Yeah yeah, I know you all have organized a hunger strike until I got my Costa Rica race report up, but this thing called “work” and “real world” (as in real life, not the umpteenth season of MTV’s Real World…though I do confess to harboring a guilty pleasure for the Challenges) have taken precedence lately so I haven’t had much time to blog. Sorry! In any case, I’m here now and will share my race report with you, my loyal readers. (Especially Jim, who has reduced himself to watching the same episode of American Idol twice in one day because he’s so restless for content. Holy crap.) Arriving in Costa Rica So yeah, back to Costa Rica. We arrived the Tuesday before the race, smelling and looking as if we had taken three planes and a red-eye itinerary to get to Guanacaste. Because Jas and I pack like champs, we only had to check our bike boxes (thanks, Kirsten, for letting me borrow yours!) and managed to shove everything else into carry-on luggage (tank tops and shorts don’t take up that much space). Unfortunately, American Airlines deemed it necessary to charge us an “Are you fucking kidding” price of $150 per box each way. Destination races ain’t cheap, folks. Our rental house was in a little town called Potreros, which wasn’t very far from the host hotel and the race course but sat atop a ridiculous 10-minute climb that requires a Canyonero to safely traverse. If I had to do the race again, I wouldn’t stay atop Mount Doom because it was too much a pain in the ass to get up and down the rickety-ass road all the time, but it did make for a memorable stay (plus, the house came with a dog named Cookie, whom I fed dog treats every chance I had). Pre-Race Workouts Mark, Teresa, Jason and I decided to do a 30-minute run near our house to shake the travel stiffness out of our stinky, tired bodies. The run went something like this: All of us: *gasp* *wheeze* *heave* *shuffle* *sweat* Me: “Oh look, my heart rate is at 176 already.” The hills were no joke, the terrain was ankle-rollerrific (in fact, Teresa did roll one), and it was hot as shit outside with zero cloud cover. Such a lovely taste of what’s to come on race day! Later that week we took our bikes to the Westin Playa Conchal to ride the hardest part of the bike course. Transition area would be set up in one of the Westin’s parking lot, and athletes would have to mount their bikes, ride over a 100-yard stretch of gravel, then climb a few daunting hills over the course of about 2.5 miles to get out of the resort. From there, we’d turn onto the road and enjoy a relatively flat three loops before heading back into the resort and climbing more hills to get back to transition. When we suited up to ride, it was impossible to ignore the remarkable heat as well as the discouraging gusts of wind. Since we were in the middle of the region’s dry season, we expected warm temperatures but it was unseasonably warm (the race website advertised average temps being in the upper 70s, but it was mid-to upper-90s the entire time we were there). Also, the wind was unusual for that time of year, and we were all a bit nervous about having to battle nasty gusts on race day. I strapped on my brand-spankin’ new aero helmet (now I can look like a sperm on wheels!) and tackled the climbs as best as I could. The hill...

Tomorrow I’m doing the Rev 3 Costa Rica half Ironman. It’s my first race of the season (I am so not used to doing a triathlon in March), but it’s also my first tropical destination half Ironman since I did the Cancun 70.3 back in 2008. That race was my second ever half Ironman and technically my first “proper distance” half Ironman since I had done the Victoria half earlier in the year, which adds up to just under 70.3 miles. Before I race tomorrow, I thought I’d finally publish my race report of the now-defunct Cancun 70.3 (they moved it to Cozumel, which now has a half and full Ironman distance race) that I raced during my first season of trying out this crazy sport. My Cancun 70.3 Race Report (or as I like to call it, the “Eff Jason for talking me into doing this” Half Ironman) Arriving in Meh-hee-co Como se dicen en México, survimos (as they say in Mexico, we survived). Jason and I got in Friday early evening for the race on Sunday. Some of my teammates were surprised we were arriving in Mexico so soon before the race, but honestly, after having done it both ways (I got to Costa Rica on a Tuesday and the race here is on Sunday), I prefer the “get in a couple days before the race” mentality. I kind of feel like I’m wasting part of my vacation by sitting around not doing much when I fly in early. I’d rather stay longer after the race and enjoy my time laying out on the beach, slurping tropical boozy drinks, and exploring/doing activities than staying out of the sun, constantly hydrating, and keeping off my feet. I had made it roughly four feet from the airport before grumbling to Jason that we will never do another destination race again (three and a half years later, 2008 Rebecca is scowling at 2012 Rebecca for breaking her promise, as I have not one but two destination races on my schedule this season). Between the two of us we had a big suitcase for our clothes, another suitcase for our race clothes, two duffel bags full of fuel, helmets and accessories, and two giant bike cases containing our deconstructed bicycles. Lugging all of this crap required some serious muscles and patience. I was soaked with sweat from the combination of heat, humidity, and gear muling. When we got to the official race hotel, we took a hooker’s bath and attempted to put together our bikes (Jason was still rockin’ his dad’s old Klein, which took him and Mark an eon to take apart since it probably hadn’t been disassembled since 1985, and I was riding my old coworker’s Giant road bike). After 90 minutes and repeated grease markings on the rug and floor, we were successful. Hooray! (I later spent a half hour trying to scrub the room clean of incriminating bike grease and realized that I would never, ever get away with murdering someone. Considering how much grease and grime I left all over the room just from assembling a crappy road bike, I’d have hair, fingerprints, sweat droplets, and probably my wallet because I’m that stupid all over a crime scene.) The race hotel itself was kind of crappy. They overbooked so we didn’t get the room we requested. Instead of a king-sized bed we got two doubles. The hotel staff helpfully suggested that we push the beds together. Just like in the 1950s! There were also little ant-like bugs that enjoyed crawling around our bathroom sink. I made it a mission to squash all of the ones I...

This is an open letter to every judgmental waiter who gives me and Jason that look when we tell him or her what we want to order. (Yes, it’s happened on enough occasions that I feel an open letter is necessary. And yes, I realize I’m trying to lose weight for the 2012 season. Back up off me, beeyotch. I likes me some food.) Dear Judgmental Waiter Who Thinks I’m Ordering Too Much Food, First of all, I appreciate your concern for my well-being as well as your doubt that I can successfully cram such a large quantity of food down my gullet. I can see how you would underestimate my ability to pack in the calories, seeing as how I’m of average height and somewhat thin/athletic build and not some sort of morbidly obese hobgoblin who rolled in on a Rascal scooter and prodded you with a fork I brought from home while wearing an old food-stained bib I got from an Old Country Buffet six years ago. However, I need to educate you on a few things so that you will stop giving me that “Are you seriously ordering this much food” look: 1. My mom is Korean; therefore, I know how to eat. Koreans love to eat. The only thing they love more than food itself is watching their kids pig out; thus, my mother’s greatest joy is simultaneously stuffing bulgogi and rice in my mouth while scowling that I’ve gained too much weight (except for recently, where now she alternates asking me what I’m making for dinner and telling me not to lose too much weight or I’ll become “ann-o-reck-she-uh”). Therefore, despite my size and stature, I have an uncanny ability to eat a ridiculous amount of food. It’s how I grew up–Momma didn’t raise no dainty eater. Although my boyfriend is 6’4″ and 200 lbs, when he and I order dishes to share at a restaurant, we actually do split the food 50/50, which is highly disproportionate considering our weight and caloric intake differentials. To put it quite bluntly, I am a pig. A shameless, ravenous pig. If I don’t restrain myself, I could easily polish off enough food to put a Biggest Loser contestant to shame. 2. I worked out for four hours today. Not only am I a glutton, I’m also a (somewhat mediocre) endurance athlete; thus, chances are I’ve done 2-8 hours of grueling workouts earlier in the day and am freakin’ starving. I’ve burned thousands of calories and now my body wants some of them back. So thank you for the eye roll and the silent judgment that I’m probably bulimic. I’m not puking, I just want something other than Powerbar Perform and gels in my stomach, for crying out loud. 3. In case you forgot, I’m paying you for all this food. You’re not bringing this shit to me for free, for crying out loud. I understand the basic concept of a restaurant–I pay for the food you make and bring to me, whether or not I actually consume it (I will though, because my inner fat kid is crying for something that’s been cooked in butter). It’s not like I’m going to take one dainty little nibble, push the rest away, and hold my belly, exclaiming, “Ohhhhhh, I’m so full. I’m not paying for the rest of this!” If I don’t eat it all (which is rare), I’ll take the leftovers home. Either way, it shouldn’t matter to you since you’re getting money from me whether I eat it all, throw it on the ground, or build Close Encounters-esque towers with it. 4. I realize how much food...

Forever ago I introduced Triathlete Woes. My first woe experienced by triathletes, cyclists, and runners alike was the friggin’ bugs that you encounter when training. This time I wanted to talk about the bane of this damn sport and of being active in general. Of course, I’m talking about everyone’s common enemy: chafing. I’ve gotten chafing everywhere. And by “everywhere,” I mean everywhere. My ankles, my armpits, my sternum, the small of my back, my inner thighs, my ribcage, the back of my neck, and yes, the demoralizing “are you freakin’ kidding me” spot known as the asscrack. This diagram fully illustrates which parts of my body have been rubbed raw from friction, clothing, or some other random bullshit while training or racing: I’ve gotten ankle chafing from timing chips: I’ve gotten thigh chafing from a pair of shorts I had worn a hundred times before, but when I wore them for a half marathon, they inexplicably tore my legs up so bad that I had to cover the scabs in gauze for a few days. I’ve gotten pelvis chafing from swimsuits, which is just mind-boggling. I’ve developed thick neck scabs from wet suit chafing. If you threw a dart at a diagram of a body, chances are I’ve gotten chafing there. Here’s a chafe mark along the lower part of my stomach that looks like I got slashed by a knife-wielding maniac: And here’s a chest chafing that looks like the shape of New Jersey: This past weekend my sternum got torn to shit during a hill repeat run: My sternum has gotten chewed up so much from heart rate monitors that I have resorted to covering the spot with a Band-aid before workouts (which has led to Jason calling me King Hippo), but even that failed me on Saturday. Chafing sucks. It has no pattern, no rhyme or reason. I’ll use a crapton of Glide and will still get it. I’ll wear a tried and true pair of shorts and will still get it. I’ll have a short workout and will get a mark out of nowhere. But the worst part of the chafing isn’t its randomness. No sir. That I’m getting used to. I’ve grown accustomed to sudden chafe marks in various parts of my body I previously thought were immune to chafing. No, the absolute worst part of chafing is the post-workout shower. It’s like a scene out of Psycho–I peel off my soggy, sweat-soaked clothes, turn the shower on to its hottest setting, and step in, preparing for a luxurious and relaxing cleansing. Then a single bead of water propels out of the shower head and pellets onto the one half square inch of skin on my entire body that has been rubbed raw, a spot I didn’t even know existed until now, and it feels like someone threw hydrochloric acid all over me. I screech and start whirling around in a frenzy, howling, “AGHHHGHHHHHHH WHATTTTT THE HELLLLLLLLL,” not being able to pinpoint the exact spot that has betrayed me until several seconds later when the pain subsides and I succeed in curling myself into the tiniest ball imaginable in the corner of the tub, away from the Razor Droplets from Hell and whimpering like a stray dog. The best part of my day, the glorious post-workout shower, has now been robbed of all its splendor because of one tiny fucking chafe mark. So here’s to you, chafing, you miserable, awful side effect of endurance sports. I hate you with the intensity of a thousand Christian Bales. By the time I’ve thrown in the towel with this sport, I’ll have more marks on my...

I’m entering my fifth season of triathlons and my seventh year of participating in races. It hasn’t been easy: sometimes the races are fun, sometimes they suck, sometimes I’m pleased with how I did, oftentimes I’m hard on myself. The workouts are grueling but mostly satisfying, the costs make me whimper, the injuries make me feel vulnerable, then indestructible. A lot of emotions and feelings go hand in hand with endurance racing, and without your most valuable weapon it all becomes that much more difficult. I’m not talking about compression socks or recovery drinks or carbon fiber gadgets; I’m talking about your support system. There are people on my team who have doting, caring family members and loved ones who are out there for every race cheering them on and beaming with pride. Mark’s parents have never missed any of his full Ironman races. Brent’s dad had tears in his eyes when he watched his son approach the finish line at Ironman Canada in 2009 (and when I saw his dad, I choked up too). Jason’s parents, sister, grandma, and aunt and uncle have all shown up at races to cheer for him (though Jim, Jason’s dad, is the most genuine fan of the actual sport and would eagerly watch a race even if Jas weren’t participating). And then there are people like me, folks who don’t have a familial support system. I have to keep reminding my mom what a triathlon even is, and when I told her about signing up for my first Ironman, when she wasn’t convinced I was going to die, she stated she was too busy growing hot peppers to fly out and cheer for me. I’m in the process of convincing her to watch me race at Ironman Tempe (should I decide to do that race) since it’s outside of pepper season and because her mother-in-law lives in Arizona, but I don’t have a ton of confidence that she’d come even though she has promised she would. I had invited my sister to come to Penticton with my nephews to watch the race, and she seemed interested but didn’t come out. I’ve invited her to watch me race at shorter, local events but so far she’s been a no-show. She’s eager to boast about our brother and his martial arts on Facebook but has said nothing of my endurance race accomplishments. I doubt it’s intentional or malicious, but the lack of recognition can sting from time to time. Speaking of that brother, when I had first signed up for Ironman Canada and was telling him about it, I mentioned that it would be really cool if he could fly up (he lives in Los Angeles) and support me and that it would mean a lot to me. He just laughed over the phone and scoffed that he doesn’t want to “stand around all day while [I] run a marathon.” Misinformed distance aside (hello, I’d swim 2.4 miles and bike 112 miles first!), the eye-rolling tone and complete disregard of something that meant a lot to me really stung. I didn’t actually expect him to come up and support me considering it would have been quite a trip, but his complete lack of caring really hurt. After I finished the race, my mom, sister, and other brother all congratulated me even though they really don’t understand the sport or the amount of training required. This brother was the only one who didn’t say anything or acknowledge my accomplishment (and to this day he still hasn’t). Sometimes I see my teammates and my boyfriend who have such a loving, supportive family and I get sad....