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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: “Excuse me!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We looked dorky but it was still fun

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

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

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

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

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

Carly: “Oh, I’m a bad swimmer too!”

Me: “Oh really?”

Carly: “Yeah, I’m so slow.”

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

Carly: “Oh, a 1:06.”

Me:

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

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

Meanwhile, since I was finally healed of my running ailments and was once again able to run relatively well, I wanted to do the half marathon. I hadn’t run a standalone half marathon since Eugene in May 2010, and since I had only been running strong for 2 1/2 months, I didn’t really have many expectations going into the Seattle half. It’s a tough, hilly course that isn’t typically PR-friendly, so although I was hoping to run 1:45 or better (my previous best was a 1:46:46), I figured I’d be satisfied with a sub-1:50.

Jason, meanwhile, was hoping to finally have a “good” marathon (his words), as he usually ends up cramping towards the end and has to compromise speed for the last few miles due to his size. This time he’d be racing 40 lbs lighter and with a ton of mileage under his belt, plus he figured the cooler temperatures would mean he’d be less likely to cramp, so he was excited and nervous for Sunday to roll around.

On Saturday we did our customary “Ugh, I’m feeling so tired ahhhh why does my foot hurt oh god I’m getting sick aren’t I man this race is not going to go well” freak outs and lazed around the house hydrating and acting like hypochondriacs. We also agonized over what to wear for the race. Naturally, since the weather had been relatively mild for the past few years, weather forecasts called for supremely shitty weather on race day because we were unlucky enough to sign up for the race this year (no joke, I was watching the news and the meteorologist actually said Sunday was going to be “sucky”). It was projected to be warmer than usual temperature-wise, but it looked like we’d have to battle rain and wind, so Jason and I were scratching our heads and putting way too much effort into what to wear:

• Underarmour shirt and a long-sleeved shirt with tights and gloves!
• Wait, no, just an underarmour shirt and a t-shirt with a pair of shorts
• Well hold on a second, what about a long-sleeved shirt and shorts
• No, tights and a t-shirt!
• Or I could do tights, pants, underarmour, long-sleeved, gloves, a hat, a parka, a hazmat suit, ski pants…

This went on for about an hour before I ultimately muttered “Fuck it, I’ll just figure it out tomorrow when I’m half-awake” and we went to bed.

The next morning we woke up at 5:45 and ate breakfast (I got my “race day” coffee, something I haven’t ingested since July’s Rev 3 triathlon). I went with the uber-dweeb getup of tights, run shorts, an underarmour shirt, and a TN Multisports t-shirt and also packed a cheap pair of gloves to wear. I grabbed my fuel and some dry clothes to put on after I was done because the genius organizers decided to start the half marathoners at 7:30 and the marathoners at 8:15, so I’d have to wait around for 2+ hours after my race for Jason to be done and didn’t want to freeze my now-smaller ass off while waiting.

We left the house at about 6:45, and I made it about twelve blocks from our place before uttering “Fuck me, I forgot my watch.”

Jason: “What?”

Me: “I forgot my watch!” I had just bought a Garmin Forerunner 305 from one of my teammates and had planned to race with it, but naturally I left it at home because I’m a dumb-ass.

Jason: “So you have the heart rate strap on but not your watch?”

Me: “Yeah.”

Jason:

Sorry, Jas

Me: “I have to turn around and get it.”

Jas: “You’re going to be late to the race!”

Me: “No way, I can make it!”

Jason: “You don’t really need your watch for the race, do you?”

I just glared at him. Okay, maybe I was getting a bit too dependent on heart rate zones and whatnot, but seeing as how Teresa actually gave me a target heart rate to run at for the entire race, I figured I was being a good athlete and following coach’s orders rather than acting like a spazzy control freak. Also, I was being a spazzy control freak. But screw you, I wanted my watch.

Jason, sighing: “Okay, you better make it quick.”

And so I busted a U-wee and sped back to our place. Jason hopped out and grabbed the watch for me while I sat behind the wheel like a getaway driver. After that little misstep, we proceeded to get as close to the race as possible. Once we got stuck in traffic on Denny, I pulled into a pay lot and figured that five bucks for all-day parking would be fine considering I only had 20 minutes before the half marathon started, so I couldn’t exactly be picky with parking options.

Unfortunately, Problem #2 took the opportunity to rear its inconsiderate little head: the pay stall credit card kiosk wasn’t working. I only had a dollar on me and didn’t have time to run somewhere and get cash, so I scrawled the most ghetto apology note imaginable and placed it on my dashboard, prayed to the Parking Gods that I wouldn’t get a ticket, and took off for the race start.

When we got close enough to the start line, Jason gave me a hug and a kiss like a parent seeing his child off to her first day of school. I not-remotely-gracefully hopped the barricade between the spectators and the runners so I wouldn’t have to go all the way around and fight my way towards the front. As luck would have it, the first person I ran into was Kirsten, one of my teammates. I was happy to see a familiar face and chatted with her as the minutes ticked down.

When the gun went off I woefully realized Problem #3: I had to go #1. It was probably a “Nervous Race Day Pee for the 352nd Time” pee, but still, the bladder felt full and I was uncomfortable. Of course, I didn’t want to stop at the first portapotty a sad five minutes into the race, so I gritted my teeth and kept telling myself that the full bladder sensation would fuel me to run faster. “You’ll get to pee when you finish!”, I kept mentally barking at myself.

The weather was awfully muggy, so I ditched my cheapo gloves after the first mile and rolled up my sleeves, lamenting my choice of attire. I gradually built myself up to my target heart rate zone and was surprised to find that, unlike my training runs where it felt like I had to work pretty hard to maintain zone 4, on race day I was able to hit it relatively easily and maintained it well. I took my splits every mile and gawked at how fast each one was. Should I slow down? This wasn’t sustainable, right? But I was feeling fine. Good, in fact. So should I just keep running in this zone and see where it takes me?

I ultimately decided to stay in the zone Teresa originally assigned me and hoped for the best. By mile 5 my full bladder sensation subsided into a dull whimper, and once I hit the Leschi part of the course I felt confident because I had run this stretch of the race so many times while training so it felt familiar and comfortable. I saw a bunch of my teammates spectating and cheering for me and our other teammates who were racing, which made me grin like a dope and wave like a giddy child. (Best team ever. Seriously. End of discussion.)

The hills came and went and I maneuvered through them comfortably. They didn’t feel too bad–chalk it up to living in Capitol Hill and running on hilly terrain multiple times a week. My climbing pace wasn’t fast but it was steady, leaving me some energy to descend faster than the folks around me. I puttered up the heart rate-spiking Galer hill and onto Madison, where I spotted Teresa ahead of me. Her energy levels were starting to dip due to an adverse reaction from one of her treatment shots, so I was able to catch up to her and smack her on her skinny butt. She glanced up and beamed when she saw it was me, exclaiming, “Great job!” What an awesome coach–she’s not feeling well but still cares enough about her athletes to muster up a smile and some encouraging words for us. My heart soared and I pushed on, going from feeling great to feeling super-duper great.

I powered through the Arboretum, up Interlaken, and down through Eastlake. The weather had started to turn and it was raining and getting windy now. I uncursed myself for my choice of race attire and soldiered on, gawking at my mile splits.

The look on my face when I'd check my splits

How was I running this fast? I don’t run this fast! I’m the mediocre runner! I’m the cheese at track! I’ve been injured all season! I’ve only been running for a couple months! What is going on here?!

At mile 11 I came up to a female who noticed me and kept doing the dickheaded “edge you out so you can’t run alongside me or pass me” move. It was annoying, and so was her squeaky shoe. I ran right behind her for a mile before dropping her on a descent, when she couldn’t keep up with my powerful Asian stubs. Take that, chick who arbitrarily started a rivalry with me even though I don’t know her at all and don’t care if she beats me because I’m just trying to run my best race without worrying about what anyone else is doing!

The weather was getting pretty damn ugly by this point, but I was close to the finish so I buried my head, kept wiping the rain off my face, and powered through as best I can. I ran into Mark at one corner and he said, “A quarter mile to go, attack that descent!” I got super excited. Only a quarter mile left? I could finish in 1:40! Holy crap! So I ran and ran and ran and ran…but when I hit the “26 mile” sign, I mentally cursed Mark for being off with his distance estimate. I still had .2 miles to go! Quarter mile, my ass! Oh well, so I wasn’t going to finish in 1:40, but I was still going to post a hefty PR.

I rounded the last bend and began to enter the stadium. Jason’s dad spotted me and started shouting excitedly. I grinned and waved and approached the finish…and then I heard super fast, heavy footsteps behind me and saw Random Rival, who rallied to try and edge me out one last time. It’s called a chip time, lady–we ended up finishing at the exact same time on the clock, but her chip time was half a minute better so she would have beat me even if she didn’t sprint like a doosh at the end. I didn’t care though because I had just PR’d on a hard course on an ugly day, after a season of injury, hardships, and doubt.

Final time: 1:41:15. I couldn’t believe it. Sure, I was slimmer, healthier, and had been running stronger as of late, but I had long written off my 2011 season as being a craptacular disappointment, so to end the year with such a marked improvement felt a bit foreign and strange. I shook off the initial shock and embraced my hard-earned finish time. It felt good to be back in action.

I snapped some unattractive photos with my teammates who were pouring in (I never noticed how bulbous my forehead looked until I posed with people who were all wearing hats while my fat melon remained exposed and shiny in all its Charlie Brown-shaped glory), then made my way to a portapotty to reward my bladder for its patience with a much-earned evacuation. I then wrapped myself up in a space blanket like a giant sweaty burrito and shivered my way back to the car so I could change into dry clothes.

My string of good luck continued when I realized I hadn’t received a parking ticket, so after the most awkward wardrobe change ever (picture a sweaty athlete struggling to conservatively change her pants in the backseat of a Subaru as the car shakes and fills with steam–to anyone walking past the pay lot on the corner of Denny and Aurora, no, that was not a couple getting it on, it was just a fidgeting female who was struggling to yank on dry socks while simultaneously shaking off a foot cramp), I ran to a nearby Walgreens, got some cash, and paid for my parking spot. Success! This must be what the Ocean’s 11 crew felt like.

After chugging a chocolate milk, I made my way back to the race to wait for Jason to finish. I caught up with Mark and Teresa and hung out inside a warm cafe until we forced ourselves to go back outside. The weather had gotten ridiculous by this point–when it wasn’t pouring, winds were gusting so hard that umbrellas were getting turned inside out and the spectators were becoming frozen blocks.

Eventually we saw Jason powering down the street approaching the finish. I was super excited to see him–he looked strong, albeit wet and cold. Teresa and I started cheering like maniacs and he lit up when he saw us. He asked how my race went and Teresa chirped, “She did great!,” then was all “Awwww, how sweet, he asked how you did before he was even done with his race!” Yeah, that’s right, my boyfriend is a stud who’s all caring and cool and whatnot. You know you’re jelly.

He finished in 3:20:16, a whopping 16 minutes faster than his previous best. Yaay, finally Jason gets his “good” marathon!

Me (and my bitchin' shark mittens) with a 3:20 runnin' Jas and his proud papa

We waited for his sister to finish before getting the eff out of the cold and back to the warm confines of the still-steamy-from-Becca’s-wardrobe-change Subaru. The rest of our day consisted of hot showers, a fireplace, homemade pumpkin pie courtesy of Alley and our “Pie of the Month” agreement, and gooey, calorie-licious pizza. We’re both nursing sore legs today but are very happy with our finish times.

My next goal is to do a sub-1:40 (which I might have done if I were on a flatter course), but I’m not sure when my next half marathon will be since I’ll be fully committed to Ironman training now that the race is over. I wanted to do a marathon this winter but Coach T would rather I focus on my Ironman training, so my elusive sub-4 will have to wait a while longer. If she can coach me to a PR marathon for Ironman Canada, I’ll find some way to forgive her… ;) Until then, I’m content to enjoy my half marathon PR for another day before the training picks up again and I’m whimpering for mercy. There’s always another race around the corner, right folks?

I had a speed run workout scheduled, so Jas and I headed to the Greenlake track on our lunch break to bust it out. The plan was to do a 20 minute warm up, then two miles all out with a five minute recovery, then 4×100 at my previous all out pace with a three minute recovery, then a 10 minute cool down. Total workout time: 1 hour. I started my warm up then began my hard effort. It sucked. Bad. My stomach was really sour and I felt like I didn’t have any speed. I stopped after one mile, figuring I’d do my recovery and then I could do another hard mile. I started my recovery time and the sour stomach went into overdrive. My easy set quickly incorporated some “awkwardly mosey over to the portapotty and unleash the fury” time (at least there were portapotties nearby — I wasn’t about to fail my #1 goal).

When my stomach quieted down, I left the portapotty and dejectedly made my way back to the track. Okay, so my two mile hard effort was kind of a bust, but at least I could do my 4×100 sets, right? I started one and had a decent lap time, then did a recovery lap. During my second lap the stomach acted up again, and once again my recovery lap included a sprint to the bathroom where I had to do the walk of shame past the same tennis players who I had just passed five minutes ago. I felt like waving and announcing, “Yes, yes, it’s me again. Yes, clearly I’m having some sort of bowel issue. Thank you for noticing. Yes, I have seen Anna Kournikova on The Biggest Loser. Uh, no, I don’t really like her more than Jillian. I mean, she kind of sucks and she’s got the crappiest team, so…you know what, speaking of ‘crappiest,’ I really gotta go. Again.”

After Wave of Number Two #2 came and went, I managed to bust out a super sad cool down mile, figuring that the workout was a complete bust considering my guts weren’t letting me run hard. Instead of 7-7.5 miles, I managed a fairly sad five. We drove home and I had some soup and some tea to try and quiet things down, then I headed to the allergist to get my weekly shot.

I needed to get a swim workout in but wasn’t sure I’d make the swim time at our gym, so later that evening after my shot I headed over to Medgar Evers to drop in on their lap swim time. When I got there, the employee recharged my parks & rec card and was about to scan it when I looked over at the pool and noticed an unusually large amount of pre-teens occupying the lanes.

Me: “Uh, is lap swim going on right now?”

Employee: “No, it’s a youth swim clinic.”

Me: “Oh…how long does that go for?”

Employee: “From now until 6:30.” Damn it all!

Me: “Does lap swim start after that?”

Employee: “Yeah, from 6:30 to 7:00.”

Oh, what the hell. 30 minutes for lap swim? Maybe the average swimmer could do my workout in that time, but Rebecca the Floating Turd was going to need about 50 to bust this out. No swimming for me.

I headed back home and thought, “Okay, the run didn’t go well, the swim didn’t happen, but I have an hour long bike workout scheduled tomorrow that I could do today” (I had been shuffling around workouts this week since Jason and I are traveling to Chicago this weekend). Jason pulled out my bike for me and I went to pump up my tires. I finished pumping up the front one, and when I removed the pump from the valve stem, it imploded into itself and my tire immediately went flat. FUCKKKKKKKKKK. Now I’ve got the saddest flat tire imaginable — an indoor trainer ride flat. Who gets these? Becca gets these.

I sighed and replaced the flat tube. By this point I was tired and in total “Fuck it” mode, so I did a pretty lazy spin while watching Teen Mom recordings from my DVR while Jason simultaneously laughed at and felt bad for me for having a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day. I ended up laughing it off with him — I mean, when three workouts go horribly awry, you gotta just roll with the punches, right? Thankfully, most of my workouts lately have gone relatively well coming off Injuryfest 2011, so I’ll take a shitty workout or two…just as long as this doesn’t become a regular thing.

I had only done the Cougar Mountain trail workout once before and I was a lot chunkier and slower, so I was looking forward to attacking the trails in my leaner, meaner state. The last time I did the run, I wheezed my way up the hills feeling miserable and bloated.

Lugging my chub across five miles of trail in 2010

I don’t have a picture of myself from Saturday’s workout, but I estimate that I’m about 14 lbs lighter and considerably faster than I was in the above chunkeriffic photo. Hooray for eating like a normal human being for a change!

We waited for our squadron of teammates to arrive, and I figured I’d have plenty of peeps to run with. My hopes were dashed when five people showed up:

1. Tom, who just did Ironman Canada and wouldn’t be taking the workout seriously
2. Amanda, who also just did Ironman Canada and also gave zero shits about the workout
3. Brent, who has qualified for the Boston Marathon
4. Coach Bridget, who is much faster than me
5. Coach Kim, who is much much much faster than me

Awesome, so that leaves the fast group (Kim, Bridget, Jason, Brent), the “We just did an Ironman so fuck you” group (Tom, Amanda), and me, the cheese, left to run by herself yet again. I’ve either got to get a hell of a lot faster or just give up and sandbag it from now on, because this middle of the pack nonsense is getting pretty lonely.

Before we got started, Bridget inexplicably thought it would be a good idea to attach her $400 Garmin watch to her dog’s collar to see how fast and far her pooch would travel during the workout. We didn’t think it was the smartest idea considering Zoe started chasing the watch’s reflection across the parking lot as soon as Bridget strapped it onto her collar, but Bridget’s gonna do what Bridget’s gonna do. And thus we took off.

Bridget and her dog (not at Cougar Mountain; I just stole this pic from her Facebook page)

Almost immediately we settled into Fast Group, the Mediocre Athlete Team of One, and the Ironcouple. Zoe shot off like a rocket, weaving in and out of the woods and crashing through trees like a sasquatch on angel dust. We had been running for less than ten minutes when the dog returned to Bridget, panting happily. I heard a loud “MOTHER FUCKER” and immediately knew the cause of said expletive. By the time I caught up to Fast Group, the look on Coach B’s face pretty obviously identified the problem: Zoe lost the Garmin watch. Surprise!

Bridget left Fast Group to try and find her watch, so they took off without her while I chased them to no avail. Pretty soon they dropped me like I was a holiday flavored gel (seriously, mint chocolate? Eggnog? Nobody likes that shit) and I found myself alone on the trail. My run felt really good and I stayed steady and strong, albeit ridiculously sweaty as I trudged through the thick, humid air. At one point a guy and his buddy passed me twice going the same direction, causing me to double-take and say, “Didn’t I just see you guys?” the second time we crossed paths. Either there was a glitch in the Matrix or those dudes were lost.

The run went tons better than the first time I did the trail workout, which was a nice indication of how much my running has improved and how less chunky I was. Plus, I only tripped and nearly killed myself twice, which is astoundingly good considering how clumsy I am. Unfortunately, I misread the workout directions and stayed on a path for one mile instead of point one miles, so I accidentally missed a turn and ended up cutting the workout a little short. I didn’t realize my mistake until I reached the parking lot from the opposite side of the park. I made my way over to the trail entrance and waited for Fast Group to emerge while steam rose from my disgustingly sweaty body.

Eventually I heard the group chatting, so I waited for them to get to the parking lot. Brent was the only one who emerged — apparently he was heading home but the rest of them went to go look for Bridget’s watch. I chased after the remaining three and caught up to Bridget and Kim, who were trudging through the woods, their eyes glued to the forest floor. Bridget told me that Jason had taken off to try and look for me. Since there was no way I’d catch up to him considering he already had a sizable head start on me, I figured I’d stay behind and try and look for Bridget’s watch. The ensuing conversation went as follows:

Me: “The watch should be around here, yeah?”

Bridget: “Yeah, but she ran through so many bushes and trees that it could be buried or hidden somewhere.”

Me: “Well I can’t imagine it’d be that hard to spot since it’s bright orange…” I looked down at my feet to begin my search and there it was, covered and dirt and literally right in front of me. “Oh, it’s right here!”

Bridget: “SHUT UPPPP!!!”

She scampered over to me and gave me a huge hug despite my protests to not touch me because I was all sweaty and nasty. I am still astounded that I managed to find that thing in an instant after they had been looking for a while. Bridget, this better make us even for me not going to your barbecue!

We made our way back to the parking lot. Kim pointed out some brown stuff that was stuck to Zoe’s side and asked Bridget how her dog had gotten so dirty. Bridget responded with “Oh, it’s just bark and mud,” then wiped it off, sniffed her hand, and exclaimed, “Ewwww no it’s not that’s POOP!” So Bridget’s trail workout concluded with her cleaning off a poo-covered Zoe and thinking that this was probably the worst trail run ever while her dog looked happy and excited and was probably thinking that this was the best trail run ever (“I got to run through the woods! I rolled around in poop!”). It’s all about perspective.

Eventually Jason and Ironcouple made their way back to the parking lot, and we were all rewarded for a workout well done with cookies. Since I’m still working on Operation Abs, I only took one cookie but told myself it was an “I found the Garmin” cookie and thus well-earned. All in all it was a fun way to start my Saturday and I pretended to be the hero in yet another dog-related incident. Maybe next week I’ll end up saving a drowning dog from Lake Washington who happens to have a missing family heirloom attached to its collar or something. The excitement never stops in Mediocre Athleteland!

Jason had a hill repeat run too, only he had eight climbs because he’s more beastly than I am. We both started at the Volunteer Park Cafe on Galer in Capitol Hill and would run from there up a steep 200 meters until we reached the entrance to Volunteer Park, then we’d turn around and jog back down. The hill is somewhat crappy — it’s a steady climb for most of the way up and then has a nice and shitty steep finish. My hamstrings actually felt less sore when I climbed so the repeats actually weren’t too bad.

I was running up the sidewalk during my last repeat when I glanced across the street and noticed two absolutely stupid looking Boston terriers running up the sidewalk too. A mild wave of annoyance crossed through me as I thought the owner was probably behind the dogs and had let them off the leash like a douchebag. When I got to the top of the hill, I turned around to descend but saw nobody in sight.

At this point the dogs had reached the top of the hill and were darting all over the place in a spazzy little frenzy. Some random dude who looked like Wilford Brimley emerged from the park, saw the terriers, and exclaimed, “Well where did you two come from?” He fended off oncoming cars while trying to shoo the dogs out of harm’s way. The terriers turned around and started shooting back down the hill.

By now Jason had realized that I was more interested in the dogs than in doing my cooldown, so he looked on in annoyance while I tried to flag the dogs down. He and I are mostly compatible with a few exceptions:

1. He hates when I make hard-boiled eggs or eat tuna fish because they’re stinky
2. I get annoyed every time he washes his face and flings water all over the bathroom mirror
3. He’s not a big “pet person”

Regarding #3, Jason and I are like the Sharks and the Jets from West Side Story. I grew up with a plethora of animals — since childhood, I’ve had a pet hamster, a bunny, a guinea pig, a cat (pre-allergies), and a wild assortment of dogs I’ve loved (my brother’s beagle) and loathed (two stupid, high maintenance chows). He, on the other hand, grew up in a pet-free home, so he’s never had much interaction with furry critters and is therefore pretty “meh” about them in general. I want to get a dog but he’s very eye-rolling about the matter. Since we’re at a standstill regarding bringing a dog into the household, I have to get my doggy fix with random pooches I come across.

Okay, back to the Boston terriers. The big one shot down the hill on the other side of the street but the little one started to run towards me. I clapped my hands and coaxed it over, then spent a few minutes chasing it around until I managed to half-tackle the damn thing (I should have logged the extra time and distance with the rest of my workout — “Chased dog: 3 minutes, zone 2 heart rate”). Once I scooped it up, I noticed that it had hilariously wonky eyes (one brown and one a milky blue that stared off into a different direction), a pink collar with no tags (ugh, wonderful, no identifying information), and a bunch of hard nipples poking out of its chest. Based on the color of the collar and the bundle of nips digging into my hand, I deduced that this hyper little bugger was female (either that or a very excitable male).

This is what the terrier looked like (it was indeed in full derp mode).

She panted happily in my arms while I walked down the hill, trying to figure out what the hell to do with her. The other terrier was nowhere in sight. Jason stood at the bottom of the hill staring daggers at me.

Jason: “What are you doing? Stop playing with that dog and finish your workout!”

Me: “I can’t leave her here! What if she gets hit by a car? I don’t want that on my conscience!”

Jason: “Ughhhh, you’re ruining our run…you’re not bringing it home.”

Me: “Don’t worry, I won’t. I’ll take her to the cafe and see if they can hold onto her.”

I strolled over to the cafe while an exasperated Jason followed close behind. He studied the menu (“Hey, this place looks pretty good, we should try it sometime”) while I T-1000′d my way through the restaurant, asking everyone if they recognized the dog. One of the employees scrounged up some rope and tied the dog’s collar to a mail dropbox outside and gave her some water. The employees said they’d keep an eye on her and could put up flyers in the area. I left my name and number in case they or the owner needed to get in touch with me, then Jason and I ran home.

Amusingly, Jason initially gave me shit for stopping to take care of a little dog:

Jason: “You’re such a dork.”

Me, semi-jokingly: “Whatever, I’m a hero. I saved that dog’s life.”

But as the night progressed, he’d occasionally bring up the dog, wondering aloud if the owner was able to find it. The first thing he said to me when we woke up the following morning was “I wonder how Random Dog is doing.” Underneath that tough exterior is a guy who loves animals as much as I do (or at least somewhat tolerates them).

On Saturday Jason went for a run and saw some “Missing Dog” flyers for a Boston terrier with a pink collar. Her name was Mona, which I think is a terrible name for a dog that derpy looking — she’s more of a “Trixie” or a “Mitzy” (Jason started calling her Vienna after that wonky-eyed chick from The Bachelor). He didn’t grab the flyer because he didn’t want to run with it, so I called the cafe the next day and they confirmed that someone saw the dog at the cafe, recognized it from the flyer, and called the number. The owner and Mona-Trixie-Vienna were reunited (let this be a valuable lesson for the owner to get a freaking tag for his dog), I helped a dog in need, and Jason was only minorly inconvenienced. Happy endings for all!

Dear K-Swiss,

I’m a big fan of your products — I have numerous pairs of K-Swiss shoes and my triathlon team (TN Multisports) receives a nice discount on some K-Swiss merchandise. However, I’ve got a bit of a bone to pick with you. Last August I was in Penticton to race Ironman Canada, and while I was there I saw a K-Swiss display that featured a number of pairs of K-Ona S shoes. One of the pairs featured a glorious design incorporating the Korean flag. They were pretty awesome, but you already know that because why else would you turn a less-than-awesome design into a shoe? That would be crazy talk, which would lead to someone getting their ass fired (maybe that’s why Kenny Powers is in charge now).

Unfortunately, since my mind was focused on the race at hand, I didn’t buy them at the time, a decision I ended up regretting because I can’t find these effers anywhere — not on your site, not on the Internet…it’s as if they never existed. But I know they exist because I took a picture of them:

They're real, and they're spectacular

I want these shoes on my feet, damnit.

I tried to fill the void by buying a different pair of K-Ona S shoes (these bad boys), but my royal blues are no match for that glorious Korean flag. Being half Korean, I gotta represent out there with my stumpy Asian legs and supreme crappiness in the water. I really want a pair of the K-Swiss K-Ona S Korean flag shoes. You guys have Australia, Japan, Germany, USA, and Brazil, but like Christopher Walken and his cowbell, I gotta have my Korean kicks. Are they available at all? If so, can you hook a half Asian sista up with a pair (women’s size 8.5)?

Thank you,
Rebecca Kelley (aka the “Mediocre Athlete”)

P.S. Why don’t you offer awesome Korean swag like this in women’s sizes? I love this shirt but would look absurd in a men’s size small. Show Koreans some love, damnit!

…until the FedEx dude knocked on my door today and dropped off a package for me. Oh right, my free shoes! Yaay, free shoes free shoes free shoes. Who doesn’t love getting a new pair of kicks? I unwrapped the package, opened the box…and my brow furrowed. What’s this thingy in the back of the shoe? Is that Velcro? What happens when I — HOLY SHIT THIS SHOE IS INSANE.

Here’s a video of a low-level Bond villain explaining how they work, plus some pics of my shoes:

A bit shinier than I would prefer

Velcro/adjustment strap

The hatchback of the shoe world

The gist of it is that you can pull the entire back of the shoe away from the rest and slip your foot in quickly, then pull the back strap up to tighten it into place and secure it with Velcro. It’s odd, to say the least. I gotta admit though, as weird as these shoes are, they’re actually pretty comfy. The T2 was designed to be super light and come with a few drainage holes and a forefoot strike design. I don’t know if I’ll ever actually race in these (I’ve run into a plethora of running injuries lately and don’t want to risk another one), nor am I sure about how fast you can actually get into them (I’d probably get bungled up trying to tighten them, plus I always thought the Zoot racing flats were plenty fast to get into), but they seem fine for spectating or just hanging around. Plus they were free, so suck it.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

Example dialogue:

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

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

Me: “It’s bowl plus foot! Bowlfoot!”

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

Not my feet, obviously.

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

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

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