I’ve mentioned my post-Ironman weight gain with much exasperation, but I haven’t been entirely honest with you. There’s a reason why I’ve been packing on the pounds lately, but I didn’t want to say anything just yet. Now that a few months have passed, however, it’s safe enough to finally let the cat out of the bag. First, let me preface my announcement by saying this isn’t something I expected to happen so quickly after Ironman Canada, but when you’re suddenly faced with a lot of free time, you’ve got to fill it somehow, amirite? Nonetheless, I wouldn’t call the situation an “oops,” more like a surprising side effect of too much “recovery” time after a long, grueling season of training and racing. Even though this has been completely unexpected, Jason’s been incredibly supportive throughout this period. He’s a good guy. Totes love him. Anyway, without dragging it out any further, I’m just going to come right out and say it: I’m having a food baby. Like I said, this wasn’t really planned at all, but when you spend September through January gorging on various delectable treats with insufficient exercise to balance things out, you end up incubating a little food fetus. It’s hard to say exactly what makes up this little miracle, but if I had to guess I’d wager it’s comprised of pizza, pad thai, ice cream, nachos, Moscow Mules, burgers, and an irresponsible amount of poutine. I’m already starting to show and none of my pants fit. This little guy is growing so fast! My resting heart rate has gotten higher and I’m easily winded during simple workouts, which goes to show how much bigger my food paunch is getting each day. Jason has been such a rockstar, bringing home carryout whenever I have cravings. He’s doing his part to make sure this burrito baby is being taken care of. The pregnancy hasn’t felt that long, but looking back I realize it’s been almost six months since Ironman Canada. Time sure does fly when you’re eating like a fat-ass, doesn’t it? But as proud as I am of my growing bundle of bulge, I’m not sure I can continue incubating it much longer. In fact, I may need to give him up for adoption. I just don’t think I’m ready to carry this responsibility long-term. There are so many races I want to do, so many bikinis to wear, so many skinny jeans to yank on. So as exciting as this time is for me, I’m afraid it can’t persist for much longer. It’s been a great six months, Food Baby, but you’re gonna have to go. If anyone’s interested in adopting a 15-lb bundle of joy from me, that would be really great. The deadline for this offer is before I go to St. Croix in May. Make sure you give Gordo a good home, because this little dude has overstayed his...

I love me some food. I know triathletes and endurance athletes often boast about how much they eat, but I’ve read the SlowTwitch “shame eating” threads and they’re pretty weaksauce. Admitting you ate two huge bowls of cereal or a Krispy Kreme donut pales in comparison to the splendid displays of fat-assery Jason and I have embarked on time and time again. One time we went to Claim Jumper and each ordered fried mozzarella sticks as an appetizer before polishing off fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, extra biscuits with honey butter, and dessert. (Okay, I lied…we’ve done that more than once.) So you’ve got the faux-pig triathletes who are all “Tee hee, I ate so much yesterday” and then you found out it was something bullshit like an extra helping of quinoa or farro or some other dumb grain that sounds made up. And on the opposite end of the spectrum you’ve got lean, stringy-looking endurance athletes who you know are fast just by glancing your fat eyeballs upon their striated, beef jerky-esque frame, and those folks are so uninterested in food that sometimes they “forget to eat” and only do it because their bodies need sustenance. Forget to eat?! Who does that??? When I’m eating, I think about other food I want to eat, and when I’m not eating, I think about all the food I can’t wait to eat. I love food so much. Soooooo much. I consider myself an equal-opportunity food lover, meaning I’m just as willing to drop a few hundred bucks at a Michelin star restaurant as I am to gorge myself at the sketchy cash-only taco truck parked behind a Home Depot. Despite being a mega-huge carnivore, I’ll also be a good sport and hit up vegetarian or vegan places with my friends. (Though the last time I did that, I promptly came home, picked Jason up, and drove to get meat-filled deep dish pizza. Deep dish pizza is muy tasty.) I’m willing to try pretty much anything, whether it’s foo-foo holistic or offal-tastic. However, some of the stuff my teammates insist on passing off as real food has me unconvinced. Some examples: 1. Kale Chips Everyone seems to be on this kale chip kick lately. “Mmm, they’re sooooooo good! They really satisfy my craving for real potato chips!” I’ve had kale chips before and they’re alright, but I have to point out a couple things: They are absolutely not a substitute for actual potato chips. Real potato chips are delicious. Kale chips are dried pieces of kale. These two are not remotely the same thing. Only eat these if you’re sitting at home by yourself, because dark green flecks get shoved in every possible tooth crevice you can imagine, thus killing any socialization efforts at a party or your chances of getting laid if you’re on a date. Nothing says “Please don’t interact with me” like a wad of crusty kale hanging outcho toof. 2. Cottage Cheese Sorry, I don’t eat ceiling spackle. I don’t care how much you trowel into half a cantaloupe. It’s the one cheese I won’t touch because it’s not actually cheese, it’s the stuff that gets sucked out of Kim Kardashian’s saddlebags. 3. Anything That’s a Poor Substitution for Something Else Looking at some Runner’s World recipes, I’m seeing “Chicken Not Pie” instead of chicken pot pie and “Grilled Turkey Salisbury Steaks,” which I’m guessing is a poor substitution for actual Salisbury steak. Turkey doesn’t taste like beef, it tastes like turkey. I get that it’s lower in calories than beef, but don’t try to dupe me by saying it’ll quell my craving for cow. If...

So I survived Day 1 of the Ironman Canada training camp despite getting blinded and nearly being taken out by a car on the highway. I was still nursing raw eyes when I woke up for Day 2, but I was happy that I wouldn’t have to ride another 112 in the crappy heat. Unfortunately, I’d succumb to the heat in other ways, although my downfall was more due to my poor breakfast choice than the heat alone. (Still, I have to blame something other than my own dumb self, right?) With that said, let’s kick off Day 2 of my 2012 Ironman Canada Training Camp recap. Day 2: Eggs Benny is Not My Buddy My excitement for not having to swim on Day 1 was short-lived, as Day 2 started off with a 30 minute dip in Okanagan Lake. The swim wasn’t too bad, though–the water temperature was nice and I bullied a less-than-thrilled Steve to swim with me despite the fact that he’s not even training for anything (“I just like camps!”–Steven Hooper, 2012). After our dip in the lake, we had to change quickly and hop on our bikes for a 30-ish mile easy effort ride. I headed out with my peeps and immediately discovered that my ladybits wanted nothing to do with the aero position whatsoever. The crotchal region was pissed at me for yesterday’s century-plus sufferfest, so I resorted to sitting upright and catching wind like a human sail for the entire ride. My teammates left me in the dust but I was content to stay comfortable since I didn’t want a horrible sequel to Crotchfest 2012, plus I was trying to leave enough gas in the tank for my long run later that day (insert ominous foreshadowing here). When I got back to the parking lot, I was told by Teresa to rest a bit and eat a good meal before the team was going to start their run workout. She wanted us all to wait until the afternoon to begin running so we could hit the course at the hottest part of the day. Since we had a decent amount of downtime, we could eat a legitimate lunch. Teresa, however, being all Cautious Coach, gave us some guidelines for eating. T: “Eat something light and easy on your stomach before your long run. It’s going to be hot and you don’t want to aggravate your system.” My interpretation of what she said: After a full day of workouts Friday and two hours of workouts already under my belt on Saturday, my body was in a perpetual state of feeling ravenous. Jason and I wandered around trying to find a place to eat and ended up at the resort hotel/casino restaurant overlooking the lake. Waitress: “What can I get you?” Me: “Can I get the potato hash?” Must eat smart! Long, hot run ahead! Waitress: “Sure thing.” *scribbles it down* Jason: “I’ll have a blueberry smoothie and eggs Benedict.” Me: “Ooh, that sounds good.” The waitress left but returned after a few minutes. Waitress: “I’m sorry, we’re out of the potato hash. Can I get you something else instead?” Me: “Screw it, I tried. EGGS BENEDICT, PLEASE!” My meal consisted of eggs Benedict (ham, poached eggs, English muffins, and Hollandaise sauce which is made from craploads of butter, lemon, and egg yolks), breakfast potato wedges, ketchup, generous sips of Jason’s dairy-rich blueberry smoothie, and chunks of buttery croissant that we got as a side order. The stomach felt great since it was all full and happy. By the time we got done eating, we pretty much had to return back to the hotel...

This is an open letter to every judgmental waiter who gives me and Jason that look when we tell him or her what we want to order. (Yes, it’s happened on enough occasions that I feel an open letter is necessary. And yes, I realize I’m trying to lose weight for the 2012 season. Back up off me, beeyotch. I likes me some food.) Dear Judgmental Waiter Who Thinks I’m Ordering Too Much Food, First of all, I appreciate your concern for my well-being as well as your doubt that I can successfully cram such a large quantity of food down my gullet. I can see how you would underestimate my ability to pack in the calories, seeing as how I’m of average height and somewhat thin/athletic build and not some sort of morbidly obese hobgoblin who rolled in on a Rascal scooter and prodded you with a fork I brought from home while wearing an old food-stained bib I got from an Old Country Buffet six years ago. However, I need to educate you on a few things so that you will stop giving me that “Are you seriously ordering this much food” look: 1. My mom is Korean; therefore, I know how to eat. Koreans love to eat. The only thing they love more than food itself is watching their kids pig out; thus, my mother’s greatest joy is simultaneously stuffing bulgogi and rice in my mouth while scowling that I’ve gained too much weight (except for recently, where now she alternates asking me what I’m making for dinner and telling me not to lose too much weight or I’ll become “ann-o-reck-she-uh”). Therefore, despite my size and stature, I have an uncanny ability to eat a ridiculous amount of food. It’s how I grew up–Momma didn’t raise no dainty eater. Although my boyfriend is 6’4″ and 200 lbs, when he and I order dishes to share at a restaurant, we actually do split the food 50/50, which is highly disproportionate considering our weight and caloric intake differentials. To put it quite bluntly, I am a pig. A shameless, ravenous pig. If I don’t restrain myself, I could easily polish off enough food to put a Biggest Loser contestant to shame. 2. I worked out for four hours today. Not only am I a glutton, I’m also a (somewhat mediocre) endurance athlete; thus, chances are I’ve done 2-8 hours of grueling workouts earlier in the day and am freakin’ starving. I’ve burned thousands of calories and now my body wants some of them back. So thank you for the eye roll and the silent judgment that I’m probably bulimic. I’m not puking, I just want something other than Powerbar Perform and gels in my stomach, for crying out loud. 3. In case you forgot, I’m paying you for all this food. You’re not bringing this shit to me for free, for crying out loud. I understand the basic concept of a restaurant–I pay for the food you make and bring to me, whether or not I actually consume it (I will though, because my inner fat kid is crying for something that’s been cooked in butter). It’s not like I’m going to take one dainty little nibble, push the rest away, and hold my belly, exclaiming, “Ohhhhhh, I’m so full. I’m not paying for the rest of this!” If I don’t eat it all (which is rare), I’ll take the leftovers home. Either way, it shouldn’t matter to you since you’re getting money from me whether I eat it all, throw it on the ground, or build Close Encounters-esque towers with it. 4. I realize how much food...

Before I begin, I swear that this whole weight loss thing is working. So far I’ve lost 20 lbs from my fattest sad panda state, and I’m roughly six pounds away from my tentative weight goal (which may change depending on how much belly pooch I’ve got when I hit that magic number). That being said, let’s talk pie. So when I trained for my first Ironman, I ended up eating a lot of frozen custard from Old School. It’s freakin’ delicious, and you can’t beat the fact that they have a new flavor every day. I’m not really a “sweets” person; normally I’m more of a savory/salty fan when it comes to food cravings. However, for some reason I just ended up gorging on frozen custard in conjunction with the ridiculous amount of training hours I was racking up each week. I had the calories to spare, so what the hell, why not waste them on frozen snacky snacks. This year I thought about changing things up a bit. While I’m still intent on losing weight, I’ve decided that Ironman #2 will be fueled with pie. My fellow Ironman Canada alum Bill is married to a woman named Alley, and not only does Alley run like the wind (I don’t know if she’s done any tris, but she’s done a bunch of run races), she bakes pies. Normally I’m not a huge pie freak (again with typically being “meh” with regards to desserts), but I commissioned Alley to make a coconut cream pie for Jason’s birthday last month and once I tasted that coconutty goodness, I got a little hooked. Like any junkie, soon after polishing off this bad boy I was craving another fix, so after trying to hold out for a couple weeks, I messaged my dealer on Facebook: Me: “Okay, so I seriously am thinking about buying a pie from you every month. Would that be ridiculous? I’m open to seasonal flavor deliciousness…something seasonal and awesome sounds like it could be a winner for October. Yes, I am addicted to your pies after only having tried one. Don’t judge me.” Alley: “Hahahaha! I KNEW you’d get hooked! Atta girl!” And thus my “One Pie Every Month” agreement had been born. On Saturday I picked up October’s flavor, apple. When Jason heard we were getting an apple pie, he had this reaction: But then he saw this hefty motherfucker: When he tried it, he reacted accordingly: I picked up the pie on Saturday and right now there’s only one slice left. We’ve been pairing our portions with snickerdoodle ice cream from Bluebird for super extreme deliciousness a la mode. (I must point out that despite Jason being fully on board with the Pie of the Month agreement, he’s lost 30 lbs thus far and has been dropping weight like a mofo. So there, I’ve now justified our fat-assness with the fact that we’re mostly being responsible and health-conscious, minus pie.) November’s pie flavor will obviously be pumpkin. That combined with the fact that Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday purely because of the large quantity of food that can be drenched in gravy means my triumphant return to racing (the Seattle half marathon) could either go well because I’ve been injury-free and running well lately, or it could go horribly awry as I stumble 13.1 miles in a bloated pie and starchy haze. Place your bets...