“Welcome…to Jurassic Park!”

I snapped a picture of Jason as he tried not to look like he was drenched in sweat:

I made him take a picture of me before we ventured on:

It’s not a fanny pack, I swear

After a little bit, we stopped so I could do the requisite “self-portrait attempt” with my long monkey arms. 10 times out of 10 this results in me cutting off the top of Jason’s head in the photo (stupid 11″ height differential). Here’s attempt #3:

He gave up and crouched down to my height

We ran a bit further and came across a little foot bridge that took us over a tiny stream trickle and some rocks:

The roaring waterfall

Foot bridge over the mighty rapids

Since it was so hot outside, I splashed some of the cold water on my arms and neck. When I turned around, I saw a little butterfly. “OMG, NATURE! MUST TAKE PICTURE!”

Jason patiently waited for his dorky girlfriend. When I was ready to leave, he jokingly said, “Don’t slip and get swept away by the strong current.” I was like, “Hurr durr, I won’t,” and then promptly slipped on the rocks, fell on my ass, and slid a few feet down towards the foot bridge. It was so ridiculously inept that I couldn’t help but laugh:

Then: “Wait a sec, I didn’t sit on the butterfly, did I?”

Thankfully, I did not have a squished butterfly corpse smeared across my ass. After laughing heartily at me for a few minutes, Jason helped me up, cleaned me off, and we finished our trail run.

From that trail head we drove over to the Garden of the Gods, a park that has a bunch of cool rock formations and a bunch of intersecting trails. We got a map at the gift shop and decided to do a 4 mile loop. While running, we came across a couple who offered to take a picture of us in front of some rocks. It turned out pretty ridiculous:

We so tiny!

We had to dodge a ton of horse crap on the trails because a bunch of dooshers were riding horses and couldn’t be bothered to clean up the giant dung piles their animals left behind. Running amidst steaming horse shit on a hot, sunny day aren’t my ideal hiking conditions, but to each his own.

Jas and I tried to head back to the car to complete our 4 mile loop, but since all of the trains intersect and run into each other like one huge clustermuck, we ended up on the wrong trail and went in the opposite direction. This happened roughly 4 or 5 times, and we both got crabbier and crabbier. My stomach started to get upset due to lack of calories combined with the elevation and heat. At one point we came across a deer and I considered mauling and eating it for sustenance, but since we had only been wandering around for a couple hours, I figured I should wait a bit longer before resorting to drastic measures.

You lucked out, deer. Next time it’s venison for you!

We kept getting turned around and had to double back multiple times. I was sweaty, stinky, and tired, and I wanted this stupid trail run to be over. (Jason later told me that I had “murder” in my eyes. He knows me well.) Finally we gave up trying to make sense of the 50 random trail paths and hiked up to the road, and we ran along it until we were able to get our bearings and figure out which parking lot we needed to head towards. Our 4 mile run turned into about a 9 mile nightmare, and we ended up running probably about 15 miles total. I convinced myself that it was good training for Canada.

Jas and I got back to the hotel, cleaned ourselves off, and drowned our “we suck at hiking” sorrows in various fried foods at a nearby New Orleans-style seafood restaurant. Nothing like immediately replenishing the calories you burned plus an extra thousand! The hike went as expected for us: it started out fun but got mucho sucky towards the end, but we were still glad we did it and can laugh about it now. (Come to think of it, that’s usually how races go, too.)

Our bikes’ temporary home

View from our hotel room

On Saturday Jason, his dad and I woke up and prepped everything for our ride. We parked a few miles from the transition area and started setting everything up when I realized that the black rolled up wad of fabric I grabbed and shoved into my bag wasn’t arm sleeves like I thought, but rather compression sleeves for my legs. Fudgers! It was going to be a gray, chilly day, and my wimpo arms were surely going to freeze without some sort of cover. Jason suggested I just wear my compression sleeves as arm warmers. I didn’t have any better options, so that’s what I did. I ended up with 90 miles of compressiony goodness, but unfortunately I realized two things after the ride:

1. The sleeves, which typically go from under my knee to my ankle, weren’t long enough to cover my entire arm.
2. Even though the sun wasn’t out, that doesn’t mean the rays weren’t poking through the clouds.

As such, I ended the ride with this B.S.:

This is not a good look for me

The watch tan I’m used to. The half-forearm tan? Not so much. (I’ve grown accustomed to the hairy arms though, so deal with it.) Anyway, I started riding for a whopping minute before realizing that, no fucking way, my bike computer’s cadence sensor wasn’t working again. What the shit, I just replaced this stupid thing two weeks ago! I angrily fiddled with it for a while, and it went from not reading my cadence to not reading anything. Great, now I was going to ride 90 miles with no indication of my speed or cadence.

Frustrated and fueled by rage, I took off and anger-rode for an hour. After a while, Jason appeared next to me, slightly out of breath, exclaiming, “It took me forever to catch up to you! You need to slow down!” Apparently I was averaging about 24 mph and was climbing rollers going 20. To be fair, the first 30 or 40 miles of the Canada course are pretty fast, with lots of flats/downhills and a few inconsequential hills. I pouted a bit more about my broken computer but decided to slow it down in anticipation of Richter Pass.

Before we got to the pass, Jason’s dad got an epic flat by running over a huge kinked wad of wire. He wrestled it out of his tire and changed the tube but wanted to stop at a gas station to properly fill the tire with air. While he was fixing his bike, I stopped inside to use the bathroom and buy more fuel. When I came out, I saw Jason barely hiding his irritation while a filthy grifter with roughly four teeth peppered him with questions about our bikes. Apparently this Canadian mountain man had been marveling at how nice our bikes were and said that someone should build an eight person stealth bomber out of the same carbon fiber our bikes are made from. He then paused, looked at Jason, and said, “I see you’ve got a belly under all that gear! You must work in an office, eh? This is good exercise for that!” Jason muttered a “Yeah…” while murdering the dude with his eyes, and I resisted the urge to laugh. What kind of person makes remarks about a complete stranger’s stomach? Dudes with meth mouth, that’s who.

“Your belly offends me and my professional appearance.”

After our brief break, we continued on and hit the pass almost immediately. I gotta say, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Don’t get me wrong, Richter Pass is no picnic, but you get to climb for a bit before shooting down a decent decline, then lather, rinse, repeat for a while and before you know it, you’re done. Unfortunately, after you conquer the pass (and are rewarded with a nice downhill), you get hit with a bunch of rollers that are pretty sucky, especially when you factor in a craptacular crosswind (which we got hit with on Saturday).

We skipped an out and back portion of the ride and continued on until we hit the second significant climb, which is the stretch of road leading to Yellow Lake. (Brief aside: who names a body of water “Yellow Lake”? Nothing screams “urine-soaked” like that moniker. It actually is a pretty lake though, and not at all yellow. Still, not the best name.) I thought this climb was uber-shittier than Richter because unlike Richter, which has steep climbs but brief reprieves where you get to descend, the Yellow Lake climb is pretty much a long, arduous, gradual, relentless son of a bitch until you get to the top. On the way up I saw several banana peels and wondered if Jason was trying to take me out, Mario Kart style. If only I had a red shell…

I’m gunnin’ for ya, Jas

The last several miles of the bike course shoot you down a pants crappingly fast descent that scared the bejesus out of me due to the semis and crosswinds. Operation De-Chunkify has been going well for me, but at that point I wondered if I should have actually gained an extra 15 lbs instead of lost weight so I’d be better anchored and wouldn’t get bitch slapped by the wind and cars. At several points during the descent I envisioned myself getting blown over the guardrail and falling to my death while still clipped into my bike.

The next day Jas and I ran the middle portion of the run course, which is the same stretch as the first part of the bike course. We did about 15 miles in the sun and I thought about how miserable I was going to be racing in 90 degree heat considering I was already feeling overheated at 70 degrees. The “inconsequential” hills I mentioned earlier on the bike suddenly seemed like a jerk crusted bastard during the run. This will not feel good on race day.

We spent the remainder of the weekend enjoying the gorgeous scenery and buying roughly an asston of wine:

View of the swim start from a vineyard across the lake

Loitering in some Canadian’s vineyard

Jason’s mom gets inspired by the boobalicious mermaid statue

Our Ironman training fuel

Before we left, we flailed around in the freezing lake (“freezing” being 55 degrees) for about 20 minutes, making me think that I really need to do a couple more open water swims before Boise. Poop. Other than that, though, it was good to explore the Ironman course and dump my paycheck into many, many wine purchases. I can’t wait to come up with the team in July and do it all again. Hopefully Teresa will have some good advice on how to pace myself for the ride, and I’m counting on doing more wine tasting with some of my teammates. Don’t let me down, Ironman crew!

I haven’t hit all my workouts but have managed to get most of my long runs in. I’ve done most of my training runs in Capitol Hill, so I think the hilly terrain has proved beneficial. I’ve also been doing heart rate zone training and have dropped two minutes off my mile pace when in zone 3. The one thing I’m worried about is how to pace myself for race day — I’ve gotten used to slowing things down for zone training, but I’ll have to speed up a bit to try and hit my goal time, so pacing is going to be a bit tricky. I’ll have to consult the coach this week for her opinion.

I think I’ve got a sub-4 in me for sure, but I might have to train a bit harder to hit it. Work’s been a bit stressful lately, plus I’m trying to squeeze in the beginnings of triathlon training, but if I were to just train for a marathon I think I’d do alright. In any case, we’ll see how the race goes on Sunday. I’m in taper mode this week but have a few workouts here and there, plus a (gulp) body composition test + diet analysis on Wednesday (it’s part of Operation De-Chub for Canada). I don’t think the Super Bowl gorging and beer guzzling will make my trainer too happy, but hopefully burning thousands of calories this weekend will counteract my bad habits. :D

Jason’s itching to do a sub 1:40 and I think he’ll pull it off because he’s pretty stubborn and has been doing great with his training this season. Plus, even if he does pass out, at least we’re in our hometown so I can just drag him over to Harborview, get him pumped full of IV fluids and head home.

So…those are our Saturday morning plans. I’ll post another entry letting all five of you who read this blog how well we did. If you’re watching the race, be sure to cheer on the TN Multisport runners and give us plenty of encouragement. :)

So true. (Diagram courtesy of Indexed)

Last year I did a 50 mile ride in Yakima, and I was riding along a long, open stretch of highway when I felt something bounce off my inner thigh. I didn’t think anything of it until about ten seconds later when I felt a sharp, searing pain on the inside of my leg. I stopped and hopped off my bike to inspect what the hell had happened. It turned out that a freakin’ bee flew towards my leg ass-first and stung me. I had a sting mark on my inner thigh for the entire summer.

This year I went back and did the same Yakima ride, only I rode about 62 miles. As I started, I jokingly thought to myself “I better not get stung by a bee this time around.” No sooner did I think that when I felt a series of stinging, sharp pains under my boob. I panicked and smooshed/itched at the area until the sensation subsided. Eventually I forgot about it until later that day when I was stripping down to take a shower and discovered smashed bug carcasses stuck to my chest. Those little effers had flown down my shirt, got trapped in my sports bra and decided to bite me over and over again until I crushed them against my bony bosom. What the hell?!

So yeah, triathletes are like little bug magnets. Every triathlete I know has had some sort of bug encounter (most recently, Jason forgot his pair of sunglasses for a ride and had a bug bounce directly off his eyeball). I know that protein’s good for athletes, but I’m getting tired of sucking face with gnats. I mean, the least they could do is buy me a drink first…

When the race officially began, Jason and I both spent the first two miles dodging people and trying to run at a decent pace. Much to Jason’s annoyance, he had to pass a ton of people who had no business being at the start of a half marathon (like people with walking sticks who had positioned themselves among the 6 minute mile runners). I, meanwhile, got freakishly overheated in the balmy 60 degree weather despite my attire of shorts and a sleeveless shirt. I attributed my Hot Head Syndrome to the visor I was wearing, so I stripped it off and ran while holding it for a bit before getting tired of carrying it and chucking it into a bin. With my head blissfully naked, I was able to concentrate on running.

Or so I thought. Even though I did the customary pre-race Glide application and despite the fact that I had worn these shorts on plenty of runs in the past, for some reason during the race my shorts kept riding up on me and I had to do an awkward shimmy shake every few hundred feet to try and yank the fabric back down. I can only imagine what it was like to run behind me the entire race. I waged this battle for the entire 13.1 miles, cursing my thighs and these godforsaken shorts.

The run itself went pretty well. I had the usual ups and downs and would suck down Gu and water whenever I felt an energy lull. At mile 10 I was running hard and had a Jason moment where my vision temporarily tunneled and I felt light-headed for a few seconds. I wondered if it was my turn to pass out, but thankfully the feeling subsided and I was able to resume running. Hooray for staying upright!

I approached the finish line and saw Jason at the sidelines wrapped in a space blanket, so we went 2/2 on the “no passing out” goal. I finished the race in 1:52 and some change, which is a 4 minute PR from last year’s time and a 12 minute improvement from my first ever half marathon. Yeah, beeyotch! Jason also achieved his goal, having finished in 1:41 and sparing his veins from invasive IV needles.

I celebrated my achievement with an ice bath, a Wendy’s bacon and cheese baked potato, a dim sum lunch and the coveted post-race nap. Later that evening we caught a movie and ate gigantic steaks at Gotham. (Post-race gorging is easily the best part of training and competing.)

All in all, the race went well for both of us this year (aside from excruciating chafing, which I’ll cover in the next post). Huzzah for improved times, healthy bodies and great food. We’ve set new goal times that we’ll strive to hit at the Seattle Rock ‘n Roll Half Marathon next month (Jason wants to do under 1:40 and I’d like to hit under 1:50), but that half marathon is shortly after the Boise 70.3, so we’ll see how things go.

On our way up to Vancouver, Jason starts noticing that he’s feeling a bit “under the weather.” It’s no big deal — just a little stuffiness and a bit of a headache. We get through the border, check into our hotel, walk to the Expo Hall to pick up our packets, have dinner, and go back to our room to relax and prep for tomorrow’s race.

This is where things start to get a bit icky. Jason’s symptoms start to worsen and he begins feeling downright miserable. I’m not sure exactly what’s wrong with him, but I figure that once someone starts excreting goop out of his eyes, he’s probably not in the healthiest state to run 13.1 miles the next morning.

Jason’s laying on the bed sounding congested and miserable with a warm washcloth draped over his gunky eyes, and I think, “There is no way he’s running tomorrow.” He’s sick and seems like he has a sinus infection, so the last thing on his mind should be hitting a PR for a half marathon…right?

Oh, how I underestimate the competitive nature of men. The next morning, Jason rolls out of bed jacked up on adrenaline and race jitters. He pops a bunch of cold medicine like they’re Tic Tacs and suits up for the race. I keep asking him if he’s feeling well enough to race and he assures me with his husky, congested voice that he feels a lot better and will be fine.

We meet our racing buddies in the hotel lobby and head to the start of the race. Since the finish dumps into a large stadium and there are thousands of people racing, we set up a meeting landmark for after the race: a giant inflated Ronald McDonald. It’s easy to spot the frighteningly huge clown, so we figured it would make for an idiot-proof meeting spot. We all wish each other good luck and I kiss my sicky boyfriend before the gun goes off and we all begin the race.

I don’t feel great on the run — my main mistake is that I’m wearing pants instead of shorts because I mistakenly thought that race day would be colder than it actually was. I immediately get too warm and feel kind of miserable as I plod along, one foot in front of the other. Despite the wardrobe misstep, however, I finish the race in about 1:56 and feel pleased that I beat my previous half marathon time by 8 minutes. Wahoo!

I run into two of my racing buddies who finished less than a minute ahead of me and we make our way to Ronald McDonald to meet Jason, who should have finished about ten minutes before we did. We get to Ronald and Jason’s nowhere in sight. I think that maybe he’s using the bathroom or grabbing food, so we sit tight and wait for our final friend to finish. Our friend gets done at around 2:14 or so and Jason’s still MIA. What the hell? Did he get mixed up somehow? It’s not like there are 15 giant Ronald McDonalds floating around the stadium, for crying out loud.

Kind of hard to miss this dude

We wait around a bit longer and he still fails to show up. At this point I’m thinking that one of 4 things has happened:

1. He’s dropping gut bombs in the bathroom
2. He’s pigging out on mini bagels and orange slices…and then he’ll drop gut bombs in the bathroom
3. He wasn’t feeling well so he went back to the hotel to shower and lay down
4. He’s passed out in the medical tent

I loiter around the men’s room like a creep for about 10 minutes until I’m convinced that he’s not in there, then I head to the food area. No Jason. I poke my head into the medical tent that’s inside the stadium and check to see if there’s a 6′4″ pasty white dude getting an IV drip while curled up on a stretcher. The volunteers tell me that nobody fitting Jason’s description has been in their tent. At this point I’m convinced that he’s back at the hotel, so my friends and I head back to our rooms and part ways to shower and check out. I rummage for my key, swipe it, open the door and pop into my room, expecting to hear the shower running or see Jason sleeping soundly on the bed.

The room is empty. I start to get worried and begin mentally formulating a game plan that will gradually escalate in urgency (think of it as a Flow Chart of Panic). Shower. Change. Leave a note in case Jason returns to the room while I’m gone. Tell the front desk that if they see a 6′4″ pasty white dude come in while I’m out, they should tell him I went looking for him and that he should call my cell phone. Head back to the race. Look for Jason. Check hospital. Call his parents and tell them that I’ve lost his son somewhere in Canada and that it’s not too late to adopt. Etc.

I scrawl a note and tape it to the wall opposite the room’s entry way, leave, call the elevator, step in and ride it down. As I’m mentally going through my Checklist of Escalating Scenarios (he’s at the race, he’s in the hospital, oh god he’s dead), the elevator doors open, I look up to step out and run directly into…Jason.

He’s sweaty, pale as a sheet (well, paler than normal), has a cotton ball taped to the inner crook of one arm, and is sporting a huge bloody scrape on his knee. “What happened?!” I ask. “I was just going to go back out and find you!” He looked at me and says in a sheepish manner, “That was a mistake.”

Here’s what happened. Jason runs a hard, fast race. For most of it his body feels achy and his head is pounding, but he toughs it out and mentally pushes himself to continue running hard. He keeps checking his watch and sees that he’s on pace to finish in his goal time, so he keeps pushing and pushing. The cold medicine has left him dehydrated and he can barely breathe from all the congestion and general crappiness. With a couple miles left to go, his body starts feeling even worse but he knows he’s almost done so he pushes even harder. Then, with about 100 yards left to go, Jason races towards the finish line…and finds himself flat on his back as a bunch of medics run towards him. Yes, in true “slow-motion Chariots of Fire” fashion, Jason collapses right before the finish line, going down like a 250 lb sack of potatoes. He even makes the medics carry him across the finish line so that he can have an official finish time. Man, I wish I could have seen that.

Earlier when I checked the medic tent inside the stadium, I was unaware that there was another tent outside at the finish line. While I was poking my head into one tent, Jason was sprawled out onto a stretcher inside the other one. Go figure. Apparently he tried to get someone to go find me, but somehow the medics didn’t feel that complying with a dehydrated and semi-delirious runner’s wishes to find his shortish dark-haired girlfriend who’s “near Ronald McDonald!” was high on their priority list.

Anyway, the medics pump Jason full of IV fluid and tend to his scrapes before he’s finally able to convince them that he’s well enough to leave. (He wasn’t, but he wanted to get the hell out of there.) When he leaves the stadium he feels woozy, light-headed and lost, but he ends up making his way back to the hotel. We have our big reunion and he showers. Checkout isn’t for another couple hours, and Jason is still feeling pretty miserable so he wants to take a nap. I’m pretty hungry but lay down with him because I’m a damn good girlfriend.

We wake up and check out. I ask Jason if he wants to stop and get food, but he says nothing sounds good and he doesn’t want anything. I’m hungrier than before, but Jason looks pretty pale and sounds exhausted so I get behind the wheel and we head out of town. Before we get to the border, he remarks that he’s feeling really dehydrated and asks if I can pull over and get him something to drink. At this point the only store in the area is some random Asian food mart, so I stop there and ask what he wants to drink. He says, “Orange juice sounds good,” so I head inside and grab an orange juice, a couple Gatorades and scrounge around for some food. The only thing this Asian store has is crap like shrimp-flavored chips and bean paste dumplings, neither of which sounds remotely appetizing after a long run. I end up buying a bag of bulk trail mix, figuring I can munch on it until I get across the border.

I pull out of the Asian store, hand Jason his orange juice, and drive for approximately 20 seconds before Jason says, “Pull over. Now.” He had opened the orange juice and took a single sip before demanding that I stop the car. I pull onto a side street and slow down. The car’s not even at a complete stop before Jason jumps out the passenger side and starts hurling on the other side of some homeowner’s fence. I’m so exhausted and hungry that I just sit there and mechanically eat trail mix while staring at my boyfriend puking with what is probably a disinterested and bored look on my face.

Artist’s rendition of Jason hoarking

Eventually he stops christening the side of the road and gets back in the car. He tries to convince me to book a room at a hotel so he can lay down and sleep, but at this point I just want some goddamn food and don’t want to spend $80 so my boyfriend can take a nap. I refuse and continue along to the border, hoping Jason doesn’t puke on the Peace Arch or yak onto the border patrol’s boots. Thankfully, we get through with no issues and I’m eventually able to stop at a Subway and wolf down a sandwich while Jason sleeps in the car.

So what was the result of the 2008 half marathon? Well, Jason was sick all week, and the real kicker is that even though he got carried across the finish line, since his foot never actually hit the timing pad his chip never registered…so he has no actual race time. All that for a DNF. At least I can boast that I beat my boyfriend in a race.

That’s why Jason insisted we sign up for the 2009 Vancouver half marathon. He wanted vindication for last year’s debacle, and he was hellbent on finishing the race this year with no trip to the medical tent. So how did we do? Tune in for the next post to find out. :)

“Worse” is putting it lightly. This mofo is 2 miles long. While the rest of the hill isn’t as superbly steep as the beginning part, it’s a long, winding, never-ending piece of crap. Every time I rounded a corner and expected to be at the end, I’d see more hill to climb. I cursed, sweated, wheezed, dropped my chain, cursed again, stopped to put the chain back on my bike, burned my legs up trying to start climbing again mid-hill, sweated some more, wheezed a few more times, and finally made it to the top. Then we turned around, flew down the hill (well, they flew while I held my brakes in a nervous death grip) and climbed the bastard again. While I was in better gearing the second time around, my legs were tired and hating me for drowning them in lactic acid. Why the hell would I want to pay to bike up this hill? I just climbed it twice for free and hated every sweat-soaked minute of it!

Our practice ride was last Sunday, and all week Jason and I contemplated signing up for the duathlon. Teresa initially wanted us to do the long course (which consisted of a 5.1 mile run, a 28.8 mile bike and a 3.7 mile run), meaning we’d have to do the bike loop (and that bullshit hill) twice, and once we rode the course we were like “Yeeeeeah, the short course seems more appropriate.” Several of our training buddies were doing the short course and a couple of folks were doing the long course. Confident that she could conquer the hill this year, Beth egged me on to sign up and race with her.

Jason and I dragged our feet up until Saturday, at which point Jason put on his game face, hitched up his britches and decided to do the race. He set out his gear and clothes and I begrudgingly mimicked him like a disgruntled monkey. When the alarm started blaring at 5:15 am on Sunday morning, he bounced out of bed and said in a far-too-chipper voice, “Time to get ready, Bec!” My response was a mumbly “I don’t wanna do the race.” He said, “Why not?”, and I muttered something about getting bullied into it, how the bike course wasn’t fun, the hill was stupid, I’m gonna do crappy, it’s unnatural for human beings to wake up before 6 am, etc.

This is not the first time I’ve put up a fight getting out of bed for a race, and it won’t be the last time. Jason knows my routine, and he’s become quite adept at subtly bullying me into racing. Here’s how he does it:

Me (laying in bed): “I don’t want to race.”
Jason (from the other room): “That’s fine, honey. You don’t have to race if you don’t want to.”

I get out of bed, use the bathroom, re-enter the bedroom and see that my ninja boyfriend has already made the bed.

Me: “Damnit.”

I walk downstairs and see that Jason is making breakfast.

Jason: “You don’t have to race. Nobody’s making you…do you want oatmeal? One packet or two?”
Me: “One…wait, I want an English muffin. And I don’t think I’m going to do the race.”
Jason (putting an English muffin in the toaster oven): “That’s okay, don’t feel stressed. I’m still going to race but you don’t have to. Are you going to stay home, or will you still watch?” He starts pumping up my bike tires.
Me (eating my English muffin): “I…don’t know…maybe…maybe I’ll come and watch…”
Jason: “Okay, that would be nice…do you want a Gu2O or just a water bottle?” He starts mixing bottles.
Me: “I’ll take one of each…wait, what am I saying? I’m not racing today!”

And then before I know it, I’m pulling out of our garage with my race gear on and my bike strapped to the back of my car. He is such a sneaky bastard.

We got to the fairgrounds, signed up for the race and set up our transition area. Before the race began Teresa snapped a photo of her athletes like a proud parent taking pictures of her kids on their first day of Kindergarten:

Look how bleary eyed I look. At this point I still hadn’t forgiven Jason for suckering me into waking up at 5 am and driving all the way to cold-ass Enumclaw to do a stupid duathlon.

At 8:05 the short course racers started. The first run was a short 1.6 miles. I ran with Bri and we hit the transition area at around the same time. I changed out my shoes, strapped on my helmet, put on my sunglasses (which immediately fogged up), grabbed my bike and click-clacked out of the transition area (note to self: learn the fancy “run out barefoot and slip into your shoes while riding” trick sometime this season) to begin the 14.4 mile bike portion. I biked pretty steadily and felt pretty good about passing a bunch of people. When my spidey sense started tingling to inform me that the hill was approaching, I sucked down a gu and fueled via my aero bottle in anticipation.

For me, this was the third time I’d be climbing the big hill within a week, and the third time was the charm. And by “charm,” I mean it didn’t suck quite as bad as it did the previous two times. Yes, I was slow and yes, I wheezed like a fat kid on a 12 carton of smokes a day habit, but I wasn’t as slow or as wheezy as the week before. I hit the top of the hill, refrained from punching the photographer in the face for capturing me at my absolute worst, and kept plodding along.

The rest of the bike course was fairly fast. At one point there was a steep downgrade and I wasn’t in the right gearing when I got to it, but my hands were too frozen for me to trust them to fumble with the shifters at the end of my aero bars, so I ended up keeping them right next to the brakes as I coasted down the hill, praying I wouldn’t hit a pothole and fly off my bike going over 30 mph. One dude actually passed me going down the hill, shooting down in his little aero helmet and fancy bike. He was the only person to pass me on the bike portion, and I later found out that he was the long course winner. That dude was fast.

Eventually I got back to the transition area and nearly fell off my bike when I dismounted (stumpy Asian legs + frozen quads = accident waiting to happen).

(Motion lines added for emphasis)

I dropped off my bike, stripped off my helmet and sunglasses, changed into my running shoes, and started the 3.7 mile run. Holy crap, my legs were so numb and cold from the bike that I felt like little Forrest Gump running gimp-style with his leg braces (minus the triumphant scene where they break off into a million pieces and he outruns the bullies). Two women passed me on the run, but I trudged along and hit the finish line at 1:36:37. Not too shabby!

I waited around with Jason, Teresa, and some other folks for some of our teammates to finish the race. While we were waiting the race organizers announced age group winners. To my surprise, I heard someone say, “Is Rebecca Kelley here?” I waved my arms in a dorky “Derrr, I’m Rebecca Kelley!” fashion. It turns out I took 3rd in my age group, and the two women who passed me on the run took 1st and 2nd. (They beat me by less than a minute. Bastards!…though I did have the best bike time in my age group, so that’s rad.) My first age group placement! (Well, technically I took 2nd in my age group at last year’s Apple Capital Olympic triathlon, but that was out of 3 total females…and the 3rd girl didn’t even show up to race.)

I was so stoked to have received a 3rd place medal that I forgave Jason for “tricking” me into doing the race.

See? Hugs and forgiveness abounds!

Speaking of Jason, he won his age group! Well, technically he was the only person in his age group, but hey, he had to show up in order to win, right? Plus he placed 11th overall, so it’s not like his time was sucky. He did really well and I’m proud of him.

Thus concludes my lengthy duathlon recap. I guess the moral of this story is that you should never say never. You don’t know what you’re capable of until you at least give it a try. I dragged my feet and whined and pouted about not wanting to do the race, but in the end I tried my best and got a sweet-ass medal for my efforts. Oh, and having a nagging but encouraging boyfriend doesn’t hurt, either. :)

And, I swear to God, whoever she pairs me with ends up running like a minute frickin’ faster than what Teresa assigned us as our pace. We all take off in a group and I check my watch to make sure I’m running at an appropriate speed, then I look up and see that the group I’m supposed to be running with is a million paces ahead of me, competing in some sort of unknown foot race that I’m most certainly going to lose. I mentally shake my fist at them and call them jerk face overachievers for running faster than they said they would. I then proceed to run by myself. This happens to me a lot.

The same thing happens with Jason. We start off on a long run together and he half-ass jogs right in front of me because he thinks he needs to hang back and run at my pace. But then if I need to stop for whatever reason (e.g., I have a cramp, that hill nearly killed me, I’m fat and out of shape), he begrudgingly slows down and walks alongside me for roughly twelve seconds before whining, “Can’t you at least jog?” Then I snap at him to run at his own pace without me, which he ends up doing. He trots back to find me every so often, which I both hate and like (hate because I hate that he’s faster than me, like because at least he’s not completely ditching me).

I’m starting to think that I’m destined to run by myself because apparently there is nobody in the entire Seattle metropolitan area who runs at the same pace as me. It’s like the Farmer in the Dell and I’m the cheese who stands alone. Or, in this scenario, I suppose I’m the cheese who runs alone. Hi-ho-the-dairy-o, the cheese runs alone. I’ve gotten pretty much used to it at this point, though. Besides, I’m not much of a talker when I run. I once ran around Greenlake with someone who talked my ear off the entire loop, with me offering up the occasional grunt and winded “Uh huh.”

But still, there’s something about having a presence next to you that’s somewhat comforting. It’s like you mentally push each other to keep going and maintain a good pace. You don’t have to exchange words or have a lengthy, heart wrenching conversation about the meaning of life or anything. Oftentimes all you need is the physical presence of someone next to you to encourage you to keep going. And I don’t have that. (Well, Jason is pretty encouraging when we do our long runs, but I find his encouragement to be great or annoying, depending on my mood. Today it was annoying, then begrudgingly great.)

Maybe I’ll tape a dummy to the side of me, you know, like one of those vaudeville acts. Or I could pay a ridiculously fast runner to trot alongside me in a tortuously slow pace, just to stick it to him. (Wait, if I’m paying him then the joke would be on me.) Or I could get faster…that could work, too. I guess I’ll just have to work hard and try to catch up with all of the fast a-holes I train with. Until then, the cheese runs alone…

Me: See, isn’t this great? It’s not too cold out, it’s not raining, it’s getting a bit dark but hey, that’s okay.
Body: I hate this. Are we done yet?
Me: No, we just started.
Body: Hey, we’re running past the Kingfish! You wanna get some fried chicken?
Me: NO. Keep going.
Body: But everything’s all hurty and I don’t like it!
Me: It’ll get better, I promise.
Body: Ok…so how long have we been running?
Me: I dunno, I don’t want to check. Keep running for a little while and then I’ll reward you by checking the time.
Body: Ok…how about now?
Me: No.
Body: Fine…now?
Me: No!
Body: Come onnnnnnn, just look.
Me: It’s been six minutes.
Body: God damnit.

We approach a hill.

Me: Come on, we can do it.
Body: This sucks! My chest hurts and my shoulder hurts and I can barely breathe and my side hurts and my abs feel tight and I hate this.
Me: Don’t you remember when you used to do hill repeats on this hill? Suck it up and run!
Body: Grumble grumble…

We get to the top of the hill and keep running. Soon we see another runner up ahead.

Me: Pass that runner.
Body: What? Why?
Me: Come on, we’re faster than her. Pick up the pace and pass her! Also, stop crossing your arms. And stand up straight. Stop leaning forward. Don’t run on your toes.
Body: Jesus, anything else, your majesty?
Me: Shut up and pass her.

We pass the runner and reach the turn around point. There’s another long, gradual hill up ahead.

Body: I hate you.
Me: This is good for you! We live in a hilly neighborhood, and it’s great for training.
Body: Arghhhh…
Me: Keep running on 15th, I need to pick up a prescription before the pharmacy closes.
Body: Fine. Whatever.

We get to the pharmacy and quickly duck in.

Body: Jesus Christ, it’s freakin’ HOT in here! Ugh, look at me. My face is beet red. I look like Louie Anderson after he’s just tied his shoes.
Me: We’ll be back outside in a second. Head over to that counter.

We walk over to the counter and pay for the prescription. The pharmacist gives us an odd look.

Pharmacist: So, uh, decided to go for a run?
Me/Body (trying to act casual): Oh yeah, no big deal, just felt like getting a quick run in.

We leave the pharmacy.

Me: Okay, I’m starting the watch back up. Keep running.
Body: Ok…hey, this isn’t feeling so bad.
Me: Yeah?
Body: Yeah, I’m not hurting as much as I did when we started. I could keep going for another hour!
Me: Well, we’re home.
Body: Ohthankgod. That was miserable.