I was overwhelmed by the rapid replies including emails, phone calls and mail after my last column. Some of them relating very poignant stories about sons and dads and baseball games; some of them including personal anecdotes of their own brushes with fame. And some of them, stories from friends and family who were reminded of my personal experiences with different sports.

The second motivating factor was my recent jump into the Pound Plunge with my much better half and two of our bestest friends. So, let’s start there.

After weighing in, I was highly motivated. A few days after the weigh-in, I was watching TV and decided to try my first sit-ups in about two decades. I made sure I was the only one home. Now, I have no idea what a wounded mongoose looks like, but I’m fairly certain I did a really good impression of one.

A few nights later, the results were a little better and a few nights after that, even more so; still only to be attempted while I’m alone at home. After graduating to sit-ups that actually looked like sit-ups, I decided it was time for push-ups. Let’s just say, those results are not for publication.

I have never had much luck with exercise. Actually, my luck has been fairly miserable. Take for instance the saga of the Nordic Track. I know these must be quite popular, because when I’m showing homes with my Realtor hat on (or pin or whatever), I see a lot of Nordic Tracks. Usually, in a basement storage room. One house had three of them; now I don’t have any idea why you’d have three, but there they were.

Anyway, I was so happy with my purchase. At twenty-five bucks, I felt like I had almost stolen it. I set it up in the bedroom, aimed it at the TV with dreams of me skiing right along as I watched my favorite re-runs.

My first and last attempt on the Nordic Track, as with snow skis, as with water skis, were one and the same; and all with pretty much the same results. I placed my tennis shoes in the proper holders and pulled one of the ropes towards me; the next thing I knew, I had flown off the back of the apparatus, slammed against the side of the bed, landing face-down on the floor.

I should have known better. My attempts at snow skiing had me almost ending up in the parking lot as the instructor yelled out “WILD MAN,” and falling off the gondola on Checkerboard Hill. Water skiing was much the same, as the only thing accomplished by my trying to “get up” was some national record for water intake by a human being.

All that being said, the Nordic Track is my favorite piece of exercise equipment. I soon discovered it held three changes of clothes and when I grew tired of stumbling over it, I was able to sell it for twenty-five bucks; thereby breaking even and nothing lost.

I tried jogging. I ungracefully stepped off of a curb and spent a couple of weeks on crutches. I enjoyed riding my bicycle for the few weeks of that particular attempt as an exercise program. As I was riding west past the old drive-in, I looked down at my tire, just in time to see my light generator come loose and flop into the spokes; thereby locking the aforementioned tire. I followed that flop with one of own, as the right side of my face slammed into the pavement. For the next two months, any liquid that I drank would be followed by a trickle out of the side of my mouth.

Now, for my cousins’ favorite Glenn sports story. In my freshman year of high school, I went out for wrestling; a mistake I realized about five minutes into the sport. I was fourteenth on the depth chart, because there were only fourteen wrestlers at my weight. I was terrible. A flu epidemic hit the high school and I was forced to travel to Garden City to represent Hays High School.

My goal was not to get pinned. I did not, but I was shut out on points while the other guy went well into double digits. There are three two minute periods in wrestling and I was on top for about a ½ second of those six minutes. Well, while this guy was doing everything to me but making me his bride, the cheerleaders of my freshman class, were chanting, “Get Up Glenn. Get Up! Get up Glenn Get Up!” Well, if I could have gotten up, I would have. And I would have walked over and shouted, “SHUT UP, GIRLS, SHUT UP!!” Anyway, I think that’s when I started to really dislike cheerleaders.

These incidents could explain my interest in politics. Although, they call it a blood sport, I’ve only come close to being injured once. I was in a hurry to attend a reception during our annual Washington Days celebration in Topeka. Although late, I decided a quick brushing of the teeth was in order. In a few short seconds, I discovered I had grabbed the Preparation H instead of the Crest. But in a half hour, the feeling came back to my gums and I was all healed up.

But during that half hour, I was thinking of buying another Nordic Track.