It's 7 a.m., time for another who-am-I-kidding hour at the local gym. I don't know why I bother. This isn't fun. I've been working out for 30 years and have yet to see a single abdominal muscle. It seems pointless anymore. The padding around my middle may outlive me by decades. It isn't fat, but some new form of matter, as indestructible as fruitcake. If I could patent it, it would make my fortune. They could use it to pave our crumbling highways or cap nuclear waste dumps. But I'm here now, trying to work up some enthusiasm for a healthy lifestyle. It isn't going well. I'm wearing the new running shoes I bought the other day. (The sales girl was very kind; she didn't laugh or roll her eyes.) They're comfortable shoes, only now that I think of it, I hate running. My body feels like old roadkill. I'm losing faith that every day, in every way, I'm getting better and better/Bill Spence, Lewiston Tribune. More here.

Question: With all the super-fit athletes swimming, biking, and running to prepare for Sunday's Ironman, do you feel intimidated? Or do you agree with Pooh's assessment: Oh bother?