A Day in the Life of an Ironman Bike Check-In Volunteer

Last week I was in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, for Ironman CdA. A good chunk of my teammates, including my boyfriend the BFG, were racing and I was there to get some training in for my upcoming Ironman (Canada 2: Electric Racealoo) and to cheer for my peeps. A few months ago I decided to sign up for a volunteer spot as a way of giving back to the Ironman community since the volunteers do such a great job of making the races run smoothly and ensuring that the athletes make it across the finish line in one piece. I thought it would be cool to be an athlete catcher at the finish line or do something on race day, but since Jason was racing I wanted to be free all day to spot him on the course, so I opted to volunteer the day before at athlete bike check-in. My summary of my shift is below: 6:00 am I wake up and contemplate going right back to sleep because waking up early sucks balls, but I have a stupid 90-minute run on my schedule and it’s supposed to rain later so I should get this damn thing out of the way before I start my volunteer shift. Blargh. 6:40 am My teammate Jill and I hop into her car–she’s meeting some TN folks for a swim and I was tagging along so I could begin my run from the trail that’s adjacent to the lake. We ride in silence for several minutes before Jill breaks the silence with this amusing confession: Jill: “I ate a whole box of cookies last night!” Chick, you’re doing an Ironman tomorrow. Eat all the cookies you want. 7:00 am Jill begins her swim while I start my run. I make it about 5.3 miles out before turning around and heading back. The weather is cool and it’s very quiet and serene. I feel pretty good and tell myself I should wake up early to do my workouts more often. (I probably won’t.) 8:30 am I finish my run and sneak a shower at my coaches’ rental house, then chow down on a Powerbar before heading over to bike check-in to start my volunteer shift. 9:02 am I head to the Ironman tent marked with a gigantic “INFO” sign and get the attention of a surly, fuchsia-haired woman of middle age. Me: “I’m volunteering at bike check-in and was wondering where I need to go.” Her, scowling: “They’re all grouped over there. The meeting has started already.” She glares at me for daring to be two minutes late. My shift doesn’t even start until 10, lady, so chill yoself. I mentally throw a “Screw you, ya purple-haired bag” her way but smile politely before wandering over to the group. 9:03 am Forty or so volunteers are huddled around the captain while he explains how the transition area is set up and how bike check-in will work. I cannot hear him at all, so I stand around awkwardly until the meeting adjourns. Someone hands me a purple wristband and a matching Ironman Coeur d’Alene t-shirt that has “VOLUNTEER” emblazoned across the back. It’s soft and comfy, so I immediately mentally assign it as my new sleepin’ shirt when I get back to Seattle. 9:10 am Everyone wanders off. I find a couple of people and ask them to basically repeat what the captain had told us since I had no idea what he was saying. Most everyone I pester is just as confused as I am, so I resort to standing at the bike check-in entrance like an idiot. 9:15 am The bike check-in captain...
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Please Don’t Talk to Me When You’re Naked

Please Don’t Talk to Me When You’re Naked
Despite blogging candidly about my crotch and readily peeing myself in public, I’m actually a somewhat modest person, especially when it comes to nudity. In high school P.E. I would marvel at the girls who’d casually stroll around the locker room buck naked while I awkwardly tried to shimmy my clothes on from under a poncho-sized shirt I’d stolen from one of my older brothers. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against nudity; I just prefer to keep my shit covered up to everyone who’s not my doctor or my boyfriend because the general public doesn’t need to see my intimate bits. Nowadays I’ve gotten pretty skilled at slipping out of a wet swimsuit or soggy exercise clothes and into a dry outfit without exposing a nip or a pube or a crack. I know other women are comfortable flaunting their goods and I don’t fault them for it; I just keep my head down and mind my own business, focusing on getting in and out of the locker room as innocuously as possible… …unless someone takes it upon herself to strike up a conversation with me while her chesticles are out and her unkempt pubes are exposed to the elements. That’s when things get a little awkward. Because you know what? If you’re naked and you’re talking to me, I’m gonna stare at your netherparts. How can I not? You’re freaking naked, for crying out loud, and you’re talking to me about the weather and how Ballard has a really good farmer’s market while I try not to gawk at your bare boobies. It’s human nature to stare at something that’s out of the ordinary, and a nude person chatting me up while she’s applying lotion to her ashy elbows qualifies as being a bit on the “abnormal” side of things. Take this most recent encounter. Yesterday I went to the Y to do a swim workout. I plodded towards the showers for a pre-swim rinse off and noticed a woman who was about my age engaged in a post-workout cleanse. (Random aside: the Y’s shower room has a row of exposed shower heads as well as a set of private shower stalls on the opposite side of the room. Why, if you get to choose between a set of public showers and one of the private stalls that each have a curtain and a little bench, would you willingly opt for an exposed shower? Is it a voyeurism thing? Or do you just have no fucks to give? Because I personally would rather suds up my butthole in relative privacy vs. doing it in front of a bunch of people.) She was naked, obviously, gettin’ her scrub on. I quickly glanced at her when I entered the room before looking away because I didn’t want to stare at her ridiculously huge knockers. (I mean seriously, these beasts were like wrecking balls with nipples attached.) I fumbled with a nearby shower faucet and began my quick rinse. And then: Titty McHugeBoobs: “Where do you swim outside?” Oh god. No. Don’t do this. Me, staring at the farthest corner of the room: “Hmm?” Maybe she wasn’t talking to me. Maybe she was…talking to herself? I dunno. I just hoped she wasn’t trying to get a very clothed me to talk to a very nude her. Titty McHugeBoobs: “Where do you swim outside?” Damnit. I shot a brief glance back at her and my eyes tractor-beamed back to her gigantic fun bags before I forced them to pull their gaze up towards her face. She was staring at me while sudsing her crotch. (It sounds erotic but it was...
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Mt. Rainier Duathlon 2012 Race Recap: It’s Always Darkest Before the Dawn

The Mt. Rainier duathlon was May 6th, so it’s a bit belated to be churning out a race report but I’m doing it anyway so DEAL WIF IT. It was the fourth year I’d be doing the short course, and I’ve grown to enjoy the race quite a bit (it doesn’t hurt that I’ve placed in my age group every time I’ve done it, largely due to the fact that there’s no swim segment to substantially drag down my overall finish time). I thought for sure this year Teresa would finally succeed in forcing me to do the long course version of the race (I’d managed to dodge it in previous years due to 1. Being a noob, 2. Being stubborn, and 3. Being injured), but she surprised me by encouraging me to do the short course race because I had enough long distance races on my plate this season and she thought a fast, short race would be good for me. Over two consecutive weekends I drove to Enumclaw and rode the duathlon course. The once-mighty Mud Mountain Road climb now seemed totally manageable thanks to experience/familiarity with the route and because I’ve grown to become a halfway decent cyclist. A week before the race I felt comfortable and confident and was looking forward to the event. And then, as what often happens, three days before the race life decided to kick me squarely in the ladyballs. I won’t go into details but basically an unexpected and profoundly shitty event occurred and my focus immediately shifted from racing to dealing with this sudden hardship. I abandoned my workouts and drowned my sorrows in lots and lots of booze. Thursday and Friday night consisted of drinking with friends and stumbling home from the bars. On Saturday I pinged Teresa and told her that I wasn’t in the best mindset for the race, that I had skipped workouts and was boozing it up instead of taking care of my body, and whether I should still do the duathlon. She talked me off the ledge and, ever the optimist and eternally my ardent cheerleader, encouraged me to “get back on the horse” and “channel my rage” on race day to push me across the finish line. I sucked it up and decided to follow coach’s orders. Despite having endured such a shitty week, I figured enough was enough and that I needed to get back on track, so what better time to re-establish some order in my life than to wake up and race. I behaved myself Saturday night, partaking in a single glass of wine at a friend’s birthday dinner and trying to reintroduce more traditional forms of hydration so that I wouldn’t make a complete ass of myself at the race the next day. On Sunday Jason, who was nursing an injured knee and thus wouldn’t be racing, acted as my sherpa and helped me get all my shit together before we headed out the door. I met up with my teammates and we griped about how cold the race always is before lining up to start. (I never know what to wear for this race so this year I opted to dork it up with a TN performance tee, arm warmers, black tri shorts, and tights. I think my hastily assembled attire was the byproduct of my “Fuck it, this week sucked so I’ll just throw on whatever I can grab so I can get this race over with” mentality.) The long coursers took off and I waited around with my short course peeps, one of whom recognized me as the “Mediocre Athlete,” which made me chuckle. I’m...
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Band of Brothers: Flying Wheels Edition

When I got back from Hawaii I checked my training schedule to see what sort of torture Teresa had in store for me that weekend. She wanted me to do the Flying Wheels century ride, so I met my teammates at Marymoor Park at about 7:45 am on Saturday to get situated. I hadn’t thought much of the ride going into the workout and just figured a steady bike ride in zone 1-2 would be a piece of cake compared to the windy hellfest I endured in Hawaii the week before. Once I got there, however, I realized that the ride would be much crappier than I initially figured for a couple of reasons. First of all, my mind still must have been in warm, humid Hawaii mode because I was underdressed for the ride. The weather report said it would get to low 60’s but the entire day was overcast and I remained half-frozen throughout the entire workout. Secondly, before I even started the ride I realized my front tire was partially flat. I found that perplexing since I had pumped up my tires before I left my house, but instead of switching out the tube right there like a smart person would have done, I just had the REI dudes re-pump it up and hoped the mysterious disappearing air pressure was just a fluke. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. I got a measly 40 minutes into the ride and was following my friend Kirsten up a hill when I noticed that I was working harder than usual to keep up with her. I started to wonder if my front tire had gone flat again when some dude behind me yelled, “Hey, your tire’s flat!” Guess that solved the mystery. I sighed and pulled over, watching Kirsten ride further away from me until she was out of sight. Tire Change Mode, activate! Unfortunately, Tire Change Mode was less Optimus Prime-y and more Herpy Derpy since my hands were frozen and resulted in a profound lack of dexterity. A five-minute job turned into 10+ as I fumbled to get the tire loose. Two of my teammates, Lyset and Ashley, stopped to help and were super patient as I rained expletives down on my stubborn wheel. When I finally got the new tube in, I promptly blew through a cartridge because I can never remember how to work the damn valve thing right, and I also freezer-burned my hand because I forgot that cartridges are full of COMPRESSED FREAKING AIR and was holding it like a moron while it was leaking all over the place. Thankfully, I had a backup cartridge and managed not to waste that one. Success! I rode with Lyset for a while and then we parted ways. When I rolled up to the first aid station, I figured I had to be at the halfway point because I had been riding for like an eon already. I pumped up my front tire the rest of the way at the REI tent, inhaled some chomps, and glanced at my watch, expecting to see something like “3:00:15.” It read “1:30.” Son of a bitch! The never-ending ride continued. I was starting to feel a bit lonely since I had lost my teammates, so I’d tuck in and draft behind random groups of cyclists before leapfrogging to the front in an effort to find someone I knew. When I got to the fork that split the 100-mile riders from the 65-milers, I had a Choose Your Own Adventure moment where I seriously contemplated saying “Screw this ride” and cutting it way short so I could go home and watch movies...
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Dear Linsey Corbin

Dear Linsey Corbin
I’m back from racing Ironman Honu 70.3. My race recap will be up soon, but first I wanted to clear something up with Linsey Corbin, the female professional triathlete who won Honu and set a female course record because she’s all fast and bad-ass and and dominates the sport in a way us mere mortals can only dream about. First, a brief explanation. Rooming with Teresa often means I inadvertently run into professional triathletes because Teresa’s a pro and rubs pointy, athletically vascular elbows with the sport’s elites and I’m often tagging along like a schmuck. In Costa Rica I met Bree Wee and in Hawaii we swam with Linsey Corbin (and by “we swam with,” I of course mean “Teresa swam with while I flailed around 500 yards behind them”). The race came and went and I was pretty happy with my performance considering the tough conditions (meaning “it was windy as shit out there”). On Sunday I had a lazy and tired recovery day, and on Monday I drove around the big island with Jason and his family and checked out the volcano. That left Tuesday as my last day to get a little relaxation in before I would return back to Seattle. Faced with one final hurrah to get my sun and drink on, I did what any Mediocre Athlete would do: I went at it full-speed. Jason and I ate breakfast, walked to the Fairmont and had a few cocktails on the beach, walked to our hotel, changed into swimsuits, lazed about all day in the sun, then went back to our hotel room and slurped down a couple mixed drinks before meeting Kevin, Cindy, and Cindy’s mother for happy hour at Ruth’s Chris. I knocked back a couple more cocktails and some bar snacks, then we went to the Mauna Lani Canoe House to cap off the evening. I was sipping a glass of wine and enjoying the sunset when I started to feel a bit off–a mixture of queasy and sweaty that is scientifically known as “sweesy.” I excused myself and started making my way towards the bathroom, feeling worse with each step. Heading right towards me emerging from the bathroom was a perfectly bronzed, statuesque figure. It was Linsey Corbin, and we were on an unavoidable collision course that would inevitably lead to small talk. The only problem was I was feeling pretty terrible and was in no mood to chat with anyone. I vaguely recall the conversation going something like this: Tall, lean, beautifully golden-hued Linsey: “Oh hi!” Stumpy-legged, splotchily tanned, soaked with sweat me: “Hi! Congratulations on your race! You did really awesome.” My brain: “Is it me or is the room starting to spin a bit?” Linsey: “Thank you! How did you do?” How-am-I-producing-this-much-sweat-this-doesn’t-seem-humanly-possible me: “I did alright!” I realized the absurdity of trying to explain to a professional triathlete that I had a good race when I finished over an hour behind her. I didn’t know what else to say, so I asked my brain for help. My sun-baked, alcohol-soaked brain: “Just keep rambling about something!” Me: “Uh, so I was a few minutes slower than in Costa Rica but the conditions were tougher here…but the run was easier.” Linsey: “Easier in Costa Rica?” Me: “No, easier here…it was tougher…there.” Awkward silence. My brain: “Hey, what’s with this tunnel vision all of a sudden?…..OH GOD, YOU’RE GOING TO PASS OUT. ABORT! ABORT! MAYDAY! YOU DO NOT WANT TO FAINT AT LINSEY CORBIN’S FEET!! GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE!!!” Me, quickly: “Anywaygoodseeingyou–” Linsey: “Yeah! When do you leave?” Me: “Tomorrowwww…” I shot several nervous glances towards the bathroom and...
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