Treading with a pioneer spirit

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I felt like a pioneer, blazing a trail across the desert.Sweat rolled from my brow and dripped off my nose. My mouth was dry as desert sand. My knees creaked. My hip hurt. My hands got all puffy. And the soles of my feet felt hotter than the devil's toenails.But I pressed on, putting one smoky foot in front of the other.Half an hour later, gasping for air, I stared up at the mountains that lay ahead and pondered a question that was asked countless times, I suspect, by my brave pioneer foremothers: "What was I thinking when I let that fool talk me into this?"To be honest, I do not blame my husband. He didn't talk me into it. I volunteered. It was, however, his idea to start.I should also point out that we weren't actually "crossing" the desert. But we could surely see it all around us -- the Las Vegas Valley, rimmed on the west by the rugged Spring Mountains -- through the floor-to-ceiling windows of an air-conditioned gym, where we plodded along on treadmills, side by side, like a pair of oxen without a yoke.We joined this gym when we moved here two years ago. My husband likes to visit it often to take advantage of the treadmill.I prefer to stay at home and take advantage of the couch.But yesterday, for some reason, I decided to go with him. And this morning -- when I got out of bed and found I could still actually walk -- I decided to go again.It could have something to do with the fact that summer is nearly here. Temperatures are already pushing the 100-plus-hepmejeezes-it's-hot mark, at which point I will no longer be quite as comfy hiding all my glory, so to speak, in my usual Eskimo-matron attire.It's always sobering to pull out the Slimsuit you put away last fall when you were still tan, and try to wrestle it onto a pasty white body that's been gorging all winter on comfort food.A Slimsuit is powerful motivation. But the main reason I went to the gym is because I felt like walking. That's how it is. Some days I feel like doing as I should; other days, I don't. Feelings are fickle that way.The gym, like the subdivision where we live, is limited to persons of a "certain age"-- from certainly not young to certainly older than dirt.I wish you could see it. Picture a room filled with silver-haired, wrinkle-kneed bobblehead dolls, bobbing up and down on various machines that rev their hearts, flush their arteries and oil their joints.Talk about inspiring. What could be more motivating than a woman (old enough, I'd say, to be my mother) leaving me in her dust on the treadmill?Or a man, hobbled by age or injury or arthritis, maybe, using a cane to walk laps in the pool?I got a feeling -- a really good one -- that no one there gave a rip about how I look; they were all busy just trying to stay alive.And apparently -- judging by the spring in their step and the light in their eyes and the big grins on their faces -- they were having the time of their lives.Having lived all my years in a world that judges people like books, more by cover than by content, it gives me hope to think there's a place -- a certain age -- where we might all learn to look beyond the surface.Every stage of life is a bold adventure. We grow up. We grow a family. We grow old.We cross deserts and climb mountains and walk through minefields every day. The pioneers had nothing on us.There are things I don't like about being "a certain age." But I think I like going to that gym.(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or at www.sharonrandall.com)