Sweet fancy Moses, I’ve made it to my pre-Ironman taper. It’s that glorious week where you only have a crap-ton of workouts on your schedule instead of the usual ass-ton. Unfortunately, it’s also that time leading up to the race where you go through your “taper tantrum,” a whirlwind of emotions and paranoia where you overanalyze every little mundane thing and make it out to be a bigger deal than it is. Below are things that have gone through my head this week during my taper tantrum: I feel feverish–I MUST BE GETTING SICK My throat is kind of scratchy–I KNOW I’M GETTING SICK I’m feeling a little tired and rundown–I HAVE MONO, IT’S THE ONLY EXPLANATION My left Achilles has been nagging me–THE TENDINITIS IS BACK AGAIN, NOOOOOO I feel fat–I’M NOT GONNA FIT IN MY WETSUIT OR BE ABLE TO HAUL MY LARD-ASS UP YELLOW LAKE I haven’t been swimming enough lately–I’M GONNA DROWN ON RACE DAY There have been a couple triathlon swim deaths in the news–I’M DEFINITELY GONNA DROWN ON RACE DAY My bike’s shifting has been a bit wonky lately–MY BIKE’S GONNA BREAK IN HALF ON RICHTER I was tired during my last long run–I’M GONNA HAVE TO WALK THE ENTIRE MARATHON Dr. Perry mentioned I was a bit dehydrated–OH SHIT, I’M TOTALLY SCREWED My wetsuit ripped a bit before the Friday Night Swim–I’M GONNA HULK HOGAN THE DAMN THING WHEN I TRY TO PUT IT ON BEFORE THE RACE I had a bad swim at the Friday Night Swim Race–THEY’RE GONNA HAVE TO FISH ME OUT OF THE WATER DURING THE SWIM PORTION AND TN MULTISPORTS WILL DISOWN ME Teresa wants me to have a good race–OH GOD I DON’T WANT TO LET HER DOWN, SHE’LL BE SO DISAPPOINTED Feet felt a bit crampy after the drive up–I HAVEN’T BEEN STRETCHING ENOUGH, MY MUSCLES ARE SO TIGHT THIS IS NO GOOD The race day weather report keeps changing–OH SHIT I’M GOING TO BE UNDER/OVERDRESSED AND WILL FREEZE/ROAST I DON’T EVEN KNOWWWW Thankfully, this article popped up at the right moment, telling me to get the fuck over it and reminding me that I’ve done plenty of training and I’m ready as I’ll ever be for Sunday’s shenanigans. With less than 24 hours until the Big Effin’ Race, it’s all about serenity now, serenity now (hoo-chie ma-ma and insanity later, of...

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 over the weekend but subsided into a “feels like a slight bruise” sensation. Unfortunately, despite the pain level decreasing, the size and hardness of this mass remained the same. I started to get concerned because I had three bike workouts on my schedule for this week and Honu was right around the corner, so I couldn’t afford to stay off the bike and wait for this thing to go away on its own. My “situation” was quite the topic of interest among my female teammates: [at our group run at Greenlake] Jill: “How are you feeling?” Me: “Much better! I think my cold is gone now.” Jill: “I mean…how are you feeling.” Me: “…oh, right. That thing. Yeah, it’s still there.” [two minutes later] Vicki: “Hey, Rebecca! How are things feeling?” Me, sighing: “Yeah, it’s still there.” By Wednesday the blob was still hanging around places it shouldn’t be, so I called the women’s health clinic at my go-to medical center to try and make an appointment. Receptionist: “So are you just wanting a routine checkup?” Me: “Well, I guess we could do a checkup, yeah, but I want to get this potential cyst looked at. It formed after a bike ride on Friday and I need to get it dealt with as soon as possible.” Receptionist: “Okay…” [clack clack clack clack clack] “…I have a June 6th appointment available. Will that work for you?” Me: Me: “Seriously, three weeks? Don’t you have anything sooner?” Receptionist: “I’ll have to look and call you back.” Annoyed, I tried a different clinic. The soonest they could get me in to see a doctor was Monday, so I tentatively made an appointment but kept calling around trying to find a better option. Clinic #3 receptionist: “How can I help you?” Me: “I was wondering if you had any open appointments for the gynecologist.” Receptionist: “Uhhhh…I don’t think we do that here.” Me: “Oh, okay.” Receptionist: “Let meeeeee cheeeeeck…..” [clack clack clack clack clack] “…yeah, we don’t have cardiologists here.” Me: “Not cardiologists, gynecologists.” Receptionist: “Oh, radiologists?” Me, shouting: “GYNECOLOGIST! WOMEN’S HEALTH!!” I glanced over at Jason, whose shoulders were shaking with laughter. I could only imagine my conversation with this deaf woman escalating to me screeching “VAG DOCTOR!! I’M HAVING COOCH PROBLEMS!! THERE’S A CYST NEAR MY POON!!!” Receptionist: “OHHHHHHHHHHH…..let me give you the number to our women’s health clinic.” Good grief. I called the clinic she referred me to and spoke with a fourth receptionist. Clinic #4 receptionist: “How may I help you?” Me: “I need to make an appointment to see a gynecologist. First available, if possible.” Receptionist: “Okay, what’s the reason for the visit?” Me, as if reciting from a script because I’ve explained this roughly 1,000 times already: “I’m training for a race and I did an 80 mile bike ride over the weekend and I developed a hard lump near my pubic bone and my friend who’s a nurse said it’s probably a cyst and told me to have a doctor check it out to make sure it’s...

I’m 85 days into my “Questin’ for Abs” and thought I’d check in with an update. Since my fattest state (around the time of Rev 3 Portland) I have lost over 23 lbs (yaay!). I’m aiming to lose another eight and then see how things are looking. I figured that when I dropped all this weight, I’d unearth my awesome taut muscles and look lean and buff, but instead I’ve found that my appearance is closer to “small” and “scrawny.” Before, when I had some junk in my trunk, I’d look at my massive legs and think “Ooh, once I lose some of this fat my legs are going to look muscley and awesome.” Now that I’ve lost some of the fat, they look dinky (and stumpily Asian, of course). I’m not as muscular as I thought, which is lame. I was going for the “Coach Bridget” look but instead have achieved the “Bosnian refugee.” Guess I need to do more strength training. Jason, meanwhile, has lost a whopping 37 lbs and hopes to lose an additional 13 for the upcoming season. This is the skinniest we’ve seen each other since we started dating over seven (yeah yeah “why aren’t you guys married already lol tee hee”) years ago. He doesn’t notice the weight loss on him as much as everyone else does–his face is so much slimmer and we had to go through his entire wardrobe and weed out clothes that are now too gigantic for him to wear. I also made the mistake of buying some new jeans that are now already too loose for me outside of the post-dryer 15 minute window of snug awesomeness. It’s a good problem to have, I suppose, but not when you just plunked down money on new clothes and already don’t fit them. (BTW, I don’t have pictures of our transformation but will write a post once we’re at our goal weights and do a Maury-type “before and after,” minus the part where we bust through a paper screen image of our old fat selves). Since Jas and I are dropping weight faster than my self-imposed deadline of June 4th, maybe it’s time to take it up a notch. Coach Mark and I discovered that we can get to Costa Rica using airline miles, so we’re possibly maybe potentially planning on traveling to Costa Rica to race the Rev 3 70.3 March 18th. Unfortunately, that means instead of having 200 days to ab up, I would now only have 117. Shit just got real. Costa Rica would be a lot of fun, but seeing as how I’d be going with Teresa “My Abs Have Abs” Nelson and Mark “No Body Fat” Webb as well as Darin “I Literally Have a Barrel for a Chest” Smith and his gorgeous wife, I’m gonna have to be able to hold my own when it comes to the “hard body in a swimsuit” part of the vacation (which would be the majority of the trip). The pressure’s on,...

I suffer from allergies and receive regular allergy shots to build up my tolerance against various atrocities that assault my immune system. It’s nothing deadly like licking a shrimp will cause me to balloon up and die, or being within three square miles of a bumblebee will result in a development of cankles and neck fat which will consequently cause me to balloon up and die. Nonetheless, my allergies have made me uncomfortable enough since childhood that my allergist determined weekly injections were the best course of action. While I have no food allergies, I’m allergic to a ton of pollens and mildews and grasses and some pet dander (cat being the worst). I get two shots, one for cat dander and one that’s a cocktail of trees, grasses, dust mites and mildew. Right now I’m in “maintenance” mode for the cat shot, meaning I only get that shot once a month. I’m still building up the other shot though so I receive that once a week. Yesterday I went to the medical center to receive my weekly injection. The nurse was someone I hadn’t seen before and I was less than impressed with her needlework. After a more-uncomfortable-than-usual shot, I texted Jas: Stupid new nurse pulled the needle out at an angle. Blood ensued. Come on, junkies take more care than this. Whenever I get a shot I have to wait around for 30 minutes afterwards to make sure I don’t have a systemic reaction from the allergens that were injected, so I wiped the blood from my arm and waited until my time was up, not knowing that the botched shot would serve as ominous foreshadowing to how the rest of my day would go. As I was driving home, I started to feel a pain in the middle of my chest. Not like a heart attack-type pain, but like a really bad bout of acid reflux or like there was a wad of something stuck in my esophagus. By the time I got home the pain would sharply flare up every few minutes and course from the middle of my chest up to my throat. I told Jas about my discomfort and he gave me a “WTF call the doctor” look. The ensuing conversation went as follows: Receptionist (in a bored, flat voice): “Medical Specialties.” Me: “Hi, I just came in for an allergy shot and I think I’m having an adverse reaction.” Receptionist (slightly less bored now): “Uh, okay, what’s your name?” Me: “Rebecca Kelley. K-E-L-L-E-Y.” Receptionist: “One moment.” Abrupt silence. Then: Voice: “REBECCA IT’S JEAN CALL 911!” Jean is one of the head nurses who typically administers my shots. She is very sweet and exceptionally cautious, as I came to find out from our phone call. Me: “Whuh–” Jean: “CALL 911 AND TELL THEM YOU’RE HAVING A SYSTEMIC REACTION! …then call us and schedule a follow up appointment, mkay?” Me: “Uh, my boyfriend is right here, can’t he just drive me to the–” Jean: “NO, IT COULD ESCALATE SO YOU NEED TO CALL 911!” Me: “Well where should I go, should I go back to the UW Medical Center?” Jean: “Whereever’sclosestI’mhangingupnowcall911bye.” I hung up the phone and looked at Jason to relay the conversation, but considering that Jean was shouting at me in a panicked Jack Bauer state, he had heard everything and the look on his face went from “WTF” to “Jesus Christ WTF was that?!!!” Me: “Screw it, I’m not calling an ambulance to take me half a mile. Jason, can you drive me to Swedish?” We headed to the hospital. The pain in my chest continued intermittently and I was feeling...

It’s been 44 days since I embarked on my quest for abs so that I won’t race Honu 70.3 in shame. Jas and I are progressing along nicely, and save for a gloriously unhealthy weekend in Portland a few days ago, we’ve managed to shed some poundage thanks to the combination of constant exercising and counting calories via the My Fitness Pal app. Right now I’m back to my Ironman Canada race weight. Huzzah! I’ve also noticed that my running has felt noticeably stronger, probably because I’m hauling less junk in the trunk. After this week’s track workout, Bridget and her mom commented on my relative speediness (which was actually an optical illusion because my friend and multiple Boston marathon runner Kirsten slowed down to run alongside me for the evening, thus making me look way faster and giving the impression that I can hang with the 3:13 marathon runner): Karen: “You’re so fast!” Me: “Thanks, it’s amazing how being less of a lard-butt does wonders for your running.” Bridget: “So you have lost weight!” Me: “Yeah, 16 lbs so far.” Karen: “You know where I’ve noticed it? Right here!” She pats my back. Me: “Uh, so I’ve lost back fat?!” Good lord, I knew I was a bit chunky but back fat? Really? Bridget: “No! I think she means that you’ve got an hourglass figure now!” At this point I stifled a guffaw. Being the boobless and hipless wonder that I am, one would not in a million years describe my figure as “hourglass” shaped. That chick from Mad Men has an hourglass figure. Salma Hayek has an hourglass figure. I am built like an Asian boy. In fact, one time at Express the salesgirl wrinkled her nose when I asked why this pair of pants I tried on looked so funny and responded with, “Um, because, like, you have no hips.” Whatever, so I don’t have a womanly body. Today I headed to the UW Medical Center to get my weekly allergy shot so hidden evils like dust mites and pollen won’t someday kill me. While I was there, a newer nurse loaded up the syringe while my usual regular nurse, Josette the motherly African woman, popped her head in to ask a question. She noticed me sitting there, narrowed her eyes, and said in her slight accent, “Are you losing weight?” Her tone felt like it was an interrogation more than a casual question, so I uncomfortably replied with, “Uh, yes.” Josette: “Why?!” Now she sounded practically angry, as if I told her that I had just broken her favorite vase on purpose. Me: “Um…I’m just…eating better?” Josette: “But you looked good before!” Me: “Yeah, well, I’m visiting my mom in a couple weeks so I’m hoping to escape her harsh judgment unscathed.” Josette: “Oh you kids…you always think us parents are harshly judging you but we’re not.” Me: “…..yeeeahhh, my mom really does. She’s Asian and brutal.” I got my shot and sat in the waiting room for 30 minutes, then had my arm checked out by the newer nurse and was cleared to leave. On my way out, I passed by Josette, who chirped, “Bye sweetie!” Then she frowned and said, “No more.” Me: “No more what?” Josette: “No more weight loss!” I laughed and got the hell out of there, figuring it was a bad idea to tell her I actually wanted to drop ten more pounds. Great, now I have a motherly figure in Seattle who’s telling me I’m too thin and one in Michigan who always tells me I’m too fat. You can never please a...