So when I trained for my first Ironman, I ended up eating a lot of frozen custard from Old School. It’s freakin’ delicious, and you can’t beat the fact that they have a new flavor every day. I’m not really a “sweets” person; normally I’m more of a savory/salty fan when it comes to food cravings. However, for some reason I just ended up gorging on frozen custard in conjunction with the ridiculous amount of training hours I was racking up each week. I had the calories to spare, so what the hell, why not waste them on frozen snacky snacks.

This year I thought about changing things up a bit. While I’m still intent on losing weight, I’ve decided that Ironman #2 will be fueled with pie. My fellow Ironman Canada alum Bill is married to a woman named Alley, and not only does Alley run like the wind (I don’t know if she’s done any tris, but she’s done a bunch of run races), she bakes pies. Normally I’m not a huge pie freak (again with typically being “meh” with regards to desserts), but I commissioned Alley to make a coconut cream pie for Jason’s birthday last month and once I tasted that coconutty goodness, I got a little hooked.

She even put coconut in the crust, for glob's sake

Like any junkie, soon after polishing off this bad boy I was craving another fix, so after trying to hold out for a couple weeks, I messaged my dealer on Facebook:

Me: “Okay, so I seriously am thinking about buying a pie from you every month. Would that be ridiculous? I’m open to seasonal flavor deliciousness…something seasonal and awesome sounds like it could be a winner for October. Yes, I am addicted to your pies after only having tried one. Don’t judge me.”

Alley: “Hahahaha! I KNEW you’d get hooked! Atta girl!”

And thus my “One Pie Every Month” agreement had been born. On Saturday I picked up October’s flavor, apple. When Jason heard we were getting an apple pie, he had this reaction:

Meh.

But then he saw this hefty motherfucker:

Sweet jebus, look at that crust

When he tried it, he reacted accordingly:

"I'mma have another slice. I ran a lot so don't judge me."

I picked up the pie on Saturday and right now there’s only one slice left. We’ve been pairing our portions with snickerdoodle ice cream from Bluebird for super extreme deliciousness a la mode. (I must point out that despite Jason being fully on board with the Pie of the Month agreement, he’s lost 30 lbs thus far and has been dropping weight like a mofo. So there, I’ve now justified our fat-assness with the fact that we’re mostly being responsible and health-conscious, minus pie.)

November’s pie flavor will obviously be pumpkin. That combined with the fact that Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday purely because of the large quantity of food that can be drenched in gravy means my triumphant return to racing (the Seattle half marathon) could either go well because I’ve been injury-free and running well lately, or it could go horribly awry as I stumble 13.1 miles in a bloated pie and starchy haze. Place your bets now!

At first I thought I could still manage to do the half marathon, but after realizing that I wasn’t going to post a decent time and would just end up risking further injury, I begrudgingly opted out of doing the race entirely. (Believe me, eating a $135 race entry is a tough pill to swallow. I can only imagine what it’s like to get injured when training for an Ironman and watching your $600 entry fee get flushed down the toilet.)

Aww, nuts

Since I had already forked over the money, I figured I’d pick up my race packet anyway in hopes of scoring some free goodies that would at least partially justify the bloatedly overpriced Rock ‘n Roll cost (fingers crossed for a gu packet or two). My hopes were dashed when I picked up my bag and saw that the amount of swag I got amounted to a butt-ugly finisher’s shirt with an abstract guitar emblazoned on the front and a packet of Cytomax mix. Really, that’s it? Where are the mini cereal samples, the Shot Blocks and yucky holiday gel flavors, and the inexplicable box of macaroni and cheese? You’re a cheap bastard, Rock ‘n Roll series.

I can’t even wear my ugly finisher’s shirt because I didn’t do the race and would feel like a poser. Much how you don’t attend a concert wearing that band’s t-shirt, you don’t wear race clothing from a race you didn’t do. That has bad karma written all over it…plus, I already have a bajillion race t-shirts, so tossing away the umpteenth black tech tee isn’t going to break my heart. So congratulations, Northwest Center, you’re about to inherit an unused marathon finisher’s t-shirt for some lucky person in need of apparel that wicks sweat slightly better than regular cotton. I am so giving.

So anyway, back to the whole Vegas thing. Jas and I had booked a room at the Bellagio. To make a long backstory somewhat short, the hotel had offered to upgrade us to a “lake view suite” (meaning the fountain) gratis after a reservation mix-up that Jason had straightened out back in June or July. When we got to the front desk to check in, the employee told us that for some reason we had been upgraded again to a mega-suite that’s 1500 sq. ft and has two bathrooms that are each bigger than my bedroom at home. The only catch was that the room wasn’t ready yet. So we waited…and waited…and waited. All told, it took six hours of dicking around and heading to the Expo Hall, grabbing lunch, and being crabby before we finally got our room. In that amount of time I probably inhaled half a pack’s worth of second-hand smoke. Oh casinos, you so nasty.

I just love smelling like a stale version of this lady

The suite itself was nice but not super-duper impressive. It was probably quite grand 10 years ago, but there were a few ghetto touches that indicated how much wear and tear and neglect the Bellagio had been experiencing since it opened in 1998. Some light bulbs were broken or burned out, and there were scuffs and scratches on the walls in various spots. Still, we did have a steam shower and jetted tub, plus there was a TV that popped up out of a cabinet as if by magic…slow, amusingly loud and chuggy magic.

Jas and I were a bit crabby the night before the race from having to wait so long to get our room (my need to shower reaches 24-esque levels of intensity when I’ve been traveling — damnit, Chloe, I need a loofah stat!), so we weren’t thrilled about having dinner with his family that night. Not that they aren’t good company, but you know how it is when you just want to be anti-social and eat your ridiculously overpriced Las Vegas meal in peace. I was less stoked about being peppered with questions about my Achilles — it’s a bit of a sore subject (literally), and I didn’t really need to be reminded of how crappy it was that I couldn’t run the race. We finished up dinner and were lamely in bed by 10 pm. Wooooo, Vegasssssss!

"Goodnight, Bec!" "Sleep well, Jas!"

The next morning, we enjoyed a $50 room service breakfast consisting of coffee, a waffle, and a yogurt parfait (yes, that shiz cost me fifty bucks — that waffle better be made out of narwhal horn) and got ready for the race. By “got ready for the race,” I mean Jason made his bottles and puttered around the room getting all of his stuff in order while I laid in bed until the last possible minute and then threw on jeans and a pullover. We walked to the start of the race and ran into Mark, at which point I hugged my gentle giant, wished him good luck, and parted ways.

It was sunny, windless, and a good temperature for running, but unfortunately Vegas has the shittiest air imaginable so running through the pollution and dryness can do a number on your lungs (as it did to mine last year when I ran the half). Jason wanted to run a sub-3:30 race, but the dry air took its toll and left him dehydrated during the second half of the race. He managed to drag his pasty, salt-crusted body across the finish line in 3:36, which is still a 10 minute PR. Plus, he beat his sister — that should stoke the sibling rivalry and carry him through the holiday season.

I wanted to come back to Seattle on Monday, the day after the race, because I’ve been to Las Vegas enough times that Sin City has started to lose its luster. My allergies are getting tired of spiking into overdrive from the thick clouds of cigarette smoke, everything is offensively expensive, and I’ve found the overall service to be sorely lacking ever since the recession hit. However, my sneaky boyfriend wanted to stay until Tuesday, and he bribed me the only way he knew how: with food. As part of my now quite belated birthday gift, he promised back in August that he’d take me to Joel Robuchon for dinner while we were in Las Vegas. The catch, of course, was that the reservation was for Monday night. That devious bastard — now I had to pack a dress and heels. Coming from someone who spends most of her day in pajamas, that’s a tall order.

Nonetheless, my food-loving side caved and I agreed to leave later so we could dine at a 3 Michelin star restaurant owned by a man who was given the title of “chef of the century.” Sidenote: Jason and I love food. It’s one of the reasons we’re so compatible — instead of negatively judging him for chowing down as much as he does, I shamelessly make him split everything we order in half despite the fact that I’m nearly a foot shorter and weigh 100 lbs less than him. I showed you how we ate our way through Puerto Rico and Miami, so for us Las Vegas’s plethora of restaurants owned by renowned chefs is like Kryptonite.

Joel Robuchon’s restaurants have more Michelin stars than any other chef in the world. He’s French and intimidating and his food is meticulously crafted. Our reservation included a complimentary limo ride from the Bellagio to the MGM Grand, where we were allowed to walk through the Mansion, a section of the hotel/casino specially reserved for high rollers and super duper rich people who aren’t me.

It costs $500 just to look at this picture

The first thing we saw when we were seated was a framed picture of Tony Parker and Eva Longoria. Ouch. The restaurant had photos of random celebrities who had presumably dined there (either that, or Robuchon really stands by his fellow Frenchmen who are also NBA athletes). They apparently didn’t get the memo that those two are on the out and out. Come on, JR, we’re paying enough money that I expect you to be on top of the latest celebrity gossip.

In addition to the lavish entrees, we got to choose from a bread cart offering probably 20+ types of baked goods (photo “borrowed” from Yelp):

I shamelessly stuffed my face with 7 pieces of various bread

We also added a cheese course option and were stunned when they wheeled out this treasure trove of fromage:

Heaven. Lactose-rich heaven.

There were various types of brie, blue cheese, goat cheese, cheddar, herb-crusted cheese, cow’s milk cheese — you name it and it was probably on the cart (well, not Velveeta). One of the cheeses we picked out was the strongest one they offered. Jason shared a piece with me and I sniffed it, cringed, tasted it, lit up with delight, then smelled it again and started coughing.

Jason, laughing: “Are you okay?”

Me, sputtering: “It tastes like a delicious fart!”

I’ve never encountered such a strong, simultaneous mix of deliciousness and revulsion. It smelled so bad, yet tasted so good.

Lastly, after our meal was complete and we finished our desserts, we were treated to a third cart of ridiculousness, the mignardises (or as I referred to it, the “cart full of fancy chocolates”):

*drool*

It was full of a lavish and wide variety of treats to choose from — chocolates, caramels, gelees, and 50 other things I’ve only recently discovered exist thanks to the first season of Top Chef: Just Desserts. By the time the meal concluded, Jas and I felt miserably full and his wallet was about to get substantially lighter. It was a fun experience, but not something I’d do again any time soon lest I just decide to say “Eff this ’saving for my future’ nonsense” and eat my way to bankruptcy.

Now we’re back home and I’m quite happy to have returned to cozy gray Seattle. I don’t know if I’ll do the Vegas marathon in the future — after seeing how much Jason and everyone else suffered and complained about the air quality, it doesn’t seem appealing to me. I might do the half again, but that’s about it. I’m more focused on trying to heal my Achilles and maybe find a replacement marathon to run this spring before the triathlons pick back up again. Oh, and I need to work off this post-Robuchon paunch I brought back with me from Vegas. Priciest fat accumulation ever.

So, naturally, after Jas and I completed Ironman Canada, a vacation was definitely in order. And there’s nothing we love to do more while vacationing than eat. As such, we packed our bags and headed to Puerto Rico for five days of non-sun (we happened to catch a streak of overcast days) followed by a couple days in Miami. Below is a photo series chronicling how to eat and drink like an Ironman. Bon appetit!

Complimentary wine and cheese provided by our hotel every evening. Yes, EVERY EVENING. We rocked it nightly ever so rightly.

It's not a trip to Puerto Rico without enoying a lunch-time mojito

A fatty and delicious pork quesadilla

Grouper with potatoes and a cream sauce that was so good it should be outlawed

One of the many mofongos of the trip -- basically a dense starchy cup made of plaintains or cassava and filled with goodies (in this case, pork)

One of the best things I've ever eaten -- tiny white bean soup with truffle oil, scallions, and a pancetta "dust"

Shrimp and corn grits

Mini paella bites -- basically the flavors of a paella shrunk down into bite-sized morsels

Lobster risotto. It tasted just like a rich lobster bisque. Yum.

Fois gras with blackberry sauce

Moroccan lamb

Bag-steamed snapper with mussels and crostini

Berry cobbler

Chocolate "donuts" with a berry "soup"

Salad with fresh avocado and citrus marinated potatoes

Pork chop with beans and rice provided by a family living in the boonies in Caguas where we did our eco tour

Homemade corn fritters and tostones

Homemade bread pudding

Bunuelos (fish fritters) with a truffle aioli

Calamari with lobster aioli

A whole fried snapper (complete with head and ugly eyes) stuffed with mofongo. It was so much food that it nearly killed Jason.

Skirt steak with a chimichurri sauce, truffled mashed potatoes with crispy onions, and lobster with a tomato chutney

On our way to the bioluminescent bay, our tour driver said we could have beers in the van so we happily obliged.

I am way too excited for this phallic churro

Mofongo stuffed with shrimp and crab

Beef turnover with tostones, rice, and beans

Cassava mofongo filled with grouper

Paella

Roasted seasoned potatoes with aioli

More bunuelos (fish fritters). Sooooo good.

Beef empanadas

Meatballs with an almond-tomato sauce

Grilled sausage tapas in a chimichurri sauce

Some seriously tasty watermelon sangria

Marinated grilled peaches wrapped in proscuitto

Watermelon topped with grilled feta

Mediterranean apricot chicken kabob atop couscous

Lamb gyro with roasted tomatoes and a cucumber yogurt raita

Our Miami hotel also offered a free wine reception. This should become standard practice.

Pork gyoza

Beef carpaccio, another culinary highlight of the trip. I could have eaten a whole cow's worth of these.

Salmon and tuna tartare with rice crisps

Miso black cod

Sadly, this isn’t everything, it’s just what I managed to snap a photo of before it was devoured. We also inhaled various ceviches, tons of sushi in Miami, a vast assortment of drinks (including the requisite beachside pina coladas), and other metric tons of food. When I came back from vacation, the scale greeted me with five extra pounds and a reminder that it’s time to get back on that “train to eat” regimen. Oh well, it was totally worth it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go grease a pair of pants I want to squeeze into…

Oh carbs, how I love thee.

I was all gung-ho until the holidays hit, at which point I gained back what I had lost and chubbed up to my fattest weight ever. It was pretty depressing – I wouldn’t call myself “fat,” but I was definitely at my flabbiest. I checked back in with my strength trainer, who agreed that I looked a bit “chunkier” (sigh) and told me to start writing down my food again. He also bullied me into sharing my weight every week, so instead of my vague “I’m down a pound,” I’d have to start giving actual numbers. Crap.

This week I turned in my food log and was told I had made a marked improvement in the slop I was shoving down my gullet. I’ve so far lost about 6 lbs but have a ways to go to hit my goal weight. I’m basically going for “skinniest I’ve been since I got my tonsils removed when I was sixteen” weight, only with more muscle mass and fewer popsicles. (It was the “subsist off popsicles and tea” diet, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t poop for a week. Damn was I skinny though!)

Breakfast of champions

The one thing that threw me for a loop was when I got my body composition tested. To me the fat percentage seemed inaccurate – it was about 4% higher than I expected and placed me in the “poor” category. Normally I wouldn’t think much of it, but I don’t look that fat, for crying out loud, and I do stay pretty active even if I do tend to eat utter garbage. Also, bear with me here as I introduce an example derived from VH1 of all places. I caught part of an episode of Celebrity Fit Club on TV this week, and one of the “celebrities” getting weighed in looked considerably chunkier than me but apparently had 2% less body fat. Granted, she was about 3 inches shorter than I am, but still. She was told that if she lost 20 lbs, her body fat would drop about 4% (I forget the exact number), yet my strength trainer told me that if I lost 20 lbs to hit my goal weight, I’d drop 10% of my body fat. That seems like a pretty big difference for two people with apparently similar body compositions and weight goals.

This whole body composition nonsense kind of confuses me. Either way, I know what I want my goal weight and my body fat percentage to be, so I guess it doesn’t matter too much what the test says I’m currently at. All I know is that racing should be a bit easier when I’m hauling 20-25 fewer pounds through the water, on the bike and while I’m running. I’d also like my Ironman Canada finish photo to look pretty hardcore and not “Hey, that fat kid is blocking the finish line!”, at which point I’d start sobbing and trying to unwrap my finisher’s medal thinking there’s chocolate inside.

I don’t even like chocolate that much, but I’d still chow this down

Since I’ve started up the triathlon training, however, I’ve learned the hard way that certain foods will bite me in the ass once I’m exercising. It’s gotten to the point that I go out of my way to eat rather benignly on Tuesdays because that’s track night, and I don’t want to feel miserable running around in circles at various intervals while stifling nasty-flavored burps. Below are 5 of the worst offenders that have ruined workouts…or at least made them exceptionally uncomfortable.

1. Anything with garlic and/or pesto. I love garlic, but Jason will attest to how stinky it renders me whenever I eat anything that contains a hefty amount of it. The funk emanates off me, repelling boyfriends and vampires alike. It’s kind of like that episode of The Simpsons where Moe opens up his Family Feedbag restaurant and a little girl draws a picture of him:
   

   "Aw, you drew the stink lines and everythin'."

   The garlic burps are no picnic, either. Today I went for a swim and am pretty glad it was in the pool, because burping in the open water would probably result in a lot of floating dead fish.

2. Asian food. Most Asian food, while delicious at the time of consumption, ends up creeping back around and karate chopping me right in the gut. Japanese food is typically okay unless it’s particularly spicy — the main offenders are usually Thai food and Korean stuff like kimchi or bulgogi. As with garlic and pesto, the core concern here are the burps, although they probably do a pretty decent job of clearing a pathway for me during a race. Hmm, maybe I need to start keeping some bibimbap at transition…
3. Nuun. This isn’t really a food and it is good for pre-race hydration and recoveries, but I eventually learned not to drink it during workouts. Since Nuun has virtually no calories, I’d end up getting a major case of gut rot on brick runs and feeling like I was going to hurl like a spitter in Left 4 Dead 2.
   

   This is what happens when you drink Nuun during a workout.

   It’s kind of weird to think that a lack of calories would make you feel nauseous, but that seems to be the case with a lot of athletes. Oh well, lesson learned.

4. Heavy sauces. I would eat gyros from Aladdin’s every day of the week if I could, but their tzatziki sauce would come back and murder me later on. There’s also this place in the U-District called Shalimar, and they have these crazy delicious Middle Eastern sandwiches. I learned the hard way not to eat there before a track workout, as I spent the majority of my 400s clutching my stomach and hawking up yogurt-spiced loogies.
5. Tequila. This one’s kind of a no-brainer, but to be fair, it’s not like I drank a few shots and then went for a run…I ran the day after drinking my body weight in añejo-y goodness. This is about 75% Mark’s fault and 25% mine and Jason’s, because we probably shouldn’t have gotten him two bottles of tequila for Christmas, but then again, he shouldn’t have made us drink about eight shots each after already having a few margaritas. Dear god.

Nowadays if I know I’ve got a really hard workout involving intervals, sprints, speed work, etc, I eat pretty “boring” stuff like a sandwich or some eggs or a salad. The shitty thing is that even an innocuous food item has occasionally kicked me in the proverbial balls — one time I had really gross burps at track after eating a Luna bar, and another time a banana has tried to smite me.

As 2009 draws to a close, one of my main goals for 2010 is to eat better, not only so I’m healthier and more trim, but to cut down on these B.S. burps and the ick factor during what will be many, many workouts next year. We’ll see how well that goes… ;)