It’s my fault, really. I accept these invitations knowing full well I’m in over my head and that these speedy chicks are going to mop the floor with this Mediocre Athlete. But I go anyway because I’m a glutton for punishment and because I think of myself as fairly easygoing (probably ingrained from “youngest child syndrome” and having grown up with two older brothers barking at me to get in the back seat without asking my opinion on the intricacies of vehicular seating charts). So, with some trepidation, I accepted Ms. Cathleen Knutson’s invitation to partake in her annual “Holidazzle” pre-Christmas holiday run through Queen Anne.

The plan was simple enough: dress up in your goofiest Christmas attire and meet at Cathleen’s apartment before running to a bar for some drinks, then running some more throughout Richy Richville before returning to Cathleen’s for food, booze, and merriment. I tried not to think about how I was going to be the slowest chick there (Cathleen, aka Female Rambo, was fresh off her second straight Ironman Kona appearance and regularly kicks my ass in age group placings [meaning she wins our age group while I'm finishing in the middle of the pack on a good day], and a bunch of other females were also Kona veterans or could outswim, bike, and run me any day of the week). Since I was sorely lacking in the “Christmas merriment” clothing, I settled on a glitzy run headband I received as a Secret Santa gift, a red scarf, and my beloved shark mittens, then waved goodbye to Jas and hopped in my car.

Unfortunately, the dreaded Denny traffic ensured that I was super late in getting to Cathleen’s, so by the time I got to her apartment, the girls had already left. I knew that they would end up at the Paragon Bar & Grill towards the early part of the evening, so I looked up the address on my phone. Then I realized I didn’t want to run who knows how many miles with my phone and that I had the bare minimum definition of a pants pocket (thanks for the Lululemon run capris, Teresa!). After some head scratching, I found a clean Subway napkin in my glove box, scrawled the address onto it, shoved my car keys into the tiniest pocket ever, and took off for the bar.

Cathleen assured the girls that this would be a “leisurely” run, but she didn’t account for the fact that some of us would show up late and spazz-sprint through Queen Anne to try and meet up with the main group. I ran up several hills, then would get turned around and double back to where I started. Eventually I came across the sketchiest and rapiest staircase in Seattle and reluctantly made my way up them, sporting my most convincing “You best not mess with me, muggers and/or serial killers!” sneer while simultaneously trying to look where I was going in the nonexistent light to avoid tripping and breaking my neck.

It was exactly like the set of stairs from 'The Exorcist,' except less "warmly lit."

I made it to the top unscathed and continued on, struggling to read my scraggly handwriting on an increasingly crumpled and sweat-absorbed napkin. After a while I got desperate and went into full-24 mode, panicking that the girls had already made it to Paragon and were gone and that I’d now have to make my way back to an apartment I barely had time to familiarize myself with before sprinting through the city. I flagged down an older gentleman.

Me: “Excuse me!”

He looked at me, noting my peculiar run attire (a bright red scarf and shark-shaped wool mittens don’t exactly scream “Trust me, I’m a decent athlete”).

Me: “…uh, do you know how to get to Queen Anne Avenue from here? I’m meeting some girls for a run bar crawl thing…for Christmas.” It was my bad attempt at subtly explaining that I was aware of how dumb I looked and blaming my lapse in judgment and decent fashion sense on the holiday spirit.

He pointed me in the right direction and I proceeded to haul ass to the bar. When I got there, panting, I peered inside and saw precisely zero decked out females knocking back a cold one. To me that meant that I was either early or late. I hedged my bets and went inside.

The waitress asked if I was there for a bar crawl and I excitedly shouted “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” (or I just said “yes”) and she pointed to a group of guys who were also dressed in holiday gear and were sitting at the bar. Confused, I told her, “I’m waiting for a group of girls, not guys.” One of the men waved me over and said, “You with Cathleen’s group?” and I happily joined them. Apparently they were some friends of Cathleen’s who were doing a male version of the bar run crawl and were planning on meeting Cathleen and Co. at Paragon (so I was early! Thank jeebus).

I relaxed, mopped my brow with the directions sponsored by Subway, and waited for the girls to arrive. One of the guys asked if I was going to order a drink and I agonized over what to get since I didn’t want something too heavy or gross sloshing around in my stomach since I didn’t know how far we were going to run. As I mentally proceeded to check off various spirits and libations, the impatient bartender kept looking at me expectantly until I panicked, went full moron, and ordered a winter beer. Good job, Rebecca, you don’t want to order something heavy so just get a pint of fucking seasonal ale instead. Dumb-ass.

The gaggle of girls arrived and the few I knew were happy to see me. They stuck around for a shot of vodka and punch before taking off, so I only had time to drink a third of my beer before running away with them. (Thankfully, it was a small enough amount that I didn’t feel gross the rest of the night.)

My teammates (and Carly) with shots and stupid me with a huge beer

Naturally, the “leisurely pace” was probably about 8:00/mile, which ain’t exactly zone 1 for me. Nonetheless, I followed the brightly decorated ladies through Queen Anne, gawking at the huge houses and feeling lame that I was the least festively dressed. I ended up sticking close to Coach Bridget because she had lights wrapped around her and served as my Rudolph for most of the run. (She even caught me when I tripped and nearly ate pavement; I rewarded her by panic-grabbing her boob on my way down. Sorry to Bridget’s husband for accidentally getting to second base with her.)

Speaking of Bridget, she’s always good for a dorky soundbyte or two. This night’s gem:

Bridget, running alongside someone: “So…are you married…to somebody?”

I think you can just ask someone if she’s married; you don’t have to qualify it with a “with somebody.” It’s not like you’d get a response like “Yeah, I’m married but it’s to a toaster.”

We eventually made our way to Kerry Park, where we stopped to admire the beautiful view of the cityscape. A man offered to snap photos of us and we rewarded him with a medley of holiday tunes. The crowd of passerbys was amused by the sight of over 20 women dressed like weirdos belting out half-forgotten Christmas song lyrics.

We looked dorky but it was still fun

After our little detour, we made our way back to Cathleen’s apartment, singing as we ran through the decorated Seattle streets and shouting a chipper “Merry Christmas!” to anyone we passed. All in all, we probably ran about 5 1/2 miles. Once we got to Cathleen’s place, we  kicked off our shoes and proceeded to stuff our faces with homemade chili, booze, cheese and crackers, salads, and the most ridiculous spread of holiday cookies and treats I’d ever seen.

And by "kicked off our shoes," I mean "lined them up neatly."

I got to mingle with some speedy athletes and meet some new triathletes, which was fun. One of the cool chicks I met was Carly, who was fresh off racing Ironman Cozumel. We did the standard “sizing each other up by comparing disciplines” pissing contest and I very obviously lost.

Carly: “I’m a terrible runner. Cycling’s my strength.”

Me: “Yeah, I’d have to say cycling’s my best too. I’m not a bad runner but I need to get better running off the bike. Swimming’s the absolute worst for me, though. I’m a terrible swimmer.”

Carly: “Oh, I’m a bad swimmer too!”

Me: “Oh really?”

Carly: “Yeah, I’m so slow.”

Me: “I hear ya. It’s frustrating. What was your swim split at Cozumel?” Maybe we could swim together this coming season–we slowpokes need to unite and stand tall against the fast assholes in the greater Seattle area, amirite?

Carly: “Oh, a 1:06.”

Me:

How did you make the swim cutoff with that offensively slow time?!

I responded with an appropriate “Fuck you” and stormed off to get more cookies. “Stupid fast girls,” I mumbled to myself amidst bites of homemade Rice Krispies treats. Despite feeling like a slow fish in a pond full of speedboats, I had a fun time and was glad Cathleen invited me. Maybe in 2012 I’ll step up my game, get a stupider-looking outfit, and try to remember what all 12 Days of Christmas are. Until next December, holidazzle ladies!

I’m all for these folks feeling empowered and strong and getting into good shape, but fast-tracking Biggest Loser contestants into elite races is ridiculous. Just because they’re a quasi-celebrity doesn’t mean they should be able to bypass the stringent qualification requirements or shouldn’t have to throw their name into the lottery and hope, like thousands of other athletes do every year, that they get chosen. To me, letting a Biggest Loser contestant do Kona or “run” the Boston Marathon is a slap in the face to the hard working athletes who bust their butts to train and qualify for these races.

I know the argument is that they’re inspiring people to get off the couch and get in shape, but the same point can be made by having them sign up for a regular Ironman event or marathon. The majority of these alumni can’t qualify for Boston or Kona. Hell, most fit people can’t qualify, yet NBC is telling us that all we have to do is become morbidly obese, get on a TV show and let a couple of melodramatic trainers scream at us while we struggle to do box jumps and lose weight, and then we can move to the front of the Kona or Boston line? Screw the 3:10 qualifying marathon time — all my boyfriend has to do to race Boston is gain 100 lbs and he’ll be invited to power walk it in a Biggest Loser t-shirt while tens of thousands of hard working, serious athletes run by him.

The triathlons are even worse. The Biggest Loser recently invited some alumni back to do an Olympic distance triathlon and awarded the winning male and female each $25,000. Yep, $25,000. For an Olympic distance race. Do you know in which place you would have to finish at the Ironman World Championships to make as much as these stupid contestants made for finishing their crappy race?

2nd place, which pays out $30,000.

Yeah, that’s right, the 2nd fastest Ironman triathlete in the world only made $5,000 more than a Biggest Loser contestant who wouldn’t even be able to win his or her age group in a typical Olympic distance triathlon.

Former Biggest Loser winner Matt actually raced Kona in 2010, and guess how he did? He didn’t make the official cutoff and instead finished after 17 hours. With proper training and barring any physical or mechanical malfunctions, there is practically no reason you can’t finish an Ironman within the cutoff time. It’s a formidable distance, sure, but they give you an extremely generous window in which to finish. Matt wasn’t in good enough shape to do an Ironman, let alone the World Championships, plain and simple. Yet millions of viewers think, “Wow, Matt is an Ironman and a hardcore athlete because he competed in the World Championships!” Well, not really. He didn’t make the cutoff time. He cut corners to get there, and look what happened.

I think Tara will do better than Matt — she seems like she’s in better shape and can actually finish Kona in under 17 hours, provided she puts in the training and takes it seriously. But do I think she should be racing Kona in the first place? Unless she qualified, got a lottery slot, or bought a charity slot (and by “bought,” I mean that she bought it, not NBC), no, she shouldn’t be participating in the World Championships. These races were designed for the best of the best, not the least fat of the formerly fat.

The Biggest Loser is so focused on making overweight people feel better that they’ve disrespected and overlooked those who train not just to be healthy and fit, but to be the very best among the majority of the field. As a middle of the pack athlete who will probably never be fast enough to qualify for Kona and who would have to work really hard to qualify for Boston, I think it’s pretty ridiculous how quickly and easily these contestants can achieve the dreams and goals that so many legitimate athletes desperately try to reach every day.

I think this girl also had an older brother who excelled in a sport that she was ultimately pushed into, because how else could you explain this jaw-dropping display of athleticism (or lack thereof):

Don’t worry, girl, I probably would have done the same thing.

Thus, instead of being a mediocre athlete, he’s simply a mediocre direction follower. I guess that’s one of the drawbacks of being in the front — you don’t have anyone to follow. Sorry, dude. Better luck next time.

"Woooo! We're number worst! We're number worst!"

You know that when a team with a losing record emerges as the best out of a division, that division must be pretty pathetic. The Seahawks managed to do just that, clinching the wimpy NFC West with a 7-9 record and earning a playoff spot against the current NFL champions, the New Orleans Saints, this weekend. Not since the Detroit Lions’ record-breaking winless season has an NFL team made such unspectacular history of craptastic proportions. Congratulations, Seahawks, you’re playoff-bound thanks to your exceptional mediocrity. And to the NFC West, thanks for producing such awful football teams that you made Seattle’s mediocre rise to the NFL playoffs possible.

"Okay, all we have to do is not let them score 28 points in 7 minutes. We got this!"

If you watched Sunday’s game of the Giants vs. the Philadelphia Eagles, you saw a self-destruction of pretty impressive proportions. Up 31-10 with less than eight minutes remaining in the 4th quarter, it appeared as if the Giants had this win in the bag. Unfortunately for them, a streak of mediocrity can hit even the most seasoned athlete, and they watched their lead get chipped away as the Eagles managed to tie the game with 13 seconds remaining in the 4th.

And then Giants kicker Matt Dodge did a truly derptastic thing and booted the pigskin straight to wide receiver DeSean Jackson instead of kicking the ball out of bounds. So rather than force the Eagles into setting up a play that would most likely have resulted in the game going into overtime, they shot the football to Jackson, who was like, “Nah, I’ll just end the game now” and returned the punt 65 yards for a touchdown and the win. Final score: Eagles 38, Giants 31.

"Oh, was that supposed to be difficult?"

Congratulations, Giants! You are my first ever Mediocre Athlete of the Week. Don’t worry, you’re still a formidable football team and we all have a bad day every once in a while. I’m sure you’ll bounce back from this 4th quarter embarrassment and will be back on your A game in no time.

“Mr. Goodman agreed, though his main concern now isn’t how he looks in the mirror, but making sure that he isn’t ‘chick-ed’ at the next race — slang for being beaten by a woman.”

Really, Mr. Goodman? You’re more concerned about being passed by a female triathlete than you are about how fit and healthy you are? You’re a fucking asshole.

This isn’t the first time I’ve come across a blog post or an article either written by or about a male triathlete where they get all butthurt about the possibility of getting “chicked” and talk about it like it’s the most demeaning and horrible thing a triathlete can experience. Ordinarily, I’m a pretty laid-back person with a sense of humor, but I find the stigma of “getting chicked” to be offensive and sexist. Do these guys honestly expect to beat every woman who’s racing? If so, they damn well better be Craig Alexander because unless they’re a professional triathlete at the top of their game, they’re gonna get passed by a girl who’s faster than them.

The best and most obvious example of a woman who chicks most of the field is Chrissie Wellington. In 2009 she took first place at the World Championships in Kona and set a new women’s course record with a finish time of 8:54:02. Perhaps more impressive than her champion title and course record is the fact that she took 23rd place overall, beating 79 male pros and 1,245 amateur men. Chrissie Wellington and the other active female pros are faster than the average triathlete. Hell, they’re faster than most elite triathletes. They’ll certainly out-race a chauvinistic age grouper who gets his panties in a bunch at the thought of someone with a vagina out-swimming, biking and running him.

It’s not just the female pros who will kick your ass — I know plenty of female age groupers who can out-race most of the competition, male or female, and make it look easy. Many of my teammates have busted out Ironman times that the average male triathlete wouldn’t dream of accomplishing. They swim like dolphins, bike faster than you can believe, and run at a seemingly unsustainable pace. They take top accolades at most of their races, and they work hard and train long hours to get as good as they are. To be disgusted by the notion of getting “chicked” is not only insulting to all female triathletes who are racing and trying their best, it’s ignorant and dismissive of the athletes out there who truly excel in the sport and deserve recognition as being great instead of “pretty good for a girl.”

Let’s return to Mr. Goodman. On June 6th, 2010, he participated in the Hope in Motion walk, run, and ride event. Mr. Goodman placed 289th out of 571 people. Over 100 women beat him. He also did the Jarden Westchester Triathlon on September 26th, 2010, and finished in a time of 2:31:38. 18 females had a faster day than him. Looks like he got “chicked” hardcore. Maybe Mr. Goodman should stop worrying about a female passing him on the bike or catching him on the run and instead focus on his own race. After all, the chances are high that he’s already been beaten by a female — she was just so fast that he never saw her.

Don’t make a big deal about getting “chicked” — it makes you look like a sexist douchebag who’s more focused on out-racing girls than on being healthy and active and racing the best race you can, period. Females are tough, fast, and determined. If you’re threatened by that, you better either get a hell of a lot faster or stop doing triathlons, because we’re not going to hold back to avoid hurting your machismo.

1. Bev Smith  — Geriatric Whisperer

I bet only her soothing voice and promise of Werther’s Originals and reruns of Murder, She Wrote can calm the elderly.

2. Sean Darragh — Corpse Whisperer

He must get Bev Smith’s hand-me-downs.

3. Laurel Van Zanten — Specializes in Crazy

That’s actually what she wrote. I’m not sure if that means she’s crazy or she’s simply an expert. If it’s the latter, she probably works as the in-house therapist for VH1 reality show girls.

4. Louise Valois — Orca

Huh, I never noticed a killer whale racing…

5. Michele Kendall-Williams — Female Cage Fighter

Dayum!

6. Treena O’Connor — Wonder Woman

She better not have used her invisible plane. I’m pretty sure that’s against triathlon regulations.

7. Janna Gillick — Goat Rancher

Goat Rich or Die Tryin’.

8. Valerie Boller — Goat Herder

She should get together with Janna Gillick and start a lucrative goat business.

9. George Bichsel — Yak Herder

Yak herders make goat herders look like chumps.

10. Frank Zaprawa — Flamingo Herder

Okay, seriously, this is getting ridiculous. There’s really a need for flamingo herding? Worst herder ever.

11. Michael Kelly — Butterfly Herder

I stand corrected.

12. Jan Jagodzinski — Hobby Dancer

Hold me closer, hobby dancer…count the buoys as you swim awayyyyy…

13. Timoty Leddy — Coonsultant

I like to think that this isn’t a typo, and instead Mr. Leddy actually provides consulting for raccoons. “I recommend rustling through the Jones’ garbage tomorrow night.”

14. Reg Rempel — Spirits Specialist

This could mean bartender, alcoholic, or an expert of the supernatural. Perhaps all three?

15. David Mills — Rocket Scientist

He’s no brain surgeon.

16. Steve Attwood (my teammate!) — Pirate

He eats all the orange slices at aid stations to offset scurvy.

17. Daryn Klinginsmith — Humble Pie Eater

If he won a humble pie eating contest, would he get even get a trophy? I’m guessing they just give out slight nods of approval.

18. Murray Harris — Pain Enabler

He’s Canada’s Jack Bauer. “Damnit, Chloe!…soo-rry I raised my voice, eh?”

19. Steve Hobson — Cartwheel Man

I’m disappointed he didn’t cartwheel the entire 26.2 miles of the run. Clearly it’s just a job and not a career.

20. Scott Greene — Hip-Hop Mogul

I didn’t know Sir Mix-a-Lot races under the name “Scott Greene.”

21. Michael De Luca — Hydrogeologist

I’m not sure what that is, but I bet he’s the dude the government doesn’t listen to in disaster movies.

22. Michael Deitchman — Fudge Taste Tester

If this isn’t some sort of gross euphemism, this man has the best job ever.

23. Shawn Burke — Fat Metabolizer

Dude, it’s an Ironman. We’re all fat metabolizers that day.

24. Ray Miller — Ninja

I bet nobody saw him finish.

25. Gilles Chatelin — Drop Bear Tamer

I’m guessing he has to tame it not to drop things.

26. David Huntley — Monkey Trainer

Could you imagine little monkey wetsuit strippers? Holy crap, nobody would want to leave T1.

27. Scott Gammonm — Mountain Man

He better have an epic beard; otherwise, I’m revoking his Mountain Man status.

28. David Eliuk — Fried Food Inventor

Whaaaat? You liar-face.

29. Mark Naphin — Ironchef

I was hoping he was an actual Iron Chef and not just an Ironman who’s also a chef. Could you imagine Morimoto doing an Ironman? It’d be intense.

30. Colin Ferguson — Knowledge Dropper

Running alongside him must be a real treat. “Odontophobia is the fear of teeth! Elephants are the only mammals that can’t jump! Are you stopping at the next aid station?”

Well, it certainly looked that way. Lieto was ahead of Craig Alexander by nearly a minute and a half with one mile to go on the run. Normally that’d be it — that’s too big a deficit to make up in such a short distance (unless the person you’re trying to catch is doing like a 10 minute mile or something). Lieto ran a 1:19 half marathon, averaging 6:03 minute miles. That is FAST…but Craig Alexander, by the grace of God, ran his final mile in like a 4:46 and beat Lieto by two heartbreaking seconds (check out the photo finish over at Ironman Boise’s website–it’s gut wrenching).

First of all, I can’t believe that after swimming 1.2 miles, biking 56 miles and running 12.1 miles, Craig Alexander was still able to bust out a sub-5 minute mile to squeak out the win. His total run time was 1:13:44, averaging a 5:38 pace. Good grief. Secondly, can you imagine how Lieto must have felt? Two weeks ago he lost to Craig Alexander and took 2nd at the Kona 70.3, and he gets win-blocked again by the same dude. I bet Lieto has made a little Craig Alexander voodoo doll and is stabbing the holy hell out of it.

Major props to both athletes. I can’t imagine biking or running that fast. They’re so hardcore.

If you’re not aware of who Team Hoyt is (you should if you do any races), they’re a father/son team who will race their 1,000th race this year. That in itself is pretty remarkable (I’ve probably done about a dozen, so I’d have to average almost 40 more races a year to hit 1,000 by the time I’m 50), but what makes Team Hoyt even more awe-inspiring is the fact that the son, Rick Hoyt, has cerebral palsy and can barely move. He communicates via a computer and has a nice job, but he’s not exactly in the best condition to lace up his shoes and go for a run. So how does he race? Well, it’s “easy,” really: Dick Hoyt, the father, tows his son in a boat when he swims, rides with him in a bike, and pushes him in a wheelchair while running.

It’s hard enough for millions of people to drag themselves out of bed and head to the gym for 30 minutes of half-ass elliptical machine cardio while flipping through a magazine, let alone have the mental drive and determination to train for a race, whether it be a 5K, a marathon, or an Ironman. Team Hoyt goes one step further — Dick Hoyt has worked twice as hard as virtually anyone you know. He’s swam 2.4 miles while towing his son. He’s hauled about 350 total lbs up steep hills on a bike. He’s run the Boston Marathon over 26 times, and his finish time pushing another human being in a wheelchair is still way better than what most of you will ever hope to run in your lifetime.

Can you imagine what Dick Hoyt’s race time would be if he were a team of one? The man is nearly 70 years old, and he’s FAST. He and his son are faster than I am and probably will ever be. I can only imagine what his full potential is when he’s not towing or pushing his son. But Dick is so unselfish and so committed to racing as a team that we’ll probably never know what his marathon time would be if he ran by himself, or what the Ironman clock would read as he crossed the finish line solo. And I bet he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Team Hoyt’s unselfishness and commitment to themselves as athletes and to others with disabilities should light that fire under your ass. You have no excuse. If you’re overweight and bemoan the fact that everyone else seems to lose lbs except you, you have no excuse. If you’ve been planning on running your first 5K but have been putting it off, you have no excuse. If you’re striving to hit a PR for your next 70.3 race but are watching TV and eating jellybeans instead of swimming, you have no excuse. Know why? Because Team Hoyt has plenty of built-in excuses, and they don’t let that drag them down. They overcome their disadvantages, sign up for those races, and kick the asses of most able-bodied, young, healthy people racing among them.

So what’s your excuse? You don’t have one. Get off your ass and work towards achieving your goal, and when you do, thank Team Hoyt for inspiring you to believe in yourself and prove to yourself that you’re strong and determined.