I've entered yet another disturbing phase of the aging process. In fact, I sprinted into it. My nine- year- old daughter beat me in a timed foot race around a quarter- mile track last Sunday.

On the surface, losing to my youngest daughter shouldn't really be that disturbing to me. The rate at which I'm sprouting ear hair is cause for much more concern. I mean, getting dusted on a track by a third grader is no prostate exam, but it doesn't take much to send me careening into a full- out midlife crisis these days. The fact that one of my children is faster than me makes me feel worse than when I had that colonoscopy. At least I was asleep for that.

It's not that I was ever some track star. The fastest I ever went on a track was behind the wheel of a go- cart at the Myrtle Beach Grand Prix. In my baseball playing days, catchers could underhand the ball to second base and still nail me trying to steal. When I attempted several short triathlons, little old ladies would consistently blow by me on the running portion of the race…well, actually on all three portions of the race, but that's not important. Despite my God given mediocrity when it comes to running, I shouldn't be losing to nine- year- olds from my own gene pool.

And no, my wife is not fast. In fact, she makes me look like Usain Bolt. I guess two negatives made a positive when it came to my daughter's speed. She is pretty fast, and there would be no shame in losing to her…if I were nine. But I'm 39. My legs are twice as long, and I've got no problem cheating.

My dad never gave me the satisfaction of winning anything other than a few board games. The man won a North Carolina wrestling state championship in 1961 and pinned me relentlessly up until the day he died a couple of years ago. I probably could have taken him in a foot race or on a basketball court, but he had the good sense to stick to wrestling. He quit playing me in all those other sports, before I got the chance to beat him. Smart man.

I guess I'm not so smart. The wise thing would have been to race my daughter head- to- head, not separately with a clock. At least then I could have used the tools at my disposal like my big butt. I doubt she would have been so fast if she'd run into that thing a time or two. I could have nudged her off the track and into the bushes or tugged on her shirt and let her speedy legs see what it's like to drag a 39- year- old body around a track.

But I didn't race her head- to- head. She's got bragging rights, and I've got another reason to buy a convertible sports car. I could ask for a rematch, but what if she beats me again or she beats me worse? I guess the smart thing would be to hang up the running shoes and challenge her to a wrestling match.