Earlier this year I had been down in the dumps because I was injured and had gained all the weight I had lost training for Ironman Canada. I felt like a beached whale that has a family size bucket of Ezell’s fried chicken within fin’s reach. But now that my body is mostly on the mend, I’ve established a renewed interest in getting strong and fit for the remainder of the 2011 season and heading into the new year. I recently mentioned my goal of getting abs by the end of May so the bikini beach photos of me with my teammates won’t be profoundly embarrassing. With 262 days remaining, I thought I’d check in with an initial progress report. I’ve never been fat fat, but I get to a breaking point where my jeans don’t fit, my muffin top is starting to spill over onto Jason’s side of the bed, my increased thigh mass gets inexplicably itchy, and my arms resemble sausagey pterodactyl wings. I don’t like being in that weight window for the following reasons: Race photos look worse than usual (my tri kit probably won’t look good on me when I’m skinny, but it sure as hell doesn’t look good on me when blubber is challenging the load-bearing capacity of every seam) I feel worse than usual I look like an ogre next to my petite female teammates, who are all “Tee hee look at my abs while I eat this lettuce leaf and race a sub-5 hour half Ironman!” My mother would consider me morbidly obese I race slower than usual So far I’ve lost 11 lbs from my “Good lord you’re a chunker” fattest state. I’m currently two pounds off my “I just ate my way through Puerto Rico” weight, five pounds heavier than my Ironman Canada race weight, and 7.5 pounds heavier than my lightest weigh in last year. My goal is to pull a Costanza and take it up a notch by losing 15-20 more lbs, which would put me about 7-12 lbs lighter than last season. I’m progressing along nicely with the help of the free My Fitness Pal app, which helps track my calorie intake and burn. Seeing the numbers add up has forced me to be more mindful about what I eat. For example: “Ugh, I don’t want to run today, I’m feeling lazy.” *checks app* “Aw shit, if I don’t run I won’t be able to have a hamburger bun with my lamb burger for dinner tonight.” *sighs* “Damnit…Jas, where are my running shoes?” Hence “Runnin’ for the bun.” (And that lamb burger was damn good, too, courtesy of Bill the Butcher.) Two other factors are fueling me to lose weight (other than having sexy stomach for Honu and being lean and mean for Ironman Canada next year): Jason’s tracking his calories too in hopes of losing 35 lbs for Ironman Coeur d’Alene (we’ve split our races for 2012 since he thinks Idaho will offer a better “big guy” course than hot Canada, whereas I signed up for Canada again because I want the extra two months of training coming off an injured season). Losing weight is always easier when your significant other is on board to take the journey with you and support you. So far we’re both doing pretty well, making more meals at home and being more mindful of portion sizes and not eating like horrible gluttons. I’m visiting Michigan October 19th, which means I’ve got 40 days to slim down to what my harsh Korean mother considers to be an acceptable weight (I don’t know what that weight is, but so far I’ve always failed). The last time I...

I’ve blogged before about my futile quest for abs due to the fact that I love food more than I love watching what I eat to the point where I can burn down the prevalent layer of chunk encasing my perpetually hidden abdominal muscles. The closest I’ve ever gotten to visible abs have been the bottom of my ribcage and the beginnings of an oblique indentation, which promptly disappears once I hoover a taco platter and some frozen custard. Unfortunately for me, I’ve recently made a stupid decision. Having grown tired of seeing my teammates frolic in Hawaii every June while I’m slummin’ it like a sucker in overcast, mild-temperatured Seattle, I decided to join the cool kids and race the Hawaii 70.3 in 2012. I haven’t signed up for the actual race yet, but I did book airfare so at the very least I’ll be fake-spectating while catching rays and sucking down Mai Tais as my friends suffer through the choking humidity and sweltering heat. Then something occurred to me. Well, two things, really. First, I realized that I was going to have to get some open ocean practice swims in before the race, and that concerned me due to the fact that there were some shark attacks in the areas where some athletes were practicing last year. I’m not worried about getting gobbled up on race day since I’ll be among 1,800 other athletes, but when I’m straggling behind 10 of my teammates during a swim workout, I get the feeling Mr. Sharky would be more likely to pick off the object that’s swimming like a chubby, wounded seal instead of the fat-free fast food at the front of the pack. I’m going to have to either convince Teresa that no open ocean training is actually a great form of training (like some type of Miyagi mind-fuck) or invest in some shark repellent. The second thing I realized was that I’m pretty sure that as a female on the team, I’m not allowed to race Hawaii 70.3 under the TN brand if I don’t have visible abs — I think it’s in our athlete contract or something. For proof I submit a team picture from this year’s race: (The two women who are covered up are undoubtedly concealing more abdominal glory.) I’m almost certain that if my team were to see me step off the plane in my current state, they’d take one look at my stomach and say, “Nope, you’re not representing the team in Hawaii with that belly bagel. Get your fat-dimpled ass back on that plane.” Thus I’ve got quite the conundrum on my hands. I can’t be the only woman in these beach photos who’s letting a paunch hang out of her swimsuit. Counting from today to the Monday we fly in to Hawaii, I’ve got 278 days to lose weight, do some crunches, and finally expose these lil’ guys to the world. Can it be done? Yes, if I stop eating double meat gyros and foods that cannot be eaten without gravy. Will it be done? …well, we’ll see about that, but right now the challenge is new and exciting enough that I’m up for it. I’ve managed to drop eight pounds from my fat, injured, “screw this season, I’mma play XBox and get obese” state, which is a good start but I know I’ve got a ways to go before I reach that “Is she anorexic or terminally ill oh wait she’s just an endurance athlete never mind” physique. I’ll continue to check in with progress updates over the next 278 days so that you guys can shame me into sticking with...

I mentioned in my Rev 3 recap that in the days leading up to the race, my left hamstring got really tight and that the hammy and groin muscle gave me grief during the cycling portion of the race. It’s been intermittently sore since then, so I finally hunkered down and saw the physical therapist because I’m starting to get tired of being a couch potato. I can only stay in and play videogames on a sunny day so many times before I start feeling like a fat turd, so a couple weeks ago I trekked over to Fremont to see the doc. He instantly diagnosed me not with hamstring issues but hip flexor tightness, which is apparently affecting the hamstring as a result (the official medical explanation basically consisting of the “knee bone’s connected to the hip bone” song; medical school is overrated). Doc gave me some unfortunate stretches to do that involve splayed legs and some hip shimmies and look like I’m simulating going into labor on my living room floor, as well as a “touchdown celebration” stretch that feels weird if I’m not holding a football. Two weeks later I returned for a follow up. My hip has felt fine for the most part but started acting up in the last couple days, and it’s been intermittently tight on runs. He checked me out and said, with a somewhat amused tone in his voice, that I have virtually no “inner lateral movement in my hips,” meaning I can rotate out fine but suck donkey balls at rotating in. He then explained that there’s a ligament from my hip down to my groin that follows the crease of where your leg meets your crotchal region (official medical term) and that mine is tight/strained. I don’t know what you actually call this area, but I refer to them as “Ken dolls” after the fact that Barbie’s boyfriend doesn’t actually have genitals, just a U-shaped indentation. Apparently the strain can occur from cycling in aero or sitting forward/hunching down too much (something I do all too often when working at my computer). Interestingly enough, this ailment plagues dentists a lot because of their constant sitting and hunching over patients’ gaping mouths (the more you knowwwwww). Here’s what healthy Ken dolls look like: Mine, meanwhile, are feeble and sad. My family has a history of jacked-up hip issues; most recently, my 37-year old brother had to have a bunch of shit cleaned out of his hips because of some congenital problem where bone is grinding on bone, and the guy will probably have to have a hip replacement surgery within the next 10 or so years. Here’s hoping my woes are simply due to tightness/strain and not something more serious. I see the PT again next week; in the meantime, he’s added another gross stretch to the mix that involves cabinet lining, hand pressure, and awkward rotation. I’m starting to get antsy about being healthy again since I’ve mentally mapped out most of this fall and 2012’s race season, and I’m determined to bounce back and shine as brightly as a mediocre athlete can once...

Most of my posts on Mediocre Athlete contain self-deprecating comments and faux-negativity about my workouts or my races. I do it for the lulz, but the truth is that nobody is harder on me than myself. At the end of the day, I am my own worst enemy, an exceptionally tough critic. I’m sure a lot of you feel the same way; after all, a big reason you train for a race, no matter the distance, is to push yourself outside your comfort zone to see what you’re truly made of. For me though, I often push myself so hard that it can end up being detrimental. I’m like my own overbearing Asian mother (“Why you no run faster during race? And how come you not doctor?”). Ever since I had a taste of my first half Ironman three years ago, a big goal for me is to go sub-6 hours. I feel that it’s something I can easily accomplish. Each year I’ve continued to improve and become more familiar and comfortable with the sport. After four half Ironman races thus far, however, my personal best is a 6:29 from 2010’s hellishly windy Boise 70.3. I know that everyone was much slower that day, that I couldn’t control the weather, that I would have cycled much faster if conditions were better, that I actually placed decently in my age group. But I was focused on that time goal like Gollum’s fixation on that seemingly innocent little ring, so I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. Then Ironman Canada came and went and I had a race that exceeded my expectations. I would have gladly traded in every bad race or training workout that year for the day I ended up having, and after my biggest race of the season I was at an all-time high. I had just done an Ironman, for schmuck’s sake — I could do anything. No, I could crush anything. I was going to do a marathon and I was going to kill it. I was going to do a bunch of 70.3s next year and they’d all be under 6 hours. Hell, I’d be creeping up on 5:30s. I’d improve across the board and make this sport my bitch. Nothing was going to stop me. And then, amid my marathon training, I developed Achilles tendinitis. At first it developed as a slight tightness and ache at the beginning of my runs. Then, with each step I’d take, the tightness would last a little longer. Eventually the pain kept me company throughout my entire run, but I’d stubbornly soldier on because I wasn’t going to let a little stiffness bring me down. I had just done an Ironman, damnit, and now I was going to blow my old marathon time out of the water. That marathon never happened for me. I had to stop running completely, and as frustrating as it was to be told by my coach to eat a $140 entry fee (fucking Rock ‘n Roll and their wallet-rapingly high costs) and not race, I knew I had made the smart decision when I couldn’t even run twenty feet to cheer for Jason as he passed by without having my Achilles seize up. And so, instead of conquering a marathon and posting a 20-minute PR, I stayed off my feet and cycled through the winter. It would be five months before I’d run again. I feared that I’d be starting at the very beginning and would be as bad as I was when I first begun running years ago. The thought of losing all my running fitness had nagged at me throughout those...

On Monday I went to dryland strength conditioning, and that day Bridget decided to get cute with us and change up the routine a bit. She did a 30 seconds on/30 seconds rest/30 seconds on workout where we’d be at a station doing reps for half a minute before getting a break. That’s all well and good if the person running the workout is paying attention to the clock and timing everything properly; unfortunately, a couple times Bridget would get too caught up in watching everyone’s form to remember to check her watch and realize that she had been punishing us well past the :30 mark. (She pulled that stunt when I was at the hardest station, then said, “Oops, sorry!” and gave us a shorter rest to balance out the elapsed time. I’m still figuring out how to exact my revenge.) The workout itself wasn’t too bad, but the next day I woke up and was like, “WTF soreness, where’d this shit come from?” before pulling a Bruce Willis at the end of The Sixth Sense and thinking back to all the times I never actually interacted with anyone but Haley Joel the stupid workout I had done the day before. Between my aching body and the fact that a routine oil change turned into a $600 endeavor where I had to replace all four tires (the drawback of having an all-wheel drive vehicle), I wasn’t exactly stoked to do a track workout that evening. But what the hell, I went anyway because I’m a masochist. My reward for showing up was a mile warm up followed by our pre-workout exercises that typically consist of ridiculous movements that resemble a short-lived 80’s dance trend. After Roger Rabbiting my way from one side to the next, Teresa then instructed us to do inchworms along the gravel-y and dirty ground. My reaction: After I begrudgingly wormed my way across the ground and stood up, picking gravel and debris out of my palms, we were told what the workout would be. Survey says…..hill repeats! Fuck my life. 12 repeats later, I drove home and complained to an amused and resting Jas, who had a light week of workouts ahead of him after having raced Boise on Saturday. He didn’t seem very sympathetic. Bastard. On Wednesday morning I woke up feeling less sore and thus somewhat upbeat. I had a swim lesson with Teresa where, as usual, she instructed me to change about 15 different things about my swim form, then beamed like a mother hen when one out of every nine lengths actually managed to look passably decent. I came home and worked for a bit before meeting up with a new strength trainer I found, an imposing Russian guy named Gene (whom I’ve appropriately programmed into my phone as “Gene the Russian”). He assured me that our first meeting would be a “get to know you” session where he’d assess my fitness levels and check my form. After a stupid amount of pushups, shoulder exercises, sit ups, and other movements, I left the facility thinking that this didn’t seem as “preliminary” as I was initially assured. Today my soreness has reared its ugly head once again: my abs (shut up, they soooo exist under that permanent cushion of fat I harbor) are angry with me, my hamstrings are tight, and my shoulders are giving me the aforementioned “Are you fucking kidding me” look.  It’s taken me back to last year’s training, where I ultimately got used to being vaguely sore all the time because I was working out nonstop in preparation for Ironman Canada. This year, however, my body’s become...