She's on vacation with a Richard Simmons clone
Lori Clinch
Are We There Yet?

We're back from our respite to the mountains, and I'm pretty sure that it'll take me the better part of a month to feel rested.

Some might think the vacation should have been relaxing. These are people who have never traveled with a spouse who played the part of a trainer at fat camp and made them his project.

At first I was oblivious to his evil plan and thought the bike ride down the mountain was a hoot. With the wind in my hair, I coasted for 8.3 miles. I steered with my knees, gave the day an eight-mile smile and thought to myself, My, and How grand!

Going back up was a horse of a different color. First of all, did you know that a gal has to pedal nonstop to get to the top of the most gradual of slopes? And I don't even want to tell you how brutal the real inclines were.

As my husband cruised along effortlessly with our three older boys, I pedaled my way to nowhere. I was chugging like a steam engine and panting like a dog as I moved at a 10th of a mile per hour. My hair was wet, my thighs were aching and my lungs were begging me to stop the insanity.

Thank God for my little Charlie. Just when I considered falling to the ground and sending out for oxygen, he announced that he wasn't pedaling another inch. I climbed off my bike, put on the most sincere of faces and told Pat, my beloved spouse, "I guess Charlie and I can skip the last three miles … if we have to."

It was all I could do to muster the energy to climb up the walk to the cabin and onto the sofa, and I'll be danged if that man of mine didn't ask, and I quote, "Who's up for a big hike?"

Is it me or do you suppose he's off his nut?

One of the boys scoffed, another flat-out said no, and our eldest, Vernon (God love his wise-cracking ways), said, "Mom will! After all, she only rode five of the uphill miles."

The worst part was that Pat - aka Richard Simmons - meant it. Right after supper he started hounding me like a kid in the Walt Disney World parking lot. "C'mon, let's go! We'll only have to hike a couple of miles. Just imagine the sights we'll see!"

Sights, my posterior. Trees, that's what we saw. Trees and more trees, accompanied by the occasional mosquito. And you show me someone who thinks that breathing at 9,599 feet is a piece of cake and I'll show you a fool atop of Mount Everest.

The next day was white-water rafting, and Pat - aka Chuck Norris - didn't count the 19.6 miles that we paddled down the river as exercise. I suppose for a man who makes a living swinging a sledgehammer, a full day of digging a paddle into raging water was a piece of cake. He strolled away with a spring in his step and a song in his heart. Meanwhile, I had to have my 13-year-old swing my arms when I walked.

When we returned to the cabin, Pat asked (and I swear it's true), "Who's up for a little nature hike to Peak Nine? If we leave now, we can be there before nightfall."

Once again, all eyes were upon me. "Why do I have to go?" I whined. And once again, Vernon, that wise-cracking kid of mine, said, "Make Mom go. After all, she didn't ride the last three miles uphill yesterday."

It was all I could do to put on my sneakers and walk in an upright position. Meanwhile Pat - aka Gilad - jogged ahead of me whistling so happily that I wanted to trip him. And I would have, too, if I could have gotten my foot that high off the ground.

Although I could barely get out of bed and ached from head to toe, Pat - aka Tony Little - announced on day three that we should ride our bikes over a mountainous pass.

Wouldn't that be fun? What with the birds and the bees and let's not forget the freedom-loving trees.

Eight hours later, he emerged from the forest looking half his age. Meanwhile, I crawled out of the trees on my hands and knees, dragging my bike behind me as someone screamed out, "Oh look, a Sasquatch!"

We got home yesterday afternoon, and by early evening, Pat - aka young Jack La Lanne - was browsing brochures and considering a backpacking adventure across the Poconos. "Who's with me?" he asked as he leapt from his chair and hopped from side to side.

Turns out that week of exercise did me some good, because I popped up from the couch and hit the ground running. He can't make me go if he can't catch me.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.