Truthfully, the months after Ironman Canada have been tough for me mentally as well as physically. After my crashtacular finish, I took some extra time to recover and focus on work. Unfortunately, that focus made me realize how unhappy I was at my new job, and that realization caused a lot of stress and headaches through fall and winter. I’ve noticed this in past seasons: my happiness levels in my personal life greatly affect my success in training and races. Whenever there’s a big imbalance, my motivation suffers and my training swiftly circles down the shitter.

So this past fall and winter have been somewhat difficult for me as I struggled to keep it together professionally and drove Jason crazy with typical Quarter Life Crisis freak out laments:

Me: “All of our friends our age have ‘grown up’ but us! We should be grownups!”

Jason: “What the hell does that mean?”

Me: “I don’t know, we should travel more! Or buy a house! We should get married soon! When should we have kids?!”

Jason: “So, to be clear, you think we should buy a house but still travel the world, but we should get married first and crap out a few kids? Before the house and travel stuff or after?”

Me: “I DON’T KNOWWWW HOW DO GROWN UPS DO THIS?! I need a better job! One that makes me happy! Should I open a Roth-IRA? What the hell is a Roth-IRA? I need to train for a marathon! Everyone on our team is getting faster and having an awesome season and I’m getting fatter and slower by the day! Can we get a dog? I really want a dog! I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M SAYINNNGGGGGG!!!!”

I was depressed. I isolated myself from my friends and training buddies because I wasn’t in a good mental place and because my heart wasn’t into exercising or being social. While Jason has been enjoying trail racing and is successfully training for an upcoming 50 mile ultramarathon, I was drowning in despair, ignoring workouts and replacing anything remotely active with eating and sleeping.

It got bad enough to the point where Jason and I discussed whether I should seek out professional help and talk to a therapist about some of the things I had been struggling with lately. We both agreed that something needed to change — I had not been myself for several months, and every aspect of my life was being negatively affected. Jason missed his stubborn yet goofy and fun girlfriend, and I missed me, too.

But much like Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, I endured a mile of shit and darkness and finally emerged into the light. I found a new job, which I’ll officially start on the 15th, and I was able to head into my vacation in St. Croix less stressed out and feeling optimistic and excited for the first time in months. My new gig brings me back to my startup roots, an environment I really enjoy and thrive in, and has me working with smart, passionate people. Plus, one of my bosses has done several Ironman races, so he understands my kooky hobby enough not to raise an eyebrow when I ask for the occasional day off so I can subject myself to ridiculous feats of endurance.

Speaking of St. Croix, packing for the trip resulted in some mixed emotions. I wasn’t thrilled to play the “Let’s see what summer clothes Fat Rebecca fits into” game (the answer: Not Much), and there have been a few moments where I felt a twinge of regret and depression over not racing alongside my friends and boyfriend. But being able to recharge this week and enjoy the warm (hot) weather and pretty ocean views combined with doing some fun runs with my coach and good friend, Teresa (I’ve forgotten how much I love “rabbing” [run-gabbing] with her), and tracking/rooting for my teammates who spent the day racing at Wildflower and Ironman St. George 70.3 has gotten me really excited to return to Seattle and truly focus on getting healthy and fit again.

I know, I know, I’ve been threatening to get back on the horse a lot this season, but I mean it this time, I swear! I’m in a much better place mentally and personally, so I really think I’ll be able to make this “training” crap stick this time. In fact, I’ve got a multi-tiered plan I’ll soon be enacting once I touch back down in the Emerald City:

1. First on my agenda is finally picking a damn marathon and registering for it. I’ve got two in mind, both of which are early September, giving me plenty of time to run my sort-of-big-now ass off.
2. Second is getting back on the healthy eating bandwagon. Not only will my clothes start to fit again, my running will improve since I’ll be hauling less lard around. Plus, I’ll feel better about myself, so yaay for that.
3. Third is starting up strength training again. I’ve lost a decent amount of fitness and want to strengthen up some areas again. Since I work a desk job and gaze at a computer all day, I tend to have some hunched shoulders and weak back issues, so if I don’t incorporate some semi-regular strength workouts, my body definitely suffers.
4. Fourth is going to the doctor to see what the eff is wrong with my elbow. Ever since my epic Von Tripp at Von Trapps, my left elbow has been hurting. The World’s Most Embarrassing Elbow Injury Ever has hindered the very little swimming I’ve done and it could impact my strength training, so I’ve got to get that sumbitch checked out.
5. Finally, I’m excited to take a look at my 2014 race options and see what interests me. I’m starting to build up my base now so I can hopefully take next season back behind the middle school and get it pregnant. I’m thinking another full Ironman is in the cards — maybe Wisconsin, but we’ll see.

So there you go, that’s what’s kind of being going on inside the head of this Mediocre Athlete. It’s been a somewhat ugly end of 2012/beginning of 2013, but hey, you can’t rise above and beyond if you don’t start out at the bottom. I’m feeling really optimistic and positive about the rest of my season, and I’m looking forward to starting my new job and taking on my new training with a renewed vigor and enthusiasm.

And then my BFG, who has always been a strong runner despite his height and his size, told me he was going to train for the Portland Marathon and try to qualify for Boston. He had run a handful of marathons, each time improving from the last, but for his age group he’d have to qualify with a 3:05 or faster. Jason, who’s always been a more dedicated and more focused athlete than me, hit all his workouts, dropped some weight, and showed up to the start line on a cool, sunny Portland morning looking slim and fit and ready to run his ass off for 26.2 miles. He crossed the finish line in 2:57, earning not only his spot at Boston but a much-admired place in the “Sub-3 Hour Marathon” club.

I was inspired. Jason had just shed 22 minutes off his previous best marathon time. He encouraged me to try to qualify too, that I could get there with a little bit of dedication and perseverance. He even promised to not register for the 2013 Boston Marathon and wait until the 2014 signup opened up so we could register together if I were to qualify. So I made my 2013 season goal to run a marathon and hopefully be fast enough and in great enough shape to stamp my ticket to Boston.

My training, however, has been frustratingly intermittent. I’ve been depressed. Stressed. Lazy. Gluttonous. Unfocused. I’ve threatened to sign up for three different marathons and bailed each time, never feeling quite “ready” to commit to a specific race. So my goal of running a BQ marathon, or even a PR marathon, has slowly been slipping through my fingers. I thought to myself, “Well, maybe another year. There’s always another year. 2014 won’t be so special.”

And then, later that Monday morning, my Twitter feed lit up with news. Scary news. Terrible news. Heartbreaking news. There were two explosions near the finish line at the Boston Marathon. People were hurt. Limbs were lost. Deaths were reported. I sat at my desk, dumbfounded. I IM’d Jason, who I had been chatting with about the men’s finish earlier that morning. He responded with, “What? Are you serious?” As cruel a joke as that would have been, I wish I weren’t.

I left work feeling sick, distraught, concerned. Wondering, as I always wonder during large-scale tragedies such as this one, what kind of human being would do something like this to his fellow man. My heart aching for the runners and spectators who were injured, for the family members who lost a loved one, for the victims who were probably runners themselves, now faced with a future where their favorite hobby will forever be altered due to injuries or amputations or psychological damage.

But what saddened (and angered) me most of all was this comment from a witness who was interviewed by CNN:

“I personally will never participate in an event of this nature in a city in fear that something like this could happen again,” she said. “I keep replaying the moments of terror over and over in my head and am just still in utter shock. Always seeing terrible things of this nature happen all over the world on TV, my heart would always go out to those directly affected. But I never imagined in a million years I would be a spectator at the Boston Marathon running for my life.”

Of all the races I’ve participated in, either as an athlete or a spectator, from the past several years, I never once thought, “Hey, with this large a crowd in a publicly accessible, outdoor space, we’re really vulnerable to an attack.” But it makes sense, if you think about it. Just as it makes sense to attack a mall at Christmastime, the security line at an airport, or Times Square on New Year’s Eve. If you’re intent on hurting a large crowd of people, you’ll find an event where the numbers will align in your favor.

The truth is, something bad could happen to us at any given moment. We could get hit by a car while cycling, catch a stray bullet as we cross the street, or happen to be too close to a bomb that was planted in hopes of harming as many strangers as possible. But this scary reality, that we are all mortal and that the world is a sometimes frightening place inhabited by angry, unstable individuals who want to hurt others for no discernible reason, is usurped by two other, stronger realities:

1. There are more good people on this planet than bad people.
2. You only get one life to live. Make it count. 

This woman’s quote saddens me because she is going to let this outlier of an event, as terrible and as devastating as it was, define her. She is going to let it victimize her. She is going to let fear overrule her, which is the intent of the attacker(s). Terrorism’s goal is not to kill a handful of citizens and wound others. Its ultimate purpose is to have a single event instill fear and uncertainty into millions of people, to plant and grow a seed of anger, resentment, bigotry, racism, and inequality. To break apart our beliefs and our faith, our hopes that the human species is, more often than not, good and kind and sympathetic to one another. For this woman who is now afraid of spectating or racing, terrorism has won.

I refuse to be governed by fear or bullied by a single act of cowardice and hatred. It is a disservice not only to my core values and beliefs, but to the victims of the Boston Marathon bombings. This tragedy was horrifying, yes, but it is also an outlier. Countless races have been organized and executed with the biggest issue being chintzy medals or running out of a popular t-shirt size. And countless more races will be organized and executed safely. If you swear off attending or racing an event out of fear of being attacked, who knows, the next day you could leave your house and get hit by a car on your way to work. Every day is a gamble, but if you live the rest of your life in fear of what may or may not happen to you, you’re not living a life at all.

Next year I will be in Boston to cheer for my boyfriend and for my teammates who will be racing. Or maybe I’ll be running myself, having qualified this summer to earn a spot at the starting line. My dream I once dismissed as being unattainable is more alive than ever, my dedication to try my best even stronger because racing will mean something more now, something deeper and heavier than I ever imagined. The mood at the race next year will be somber, but also hopeful and celebratory. Participants will be running not only for themselves, but for Monday’s victims. Spectators will stand strong, united in their unwillingness to let this year’s atrocities overwrite 116 years of tradition and pride. They will not be afraid to watch, nor to run. Neither will I. And neither should you.

After work, I met some industry colleagues at a bar in Pioneer Square for a happy hour beer (one pint of Blue Moon at about 5:30 or 6:00 pm). From there we headed over to Capitol Hill for our dinner reservation at Barrio, a trendy Mexican restaurant. I arrived at 7:30 and nursed a somewhat unpleasant-tasting margarita, throwing in the towel about 3/4th of the way in because somehow the drink managed to become both cloyingly sweet and butt-puckeringly bitter. Content to stick with water, I then focused on unhinging my jaw and inhaling a tostata appetizer, queso fundido, superhuman quantities of guacamole and salsa, and a shredded pork taco platter. The rest of the table at this point was at a ratio of at least four drinks to my 1.75, but since everything had been spread out over the course of four hours, nobody was wasted or hammered, least of all me.

When dinner concluded, the group wanted to head to Von Trapp’s down the street and meet some of their coworkers there for a couple beers. Since my food baby felt stronger and healthier than ever, I had no desire whatsoever to add another drink to the Mexican fiesta cha cha-ing in my belly, but I was curious to check out the new bar since I’d read and heard a lot of hype about the place. I tagged along, figuring I’d sneak a quick peek before calling it a night and going home.

Von Trapp’s, the new German bar in Capitol Hill

The first thing I noticed about Von Trapp’s is that it is friggin’ huge. Like supermarket huge. It was also packed to the brim, extremely loud, and uncomfortably warm. We made our way to the bar and found the group of coworkers knocking back some beers. Someone offered to buy me a cold one but I politely declined, patting my food baby and saying I had no room for anything else. I had a quick chat with one of the guys from dinner before excusing myself to find the bathroom…AND HERE’S WHEN MY EVENING TURNED INTO THE MOST CLICHE SITCOM EVER.

Since this place was so gigantic I’d have better luck stumbling into Switzerland and belting out “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” than finding the bathrooms, I asked the hostess (or waitress, or whatever) to point me in the right direction.

“I couldn’t find the bathrooms so I’ll just twirl in this field instead.”

She gave me instructions but because the place was dim and I was feeling disoriented from the combination of the noise, feeling overheated, and my Mexican food baby, I ended up walking to a section of tables to the right of the bathrooms instead. Realizing my error, I turned around, tripped, and fell. I think there may have been a ramp or something, which led to this equation:

Sloped floor + booties with a small heel + my complete lack of any semblance of grace or balance =

Becca fall down, go boom

I sat in a heap, feeling embarrassed, when the same hostess or waitress noticed me and asked if I was okay. I sprang up and forced out an overly chipper, “YeahIjusttrippedsorry,” then looked for an escape from the roughly 200 sets of semi-drunk hipster eyes that were now fixated on me.

I noticed a corridor and headed towards it. Hanging either from the ceiling or at the top of the wall was a sign that read “BATHROOMS.” Success! I can now sequester myself into a stall and hide in there until I can figure out a way to teleport home without Walk of Shame-ing past the dozens of patrons who just saw me eat shit.

My eyes fixated on the “BATHROOMS” sign, I took a few steps and promptly tripped again, this time over a gigantic goddamn mop bucket I hadn’t noticed was in my way because I was being tractor beamed towards the top of the wall where the sign hung.

“Who’s dumb enough to miss a bright yellow mop bucket,” you ask? *raises hand*

Stumble #2 hurt like a motherfucker, probably because I just Terry Tate’d a big-ass bucket. I lay sprawled on the floor, wincing at the pain flaring up in my left elbow and buttcheek, when I noticed several employees and an embarrassingly large number of patrons staring down at me.

One of the male employees asked me, “Are you having a seizure?!”

My reaction:

Seriously?

Am I having a seizure?!! If I were, does this guy really expect me to say, “As a matter of fact I am. Would you be so kind as to call an ambulance and make sure I don’t swallow my tongue in the interim? Cheers, mate!”?

Feeling flustered, angry, and 20 times more embarrassed than Fall #1, I shot back, “No. I’m not having a seizure. I tripped…why am I sitting in a puddle…”

The employee, barely hiding the look of disgust on his face, responded, “You knocked over a mop bucket.” Oh right. I realized that not only had I taken out a mop bucket, it was a full mop bucket, and I was now half-drenched in liquid floor grime, stale beer, and who knows what else.

My reaction:

At this point, everyone in my immediate vicinity was staring at me like I was Dennis Hopper in Hoosiers when he showed up drunk to the basketball game and made a total ass of himself. The waitress/hostess, figuring I was either mentally handicapped or drunk out of my mind or both, physically escorted me to the bathroom like a preschool teacher helping a toddler. I muttered a thanks and immediately sequestered myself in the handicap stall so I could die a thousand shame deaths in immediate succession.

I cleaned myself up as best I could and made my way back to my group of friends. Sheepishly, I told them about my stumbles and how I had accidentally tackled a mop bucket. They laughed pretty hard and were making “Better call Saul” jokes about suing the bar for having equipment in my way (nobody was serious, though this country is very litigation-happy) when one of the employees I recognized as staring down at me after Fall #2 walked up and said, “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Dumbfounded, I asked, “For tripping?”

He said, “Close out your tab, say goodbye to your friends, and please leave the premises.”

“I don’t have a tab,” I responded. “I’ve been here five minutes and I didn’t order anything or even drink anything. I was making my way to the bathroom and tripped.” My friends backed up my story — they had been with me all evening and knew I had consumed less than two drinks over a four-plus hour period.

“Okay, but you fell like five times,” he countered.

“Oh for crying out–it wasn’t five times.”

“Well, I heard it was two or three times. We can’t let you stay here. I’ll let you say goodbye to your friends.” And with that he left to resume checking IDs at the front door.

I looked around. Staff were staring at me and shaking their heads like that end scene from Cruel Intentions where all the students find out how bitchy and coked out Sarah Michelle Gellar’s character actually is. “Bittersweet Symphony” immediately cued up in my head.

It was basically this scene minus the secret cocaine crucifix.

My friends were dumbfounded but also impressed that I managed to get kicked out of a bar not because I was drunk, but because I was clumsy. We all had a good laugh and I said my goodbyes, but I was still feeling incredibly embarrassed when I left.

The dude working security stopped me on my way out and I chatted with him a bit. He quickly realized I was indeed sober and apologized.

“I’m sorry, you just looked, uh…”

I laughed and said, “I know, I’m just a huge klutz.”

“You know how it is, it just looks bad for the establishment if something like this happens and we keep serving alcohol to that person.”

I understood. We talked a bit more, and once he was convinced I wasn’t a complete spazz, he extended his hand, introduced himself as Nate, and invited me to come back to Von Trapp’s another time for a less embarrassing experience. “I’ll buy you a beer,” he promised. I thanked him and left.

After I got home, one of the first things Jason said to me was, “Ugh, you stink like bar.” I corrected him and said the discerning odor he smelled was actually dirty mop water and he practically shoved me into the shower. (My clothes and coat made their way to the hamper.) At first he was mad at me because he thought I had done a repeat of the Honu “sun, drinks, and faint” ordeal when I told him I had been feeling overheated and flustered at the bar, but I told him I wasn’t drunk or dehydrated and chalked up my tripping to just being an incredibly awkward human being. (It didn’t take much convincing — the number of times he’s laughed at me for having “fumble fingers” and dropping something, tripping, running into walls, slipping, and generally being the least graceful person he’s ever met are pretty much untrackable at this point.)

I tried to put the evening behind me, but this morning I woke up to a bruised left knee and elbow, a sore buttcheek, and a cringe-inducing recollection of last night’s events. My inbox already had emails from my friends with the subject line “We spoke to the bouncer — you’ve been cleared of all wrongdoing!” and jokes that they’ll never look at a mop bucket the same way again. And despite Nate the Bouncer’s invite, I think it’ll be a while before I’m brave enough to show my face at Von Trapp’s again any time soon — half the employees still probably think I was blitzed out of my mind, and anyone who was drinking there last night likely has a pretty good story about the “sloppy drunk chick who kept falling over and was forced to leave” (I WASN’T DRUNK I’M JUST NOT AN ABLE-BODIED PERSON). Fortunately, the embarrassment has somewhat subsided and I’m chuckling at what a hot mess I am. If I’m this clumsy at 29 years old, I can’t imagine what 30 will look like.

My pace was slow but steady, and I settled into a decent groove, enjoying the crisp air that was warm enough to warrant running in a t-shirt, yet chilly enough so I wouldn’t overheat. I quickly zoned out into my “zen mode,” where I let the stresses of the day dissolve and let my thoughts wander to and from any number of topics. I used to run with my old iPod “Classic,” but after I left that bad boy on a plane, I got used to running without music and just let my inner monologue keep me company.

I trudged on, totally zonked out, and soon approached the Pagliacci on 10th and Miller. I was staring straight ahead down the sidewalk and wiping some sweat off my nose when I noticed someone standing off to the side. I’m not sure if he was waiting for a bus or getting ready to cross the street, but when he saw me his face lit up and he shot his hand up in the air. Confused, I focused on him and my brain, thinking this guy knew me, searched its reserves for a name. Who is this dude? Is he a TN Multisports teammate? Have I worked with him?

Brain: “Scanning for recognition…scanning…scanning…scanning…”

Me: “…well? Do I know him?”

Brain: “…scanning…”

Me: “Ugh, brain, you are the worst.”

Brain: “Don’t rush me! You’ve got a lot of useless shit in here. Do you really need to know the theme song to The Golden Girls?”

Me: “I don’t need your judgment. And I will not thank you for being a friend right now because you’re seriously letting me down here. How the hell we got through college is beyond me.”

Brain: “Whatever…anyway, yeahhhh, we don’t know this guy.”

After finally establishing I did not know this man who was standing on the sidewalk with his hand outstretched, I hesitated, not exactly comprehending what he wanted from me. My eyes flickered up to his hand, which he held rigid, and he exclaimed, “You rock!”

And then I realized that all this dude wanted was to high-five me because I was out running. I smiled, smacked his hand with mine, and shouted, “Thanks!” As I ran off, he called after me, “You’re doing great!” and I grinned all the way down the street.

Of course, as I replayed the scene back in my head, my warm fuzzies gave way to intense neurotic shame as I remembered one crucial detail:

I scratched my nose to wipe the sweat away, then I used that same hand to high-five him.

OH CRAP, HE THINKS I PICKED MY NOSE AND THEN WIPED IT ON HIS HAND!!!

HE IMMEDIATELY REGRETTED OFFERING ME THAT HIGH-FIVE, I KNOW IT

I AM A DISGUSTING HUMAN BEING!!!

I MUST SEQUESTER MYSELF IN MY HOME AND NEVER RUN OUTSIDE AGAIN OUT OF SHAMEEEEEEE

And then I couldn’t stop thinking about this scene:

So for the remainder of my run, my emotions alternated between feeling happy over a stranger’s random act of awesomeness and embarrassed by the potentially misunderstood nose itch. But ultimately, my happiness edged out over the shame (barely), so I wanted to author an open letter to the Guy Standing in Front of the Pagliacci on 10th:

Dear Guy Standing in Front of the Pagliacci on 10th,

A few things:

1. You’re a handsome dude. I have an awesome boyfriend though, so I shall not be hitting that any time soon (well, anything other than the outstretched hand).
2. Your spontaneous decision to high-five me during what was otherwise a mundane run really made my day, especially since I’ve been feeling slow, chunky, and unmotivated lately.
3. The world needs more people like you in it.
4. Thank you.
5. Also, that was totally a nose itch and not a snot rocket or a booger hunt. Please believe me. Admittedly, I’ve done much grosser things in front of people (like peeing through my tri shorts or accidentally shooting snot rockets onto teammates), but I own up to these disgusting acts, damnit.
6. Anyway, thanks again. You’re a cool guy, and I hope good karma finds its way back to you soon.

Cordially,

This Mediocre Athlete

Anyway, without dragging it out any further, I’m just going to come right out and say it:

I’m having a food baby.

Like I said, this wasn’t really planned at all, but when you spend September through January gorging on various delectable treats with insufficient exercise to balance things out, you end up incubating a little food fetus. It’s hard to say exactly what makes up this little miracle, but if I had to guess I’d wager it’s comprised of pizza, pad thai, ice cream, nachos, Moscow Mules, burgers, and an irresponsible amount of poutine.

I’m already starting to show and none of my pants fit. This little guy is growing so fast! My resting heart rate has gotten higher and I’m easily winded during simple workouts, which goes to show how much bigger my food paunch is getting each day. Jason has been such a rockstar, bringing home carryout whenever I have cravings. He’s doing his part to make sure this burrito baby is being taken care of.

The pregnancy hasn’t felt that long, but looking back I realize it’s been almost six months since Ironman Canada. Time sure does fly when you’re eating like a fat-ass, doesn’t it? But as proud as I am of my growing bundle of bulge, I’m not sure I can continue incubating it much longer. In fact, I may need to give him up for adoption. I just don’t think I’m ready to carry this responsibility long-term. There are so many races I want to do, so many bikinis to wear, so many skinny jeans to yank on.

So as exciting as this time is for me, I’m afraid it can’t persist for much longer. It’s been a great six months, Food Baby, but you’re gonna have to go. If anyone’s interested in adopting a 15-lb bundle of joy from me, that would be really great. The deadline for this offer is before I go to St. Croix in May. Make sure you give Gordo a good home, because this little dude has overstayed his welcome.

The first time around, I was training for a December marathon and ended up getting injured with Achilles tendinitis. With running removed from my fitness equation, I became unmotivated and depressed, packing on weight and working on my TV tan. My 2011 season was uneventful, and I vowed to crawl out of my bunker and bounce back with a fantastic 2012.

My 2012 season was mostly fantastic–I slimmed down, improved in all three disciplines, and had some great race PRs (and even podium’d at a couple races thanks to being a big fish in a tiny pond). As with 2010, this time I promised to keep the momentum going and segue into another fit season where I’d be even slimmer and faster than ever before…

…and here I am, unmotivated, tired, unfocused, chubbier. I had plans to aggressively train for a marathon in January in hopes of qualifying for Boston after my BFG managed to qualify for the 2014 race at Portland. That January race got pushed to February as my training became more and more inconsistent, and now it’s postponed to sometime this summer. I read my teammates’ status updates about all of the great workouts they’ve been doing lately and ask myself why I feel less energetic than them, why I’m struggling to find motivation after having the grit and determination to push myself to complete an Ironman while injured.

I wonder if I’m less “tough” than my seemingly superhuman friends who can easily bust out one, two, or even three Ironman races a year. I struggle to understand why I feel depressed and lethargic at the end of every season while others seem to bounce back quickly, always happy to train for their next big race. I make lofty goals but drag my feet when it comes to getting started. It’s been a confusing few months where my body and my brain battle against each other for supremacy.

It’s not that I’ve not enjoyed my time off from constantly training and exercising. My race season started back in March, after all, and it didn’t conclude until the end of August. As such, I’ve greatly enjoyed the copious amounts of eating and drinking the past four months, though I’ve not enjoyed gaining 18 lbs from my most svelte state (about 10 lbs since Ironman Canada). But I always marvel at those who spring out of bed after just a couple short weeks of rest and are ready to get back in action while I still feel somewhat lost and unfocused for 2013.

Maybe 2012 was harder on me, both physically and mentally, than I thought. Maybe I needed this extra time off to truly fully recover as I tried to restore a sense of balance to my home and professional life instead of tipping my focus in triathlon’s favor so heavily. Maybe I’m having a full-on Jessie Spano caffeine pill freakout now as I try to organize home projects, find happiness and satisfaction at work, figure out this whole “living like a grown up” thing, and hit all my workouts. (Side note: how the hell do you folks with kids juggle all this shit? I can barely take care of myself on a regular basis, let alone a brood of rugrats.)

I talked to Coach T about my post-Ironman blues and she assured me that it doesn’t just happen to me, that despite the fact that I oftentimes feel like the only person in the world who’s struggling, it’s common for other athletes (both mediocre and elite) to feel this way. So we adjusted my schedule in an effort to ease back into the swing of things without buckling under the weight of goals that may seem too lofty in my current state of fitness.

Right now the only race on my radar is Ironman St. Croix 70.3, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely thrilled about it given the fact that I’m currently large and not-at-all in charge. It’s going to be hot, humid, and challenging. The Beast may very well kill me. And I shudder at the mental image of me in a bikini right now. But I have four months to train for it, and as long as I believe in myself and start focusing now, I should be okay come race day. Whether or not I PR remains to be seen, but right now I’m trying to scale back on the amount of Asian Mom Pressure I’m piling onto my own shoulders.

After that, my season is pretty much up in the air. I’d really like to try to finally run a respectable marathon, and I think I do have it in me to qualify for Boston if I train hard and stay motivated. But maybe I need to ease out of my funk instead of get abruptly yanked out of it. To do that, I’ve started dabbling in some activities that will help me get back on board the Fitness Train and reintroduce the “fun” element into my training (like trail running, and maybe I’ll give hot yoga a try again, although this time I’ll skip the carpeted Swamp of Sadness location). Because for me, I’m more successful with my fitness when I’m training for something, an end goal vs. just doing it to be healthy. But there’s a fine line between training for something and feeling accomplished and getting burned out from feeling like I’m training all the time and not having fun doing it.

For the past four months I’ve felt burned out, but I’m ready to start having fun again. Here’s hoping 2013 contains exactly that.

*Note*: I had to republish this post after my hosting company accidentally ate it. I was able to recover the content but not the comments, so apologies for the comment graveyard (I had a bunch for this post, so losing them sucks donkey nuts).

Of course, by run “with” Jason, I mean “trudge far, far behind him” because he ran a 2:57 marathon in October and I have gained back a demoralizing chunk of the weight I lost earlier this year and have been intermittent with hitting my workouts lately. Nonetheless, I knew this excursion would make Jason very happy so I tagged along to tackle a 2 1/2 hour run in the wilderness. As far as trail running goes, I’ve only ever run at Cougar Mountain and Discovery Park (which isn’t really difficult trail running, but it does involve a lot of stairs), so I’m still a bit of a trail running noob. I do enjoy running on trails, though–I feel like a kid again, splashing through muddy puddles and trying to hurdle logs–so I’m making a half-ass New Year’s Resolution to do some more trail running in 2013.

Unfortunately, I hate trail running just as much as I’m starting to enjoy it. It’s fun to feel like a child again, but I often forget how stupid and hard trail running can be. In Squak Mountain’s case, since I’ve been feeling down about feeling chunkier and less active lately, what better way to feel supremely dejected about how much fitness I’ve lost since Ironman Canada than to wheeze my way up a goddamn mountain at an average pace of 15 minutes/mile? Seriously, this mountain’s elevation profile is dumb. There were some hills so steep that I resorted to walking them since my walking pace was no slower than my sad attempt to jog. Jason, naturally, gazelled across the trail with his 8 ft long legs while I stub-legged a sad trot behind him, my heart rate in zone 4.

I briefly thought of murdering my athletic, chipper boyfriend on numerous occasions as he’d make empty promises to me like “Take this left up here and it flattens out, I promise.” We’d take the left and climb a bunch more while he scratched his head and tried to figure out which flat part he was trying to remember as I glared hate daggers into his back. Or when he said it was really pretty at the top but failed to inform me that the last 0.5 miles were a steep-ass grade covered in frost and snow that I could not remotely run up. When I reached the summit I expected to see something grand like a majestic elk who would congratulate me on my impressive feat and crown me Queen of the Mountain, but instead there were some electrical towers and a lady eating a chunk of cheddar cheese out of a plastic bag. (I was really, really jealous about the cheese.)

We turned around to head to the car, except my navigationally challenged boyfriend couldn’t exactly remember where we had parked, and I had been aimlessly following him the whole time so I didn’t know where the hell we were, so we ended up running out of the park and looping back to our car by cutting through a couple neighborhoods. He asked if I wanted to tack on an extra 10 minutes to make it 2:45 and I refrained from punching him in his tall stupid face, saying only “No, I would not like to run an extra 10 minutes, a miserable 10 miles in 2:35 is enough for me, thank you.”

When we got home, I discovered a huge welt shaped like a grotesque smiley face on my left knee, a souvenir of the giant slippery log I tried (and failed) to hop over. After showering and inhaling corn dogs, pizza, and cookies, I peeked at my new Garmin’s elevation profile for my run and chuckled:

You are so dumb, Squak Mountain, fo realz.

I covered almost 3,400 feet of elevation gain in a little over 10 miles. Although I was alternating between feelings of elation and misery yesterday and despite my sore abs and aching quads today, when Jason asked if I’d ever like to do an ultramarathon, I managed to only vomit in my mouth a little bit and optimistically said sure, maybe in 2014. After I do the following, of course:

• Slim back down!
• Conquer the Beast in St. Croix!
• Train for a marathon and hopefully qualify for Boston!
• Run the Boston Marathon!
• ???
• Profit Ultramarathon!

*Note*: I had to republish this post after my hosting company accidentally ate it. I was able to recover the content but not the comments, so apologies for the comment graveyard.

So you’ve got the faux-pig triathletes who are all “Tee hee, I ate so much yesterday” and then you found out it was something bullshit like an extra helping of quinoa or farro or some other dumb grain that sounds made up. And on the opposite end of the spectrum you’ve got lean, stringy-looking endurance athletes who you know are fast just by glancing your fat eyeballs upon their striated, beef jerky-esque frame, and those folks are so uninterested in food that sometimes they “forget to eat” and only do it because their bodies need sustenance. Forget to eat?! Who does that??? When I’m eating, I think about other food I want to eat, and when I’m not eating, I think about all the food I can’t wait to eat. I love food so much. Soooooo much.

I consider myself an equal-opportunity food lover, meaning I’m just as willing to drop a few hundred bucks at a Michelin star restaurant as I am to gorge myself at the sketchy cash-only taco truck parked behind a Home Depot. Despite being a mega-huge carnivore, I’ll also be a good sport and hit up vegetarian or vegan places with my friends. (Though the last time I did that, I promptly came home, picked Jason up, and drove to get meat-filled deep dish pizza. Deep dish pizza is muy tasty.) I’m willing to try pretty much anything, whether it’s foo-foo holistic or offal-tastic.

However, some of the stuff my teammates insist on passing off as real food has me unconvinced. Some examples:

1. Kale Chips

They’re just like potato chips except not at all!

Everyone seems to be on this kale chip kick lately. “Mmm, they’re sooooooo good! They really satisfy my craving for real potato chips!” I’ve had kale chips before and they’re alright, but I have to point out a couple things:

1. They are absolutely not a substitute for actual potato chips. Real potato chips are delicious. Kale chips are dried pieces of kale. These two are not remotely the same thing.
2. Only eat these if you’re sitting at home by yourself, because dark green flecks get shoved in every possible tooth crevice you can imagine, thus killing any socialization efforts at a party or your chances of getting laid if you’re on a date. Nothing says “Please don’t interact with me” like a wad of crusty kale hanging outcho toof.

2. Cottage Cheese

Mmm, wallpaper paste.

Sorry, I don’t eat ceiling spackle. I don’t care how much you trowel into half a cantaloupe. It’s the one cheese I won’t touch because it’s not actually cheese, it’s the stuff that gets sucked out of Kim Kardashian’s saddlebags.

3. Anything That’s a Poor Substitution for Something Else

Sorry folks, it doesn’t hit the spot.

Looking at some Runner’s World recipes, I’m seeing “Chicken Not Pie” instead of chicken pot pie and “Grilled Turkey Salisbury Steaks,” which I’m guessing is a poor substitution for actual Salisbury steak. Turkey doesn’t taste like beef, it tastes like turkey. I get that it’s lower in calories than beef, but don’t try to dupe me by saying it’ll quell my craving for cow. If I want a cheeseburger, I’m not going to pick up a turkey burger and go “Mmmm, that really hit the spot!”, I’m going to eat it and be all, “Well that was okay but where the hell is my fucking cheeseburger?”

4. Pureed Soups

That’s it?

I love me some soups, but if I can’t chew it, it’s not a full meal unless your jaw is wired shut and you’re tired of drinking Ensure all the time. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll slurp down a textureless soup as a starter, but if you try to shove a bowl of creamy parsnip soup in front of me and pass it off as a main course, I’ll bare my underutilized teeth to rip your ear off. (I’ll make an exception if I have roughly 1,000 calories’ worth of crusty bread and butter to work with because moppin’ is totally different. As I’ve told Jason countless times, moppin’ constitutes a meal.)

5. Mung Beans

Dude. No.

Does that sound like something remotely edible? The word “mung” should never be used when naming food. Ever.

6. Anything “Guilt-Free”

“Guilt-free” and “comfort” are oxymorons.

It’s “guilt-free” because all of the delicious stuff has been pared down or omitted. All of the flavor lies in guilt. Guilt is a tasty, tasty word.

7. Turkey Bacon

Don’t waste my time.

This is not open to argument. Turkey bacon is not bacon. It’s an insult to bacon, and I’m offended that it even exists.

8. Chia Seeds

Novelty gift? Yes. Food source? No.

Let me guess, you read Born to Run and it changed your life. You bought a pair of Vibrams and bulk-ordered a metric ton of chia seeds because that’s what the Tarahumara eat for fuel and you think they’re fast because they run barefoot and eat what most people gift to the weird guy at the office because they pulled his name for Secret Santa. I hate to break it to you, but toe shoes won’t make you faster and seeds that taste like slimy frog egg sacks aren’t real food.

What do you have on your “not real food” list? And who wants to go out for burritos and margaritas with me?

Correction, it’s not some bullshit swimming thing, it’s the ultimate bullshit swimming thing; specifically, the “Fourth Annual 100×100/10k Swim Holiday Extravaganza.” Never mind the fact that my brain cannot comprehend the notion of swimming 6.2 miles in a single day (or week, or month, for that matter, but I digress), or the twisted idea that this is supposed to be a “fun” gathering. No, what I don’t understand is why the hell someone like Laura would invite a swimmer like me to this horrible, horrible event.

Is it like hazing? Some sort of sacrifice, maybe, where a fast swimmer must offer up a slow lamb to the Swimming Gods every year so she can continue to bust out sub-55 minute Ironman splits? Because I really don’t understand why this fast pod of swimmers would want to invite a manatee to hang out with their dolphin group.

To get an idea of why this event is utter crap, here’s how Laura plans to organize the swim workout:

Here is how the breakdown will work (tentatively set to be TWO pace groups, Group A and Group B). Please RSVP with your Pace group selection. If there is enough demand for a faster/slower sendoff, then we will have another lane…first come first served, 40 PEOPLE MAXIMUM…don’t miss out!

SENDOFFS MAY CHANGE DEPENDING ON GROUP.

In the past, we have done:

10×100 Warmup on 1:40, 1:50

20×100 free on 1:30, 1:40

5×100 kick on 2:00, 2:00

20×100 free on 1:25, 1:35

5×100 choice of stroke on 1:45, 1:55

20×100 free on 1:30, 1:40

5×100 choice on 1:45, 1:55

10×100 free on 1:20, 1:30

“10×100 free on 1:25, 1:30 (for those going 10k)”

5×100 warmdown on 1:40, 1:50

Group A will go on the faster sendoff. Group B will will on the slower sendoffs. At these sendoffs with no breaks between sets, Group A will finish in 2:35, while Group B will need 2:51.

As always, some of the group opts to go 110×100′s to equal 10k. Your option to stop at 100 or finish 110.

Some points:

1. First of all, I am not fast enough to swim with Group A or Group B. I’m not even worthy enough to hand them their towels when they’re done. If I participated, I’d be looking at being an Army of One in Group Triple J.
2. Secondly, I can’t hit 10×100 on 1:40 or 1:50 as a warmup. I can’t even do that as a main workout set because I am slow as shit. I could probably bust out a couple at most, but after that I’d be panting on the sidelines.
3. Thirdly, 20×100 on 1:25 – 1:40? Twice?! My fastest standalone 100 ever has been like a 1:32 – 1:35, and that was in a short pool so I got to push off more. Eff that. Seriously. Nobody should be able to swim that fast and still be considered human.

When I was all “WTF Laura, why you tryin’ to make me suffer up in here,” she said she thought it would make for a fun Mediocre Athlete blog post. I don’t think I’d even survive swimming 6.2 miles in a single workout, so the chances of me dragging my half-drowned ass out of the pool before it closed (not just for the day, but for Christmas) and having enough muscle control left to command my pruney fingers to type a “Well That Fucking Sucked” summary for the blog seems pretty slim.

Even if I were able to get my own slowpoke lane, I’d probably only be able to get through half of the workout at best before all of the fast assholes finished the entire set. They’d be all giggles and hot chocolate and cookies while I flail and cry in the deep end because I got a foot cramp after 75 meters. I can already imagine them looking all lean and gorgeous as they shake their magically unfried hair out of their swim caps, exclaiming “Tee hee, wasn’t that fun?” as I try not to burp-vomit a gallon of chlorinated water mixed with a morning packet of oatmeal back into the pool.

…I put myself down as a “maybe.”

1. The finishers were all bad-ass. I saw how pooptastic the weather was that morning (pouring rain, which is different than the standard “weak sneeze of a Seattle misting” we usually get) and think it’s pretty impressive that people still got out there to run despite the chilly temps and soaking wet conditions.

2. The awards were pretty cool. I’m a fan of races that give out unique prizes instead of the token “yaay, you did pretty well” medal. The Snohomish River Run hooked the race winners up with some nice-looking mugs:

Look at that muggy goodness

Pretty neat–I love it when smaller races go the extra mile (no pun intended) to provide a unique experience for the athletes.

3. Everyone PR’d and got free cupcakes that tasted awesome but had zero calories. I’m 90% sure that happened, I just wasn’t there to experience it firsthand.

If you did the race, let me know how it went. I’m sorry I missed out and am trying to get out of this post-Ironman trip to Funkytown, so any kicks in the butt would be greatly appreciated.