I’m training for a mini triathlon at my local YMCA and it’s kicking my butt. Moment of truth is 7 a.m. Mother’s Day. While most moms sleep, I’m hitting the pool, spin bike and road in my quest to finish a mini at 58. I’m in the median age group _ I’ve got a 25-year-old teammate who’s a dead ringer for a young Peter Krause and my 70-year-old buddy Harold with two artificial knees. It’s Harold’s fault that I’m doing this. He did it last year and talked me into it.
We all have our reasons for doing this, but for me it’s simple: I’m doing it because I can. Plenty of other people my age aren’t as lucky, hindered by physical injuries, heart conditions or other diseases. I realize I won’t be able to do this forever so it’s time to grab the golden ring. Covering the distance without passing out is my only goal.
Besides sweat and chlorine-bleached hair, training’s triggered insatiable hunger. I’m exercising more than ever and have gained five pounds. No matter. Today in Trader Joe’s, I beelined it to the candy aisle and unabashedly bought a PoundPlus of bittersweet chocolate with almonds. I snapped off six squares when I got home, and devoured them without guilt. Maybe I’ll forgive Harold for getting me into this.