Somewhere around five years ago, my wife decided that we were both getting out of shape, and before it got too late, together we'd have to put up a last stand against the ravages of time.

She started on an impressive self-improvement plan, with a goal of competing in a triathlon, and at least three times a week, she'd be out there running, swimming or biking. I wasn't that ambitious, but agreed I'd train alongside her. I had no desire to do an actual triathlon, but maybe I could lose a little bit of the gut I'd been working on building up since the age of 17.

I tried to keep up, at least for a while, but then came to the conclusion that I was destined to age steadily, and with increasing intensity, and there was no fighting it. I stuck my Speedo in the back of a dresser drawer (much to the relief of the old folks who do laps at the "Y," and who, I believe, were about to pass around a petition), and I let my son take my 10-speed bike off to college (where it sat for four years because, I soon realized, college kids these days travel much better than I did at that age). I kept my running shoes because I was too lazy to clean out my closet.

In the years since, my wife has kept up the training, competing in at least one triathlon each summer. I've steadily dropped off to the point where every few months, when the guilt gets too much or my pants too tight, I'll pull out my running shoes and follow my wife out the door. Other than that, I move quickly only when I have someplace important to go.

On the rare occasions I go along with my wife, I won't actually run with her, but give her a good 10 minutes head start while I stretch and groan, and sometimes pretend that I have to go back in the house to get my hat. It's not so much that I don't want to compete with her (I don't), but if we run separately, she will have no idea how far I've run, or how fast I've gone. All that matters is when I come around the corner back to our house were she's waiting. I pour on the speed and finish the last few yards as if I'm trying to qualify for the Beijing Olympics.

I use this tactic with friends and neighbors, as well. My normal speed is somewhere between a walk and a fast shuffle. (Think of Grandma scooting down the hall at the nursing home if they announced that they had cake in the common room, and you'll have a good mental picture.) But stand back when I pass the house of a friend or spy someone I know ahead on the sidewalk. I'll suck in my gut, pick up the pace and, at least till they're out of sight, actually look like an athlete.

At first, I thought I'd be the subject of ridicule: Folks would glance out their window and see my pathetic, infrequent attempts at running, and wonder if they needed to Google "CPR techniques" and put 9-1-1 on speed dial. But then I realized that like my wife, they had no idea how often, or how far, I ran. For all they knew, I was out there every day.

Last week, I was at a party, and a new woman in the neighborhood nodded at me.

"How's the running thing going?" she said. I froze, thinking she was going make some smart aleck remark about how I should use a walker.

"Seen you out there," she said. "You and your wife training for another triathlon?"

I looked around the room. I felt a little guilty, given all my wife's hard work, but it's not often in life you get what you credit for something you didn't do.

"Well," I said, "I know she is. I haven't decided yet. It might be good to take a year off, don't you think?" She nodded, and the conversation moved on to something else.

I wasn't really listening, though. I was too busy making a mental note of where she lived, so I could remember to pick up the pace when I passed her house.

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