Pain in the Ass

Pain in the Ass
I’m currently sitting on a flight from Seattle to New York (well, Newark) feeling fidgety and uncomfortable. No, it’s not because of your standard “sardines packed into a tin” dread of being crammed into a metal bird with a couple hundred of your closest germ-riddled stranger-neighbors. Nor is it because I’m a nervous flier (though I don’t take descents well). My constant shifting and pained expressions have to do with something else, something horribly awful and appropriately Mediocre. Allow me to rewind to yesterday afternoon. I was at Elite Fitness (they must have...
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Why Would You Invite Me to Swim 6.2 Miles for “Fun”

Why Would You Invite Me to Swim 6.2 Miles for “Fun”
I received an event invite on Facebook from a triathlete friend named Laura (not the same Laura who monologued me at Ironman Canada this year), who I highlighted in my Futile Quest for Abs post for having one of the most glorious set of stomach muscles I’d ever seen. She and I often overlap in age groups, meaning I get my ass kicked six ways from Sunday (or is it to Sunday? I get my ass kicked, that’s the main thing) in every race we both happen to be at. She’s raced at Kona and above all else is a seriously sick swimmer. I was hoping the event invite had to do with a brownie eating...
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Please Don’t Talk to Me When You’re Naked

Please Don’t Talk to Me When You’re Naked
Despite blogging candidly about my crotch and readily peeing myself in public, I’m actually a somewhat modest person, especially when it comes to nudity. In high school P.E. I would marvel at the girls who’d casually stroll around the locker room buck naked while I awkwardly tried to shimmy my clothes on from under a poncho-sized shirt I’d stolen from one of my older brothers. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against nudity; I just prefer to keep my shit covered up to everyone who’s not my doctor or my boyfriend because the general public doesn’t need to see my...
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Jim, If You Thought Getting Beat By a Joggler at a Half Marathon Was Bad…

My boyfriend’s dad Jim (whom I guess is basically my father-in-law at this point seeing as how Jason and I have been dating longer than most marriages seem to last nowadays) is an amusing fellow. He has always been a fan of cycling and is a pretty strong cyclist, but over the last several years he’s gotten interested in triathlon too as Jas and I have raced more and more. Jim logs a bunch of time in the pool swimming and will often hit up back to back spin classes at the athletic club or ride with us, yet due to bad knees and ankles, he can’t really muster up a decent run, which is...
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Crotchfest 2012: “This Sport is Stupid and Gross” Edition

Crotchfest 2012: “This Sport is Stupid and Gross” Edition
Warning: This post is disgusting. You probably shouldn’t read it. I wrote it because while this whole ordeal was gross and embarrassing and contains more information than you would ever want to know about my nether region, it’s still kind of funny and interesting. And there’s some science involved, so maybe you could learn something. Something gross, but hey, it’s better than nothing, right? So I went to the Coeur d’Alene training camp, did a fever and cold-induced 80 mile bike ride, and came home with a Fergie-approved lovely lady lump in my nethers. It hurt like a mofo...
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