The geriatric Tweedles spend 24 hours on the farm, ten miles from the workout equipment they’ve come to love (?). Will they skip a day, fink out, start with the excuses? Son, daughter, daughter-in-law, all say, “Keep moving, or your muscles will turn to stone.”
Further motivators not really needed, but I remember a letter Mother read yesterday from her 93-yr-old former teacher friend in KC, who goes to the “Y” every day, swims, and lifts weights. She wants to be the oldest weight-lifter in the “Y,” but there's a guy a few months older than she is, "...so, I guess I'll have to do away with him." ;-)
The competition factor. Ah, yes, important to exercise before husband comes in from chores and asks “Aren’t you going to...”
Walk? Probably unwise, as the country road looks fearsome, the path all choked with snow and strafed with wind, far into oblivion. Push-ups? Sit-ups? Jumping jacks? (groan)
So I opt for the old exercise bike, which, first, I must locate under cobwebs and dust, remember(?), hidden behind the huge pouchy recliner.
After introductions, I attempt to reposition the Iron Maiden (--This should count toward homemade weight-lifting-) so I can see the Law and Order reruns: it’s early morning, too early to think straight. Almost anything on the tube (...except “Hoarders” or “Fox News”...) will easily distract me from my burning thighs.
Ice water handy. Pillow on the hard plastic seat. Pedals still turn: miracle! And I take off on my personal “road to nowhere.”
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