Jason, meanwhile, has lost a whopping 37 lbs and hopes to lose an additional 13 for the upcoming season. This is the skinniest we’ve seen each other since we started dating over seven (yeah yeah “why aren’t you guys married already lol tee hee”) years ago. He doesn’t notice the weight loss on him as much as everyone else does–his face is so much slimmer and we had to go through his entire wardrobe and weed out clothes that are now too gigantic for him to wear. I also made the mistake of buying some new jeans that are now already too loose for me outside of the post-dryer 15 minute window of snug awesomeness. It’s a good problem to have, I suppose, but not when you just plunked down money on new clothes and already don’t fit them. (BTW, I don’t have pictures of our transformation but will write a post once we’re at our goal weights and do a Maury-type “before and after,” minus the part where we bust through a paper screen image of our old fat selves).

Since Jas and I are dropping weight faster than my self-imposed deadline of June 4th, maybe it’s time to take it up a notch. Coach Mark and I discovered that we can get to Costa Rica using airline miles, so we’re possibly maybe potentially planning on traveling to Costa Rica to race the Rev 3 70.3 March 18th. Unfortunately, that means instead of having 200 days to ab up, I would now only have 117. Shit just got real.

Costa Rica would be a lot of fun, but seeing as how I’d be going with Teresa “My Abs Have Abs” Nelson and Mark “No Body Fat” Webb as well as Darin “I Literally Have a Barrel for a Chest” Smith and his gorgeous wife, I’m gonna have to be able to hold my own when it comes to the “hard body in a swimsuit” part of the vacation (which would be the majority of the trip). The pressure’s on, folks.

While I have no food allergies, I’m allergic to a ton of pollens and mildews and grasses and some pet dander (cat being the worst). I get two shots, one for cat dander and one that’s a cocktail of trees, grasses, dust mites and mildew. Right now I’m in “maintenance” mode for the cat shot, meaning I only get that shot once a month. I’m still building up the other shot though so I receive that once a week.

Yesterday I went to the medical center to receive my weekly injection. The nurse was someone I hadn’t seen before and I was less than impressed with her needlework. After a more-uncomfortable-than-usual shot, I texted Jas:

Stupid new nurse pulled the needle out at an angle. Blood ensued. Come on, junkies take more care than this.

Whenever I get a shot I have to wait around for 30 minutes afterwards to make sure I don’t have a systemic reaction from the allergens that were injected, so I wiped the blood from my arm and waited until my time was up, not knowing that the botched shot would serve as ominous foreshadowing to how the rest of my day would go.

As I was driving home, I started to feel a pain in the middle of my chest. Not like a heart attack-type pain, but like a really bad bout of acid reflux or like there was a wad of something stuck in my esophagus. By the time I got home the pain would sharply flare up every few minutes and course from the middle of my chest up to my throat. I told Jas about my discomfort and he gave me a “WTF call the doctor” look. The ensuing conversation went as follows:

Receptionist (in a bored, flat voice): “Medical Specialties.”

Me: “Hi, I just came in for an allergy shot and I think I’m having an adverse reaction.”

Receptionist (slightly less bored now): “Uh, okay, what’s your name?”

Me: “Rebecca Kelley. K-E-L-L-E-Y.”

Receptionist: “One moment.”

Abrupt silence.

Then:

Voice: “REBECCA IT’S JEAN CALL 911!”

Jean is one of the head nurses who typically administers my shots. She is very sweet and exceptionally cautious, as I came to find out from our phone call.

Me: “Whuh–”

Jean: “CALL 911 AND TELL THEM YOU’RE HAVING A SYSTEMIC REACTION! …then call us and schedule a follow up appointment, mkay?”

Me: “Uh, my boyfriend is right here, can’t he just drive me to the–”

Jean: “NO, IT COULD ESCALATE SO YOU NEED TO CALL 911!”

Me: “Well where should I go, should I go back to the UW Medical Center?”

Jean: “Whereever’sclosestI’mhangingupnowcall911bye.”

I hung up the phone and looked at Jason to relay the conversation, but considering that Jean was shouting at me in a panicked Jack Bauer state, he had heard everything and the look on his face went from “WTF” to “Jesus Christ WTF was that?!!!”

Me: “Screw it, I’m not calling an ambulance to take me half a mile. Jason, can you drive me to Swedish?”

We headed to the hospital. The pain in my chest continued intermittently and I was feeling a bit feverish. I wasn’t having problems breathing or swallowing but the pain kept getting more intense. When we got to the ER, I checked in and answered a barrage of questions from a nurse who kept trying to trick me into admitting I was some sort of misfit:

Nurse: “Do you smoke?”

Me: “No.”

Nurse: “Chewing tobacco?”

Me: “No.”

Nurse: “Alcohol?”

Me: “Uh, occasionally.”

Nurse: “Recreational drugs?”

Me: “No.”

Nurse: “Smoke?”

Me: “What? Still no.” As if she’d catch me in a lie and I’d be like, “Yes, I smoke ALL the cigarettes…oops, I mean no, I don’t smoke,” and she’d jump out of her chair and exclaim, “A-HA! I got you, you smoking fuck!”

After I got checked in and my blood pressure and temperature were taken, a nurse (who I shall refer to as “First Best Nurse”) took me to a room.

First Best Nurse: “So what happened?”

I explained that I had gotten an allergy shot and was having a reaction.

First Best Nurse: “What’s your level of pain on a scale of 0-10?”

I never know how to answer that because pain is so subjective. My 4 could be someone else’s 9 and some hardcore dude’s -7.

Me: “Uh, it’s not pants-crappingly bad, just kind of shitty.”

He laughed, then started to clean the crook of my right arm.

First Best Nurse: “They’re going to administer an IV to counteract your reaction. I’m going to put a line in and draw some blood…they’re probably not going to do anything with it but now’s the time to draw it.”

Awesome, I got to have five vials of blood drawn in the off chance that they’d need some of it for testing, cloning, demonic sacrifice, or to frame me for a crime. Yaay.

First Best Nurse hooked me up to a heart monitor and then was all “Peace out bitches, I’m out. Rico’s your nurse now” and left. (Okay, he didn’t exactly put it in those terms but he did leave.)

I sat there for a long while, the beeps of the heart monitor keeping me company. It kept annoyingly alerting that my heart rate was low (it hovered between 48-51), and after a while I wanted to punch through the screen and shout “I’m not dying I just work out a lot and have a low resting heart raaaaaate!” At one point the machine went super apeshit when my heart rate got down to 37. I expected nurses to rush in all Code Blue style with defibrillators in their hands but nobody appeared, which made me wonder what purpose the alerts even served if they didn’t actually alert anyone. The super loud alarm did scare me into producing a higher heart rate and the machine went from going crazy to returning to the annoying “Hey, your heart rate is low what’s up with that” beeps.

While I waited, Nurse Rico came in.

Nurse Rico: “So what happened?”

Me: “Uh…”

Seriously, was I going to have to give the backstory to every person who came into the room? What happened to patient charts and knowing about a situation beforehand?

I got him caught up on Chest Tightness 2011 and he took my blood pressure, entered some stuff into the computer and left. After more waiting a woman came in who I’ll refer to as Paperwork Patty.

Paperwork Patty: “Hi, I’m just here to enter some information so we can process some paperwork.”

Me: “Okay.”

Paperwork Patty: “So what happened?”

God damnit.

I summarized the ordeal again and she asked me for emergency contact information, religious preferences, and some other inane information.

Me: “Do you know when the doctor will be in? And what’s with this heart monitor making so much noise?”

Paperwork Patty: “Uh, I…don’t know. I’m not a nurse, I’ll get someone for you.”

By this time Jason was able to make his way back to my room and kept me company while we waited an eon for the doctor to arrive. She finally graced me with her presence and shall now be referred to as Dr. Shitty Bedside Manner.

Dr. Shitty Bedside Manner: “Hi there! So you’re having an adverse reaction to an allergy shot?”

Ugh, finally someone who knows why I was admitted.

Me: “Yeah.”

Dr. Shitty Bedside Manner: “Ooh, I can see that the right side of your face is swollen.”

Me: “It is?” I touched my face. “I…don’t think so.”

Dr. Shitty Bedside Manner: “Really?” She squinted at my face. I turned to Jas and he shrugged.

Me: “It doesn’t feel swollen…”

Dr. Shitty Bedside Manner: “Look at me.” She inspected my face and then frowned. “Well, some people have asymmetrical faces, maybe your right side is just naturally puffier.”

My reaction:

Seriously?

Here I was thinking that I’d lost weight and was looking kind of good lately and some shitty doctor takes it upon herself to tell me that half of my face is inherently fat. Awesome.

Dr. SBM: “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do…”

Ah, finally, the remedy. I was gonna get a shot of adrenaline or something, right? We’d recreate that scene from Pulp Fiction and it’d be all hardcore and shit.

"I gotta stab her three times?"

Dr. SBM: “We’re going to give you a dose of Benadryl and then we’ll keep an eye on you for observation.”

Me: “Wait, what?” Benadryl? Benadryl?! Nurse Jean freaked the fuck out on the phone and told me to dial 911 so I could take a dose of Benadryl?

My disappointment was akin to this:

"Be sure...to drink...your...ovaltine?"

Me: “Is it different that the stuff you buy over the counter?” Throw me a bone, doc, and tell me that it’s at least some hospital-grade industrial strength Benadryl that’s used to wipe out allergies in rhinos or something.

Dr. SBM: “Nope, it’s the same stuff you can buy at the grocery store!”

Fuck my life.

And, to add insult to injury:

Dr. SBM: “We can even give you a children’s liquid dose in case you have trouble swallowing pills.”

Me:

“Uh no, the pills are fine.” Benadryl was bad enough, but going to the ER for a dose of Children’s Benadryl? I might as well just give up on life.

Dr. SBM: Okay then, I’ll order that up for you–hey, you’ve already got a line started.”

I looked down at the line taped to the inside of my arm.

Me: “Yeah, one of the nurses drew blood and said I would be getting an IV.” (I never got one.)

Dr. SBM: “Oh! Well then, we can administer the Benadryl directly. Don’t want to waste that line!” She left the room. At least I was getting a form of Benadryl that’s not available at pharmacies. It was the barely silver lining in this shitfest of a day.

Jason popped out to call his parents and give them an update on my medical situation and Nurse #3 stepped in to take vitals.

Nurse #3: “So what happened?”

FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

Me: “Allergic reaction.”

Nurse #3: “What are you allergic to?”

Me: “Uh, dust mites, trees, pollens, grass, mildew…nothing exciting, I’m afraid.”

Nurse #3: “…oh.” He seemed a bit confused, but whatever.

He typed some information into the computer and then started to wrap the blood pressure cuff around my left arm before he noticed the swollen and puffy area where my allergy shot had been administered earlier in the day.

Me: “That’s where I got the allergy shot.”

Nurse #3: “Ohhhhh, the reaction is from a shot!”

Me: “Wha–yes! What’d you think, I was belly sliding through a park or something?” That explained the funny look on his face–he thought I rushed myself to the ER after barrel rolling through the Arboretum and feeling itchy. At this point I was getting tired of nurses and wanted out of this damn place.

He left and returned with a shot of liquid Benadryl, which he then mainlined into my arm.

Nurse #3: “This will probably take effect in about five minutes or so.”

I felt the effects immediately. (Fat Rebecca would have needed the full five minutes.) Drowsiness kicked in and I started to feel a little cloudy and cottonmouthed. Jason hung out with me for an eternity while I was kept for observation, and I was getting tired and cranky and just wanted to go home. It was a waste of a trip and I was fearful of what the hospital bill would total and what little my “Greatest Country in the World Except For This Fucked Up Health Care System” insurance would cover.

A fourth nurse (a brusque, large woman) removed my line in a rough and terrifying manner, then scooped up all five vials of my blood and threw them away. I was a bit sad to see my blood go to waste. Jason joked that I should have snatched them from her, cracked them open and drank them all, exclaiming, “They’re all mine! MY BLOOOOODDDD!!” I opted not to and instead watched her chuck my precious liquids in the disposal bin.

Finally, after waiting around forever I was cleared to go. I spent about 2 1/2 to 3 hours at the hospital and emerged pumped full of Benadryl and feeling like the whole thing was a huge waste. If I had known some freaking Benadryl would have done the trick, I wouldn’t have spent the rest of my afternoon meeting every nurse who works at Swedish and having a doctor tell me my face is fat.

The rest of my evening was spent in a semi-drowsy, puffy armed state eating pizza and watching Breaking Bad. I’m currently taking bets on how much the hospital bill will be. Whatever the total, last night I took the most expensive dose of Benadryl ever.

Right now I’m back to my Ironman Canada race weight. Huzzah! I’ve also noticed that my running has felt noticeably stronger, probably because I’m hauling less junk in the trunk. After this week’s track workout, Bridget and her mom commented on my relative speediness (which was actually an optical illusion because my friend and multiple Boston marathon runner Kirsten slowed down to run alongside me for the evening, thus making me look way faster and giving the impression that I can hang with the 3:13 marathon runner):

Karen: “You’re so fast!”

Me: “Thanks, it’s amazing how being less of a lard-butt does wonders for your running.”

Bridget: “So you have lost weight!”

Me: “Yeah, 16 lbs so far.”

Karen: “You know where I’ve noticed it? Right here!” She pats my back.

Me: “Uh, so I’ve lost back fat?!” Good lord, I knew I was a bit chunky but back fat? Really?

Bridget: “No! I think she means that you’ve got an hourglass figure now!”

At this point I stifled a guffaw. Being the boobless and hipless wonder that I am, one would not in a million years describe my figure as “hourglass” shaped. That chick from Mad Men has an hourglass figure. Salma Hayek has an hourglass figure. I am built like an Asian boy. In fact, one time at Express the salesgirl wrinkled her nose when I asked why this pair of pants I tried on looked so funny and responded with, “Um, because, like, you have no hips.” Whatever, so I don’t have a womanly body.

Today I headed to the UW Medical Center to get my weekly allergy shot so hidden evils like dust mites and pollen won’t someday kill me. While I was there, a newer nurse loaded up the syringe while my usual regular nurse, Josette the motherly African woman, popped her head in to ask a question. She noticed me sitting there, narrowed her eyes, and said in her slight accent, “Are you losing weight?”

Her tone felt like it was an interrogation more than a casual question, so I uncomfortably replied with, “Uh, yes.”

Josette: “Why?!” Now she sounded practically angry, as if I told her that I had just broken her favorite vase on purpose.

Me: “Um…I’m just…eating better?”

Josette: “But you looked good before!”

Me: “Yeah, well, I’m visiting my mom in a couple weeks so I’m hoping to escape her harsh judgment unscathed.”

Josette: “Oh you kids…you always think us parents are harshly judging you but we’re not.”

Me: “…..yeeeahhh, my mom really does. She’s Asian and brutal.”

I got my shot and sat in the waiting room for 30 minutes, then had my arm checked out by the newer nurse and was cleared to leave. On my way out, I passed by Josette, who chirped, “Bye sweetie!” Then she frowned and said, “No more.”

Me: “No more what?”

Josette: “No more weight loss!”

I laughed and got the hell out of there, figuring it was a bad idea to tell her I actually wanted to drop ten more pounds. Great, now I have a motherly figure in Seattle who’s telling me I’m too thin and one in Michigan who always tells me I’m too fat. You can never please a mom.

I’ve never been fat fat, but I get to a breaking point where my jeans don’t fit, my muffin top is starting to spill over onto Jason’s side of the bed, my increased thigh mass gets inexplicably itchy, and my arms resemble sausagey pterodactyl wings. I don’t like being in that weight window for the following reasons:

1. Race photos look worse than usual (my tri kit probably won’t look good on me when I’m skinny, but it sure as hell doesn’t look good on me when blubber is challenging the load-bearing capacity of every seam)
2. I feel worse than usual
3. I look like an ogre next to my petite female teammates, who are all “Tee hee look at my abs while I eat this lettuce leaf and race a sub-5 hour half Ironman!”
4. My mother would consider me morbidly obese
5. I race slower than usual

So far I’ve lost 11 lbs from my “Good lord you’re a chunker” fattest state. I’m currently two pounds off my “I just ate my way through Puerto Rico” weight, five pounds heavier than my Ironman Canada race weight, and 7.5 pounds heavier than my lightest weigh in last year. My goal is to pull a Costanza and take it up a notch by losing 15-20 more lbs, which would put me about 7-12 lbs lighter than last season. I’m progressing along nicely with the help of the free My Fitness Pal app, which helps track my calorie intake and burn. Seeing the numbers add up has forced me to be more mindful about what I eat. For example:

“Ugh, I don’t want to run today, I’m feeling lazy.”
*checks app*
“Aw shit, if I don’t run I won’t be able to have a hamburger bun with my lamb burger for dinner tonight.”
*sighs*
“Damnit…Jas, where are my running shoes?”

Hence “Runnin’ for the bun.” (And that lamb burger was damn good, too, courtesy of Bill the Butcher.)

Two other factors are fueling me to lose weight (other than having sexy stomach for Honu and being lean and mean for Ironman Canada next year):

1. Jason’s tracking his calories too in hopes of losing 35 lbs for Ironman Coeur d’Alene (we’ve split our races for 2012 since he thinks Idaho will offer a better “big guy” course than hot Canada, whereas I signed up for Canada again because I want the extra two months of training coming off an injured season). Losing weight is always easier when your significant other is on board to take the journey with you and support you. So far we’re both doing pretty well, making more meals at home and being more mindful of portion sizes and not eating like horrible gluttons.
2. I’m visiting Michigan October 19th, which means I’ve got 40 days to slim down to what my harsh Korean mother considers to be an acceptable weight (I don’t know what that weight is, but so far I’ve always failed). The last time I saw her I was heavier and she promptly called me out on it, referring to me as “big” and “chunky” at various points throughout the week. (Note that even when she thinks I’m fat, she still stuffs me full of food. I can’t win with that woman.)

So my first “checkpoint” of sorts will be my October trip to Michigan, then I’ll try to avoid going full-fatass during the holidays and hope I’m at a decent weight for the Seattle half marathon, then after the new year it’ll be lose or maintain, depending on where I’m at, while I train my pooch butt off for Ironman Canada. Here’s hoping I can stick to better eating habits. I know it’ll be hard since food is so glorious, but I really want to try and take this coming season seriously and stick to my workouts and diet. If I succeed, you’ll get some ab-ulous photos to drool over. If I fail, you’ll get some profanity-laced blog posts about how being skinny is overrated and that fried cheese is an overlooked training aid. Let the journey continue!

Unfortunately for me, I’ve recently made a stupid decision. Having grown tired of seeing my teammates frolic in Hawaii every June while I’m slummin’ it like a sucker in overcast, mild-temperatured Seattle, I decided to join the cool kids and race the Hawaii 70.3 in 2012. I haven’t signed up for the actual race yet, but I did book airfare so at the very least I’ll be fake-spectating while catching rays and sucking down Mai Tais as my friends suffer through the choking humidity and sweltering heat.

Then something occurred to me. Well, two things, really. First, I realized that I was going to have to get some open ocean practice swims in before the race, and that concerned me due to the fact that there were some shark attacks in the areas where some athletes were practicing last year. I’m not worried about getting gobbled up on race day since I’ll be among 1,800 other athletes, but when I’m straggling behind 10 of my teammates during a swim workout, I get the feeling Mr. Sharky would be more likely to pick off the object that’s swimming like a chubby, wounded seal instead of the fat-free fast food at the front of the pack. I’m going to have to either convince Teresa that no open ocean training is actually a great form of training (like some type of Miyagi mind-fuck) or invest in some shark repellent.

"I knew this race was a bad idea!"

The second thing I realized was that I’m pretty sure that as a female on the team, I’m not allowed to race Hawaii 70.3 under the TN brand if I don’t have visible abs — I think it’s in our athlete contract or something. For proof I submit a team picture from this year’s race:

What the hell, ladies

(The two women who are covered up are undoubtedly concealing more abdominal glory.)

I’m almost certain that if my team were to see me step off the plane in my current state, they’d take one look at my stomach and say, “Nope, you’re not representing the team in Hawaii with that belly bagel. Get your fat-dimpled ass back on that plane.” Thus I’ve got quite the conundrum on my hands.

I can’t be the only woman in these beach photos who’s letting a paunch hang out of her swimsuit. Counting from today to the Monday we fly in to Hawaii, I’ve got 278 days to lose weight, do some crunches, and finally expose these lil’ guys to the world. Can it be done? Yes, if I stop eating double meat gyros and foods that cannot be eaten without gravy. Will it be done? …well, we’ll see about that, but right now the challenge is new and exciting enough that I’m up for it. I’ve managed to drop eight pounds from my fat, injured, “screw this season, I’mma play XBox and get obese” state, which is a good start but I know I’ve got a ways to go before I reach that “Is she anorexic or terminally ill oh wait she’s just an endurance athlete never mind” physique.

I’ll continue to check in with progress updates over the next 278 days so that you guys can shame me into sticking with my goal. If I can’t make the abs happen with diet and exercise, my fallback plan is to buy them like this dude:

These will fool my teammates for sure

He instantly diagnosed me not with hamstring issues but hip flexor tightness, which is apparently affecting the hamstring as a result (the official medical explanation basically consisting of the “knee bone’s connected to the hip bone” song; medical school is overrated). Doc gave me some unfortunate stretches to do that involve splayed legs and some hip shimmies and look like I’m simulating going into labor on my living room floor, as well as a “touchdown celebration” stretch that feels weird if I’m not holding a football.

Two weeks later I returned for a follow up. My hip has felt fine for the most part but started acting up in the last couple days, and it’s been intermittently tight on runs. He checked me out and said, with a somewhat amused tone in his voice, that I have virtually no “inner lateral movement in my hips,” meaning I can rotate out fine but suck donkey balls at rotating in. He then explained that there’s a ligament from my hip down to my groin that follows the crease of where your leg meets your crotchal region (official medical term) and that mine is tight/strained. I don’t know what you actually call this area, but I refer to them as “Ken dolls” after the fact that Barbie’s boyfriend doesn’t actually have genitals, just a U-shaped indentation. Apparently the strain can occur from cycling in aero or sitting forward/hunching down too much (something I do all too often when working at my computer). Interestingly enough, this ailment plagues dentists a lot because of their constant sitting and hunching over patients’ gaping mouths (the more you knowwwwww).

Here’s what healthy Ken dolls look like:

I hate you, Bridget

Mine, meanwhile, are feeble and sad. My family has a history of jacked-up hip issues; most recently, my 37-year old brother had to have a bunch of shit cleaned out of his hips because of some congenital problem where bone is grinding on bone, and the guy will probably have to have a hip replacement surgery within the next 10 or so years. Here’s hoping my woes are simply due to tightness/strain and not something more serious.

I see the PT again next week; in the meantime, he’s added another gross stretch to the mix that involves cabinet lining, hand pressure, and awkward rotation. I’m starting to get antsy about being healthy again since I’ve mentally mapped out most of this fall and 2012’s race season, and I’m determined to bounce back and shine as brightly as a mediocre athlete can once again.

Ever since I had a taste of my first half Ironman three years ago, a big goal for me is to go sub-6 hours. I feel that it’s something I can easily accomplish. Each year I’ve continued to improve and become more familiar and comfortable with the sport. After four half Ironman races thus far, however, my personal best is a 6:29 from 2010’s hellishly windy Boise 70.3. I know that everyone was much slower that day, that I couldn’t control the weather, that I would have cycled much faster if conditions were better, that I actually placed decently in my age group. But I was focused on that time goal like Gollum’s fixation on that seemingly innocent little ring, so I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed.

Then Ironman Canada came and went and I had a race that exceeded my expectations. I would have gladly traded in every bad race or training workout that year for the day I ended up having, and after my biggest race of the season I was at an all-time high. I had just done an Ironman, for schmuck’s sake — I could do anything. No, I could crush anything. I was going to do a marathon and I was going to kill it. I was going to do a bunch of 70.3s next year and they’d all be under 6 hours. Hell, I’d be creeping up on 5:30s. I’d improve across the board and make this sport my bitch. Nothing was going to stop me.

And then, amid my marathon training, I developed Achilles tendinitis. At first it developed as a slight tightness and ache at the beginning of my runs. Then, with each step I’d take, the tightness would last a little longer. Eventually the pain kept me company throughout my entire run, but I’d stubbornly soldier on because I wasn’t going to let a little stiffness bring me down. I had just done an Ironman, damnit, and now I was going to blow my old marathon time out of the water.

That marathon never happened for me. I had to stop running completely, and as frustrating as it was to be told by my coach to eat a $140 entry fee (fucking Rock ‘n Roll and their wallet-rapingly high costs) and not race, I knew I had made the smart decision when I couldn’t even run twenty feet to cheer for Jason as he passed by without having my Achilles seize up. And so, instead of conquering a marathon and posting a 20-minute PR, I stayed off my feet and cycled through the winter.

It would be five months before I’d run again. I feared that I’d be starting at the very beginning and would be as bad as I was when I first begun running years ago. The thought of losing all my running fitness had nagged at me throughout those five months. When I did start striking pavement again, I was surprised to discover that I hadn’t slipped as far down the ladder as I’d thought. Teresa had assured me that my cycling would help keep my running strength up, and it did. But still, after a great year of runs and workouts, having to start even a few steps back was discouraging.

My running injury affected me mentally a lot more than I thought. I put on weight in the off-season and felt lethargic and weak. My swimming felt off, my running was neutered; the only thing I felt confident about was my cycling because I practically lived on my bike over the winter. By mid-June I had just started to ramp up my runs — I felt as if the season was already half over, and I had only just gotten started.

At my lowest points, I’d look up my teammates’ race results and lament that they’ve all gotten faster while I’ve been standing still. I’d compare my outdated half Ironman times to my teammates’ latest races from completely different courses and unreasonably tell myself that everyone is getting better at this sport but me. But the reality is that it’s not me against them. It’s me against me.

I’d cry on Jason’s shoulder, my thoughts heavy with doubt and my heart aching from being so irrationally worried. “You’re too hard on yourself,” he’d always tells me, and he’s right, of course. I finally confided in my coach and she called me immediately, talking me down from the ledge over the course of a nearly 40-minute phone call. She knows what it’s like to be injured. She knows what it’s like to work so hard and still not have things go your way. “Sometimes it’s just not your day,” she said. She’s right too. “You can’t compare yourself to anyone else. You have to just focus on yourself. Your day will come, I know it will.”

Embarrassment flooded me as I thought about what Teresa has gone through these past couple seasons, how her ulcerative colitis has landed her in and out of the hospital and sidelined her from enjoying her career as a professional triathlete. She loves triathlons more than anyone else does, yet she refuses to let her illness get her down or rob her of the joys and thrills of the sport, and here I am whining and feeling sorry for myself because I’ve gained ten pounds and am not improving as consistently as I expect to.

I watched my boyfriend race in Boise, and I felt ashamed once again when I saw one of my teammates, Barb, out there on the course, grinning from ear to ear and having the time of her life. She’s a lot older than me and slower, yet she doesn’t give a shit what that clock says when she crosses the finish line. To her, the simple act of racing and finishing is thrilling enough, and being healthy and active is what’s important, not beating herself up over precious minutes.

Two weeks later, I stood on the sidelines at Ironman Coeur d’Alene, cheering on my teammates who had set out to conquer 140.6 miles that day. After a long day of spectating and hollering, I watched them all roll in one by one. Some were fast, some were steady, some were slow. But it didn’t matter — the looks on their faces as they each approached the finish line reminded me why I love this sport so much. They may have had individual, private goals when they woke up that morning, but each looked just as happy and proud as everyone else when they crossed the finish.

My first big race of the season, the new Rev3 half Ironman in Portland, is on Sunday, and leading up to the event I have been plagued with a plethora of emotions ranging from doubt, fear, a lack of confidence, to indifference. I don’t know what Portland has in store for me; it’s been nearly a year since my last endurance race and over a year since my last 70.3. At this point, however, I’ve decided to stop worrying, and once I made that decision I felt as if a huge weight was lifted off me. A large part of my team will be there to race, and being a part of such a fun and encouraging group will be enough to push me to do my absolute best and try to have as much fun as possible. Whether I cross the finish line in under six hours or if it takes me closer to seven, I’ll be thankful that I’m healthy and fit enough to participate and try not to take my body for granted.

I still get down on myself, and I know that the doubt and worry will always be there, but I can at least try to control how it affects me. This week I’ve been battling an injured hamstring and a tight right shoulder, but aside from some treatments, ice/heat, and stretching, there’s nothing more I can do but hope it gets better by Sunday and deal with it if it doesn’t. That’s what this sport is all about: adapting to various problems thrown your way, be they injury, weather, mechanical issues, or mental blocks.

It’s easy to look at all the fast, fit girls on my team with their ridiculous abs and envious race finish times and try to aspire to be like them. To compare training hours and worry that I’m not doing enough each week. To look at the numbers on that scale and swear off pizza for the rest of my life. What’s difficult is constantly reminding myself that I’m only competing against myself, and I can be my greatest ally or my biggest foe. This season so far I’ve been the latter. Now it’s time to nut up, quit sulking, and remember why I got into this sport to begin with: to challenge myself, get in better shape, and to have fun. It’s time to conquer my enemy.

The workout itself wasn’t too bad, but the next day I woke up and was like, “WTF soreness, where’d this shit come from?” before pulling a Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense and thinking back to all the times I never actually interacted with anyone but Haley Joel the stupid workout I had done the day before. Between my aching body and the fact that a routine oil change turned into a $600 endeavor where I had to replace all four tires (the drawback of having an all-wheel drive vehicle), I wasn’t exactly stoked to do a track workout that evening. But what the hell, I went anyway because I’m a masochist.

My reward for showing up was a mile warm up followed by our pre-workout exercises that typically consist of ridiculous movements that resemble a short-lived 80’s dance trend. After Roger Rabbiting my way from one side to the next, Teresa then instructed us to do inchworms along the gravel-y and dirty ground. My reaction:

She wasn't, unfortunately

After I begrudgingly wormed my way across the ground and stood up, picking gravel and debris out of my palms, we were told what the workout would be. Survey says…..hill repeats! Fuck my life.

12 repeats later, I drove home and complained to an amused and resting Jas, who had a light week of workouts ahead of him after having raced Boise on Saturday. He didn’t seem very sympathetic. Bastard.

On Wednesday morning I woke up feeling less sore and thus somewhat upbeat. I had a swim lesson with Teresa where, as usual, she instructed me to change about 15 different things about my swim form, then beamed like a mother hen when one out of every nine lengths actually managed to look passably decent. I came home and worked for a bit before meeting up with a new strength trainer I found, an imposing Russian guy named Gene (whom I’ve appropriately programmed into my phone as “Gene the Russian”). He assured me that our first meeting would be a “get to know you” session where he’d assess my fitness levels and check my form. After a stupid amount of pushups, shoulder exercises, sit ups, and other movements, I left the facility thinking that this didn’t seem as “preliminary” as I was initially assured.

Today my soreness has reared its ugly head once again: my abs (shut up, they soooo exist under that permanent cushion of fat I harbor) are angry with me, my hamstrings are tight, and my shoulders are giving me the aforementioned “Are you fucking kidding me” look.  It’s taken me back to last year’s training, where I ultimately got used to being vaguely sore all the time because I was working out nonstop in preparation for Ironman Canada. This year, however, my body’s become the adult Peter Pan in Hook — it’s forgotten how to fly, fight, crow, all that crap, and it’s whining to me about being sore all over again because it’s been a while since it’s felt this way.

After Ironman Canada, I signed up to do the absurdly overpriced Las Vegas Rock ‘n Roll Marathon in December so I’d stay in shape and be able to continue training and working towards something. Unfortunately, my body was like, “What the hell, I thought you were supposed to let me rest,” and my left foot revolted by developing tendinitis. It’s probably my fault (though that foot is being a real asshole right now) because I held off on buying new shoes for so long that my old Kayanos deteriorated into something that probably came from the Derelicte fashion line.

Not wanting to shell out the usual $125 for the Asics Kayanos I usually wear because I’m tired of being perpetually broke, I opted to switch to a cheaper but comparable pair of shoes, the K-Swiss Konejo IIs. Unfortunately, by the time I got my new kicks, I was already experiencing tightness along my left shin and the outer edge of my left foot. Then my right Achilles started to get stiff during runs. Combine all that with the freak toenail (more on that later) and I was starting to feel like my body was falling apart. At least I stayed healthy during my Ironman training, but still, what a fall from grace. Three months ago I was crossing the finish line with my arms in the air and a sense of accomplishment bursting from my every pore. Now I’m chowing down on See’s chocolates and am pondering whether I can fit in a second nap before my three hour stretch of TV starts tonight (The Walking Dead, Boardwalk Empire, and Dexter make Sunday evenings super awesomesauce).

Coach T put the kibosh on running and made me go see Dr Perry. He assessed my injuries and determined that I have weak butt muscles. Apparently all that crap is connected somehow — my sad, sorry ass (which my mom refers to as my “pooch butt”) is causing tightness in some tendon that wraps down my shin and along/under my foot. He gave me my first ever acupuncture treatment and told me to foam roll, heat/ice my foot, and also gave me some super sad 80’s Jane Fonda jazzercise exercises to do, which amuse Jason to no end.

Jas is also entertained by my heating and icing process. Dr. Perry told me to fill a large bowl with hot water and a second bowl with ice water, and plunge my foot in the hot water for three minutes followed by 30 seconds in the ice water, then repeat two more times. My sympathetic boyfriend has thus taken to calling me “Bucketfeet,” despite the fact that I constantly remind him that I’m using bowls and it’s only for one foot.

Example dialogue:

Me, wearing a baggy pear of sweatpants and one of Jason’s long-sleeved t-shirts while stuffing my face with some sort of highly caloric abomination: “I’m not very womanly…”

Jas: “Awww, don’t be so hard on yourself, Bucketfeet.”

Me: “It’s bowl plus foot! Bowlfoot!”

So anyway, I’m doing all this crap for my non-Daniel Day-Lewis left foot. After my visit with Dr. Perry, I had to shell out an outrageous sum of money to see a specialist to get my toenail removed. Since I felt like getting my money’s worth, I asked him about my foot problem. The doctor’s prognosis? I have “abnormal” feet. Apparently the bottom outer edge of my feet sticks out more than most people’s.

Not my feet, obviously.

I also have a “very high arch.” He recommended getting Superfeet inserts for my shoes, which I already use. Great. So I guess the only thing to do is to continue foam rolling and not running. Teresa gave me the go ahead to run for 1:10 today to see how I’d feel, but the full marathon is definitely out of the question. I’m tossing around the idea of doing the half marathon, but since I haven’t been running much lately, I’m not sure I’ll PR, and it’s hard to get motivated to do a race knowing I could very well do much worse than expected. Blargh.

During my workout hiatus, I’ve fallen into the awesome habit of eating total crap, watching TV, and building my hand strength back up to pre-Ironman Rock Band dexterity (seriously, I used to rock the shit out of songs on Expert, and now my fingers are cramping after three songs). While I do enjoy the break from working out 16 hours a week, I can feel the restlessness and hunger start to creep back up. I’m already trying to figure out which “replacement” marathon I can do in February or March, not to mention which 2-3 half Ironman races I want to tackle in 2011 so I can finally kick some sub-6 hour ass.

I can’t wait to get back into the swing of things again. It’s weird because the grind of constant workouts definitely takes its toll, but once you take a break from it, you realize how much you’ve gotten used to pushing your body and you sort of start to miss it. Soon I’ll be back in action and on my way to working towards conquering my 2011 goals. All I have to do is heal these damn feet.

I nursed a scratchy, sore throat on Saturday and Sunday, then transitioned to a head cold complete with snot and congestion. On Tuesday I decided to nut up and went to track practice to run an easy three miles (and afterwards my legs felt as stiff as if I’d run 20), but the next day my body rewarded my efforts to get back on the exercise saddle by hitting me with a fever. Damn you, immune system. I guess that’s what I get for venturing into porta potties barefoot and for ingesting Vaseline of questionable origin.

Jason has taken advantage of my weakened state by constantly pestering me to shell out $1,200 for a community slot into Ironman Coeur d’Alene. Sample conversation:

Jason: “You’ll do sub-12 hours. I know it.”

Me, blowing my nose: “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Jason: “Yeah, I know.”

We had talked about taking next year off from full Ironman training and instead focusing on half Ironman distances, but of course all of that flew out the window once Jas found out that our friends Mark and Jeff were doing Coeur d’Alene, so now he wants to race with the cool kids. I, on the other hand, would like to actually make an attempt to save some money this year instead of pouring all of my available funds into triathlon-related expenditures. When I remind him of our pledge to be more fiscally responsible, he hangs his heads and pouts, “Yeah, I know” with a “you’re no fun” tone in his voice.

I better shake this cold soon — I’m flying to Denver for work next Monday, come back Thursday, celebrate Jason’s birthday on Friday, and fly to Miami the following Monday night to embark on our vacation to Puerto Rico. Not only would I like to be healthy for all of that, I’m getting really antsy fitness-wise and want to start training for marathon season. The only upside to this cold is that it’s put me on the “nothing tastes or sounds good” diet, so at least I’m able to counter-balance the lack of exercise by starving off extra pounds. I can’t wait to look weakened and gaunt in a bikini by the end of the month.