among the 6 minute mile runners). I, meanwhile, got freakishly overheated in the balmy 60 degree weather despite my attire of shorts and a sleeveless shirt. I attributed my Hot Head Syndrome to the visor I was wearing, so I stripped it off and ran while holding it for a bit before getting tired of carrying it and chucking it into a bin. With my head blissfully naked, I was able to concentrate on running. Or so I thought. Even though I did the customary pre-race Glide application and despite the fact that I had worn these shorts on plenty of runs in the past, for some reason during the race my shorts kept riding up on me and I had to do an awkward shimmy shake every few hundred feet to try and yank the fabric back down. I can only imagine what it was like to run behind me the entire race. I waged this battle for the entire 13.1 miles, cursing my thighs and these godforsaken shorts. The run itself went pretty well. I had the usual ups and downs and would suck down Gu and water whenever I felt an energy lull. At mile 10 I was running hard and had a Jason moment where my vision temporarily tunneled and I felt light-headed for a few seconds. I wondered if it was my turn to pass out, but thankfully the feeling subsided and I was able to resume running. Hooray for staying upright! I approached the finish line and saw Jason at the sidelines wrapped in a space blanket, so we went 2/2 on the “no passing out” goal. I finished the race in 1:52 and some change, which is a 4 minute PR from last year’s time and a 12 minute improvement from my first ever half marathon. Yeah, beeyotch! Jason also achieved his goal, having finished in 1:41 and sparing his veins from invasive IV needles. I celebrated my achievement with an ice bath, a Wendy’s bacon and cheese baked potato, a dim sum lunch and the coveted post-race nap. Later that evening we caught a movie and ate gigantic steaks at Gotham. (Post-race gorging is easily the best part of training and competing.) All in all, the race went well for both of us this year (aside from excruciating chafing). Huzzah for improved times, healthy bodies and great food. We’ve...

Yesterday Jason and I ran the Vancouver half marathon. Jason dubbed it his “vindication race,” and before I talk about how we did, I feel I have to explain why he nicknamed it that. Time to flashback to last year’s half marathon. Cue the wavy lines… Okay, pretend it’s 2008. Jason and I are driving up to Canada to do the Vancouver half marathon. This will be my 2nd half marathon, and my goal is to finish in under two hours (my first half marathon was in Port Angeles a couple years before, and I finished at around 2:04). Jason had actually never run a half marathon before — he had done 3 marathons, so he figured the half would be a piece of cake and set a goal time of 1:45. On our way up to Vancouver, Jason starts noticing that he’s feeling a bit “under the weather.” It’s no big deal — just a little stuffiness and a bit of a headache. We get through the border, check into our hotel, walk to the Expo Hall to pick up our packets, have dinner, and go back to our room to relax and prep for tomorrow’s race. This is where things start to get a bit icky. Jason’s symptoms start to worsen and he begins feeling downright miserable. I’m not sure exactly what’s wrong with him, but I figure that once someone starts excreting goop out of his eyes, he’s probably not in the healthiest state to run 13.1 miles the next morning. Jason’s laying on the bed sounding congested and miserable with a warm washcloth draped over his gunky eyes, and I think, “There is no way he’s running tomorrow.” He’s sick and seems like he has a sinus infection, so the last thing on his mind should be hitting a PR for a half marathon…right? Oh, how I underestimate the competitive nature of men. The next morning, Jason rolls out of bed jacked up on adrenaline and race jitters. He pops a bunch of cold medicine like they’re Tic Tacs and suits up for the race. I keep asking him if he’s feeling well enough to race and he assures me with his husky, congested voice that he feels a lot better and will be fine. We meet our racing buddies in the hotel lobby and head to the start of the race. Since the finish dumps into a large stadium and there are thousands of people racing, we set up a meeting landmark for after the race: a giant inflated Ronald McDonald. It’s easy to spot the frighteningly huge clown, so we figured it would make for an idiot-proof meeting spot. We all wish each other good luck and I kiss my sicky boyfriend before the gun goes off and we all begin the race. I don’t feel great on the run — my main mistake is that I’m wearing pants instead of shorts because I mistakenly thought that race day would be colder than it actually was. I immediately get too warm and feel kind of miserable as I plod along, one foot in front of the other. Despite the wardrobe misstep, however, I finish the race in about 1:56 and feel pleased that I beat my previous half marathon time by 8 minutes. Wahoo! I run into two of my racing buddies who finished less than a minute ahead of me and we make our way to Ronald McDonald to meet Jason, who should have finished about ten minutes before we did. We get to Ronald and Jason’s nowhere in sight. I think that maybe he’s using the bathroom or grabbing food, so...