Yesterday Jason and I ran the Vancouver half marathon. Jason dubbed it his “vindication race,” and before I talk about how we did, I feel I have to explain why he nicknamed it that. Time to flashback to last year’s half marathon. Cue the wavy lines… Okay, pretend it’s 2008. Jason and I are driving up to Canada to do the Vancouver half marathon. This will be my 2nd half marathon, and my goal is to finish in under two hours (my first half marathon was in Port Angeles a couple years before, and I finished at around 2:04). Jason had actually never run a half marathon before — he had done 3 marathons, so he figured the half would be a piece of cake and set a goal time of 1:45. 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...

On Sunday Jason and I did the Mt. Rainier Duathlon in Enumclaw. A bunch of our TN Multisport buddies had signed up for the race and were urging us to do the same. We had heard daunting things about the mighty duathlon course hill, so last week we decided to ride the bike route and see how formidable the hill would be. Jason, his dad, Beth, Barb and I met in horse loving Enumclaw and rode our bikes to get a feel for the duathlon course. Beth told me that she wanted to make sure she could successfully get up the hill this year since last year she was unable to conquer it. It was a warm, sunny day and most of the roads were flat and fast with a few gradual inclines…and then we got to the hill. Even though I had heard gloriously awful things about it, the beast still caught me by surprise. The first part of the hill is the steepest — it’s mercifully short, but I’m told it’s a shitty 17% incline. When I hit it I was in the completely wrong gearing and frantically downshifted. Although I did make it to the top, I ran out of momentum and ended up keeling over and running into a guardrail (thankfully, much like a Weeble, I wobbled but did not fall down). When Beth caught up to me at the top of the hill, I asked her, “Was that the part you got stuck on last year?” She just laughed and said, “Oh no, it gets worse.” “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...

Yesterday, instead of doing my swim workout I sat on the couch and watched episodes of Deadwood while eating jellybeans. What was my excuse, my explanation for skipping the pool? Well, other than wanting to see if Swearengen was going to pass his kidney stones (he did), I had none. Feeling shameful, today I focused on my track workout and had my best run in weeks. Why not make up an excuse and tell myself, “You’re just resting up from the weekend’s workouts,” “You deserve a break,” or “You don’t need to swim”? Because as long as Team Hoyt is racing, I have no excuse, and neither should you. If you’re not aware of who Team Hoyt is (you should if you do any races), they’re a father/son team who will race their 1,000th race this year. That in itself is pretty remarkable (I’ve probably done about a dozen, so I’d have to average almost 40 more races a year to hit 1,000 by the time I’m 50), but what makes Team Hoyt even more awe-inspiring is the fact that the son, Rick Hoyt, has cerebral palsy and can barely move. He communicates via a computer and has a nice job, but he’s not exactly in the best condition to lace up his shoes and go for a run. So how does he race? Well, it’s “easy,” really: Dick Hoyt, the father, tows his son in a boat when he swims, rides with him in a bike, and pushes him in a wheelchair while running. It’s hard enough for millions of people to drag themselves out of bed and head to the gym for 30 minutes of half-ass elliptical machine cardio while flipping through a magazine, let alone have the mental drive and determination to train for a race, whether it be a 5K, a marathon, or an Ironman. Team Hoyt goes one step further — Dick Hoyt has worked twice as hard as virtually anyone you know. He’s swam 2.4 miles while towing his son. He’s hauled about 350 total lbs up steep hills on a bike. He’s run the Boston Marathon over 26 times, and his finish time pushing another human being in a wheelchair is still way better than what most of you will ever hope to run in your lifetime. Can you imagine what Dick Hoyt’s race time would be if he were a team of one? The man is nearly 70 years old, and he’s FAST. He and his son are faster than I am and probably will ever be. I can only imagine what his full potential is when he’s not towing or pushing his son. But Dick is so unselfish and so committed to racing as a team that we’ll probably never know what his marathon time would be if he ran by himself, or what the Ironman clock would read as he crossed the finish line solo. And I bet he wouldn’t have it any other way. Team Hoyt’s unselfishness and commitment to themselves as athletes and to others with disabilities should light that fire under your ass. You have no excuse. If you’re overweight and bemoan the fact that everyone else seems to lose lbs except you, you have no excuse. If you’ve been planning on running your first 5K but have been putting it off, you have no excuse. If you’re striving to hit a PR for your next 70.3 race but are watching TV and eating jellybeans instead of swimming, you have no excuse. Know why? Because Team Hoyt has plenty of built-in excuses, and they don’t let that drag them down. They overcome their disadvantages, sign up...

Like the elite athletes we are, this morning Jason and I slept in until 11:30, stumbled downstairs, watched a movie while eating a scramble full of embarrassingly massive quantities of feta cheese, and then queued up the Ironman 70.3 Championships in Clearwater on NBC. We’ve grown increasingly obsessed with watching triathlons and have caught a crapload of Kona reruns on the Universal Sports channel, so we were pretty stoked to see the 2008 Clearwater race. Unfortunately, it sucked. Well, let me clarify. The race didn’t suck, but the coverage sure did. They really phoned it in this year. I’m surprised it took this long to air the coverage — given how crappily they half-assed it, they could have aired this thing the day after the actual race. First of all, they showed two “check out these athletes who have overcome adversity” profiles, one about a paraplegic motocross (or dirt bike, or something) racer and another about a dude who got in a horrible car accident and got a “second chance at life”/insert-hyperbolic-inspirational-schmaltz-here. I don’t mind athlete profiles, but I do mind when they show the exact same segment they aired for the Kona race. They didn’t even bother shooting anything new — they just queued up the existing footage and re-played it for Clearwater. That’s pretty lazy. Other disappointments: The narrator was underwhelming. He didn’t seem especially stoked to be covering Clearwater, and his lack of enthusiasm was kind of a buzzkill. They didn’t really do any elite athlete profiles other than the requisite 30 second “here’s who won last year” mention. I like how Kona does it — they talk about the elites more and interview them and check in on them more on an individual level. Not much mention of the course. I know that Clearwater is an “easy” course since it’s pretty much flat as a pancake, but how were the conditions (e.g., temperature, humidity)? Is there any elevation gain? They could have even talked about how flat it is and compared it to more challenging race courses, but no go. Not only did they recycle some athlete profiles and barely cover the elites, they did some super half-ass last-minute profiling, like the 5 second mention at the very end of the program of the lady who ran in sandals because of some condition she has (what? who? huh?). I’m sure there are more grievances to air, but the coverage was so unimpressive and disappointing that I’ve already forgotten most of what I saw. The one saving grace was getting to see Team Hoyt and finding out that this year they’ll log their 1,000th race. (I’ll post a separate entry about them this week.) Other than that, though, I must say that the coverage was pretty craptacular. Oh well — at least it motivated me and Jason to get off our unsatisfied asses and do a 10-13 mile...

If you participate in lap swim at a public pool (whether you’re at the Y, a community pool, or your fancy schmancy gym), you’ve witnessed a spat about pool lane etiquette. Every pool has its own rules that swimmers must adhere to, and every swimmer has his or her own interpretation of these rules. Below I’ve shared three pool scenarios that my friends and I have encountered. Hopefully you’ll learn from these anecdotes and remember to play nice while sportin’ your Speedo and goggles. Scenario #1: Getting in the Pool Scenario #1 was witnessed by fellow mediocre athlete and training buddy Beth Garrison. There was an incident at her gym between two irate swimmers. One swimmer was doing laps in a lane when the other one entered the pool area and wanted to begin his workout. Since the lanes were full, he decided to hop into a lane occupied by someone else. The only problem is this dumb ass decided to hop into the pool at the exact same moment the swimmer in the lane was doing his flip turn. As expected, this resulted in a collision and some exchanged words. The end result is that now multiple lifeguards need to babysit the lap pool. Yep, the lap pool full of grown adults is more staffed than the kiddie pool area. Lesson learned: If you have to share a lane with someone, make sure you hop in when he or she isn’t at the same end as you. Also, getting the swimmer’s attention and letting him/her know that you’re going to be sharing is a plus. (I recommend whacking the swimmer in the head with a water noodle, or maybe dipping your toe into the water and going “Yoo hooooooooo.” Or maybe not.) Scenario #2: Sharing a Lane Scenario #2 occurred when Jason and I arrived at the public pool near our house to do a swim workout. We showed up after work, so the pool was pretty packed. There were four lanes available: Easy, Medium, Fast, and Very Fast. The Easy lane had 2 swimmers in it and the other lanes had 4. Logically, Jason and I opted to go into the Easy lane because it was the least crowded. (Also, we’re slow swimmers. Don’t you judge us.) We started our workout and eventually the woman in our lane left, leaving us with an overweight older man sporting baggy red swim trunks, gigantic goggles and some ridiculous pool accessories. His workout consisted of “running” up and down the lane, and he was quickly getting irate that Jason and I were swimming and constantly passing him. He got so irritated that he stopped at one end of the pool, glared at us for a few laps, and finally resorted to complaining to the lifeguard that we were swimming too fast for the Easy lane. Yeah, that’s right, Jason and I got tattled on by an old man who was jazzercizing during lap swim. As expected, the lifeguard shrugged at the dude as if to say, “What the hell do I care?” Unsatisfied, the man waited until we swam back to his end and started whining to us about how we’re swimming too fast, dagnabbit! (If he had a cane he would have shook it at us.) Jason pointed out to him that this lane was by far the least crowded and that it’s not fair for him to hog a lane to himself just because he’s excruciatingly slow. They continued to argue back and forth (but thankfully refrained from angrily splashing each other), with the man eventually challenging Jason to guess how old he was. Jason’s response, logically, was...

Last year was my first triathlon year, and since I wanted to do it on the cheap (well, as cheaply as I could, anyway), I borrowed a ton of gear from my friend, Christine. She lent me her old bike, swim caps, goggles, her race belt, timing chip anklet, and her old wetsuit. The wetsuit was a bit old but did its job — it prevented me from freezing to death in the chilly lake waters and it kept me buoyant. However, by the end of the season the wetsuit was starting to get even more loose fitting and tattered than when Christine had initially lent it to me — the left leg was starting to look like a bell bottom due to an increasingly growing tear, and seams started bursting all over the place. Whenever I swam I felt like water was wooshing through the suit due to its loosey gooseyness. I knew that if I wanted to race again next season, I’d have to get my own wetsuit. Well, 2009 rolled around and my training group, TN Multisports, secured a sweet sponsorship deal from Zoot. My trainer’s boyfriend, Mark, convinced me to get an uber-hardcore Zoot suit, the Zenith 2. It’s a seriously bad ass suit, with extra padded areas on the torso and legs and a thinner material on the arms and shoulders for better range of motion. The extra padding and streamlines make the suit look like the Batsuit or a superhero suit, only without the stylish cape and handy utility belt. (Note the $650 price tag — holy hell, that is an expensive wetsuit. Thankfully, I received a nice team discount.) I finally got off my lazy ass and picked up my suit yesterday. I had to try it on to make sure it fit well, and once I squeezed my flabby body into it I wanted to take some pictures but my camera battery was dead. I ended up lounging around the house and reading crap on my laptop for 30 minutes while sweating in my wetsuit until my battery was charged enough to snap a couple photos. At one point Jason shouted from upstairs, “Do you still have your wetsuit on?!” I said, “Um…”, and he came downstairs, saw me, and burst out laughing. Anyway, for your viewing pleasure: I tried going for a cool superhero pose but ended up looking mentally disabled This is exactly what I look like when I run to the transition area from the swim The only time you’ll see me smiling and swimming at the same time I’m looking forward to trying this bad boy out in the open water and seeing if it makes any sort of difference in my swim. I expect it to turn me into Dara Torres — I have the technology to be bigger, faster, strongerrrrrr. Or at least post a sub-50 minute 1.2 mile...