It’s that time of year again—the mystical, magical month of May, when every overweight person in my town decides now is the time to “get in shape” and descends upon the high school track, conveniently located just across the street from my house.
I greet the track walkers, as I call them, like the phenomenon they are: a passing migration of butterflies, maybe, or those birds that always fly back to San Juan Capistrano. The track walkers are just as predictable—and just as fleeting.
I know from my experience as an avid “track-walker watcher” that their ambition won’t last long.
By June, when the weather warms up enough to make them break a sweat before completing their first lap around the track, they’ll retreat once again. Back to their comfy couches they’ll return, and back to the ease of watching other people do stuff on TV instead of doing it themselves.
I applaud them, gazing out at them with admiration as they trudge around the blue-paved track with all their hope for a brand-new start shining brightly in their faces.
I know it won’t last—just as the migrating birds and butterflies will eventually fly home. But for now, I wish them well.