Unlike swimming superstar Michael Phelps, my body was not designed for speed. I came to this realization the first time a P.E. teacher told me to run around the track. I ran half way and was doubled over in pain with leg cramps. And then a firstgrader with a broken leg hobbled over from the bleachers and beat me with his crutches.

It's Saturday night, and Spouser and I are having dinner with friends at a quaint little Italian restaurant. As Frank Sinatra croons "Strangers in the Night," I can't help but notice that every guy in the restaurant is checking Laura out.

"Laura," I whisper across the table, "your hair looks great."

"It's the Spudman," she says, nibbling on a crouton.

Naturally, I assume this is some kind of hair volumizer. The third time Spouser misses his mouth with his fork, I decide to check Laura out again.

"Laura," I say, squinting across the dripping candle, "your skin looks great."

"It's the Spudman," she says again.

Naturally, I assume it's some kind of anti-aging cream. They put so much acid in the stuff these days, it's starting to erase my nose.

As dinner progresses, I have to wonder how on earth Laura maintains her size 6 while eating like a pregnant Clydesdale. But then again, she spends more time with her personal trainer than with her kids.

"Laura," I say, as I watch her scarf down a basket of bread that's dripping with olive oil, a salad the size of the Garden of Eden, a bowl of minestrone soup and a plate of fettuccine, "have you made a pact with the devil?"

"It's the Spudman," she mumbles with her mouth full.

Naturally, I assume it's some kind of illegal diet drug. Heart palpitations and degenerative lung disease are a small price to pay for looking hot in a pair of shorts.

"Burley Idaho Spudman Triathlon," Laura says, as she chugs a bottle of water. "They load us up on carbs the night before, then the next morning we begin with a 1.5K swim, a 40k bike race and finally end with a 10k run through country roads and on canal banks. It's a blast!"

Not in this lifetime! If they ever have a Spudman that involves eating, sleeping and watching TV, I'm your girl.

"If you set your mind to it," Laura says, "you can do anything."

Typically, it's not my mind I set on.

Then, the more I think about it, the more delusional I become. The swimming would be a piece of cake. Thanks to abundant buttock fat, I float like a cork. For the swimming part of the competition, all I'll have to do is wiggle my toes, and I'll chug across that lake like a little tugboat.

The biking wouldn't be a big deal either. I regularly bike a mile a day - - half a mile to the Texaco for a Snickers and half a mile back. But the running strikes fear in my heart.

"It's only ten kilometers," Laura says with a shrug.

Sometimes Laura's the kind of friend I'd like to slap. I couldn't run that far if cannibals were chasing me with spears and garlic salt. I figure people are like horses. Some are built for speed and some are built for strength. I'm like a carousel pony. I'm mostly designed to go up and down.

"You just need better shoes," Laura assures me.

Unless running shoes are now available with a V8 and a towing hitch, I don't think so.

"You'll feel better, look younger and," Laura adds, as she slowly slides a forkful of Italian cheesecake into her mouth, "you can eat ANYTHING."

It is 5 o'clock in the morning and I am lacing up my new glow-in-thedark American Red Cross running shoes.

"What on Earth are you doing?" Spouser grumbles as he squints at the alarm clock.

"The Spudman," I say.

"Who's going to come drag you home when you're halfway around the block and your legs cramp up?"

"You?"

"Think again," Spouser mumbles, rolling over and falling back to sleep.

He's right. I neatly repack my future nursing shoes neatly in their wrapper and store them in back on the top shelf of the closet where they'll remain until I finally finish nursing school.