We ate breakfast at Two Dogs Flat, our first time dining in a restaurant named after road kill. The food was OK, but left a furry aftertaste.

I love our national parks. They are like Disney World for adults, only way better because the animals don’t talk and might even eat you.

This summer Karen and Terry Sykes and Deb and I spent a week hiking in Glacier National Park in Montana. I now understand why God rested after six days.

Day 1. Following a fun morning hike, we took on Apgar Lookout Trail in the afternoon. It should be spelled “Look Out” because it turned into a survival march. A fire wiped out the tree cover, so we roasted in 90 degree heat while trudging four miles vertically for a quick peek at a lake.

Looks like an invitation to me.

We only made it to the top because Terry saw vultures circling and thought we’d better keep moving.
The view of Lake McDonald was indeed delightful, even though the observation deck was closed (for some people).

On the way down, Deb bragged that her fancy walking sticks were keeping her really stable. Then, she promptly fell on her tush.

Who knew hiking could be so hard?

To revive us, Terry came up with the best idea ever. He suggested we stop for huckleberry cobbler alamode. That fateful epiphany created four happy huckleberry addicts.

That night we stayed at Lake McDonald Lodge…motel. Unfortunately, the motel was not part of the actual lodge and was probably a horse stall at one point. We didn’t mind small rooms, but the micro showers were so tiny I couldn’t bend over to scrub my grubby ankles.

OK, my midsection just informed me swimming in glacier water is a bad idea.

Day 2. We hiked to Avalanche Lake, which featured aqua-blue lower falls and a breathtaking lake. I waded in, which felt refreshing right up until my mid-section froze.

Then Deb rolled her ankle while walking on the rocky shoreline. UPDATE: Deb actually BROKE her ankle. Guess I should have cooled it with those “suck it up and hike” comments!

Fortunately, huckleberry cobbler was again the perfect tonic.

Day 3. We hiked through snow to Hidden Lake, which offered spectacular views. We saw rams, lambs, and marmots.

No wonder I love eating at Ram's Horn. This Big Horn could feed NYC.

I was nearly head-butted when I failed to yield to mama goat and her kid.

Bet on the Goat!

We checked in at the Rising Sun Motor Lodge, which exceeded expectations because the showers were more than two feet wide.

After dinner, we shared two orders of mouthwatering Razzleberry pie, which just happened to include huckleberries.

Day 4. We ate breakfast at Two Dogs Flat, our first time dining in a restaurant named after road kill. The food was OK, but left a furry aftertaste.

We headed to the Canadian border, where Terry did his best to confuse the border police.
Agent: Where are you from?

Terry: The U.S.
Agent: Yeah, I’m holding four U.S. passports so I figured that (he then looked at us like we might be morons).
Terry: Back in Michigan, they ask questions differently at our Canadian borders.
Agent: Silence (he appeared to be getting a migraine).
Terry: I mean we’re all from Shelby, Michigan.

This was incorrect, which I was certain would lead to a strip search for the Fauschs because we actually live in Rochester Hills. Fortunately, the agent really wanted to get rid of us and waved us through.

Day 5. Karen and Terry left for a mysterious hike to Crypt Lake. If you believe their story, the six-hour, 11-mile hike included boats, huge elevation changes, and a two-foot ledge that shrunk to mere inches as they repeated the story. It also included a ladder bolted to a stone wall off the side of a cliff, hold-on-or-plummet chain-grabs, and a 60-foot “natural tunnel” that got smaller as you crawled through it.

Notice Terry is safely behind the camera lens.

I was waiting for their tale to include a genie so I could bust them. But then they produced several photos of Karen hanging over cliffs, clutching chains, etc.

Iceberg Lake. Love the cold because Deb has to hug me for warmth.

Day 6. We hiked to stunning Iceberg Lake. While heading back, we came to a nervous halt.

Our 30-foot proximity was scary, but I knew I could outrun Deb.

A grisly sow and three cubs were just 30 feet above the trail. Looking at the massive mama bear, we froze like people in headlights. Once we realized she was not going to eat us, we took more photos than the Hollywood paparazzi.

Day 7. Just five minutes into our Grinnell Glacier hike, we were nose-to-snout with a huge moose. She saw us, stopped momentarily, and thundered down the trail with a calf at her side. We had to jump off the trail to avoid death-by moose-trampling.

We were nearly Bowinkled by a moose and calf.

The hike provided mesmerizing views of emerald-hued Grinnell Lake. Our water expert, Karen, said it best. “The lake’s milky aqua marine color is derived from the refraction of sunlight through suspended particles of fine dust created by the abrasive action of the glacier.”

OK, Miss Smarty Pants, but I prefer to call it “glacial chaffing”.

Grinnell Lake was a stunner, no matter how you define it.

Terry summarized our trip to Glacier National Park perfectly.

“I don’t have a wide angle lens wide enough to capture all this beauty”.

I’m not sure if breathing while driving is still permitted in Troy, but I’m going chance it.

If I don’t stop driving under the influence immediately, I am certain to be pulled over, ticketed, fined and highly embarrassed.

My addiction is not with alcohol or drugs. Indeed, my DUI habit is far worse.

I’ve been driving under the influence of my iPhone, while occasionally sipping coffee and eating pop tarts.

All of these are potential driving offenses in the city of Troy, where Woodside’s largest campus is located.

Based on my past behavior, I am living on borrowed time. There is a patrol car with my name on it, just waiting to bust me for slurping a Slurpee.

On July 1, the state of Michigan introduced a ban on texting while driving. I would love to say I have never texted while driving. But that would be fibbing.

OK, that would be lying.

So I’ve holstered my iPhone while driving. I’ll save those emails for later. It’s the right thing to do.

But on July 29, my peril increased dramatically. The city of Troy upped the ante by passing the “distracted driver ordinance”. In addition to texting, drivers caught eating, drinking, reading, writing, grooming, operating a phone that is not hands-free, or distracted by passengers, are subject to tickets and fines.

Woof. Big Brother is sucking the final vestiges of fun out of driving.

Most of my 20-mile daily commute takes place within Troy’s city limits. My only hope is to become a “robo” driver. I’ll get in, lock my hands in the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions, and unclench only after reaching my destination.

I’m not sure if breathing while driving is still permitted in Troy, but I’m going chance it.

In fairness, the ban on operating hand-held phones is a good idea. Who hasn’t been stuck behind some joker with a cell phone plastered to his ear driving 30 mph in a 45 mph zone?

I apologize if I was that joker.

The other driving “offenses” have me baffled. Troy has many drive-through restaurants and coffee shops. Their patrons will be sitting ducks for munching- and sipping-while-driving tickets.

Frankly, I’m more worried about under-caffeinated drivers having to wait until they leave the city limits. They’ll be driving like maniacs to get to Royal Oak, Rochester, or Clawson, where coffee consumption is still legal.

The offense that has me the most concerned is personal grooming.

At first, I thought this was a wonderful idea. Finally, all those women applying mascara at 50 mph would be forced to the curb with their makeup kits.

Then I remembered I use my electric shaver while driving. In fact, I’m a serial shaver, so I’m in big trouble.

One question that has troubled me is what will our courts do with repeat offenders?

Judge: Mr. Fausch, this is the third time you’ve been ticketed for Crispy Cream consumption while driving. I’m suspending your license until you complete a Jenny Craig program and kick your addiction.

Tim: Your Honor, can’t I just install a doughnut breath-a-lizer in my car?

The next time your cell phone rings while you are driving in Troy, don’t even think about answering it. It could be coming from that car behind you with the blue and red flashing lights.

Apparently, all the other dads were in the military or prison. Those are the only plausible explanations for me coaching soccer.

Goooooooooooooooal!

By now you’ve heard the word “goal” shouted, stretched and emoted with more passion than a woman giving birth. Why? Because someone kicked a ball into a net.

Soccer Stadium under construction in Cape Town

As I write this, 32 teams are competing for the 2010 FIFA World Cup Championship. On July 11, after 64 games viewed by a total audience of 600 million, one team will emerge as kings of the soccer world….until 2014, when we’ll repeat the whole process again.

Personally, soccer has always baffled me. The mere mention of soccer caused me and all my middle school friends to groan.

Gym Coach: Listen up. Today we’re playing soccer.
Tim: Can’t we play a real sport?
Gym Coach: Fausch, you just earned yourself 25 laps.
Tim: I hate soccer.
Gym Coach: Make it 50 laps.

For the next 20 years, I managed to avoid soccer until my son Cory played in a pee wee league. I figured, how painful could it be? He’s the one playing.

This is the soccer stadium the pee wee players use.

As it turned out, watching a dozen seven year olds follow a ball around the field was hilarious. I immediately understood why people called it magnet ball.

The ball would be placed in the middle of the field for the opening kick. Players from both teams would run at the ball and miss badly, tumbling like dominoes to the earth. For the rest of the game all players from both teams would form a scrum and kick the ball in three-foot increments, rarely advancing it anywhere near the net.

It was even better when it rained and all the boys turned into little mud puppies.

A couple years later, somehow, despite my best efforts to become invisible, I was drafted as an assistant coach for Cory’s team. Apparently, all the other dads were in the military or prison. Those are the only plausible explanations for me coaching soccer.

My main duties were shagging missed shots and leading the boys in drills I had expertly learned three minutes earlier. With such a high level of coaching skill, it was no wonder the team went undefeated.

I just needed to get through one last game and my coaching career would end peacefully. That game happened to be against the only other undefeated team in the league. So even though there was no official league championship, every player and coach from both sides suddenly realized this game meant “something”.

And just to make sure we realized the game meant “something”, parents, grandparents, siblings, half cousins, and weird neighbors showed up to support each team in huge numbers. When the referee failed to appear (he probably ran away), a dad from the opposing team volunteered to referee the match.

Immediately, the parents on our sidelines began to grumble. With the score deadlocked at zero at halftime, the parents developed several conspiracy theories on how the completely biased enemy-dad-referee would cause our team to lose.

With less than a minute in the game and score still tied at zero, “soccergeddon” unfolded. It started when two boys got tangled up and fell.

The referee ruled that our player had fouled their player, which just happened to be his son and the best player on their team, and awarded him a penalty kick.

I never knew what soccer hooligans looked like until that moment. When our team’s parents realized the call, they turned ugly. Bad, bad names were shouted from the stands. Fists thrust into the air. Family heritage was called into question.

The poor referee’s son then made the penalty kick and won the game for his team. I feared the worst.

Standing on the sidelines, I turned to see a mob of parents leaving the stands with blood vessels popping. It was eerily similar to the climax scene in the original Frankenstein movie when the villagers gather with torches, sticks and pitchforks in order to kill the monster.

They marched en masse to the middle of the field, where they confronted the referee-dad, who fearfully defended his call and possibly his life. In the nick of time, our head coach intervened and convinced the parents we could survive this travesty of justice.

Bloodshed was narrowly averted…and then we went and ate pizza.

Fortunately for us, there are no style points in road rallies.

Last month, Deb and I were invited to join the Faith Builders adult fellowship group (AFG) on its annual road rally. As nonmember guests, we decided the only way to show our humble appreciation was to decisively cream the competition.

OK, “cream” might be an exaggeration. And it’s true that as two of six people in our car, we were just one-third of the team. And I suppose the fact that Deb and I may not have technically solved any of the riddles does take away from our winning legacy.

And yet we like to think that each member of our team, which included Dave and Diana Brown and Terry and Karen Sykes, contributed according to our unique gifts.

From the front seats, Terry and Dave deftly handled the driving duties and sprinted to collect the answers to the road rally clues. They even had time to pose for photos.

From the back seats, Karen and Diana brilliantly deciphered anagrams and word puzzles, adding valuable points for our team.

From the middle seats, Deb and I …well, we had great intentions of using our gifts to help the team, but those crazy child-proof locks proved too much to overcome. According to Terry, the locks were “broken”.

Despite being locked in the SUV, we did provide helpful insights to our team, like these driving tips.

Terry: Which way should I turn?
Tim: Go left to M-59.
Terry: M-59 is to the right.
Tim: Exactly!

While I provided flawless navigation, Deb worked feverishly on a Bible crossword puzzle, right up until she turned green from car sickness. For the last half hour, Deb valiantly stuck her head out the window in a selfless attempt to avoid upchucking into our road rally envelope. Now that’s putting the team first.

We may not have been the flashiest team, but we did manage to finish the race without injuring ourselves or requiring a police escort. Fortunately for us, there are no style points in road rallies.

As we reflect on the race, we are convinced this victory was truly momentous. We expect ESPN to show up with a film crew any day. There are even rumors of a reality show.

I must mention that organizers Lisa Rife, Idy Kiser and Joy Sykes did a marvelous job of planning. Unlike other road rallies, this one was low on torture and high on fun. After embarrassing ourselves in a public park, ice cream parlor and garden center, we appropriately returned to a feast of Alibi pizza and awesome desserts.

Perhaps you are wondering about the spoils of our victory. Each team member received a stunning championship trophy. I am planning to build a trophy case one day to showcase mine, but for now I’ll use an empty jelly jar.

Every trophy deserves its own case

In addition to the trophies, we will receive sweatshirts with the Woodside logo, complements of Faith Builders AFG teacher John Sykes, who owns a sports apparel business. I’ve wanted a Woodside shirt for years but was too cheap to buy one. Thanks to John’s generosity, I’ll finally sport the Woodside colors.

Now that we’ve cleaned up with the Faith Builders class, Deb and I – and possibly the rest of our team if we can convince them – will be visiting all of Woodside’s AFG s.

We’ll be in touch soon to find out the dates for your parties, potlucks, and special events…especially if prizes are involved.

“Getting a little hot for ya, Timmy?” one of the Yuppers roared.

After decades of desperate avoidance, I recently found the courage to enter a steam room. Upon initial glance, the little room appeared inviting and harmless.

I peered through the moist fog and made out a tiered bench. I cautiously took a seat and studied the room.

“There is nothing to fear,” I told myself.

Instantly a valve opened and molten steam saturated the room. While sweat oozed from my body like a squeezed sponge, adolescent memories of my first sauna experience filled my brain.

The traumatic flashback transported me to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. My family traveled there in the 1960s and 1970s to visit relatives and experience the great outdoors, as much as a bunch of sheltered suburbanites can.

My dad had rented a cabin on a lake. Next to the dock was an odd little building with a chimney. Inside, I was told, was a Finish sauna. I didn’t know what a Finish sauna was, but I couldn’t wait to try it out.

“Tomorrow night the men are coming and we’ll use the sauna,” my Dad told me.

As an 11-year old boy, I felt a sudden rush of manhood come over me. I was going to join “the men” for a guy’s activity.

The next night our cabin was the site of a big cookout. My relatives and their friends were a hardy bunch of second-generation Italian and Finish Americans. They loved their pasties, roasts and brook trout. We ate until we were stuffed.

Soon the men gathered. Their voices deepened, stories were shared, and bragging ensued. We headed for the sauna.

I gamely followed the burly crew. Most were seasoned ore miners who cut their own firewood and put many a meal on the table by hunting and fishing.

I was joining manly men in a manly activity. My heart pounded with pride.

We entered the sauna and my eyes locked on the wood-fired heater with rocks on top and a bucket and ladle nearby. The fire had been building for hours and already the room was hot.

I looked up and noticed the men sitting on the top bench. They wore sly smiles and asked me to pour water on the rocks.

As the youngest “man” in the group, I was honored and starting dumping water on the rocks. Steam erupted and quickly filled the room. I tossed on more water and joined the men on the top bench.

And why not? I was one of them now.

Moments later, my skin started stinging. I looked around and the men were joking and didn’t seem to notice the room was severely OVERHEATING.

I slipped down to the middle bench.

Someone asked for more water. While my brain knew this was a really bad idea, my new-found pride forced me to splash a half-ladle onto the rocks.

“Come on, dump the bucket on the rocks,” another man challenged. “Let’s get some real heat going.”

I gulped and dumped the bucket. Steam exploded from the rocks. I winced and took a seat on the lowest level, alone.

“Getting a little hot for ya, Timmy?” one of the Yuppers roared.

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly. “I feel like I’m burning up.”

That made all the men laugh and one suggested I throw more water on the rocks.

Suddenly, I noticed my throat was searing hot. No, wait, it was on fire.

“I can’t breathe,” I shouted, and ran out of the sauna. A chorus of boisterous guffaws followed me out the door.

Suffice to say the Finish sauna turned out not to be my right of passage to manhood. I spent the rest of our vacation dodging trash talk from my uncles. I vowed to never again let a hot room get the best of me.

Fast forward forty years. Now, I enter the steam room with something to prove. I am prepared to beat the heat and outlast the heartiest dudes.

I sit confidently on the top bench directly in front of the steam valve. As heat fills the room, I sit tall and soak it up. I look slyly to my left and right and make absolutely certain I am the last guy to leave.

Yes, my skin is burning and my throat is on fire. But it’s OK. I’m finally one of “the men”.

(Author’s note: While fact checking this column, I realized there is a small possibility my Finish sauna experience took place after age 11, but definitely before I age 18. I’m sticking with 11).

Only three players try to score in the wrong basket this week, so there is measurable progress.

Upward Basketball just concluded another season. If you have yet to view an Upward game, you are missing a rich experience. The season is eight weeks of raucous fun where kids learn basketball, sportsmanship, and the Bible.

My perspective is that of a referee for first and second graders. The little guys and gals are a hoot. Each week these beginning ballers make me laugh, blow my whistle in a fruitless effort to restore order, and occasionally cry (more on that later).

In the spirit of Sports Center, I’d like to share my favorite highlights from Upward’s 2010 season.

Week 1. Teams resemble armies of confused ants swarming a discarded grape, trying to push it into their respective anthills. The little ants clearly hear their ant coaches, who are furiously shouting instructions, but can’t process the information. Mostly, they keep dropping the grape. I call 21 traveling infractions and 19 double dribbles.

Week 2. The second week’s games are painful slow-motion replays of week one. Players are only slightly less stunned-looking. Coaches are wondering if God is punishing them. It is 8 a.m. and the stands are populated with a mixture of unshaven dads and coffee-deprived moms. Only three players try to score in the wrong basket this week, so there is measurable progress.

Week 3. I referee two girls’ games and am shocked at how disciplined they are compared with the boys. They can dribble and actually pass the ball to each other. A few even score. The games resemble real basketball. The girls’ parents are enjoying themselves, slapping high-fives, and proudly pointing out their offspring. At the boys’ court, parents are slumped in their seats, secretly hoping their neighbors are not watching.

Week 4. I get the girls again and I’m thrilled because they commit few fouls. At this age, the girls are polite and avoid contact. I love refereeing this age group because I’ve seen fifth grade girls play and, frankly, they terrify me.

Week 5. The other refs claim the girls’ games, so I brace myself for a ton of whistle-blowing. But amazingly, the boys have transformed. Nearly all can now dribble the ball, and they only take a few extra steps. Most have figured out they have to be within 10 feet of the basket before shooting their air balls. I look deep into the eyes of their parents and see the glimmer of hope.

Week 6. The boys have improved so much that the Upward Cheerleaders can now generate real smiles from parents, instead of the painful grimaces displayed during the early weeks. Parents excitedly record over the first few games on their camcorders.

Week 7. I referee a game featuring a team of semi-pro second-grade boys. The game starts with the semi-pros setting picks, fast-breaking, and calling out plays. Despite having some talent, the other team doesn’t know what hit them. I am shocked by the improvement since week one. Their parents are surfing the Web looking for college scholarships.

Week 8. Each year there is a special moment when the smallest, scrawniest kids score their first basket. Sometimes the coaches even lift them up so they can score. However it happens, it always brings tears to my eyes. The kids thrust an arm into the air, their teammates cheer, and their family celebrates. It’s a scene you rarely see in competitive leagues, but it happens all the time in Upward.

For many kids, this is their gold medal moment. Now excuse me. I seem to have any something stuck in my eye.

The average Floridian is now 137 years old. And most of them are still driving.

I recently traveled to Orlando for business. As a chalky faced, sun-starved Michigander, I desperately craved time in “The Sunshine State”, so I tacked on a couple vacation days.

In contrast to Michigan’s 47 seconds of winter sunshine, Florida lived up to its slogan. Being outdoors was like getting a B-12 shot from the sky.

However, to honor the principle of truth in advertising, I submit that Florida needs to add a second slogan: “The Old Timer State”.

Please understand that I love elderly people. In fact, I’m well on my way to becoming one. Or at least I thought I was.

The problem is that people are living incredibly long. The average Floridian is now 137 years old. And most of them are still driving.

OK, that might be a slight exaggeration. But when an 85-year-old is the youngster in the neighborhood, it can’t be long before Florida exiles anyone without an AARP card.

Take my Grandma Siami. In 1970, she and my Grandpa Clayton moved to the retirement community of Rainbow Lakes Estates in the north Florida town of Dunnellon.

My Granddad followed the normal retirement plan pretty well, enjoying nearly two decades of easy living.

But Grandma didn’t get the memo. She’s now 98 years old and has lived in the same “retirement” house for 40 years. She’s survived cancer, angina, high blood pressure, and a host of ailments that would have done me in.

Last year she broke her arm. She fell at 5:30 in the morning while retrieving her morning newspaper from the bottom of the driveway. Unfortunately, this means she’ll probably lose her slot pitching for the church fast-pitch softball league.

My Grandma is among millions of retirees in Florida redefining the actuarial tables. If you consult a financial planner, he’ll tell you to save as though you’ll live to be 100.

Fantastic. I can hardly wait to retire…when I reach 90.

I also learned there is a unique senior subculture in Florida while dining out with my Grandma. As we were deciding what to order, the waitress (let’s call her Marge) sprang into action. Right next to our table, Marge planted a “large print” menu highlighting the specials of the day.

Brilliant. I wish we had those in every restaurant.

When my Grandmother was still unsure, Marge showed her savvy. She started speaking in a voice that was both soothing and clear. After narrowing down the options, Marge said the magic phrase, “And how about a sweet potato?”

Bingo. Grandma got a big smile, said “oh yes” and dinner was served.

As you might have guessed, I’m in awe of her endurance, resiliency and faith. Rock on, Grandma.

Driving to see Grandma, and virtually anywhere in Florida, requires super human patience. The good news is it’s virtually impossible to get a speeding ticket because everyone drives under the speed limit…in every lane.

And you can’t even get mad about it. If you finally do get around slow drivers, you look over and see someone who looks like your Grandma, or some sweet old guy happy as a clam going 20 mph in a 35 mph zone.

You can’t honk at Grandma or the sweet old guy, even when they cut you off. Fortunately, they drift into your lane in slow motion so it’s pretty easy to avoid impact.

By the time I left Florida, I adjusted to a calmer pace. I was driving patiently, walking slowly, and taking time to enjoy the scenery.

I think I will do just fine as an old timer…in just 39 more years.

The makers of Spandex send you a cease-and-desist order.

My New Year’s resolutions are easy to remember because they are the exact ones I set last year…and for the last two decades.

The problem is my resolutions haven’t been all that resolute. In fact, some might define them as resolve-free. They seem to follow a similar pattern.

Jan. 1, 2009: This year I’m going to eat better, exercise more, and shed a few pounds. I am completely passionate, iron-willed and ferociously dedicated. I will attack with a vengeance, starting tomorrow.

Jan. 2: Today I made great strides by posting my resolutions on Facebook so everyone can hold me accountable, starting tomorrow.

Jan. 3: I deleted my resolutions from Facebook because they could be misinterpreted as bragging. Instead, I’ll blog as I achieve them, starting tomorrow.

Jan. 4: Unbelievable. I get a sore throat just when I was ready to start on my resolutions.

Jan. 1, 2010: This year, I’m going to eat better, exercise more, and shed a few pounds.

Hopefully, you are enjoying great success with your fitness resolutions. But if you are unsure, here are 20 signs to tell if you are failing miserably.

*All the personal trainers shout “dibs” when you enter the health club.

*The readout on your StairMaster keeps flashing the word “weenie”.

*The makers of Spandex send you a cease-and-desist order.

*The guys in the weight lifting area keep asking if you were sick as a child.

*You skinned your knees…while running on the treadmill. (Yes, that was me you saw falling at LifeTime Fitness…twice. Don’t ask.)

*When you swim laps, the lifeguard from the family pool keeps jumping in to rescue you.

*While recording the stats for your body mass index, your trainer says, “Well that’s a first.”

*You hear audible groans every time you walk by a scale.

*Six months into your club membership, the entry clerk still hands you the first-time visitor application form.

*You stop at Dunkin Doughnuts five times a week to “carb up”, but manage to actually exercise just once.

*The Dairy Queen staff welcomes you by name.

*You see a very scary picture of yourself posted at local fast-food restaurants.

*Your nutritionist performs an intervention.

*During your annual physical, your doctor gathers the entire staff to discuss your cholesterol. They all listen intently until one nurse shouts, “I win the pool!”

*You get a sympathy card signed by everyone in your fitness class.

*Your personal trainers keep getting fired for poor performance.

*Your health club invoice shows you spent more on smoothies than on dues.

*Your Dancercise instructor asks you to take the class online because you are scaring the other students.

*When showing your children your high school yearbook photo, they ask, “Who’s that?”

*Your treadmill freakishly phones 911 whenever you use the heart monitor.

Hopefully, you are not experiencing any of these failure signs. But if you are, don’t despair. There are only 11 more months until 2011.

I was hoping I misunderstood the voice. Maybe it actually said, “Don’t buy the pie”.

A few weeks ago during a Get Real program, Woodside celebrated the triumphant conclusion of our first “Biggest Loser” contest. I attended the program in order to cheer on the participants for their incredible weight-loss and fitness-building efforts.

I didn’t anticipate leaving with a challenge of my own.

Apparently, in addition to exercise, contestants were asked to eat “healthy” foods.

While I completely enjoyed the stories of biking, walking and calisthenics, all the talk about eating right was eating at me.

So during the Q&A time, I posed a simple question. Is it really so bad to indulge in an entire box of Cheez-Its every so often, like twice a week?

I was sure the fitness leaders would cut me some slack.

They didn’t.

In fact, their words were cutting: “If God didn’t create it, why would you want to eat it?”

Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a snappy comeback. “Because it tastes cheesy good” seemed a bit lame.

So as the fitness gurus talked up the benefits of almonds, fruits and vegetables, I debated the ugly truth. My name is Tim and I am a Cheez-It junkie.

For years, my motto has been, “I run to eat”. In my warped world, running a few miles gave me a free pass to eat as much junk as I could consume. I was convinced exercise would counteract all the mountains of Cheez-Its, gallons of soda, and tons of Twizzlers I ate.

But after the Biggest Loser program, I heard a voice whispering inside my head, “Don’t buy the lie.”

I was hoping I misunderstood the voice. Maybe it actually said, “Don’t buy the pie”. Actually, that’s just as bad because I love pie too.

Either way, I was convinced I could exercise my way to good health and still eat junk. It was simple physics. To prove my point, I would run a few miles and measure the results.

After locating our severely neglected treadmill, I removed a thick layer of dust and started running. Five miles and 45 minutes later, I hit the stop button.

Yes sir. No doubt this run had burned thousands of calories. Justification was at hand.

But the calorie counter told a different story. Unbelievably, the run had burned a measly 500 calories.

OK, all was not lost. Maybe I had overestimated the calorie-burning impact of exercise, but I was confident it was enough to justify my Cheez-It habit. I could probably chow down an entire box, maybe two, for each run.

But according to the nutrition facts provided by dietfacts.com, 13 big Cheez-It crackers pack on 150 calories. So that means a five-mile run would allow me eat a total of …43 crackers.

Just 43 stinking crackers? That’s like a warm up snack for my main course of Cheez-Its.

The whisper inside my head suddenly turned into a shout. It was time to confront my compulsion.

So here it is. In 2010, I pledge to:

*Just say no to those wonderful cheese snacks for an entire year.

*Sell my Kellogg’s stock because Cheez-It sales are about to plummet.

*Buy more pie. Hey, it’s OK. They’re filled with fruit.

For some reason, moisture always leaks from my eye sockets at the climax of this film. I suspect some type of allergy.

My favorite Charlie Brown cartoon character is Linus van Pelt, the soft-spoken, thumb-sucking, blanket-clutching brother of tyrannical Lucy.

I only wish cartoonist Charles Schultz would have introduced us to their parents. This van Pelt family would have been a hoot. I would tune in every week to watch their reality show.

I’m a Linus fan because of one scene in the A Charlie Brown Christmas. Leading up to the scene, Charlie is mocked mercilessly by the other characters after bringing home a pathetic Christmas tree. Linus sets the gang straight by focusing on the true meaning of Christmas.

In a monologue that surely must anger the politically correct (PC) cops, little Linus shares the Christmas story simply and beautifully, quoting directly from the Bible. He boldly states that the Savior was born.

Take that, PC police. You don’t mess with Linus.

Other Christmas classics take a different route. Miracle on 34th Street, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, A Christmas Carol (Scrooge) and How the Grinch Stole Christmas, all tell the story of outcasts and losers, scorned by their communities for a multitude of perceived sins.

In each case, the lead character eventually is redeemed and shockingly, Christmas is saved. These stories are classics because man’s redemption is the most compelling story ever told.

Where have we heard that before? We know where the writers got their inspiration, but for some reason Jesus is omitted from the credits. The PC crowd must be elated.

While these Christmas stories forget to credit God, the film It’s a Wonderful Life does better. Jimmy Stewart plays George Bailey, the hard-lucked everyman who allows the needs of others to derail his own dreams of travel and adventure.

George hits rock bottom when the Bailey Building and Loan deposits go missing and he takes the blame for someone else. In his darkest hour, he becomes suicidal. His wife and family pray on his behalf.

Fortunately, an angel is dispatched from heaven to help George realize the value his life holds. Broken and confused, George prays and asks for help. Renewed, he joins his family and friends for an inspired Christmas celebration.

For some reason, moisture always leaks from my eye sockets at the climax of this film. I suspect some type of allergy.

OK, I admit it. I get emotional thinking about George’s redemption. And while this film falls a bit short by not referencing Jesus, heaven, angels, and prayer are central to the plot. I’m guessing the PC crowd fast-forwards through these scenes.

In the days leading up to Christmas, our PC culture will saturate us with messages that say giving cool presents is what it’s all about. Store clerks will be mandated to say “happy holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”.

In response, I plan to get my “Linus” on. How about you?