Hike leaves author winded; others just think it’s a breeze

In what passes for Cobb Manor physical regimen, in the summer one must pedal up the hill from Lake Megunticook and in the winter one must walk (well, waddle) up the road to Mount Battie.

Usually, both take several unsuccessful attempts, which makes the eventual victory taste even sweeter.

As I get older and fatter, the strolls up Mount Battie get harder and harder. It took three attempts this year before I actually got to the top, huffing and puffing.

I was about three-quarters up the hill, feeling very pleased because I knew I was going to make it this time. My breathing was something less than a screech and nothing hurt too much.

I was starting to think how cool I was, how hard the mountain was and all those roly-poly friends (many decades younger) I have collected that could never make the Battie trip. Never mind those reed-thin friends and lovers who can breeze up the hill while actually carrying on a conversation. I hate them, at least for the duration of the hike.

Anyway, I am keeping time with the Rolling Stones coming from my antiquated Walkman thinking just how very cool I am.

My imagination goes to Everest and I am telling Hillary and Tenzing that I will need no oxygen on this trip, thank you. I have trained too well. While I am looking around for my sherpas and perhaps a taste of high-test cognac to ward off the chill, I hear a strange noise.

Could it be the yeti?

I spin around and there is the dream breaker. This guy is on in-line skates and he is roaring UP the mountain! Not only that, but his female companion is right behind him, skating uphill! They roared right by me, not even having the common decency to be breathing hard, gasping for breath.

My bubble had burst, even as I conquered the last slope and stumbled over to the observation area to drink in the view from Owls Head to Islesboro.

Checking my super-accurate atomic watch, I found that I made it in 33 minutes 45 seconds. A new personal world’s record, since it was the first time I had ever clocked it.

The mountaintop was deserted and I tried to recapture the victorious feeling for making the trip for the first time this season. After all, this aging carcass is headed, inexorably, for its 64th year and a few of the troops have fallen by the wayside. There have been a few heart attacks among the gang, even an open-heart surgery.

Things could be a whole lot worse.

I nursed my battered ego back down the hill, already planning the heavy lunch that would be the repayment for the successful hike.

As I headed back down the road, what do you think was coming up?

The in-line skaters, he and she were making their SECOND run up the mountain.

I shoved my head deeper into my hood and turned up the Stones.

I can’t get no satisfaction.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.