A couple of months ago, I signed up for a triathlon. It was an impulsive decision—the sporting-event equivalent of a Vegas wedding.

Like many Vegas weddings, my training and I got off to a great start. I was infatuated with the treadmill, and I learned to love my bike shorts. Each week I steadily increased my mileage or speed. I was becoming … a triathlete!

Then reality started to creep in.

I’ll spare you a lot of metaphors: I’ve decided to drop out. Why? Because otherwise there’s a pretty good chance I’ll drown.

I don’t have access to a pool. And, although I live in the land of 10,000 lakes, I don’t have time to actually get into any of them. Don’t ask me why I didn’t think of this sooner. Vegas wedding, remember? I wasn’t thinking.

When I told my kid sister today, she was audibly disappointed. “I really wanted to come and watch,” she said. I offered to put on my swimsuit and run around the neighborhood for a while. (A fair compromise, I thought.)

I feel a little sheepish. What will my three (count ’em: three!) readers think of me? And what will I tell the friends who regularly ask for updates? No one likes a quitter.

Oh, well. I may be a quitter, but for me, this story still has a happy ending.

I’m back into running, and my workouts have a new sense of purpose. It’s no longer about going for 30 minutes; now it’s about going a little farther in those 30 minutes every week. I’m eating healthier, and my clothes are a little looser. My teeth are whiter. Babies love me, and politicians prize my advice. Why, just the other day, the Pope called to … well, you get the picture.

Once again, I’m reminded that sometimes it’s not just about reaching a destination. Sometimes, the journey brings its own rewards.