Oh sure, you can divide up any given group of people using a million different criteria. Race, religion, sex, feelings on the designated-hitter rule.

But when it comes down to it, one of the greatest divisions has to be triathletes: those that admire them and those who feel they should be locked up in a padded room and medicated for their own good.

I admire them. I also choose to do my admiring from the sidelines. Not that this is any comfort to my best friend – we’ll call her Carol – who falls decidedly on the side of padded rooms and medication. She’s worried.

You see, I have wrangled myself some swim lessons.

Now, if you stopped me on the street and asked me, I'd tell you I can swim just fine, thankyouverymuch. But swim has more than one meaning. I learned to swim in much the same way that many kids in the ‘80s in Missouri learned. An older kid threw me in the deep end. It was our own personal Darwinian experiment. Swim or die, sucker.

And since I’m sitting here typing this, it would be safe to assume I swam. Over the years, this swimming was augmented by a few child-care mandated instructions on the dead man’s float and frog kick, but you could never say I actually learned anything remotely resembling an actual stroke. Mostly I learned how not to drown, which is a mighty fine skill to have. But not particularly useful as a workout.

So to augment my running, I’ve badgered a former lifeguard friend into giving me some lessons.

Which has Carol seriously concerned. Running was one thing. Not that she didn’t think that was a little nuts, too. But she could live with it. But add swimming to the mix, and it’s one trip to the bike store away from the apocalypse.

And she’s not taking it lying down. I have been informed – I swear I’m not making this up – that I am on triathlon watch. And this watch will involve – still not making this up – Goo breath checks.

(Goo, for the uninitiated, is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a little packet of gel that serious athletes, like those competing in a triathlon, consume during a workout or race to keep their calorie level up when consuming solid foods would be difficult. I have never actually eaten said product. But I have been assured that it’s usually just as gross as you think it’s going to be. Think chocolate-flavored hair gel.)

But here was my mistake. I jokingly asked how she thought she was going to perform this breath check. I thought I was clever. You see, I’ve got nearly six inches in height on Carol. If she wants to get her nose anywhere near my mouth, she’s going to have to chase me with a step ladder.

But Carol is a cat owner. Never underestimate the ability of a cat owner to pry open the jaws of an unwilling victim, furry or not. And she’s had practice. Carol’s cat is a hypochondriac whose vet bills are keeping the animal hospital in business.

This is a portion of the e-mail Carol sent:

“I'll tackle you to the ground and then sit on you. Then I will grab your jawbones and pinch your nose to get you to open up.”

Let’s just say, I’m steering very clear of the bike shop. Carol might be little, but she’s feisty.