I subscribe to "Outside", a magazine that celebrates the lives of those who live life to its fullest: mountain climbers, surfers, explorers, white water rafters, back packers, triathletes, people who live for the opportunity to test the limits of their physical and psychological endurance, people who thrive on being dropped into completely foreign environments, people who have come face to face with death and lived to tell the tale.

In other words, people like me.

Forget it, I can't even write with a straight face. I haven't had an outdoor adventure since the day I took the family to Hershey Park and forgot where I parked the car.

I used to be an outdoor guy, used to love backpacking in the middle of nowhere and then one day I literally, completely lost interest while in the middle of a trip. My brother and I were in California scrambling up the exposed face of some mountain in the Sierras with 40 lb packs strapped to our backs. It was a typical, exhilarating high altitude backpacking environment: gale force winds so strong and relentless you could die and not fall down, a temperature of 26 degrees, and an eclectic mix of snow, sleet and freezing rain.

As we sat huddled against a rock to wait out the weather like we'd done a dozen times before, I turned to my brother and shouted to be heard above the sound of my own chattering teeth and the howling wind. "I no longer find this enjoyable," I said, although I didn't use those exact words.

And that was it, my brain shut off the chemicals triggering the desire to wear goose down vests and suspend food between trees to avoid meeting bears and released the ones triggering the desire to subscribe to magazines about people who wear goose down vests and suspend food between trees to avoid meeting bears.

That day, my brother graciously agreed to hike back down to where it was 75 degrees and sunny and we made camp at a little log cabin themed motel offering free HBO which was conveniently located next to a pristine watering hole offering plenty of game, fresh water and a pool table.

Yes, I had come down from the mountain a wiser man. It was there in the smoky haze of Hector's Hideway that I realized that there are character building challenges associated with any recreational activity and one need not stagger and crawl 12,000 feet up the side of a rock during a blizzard to test one's fortitude, you can do the same thing playing a game of straight pool for money against a mood swinging 280 lb motorcycle mechanic named Shugs who brings his own cue stick, enjoys showing strangers his wanted posters and makes strangling gestures with his hands while you're lining up a shot.

These days, the occasion to play pool with psychologically fragile fugitives from the law in backwater dives doesn't present itself as often as you'd expect so I continue to seek out other challenges closer to home.

On weekends, just attempting to get out of bed quietly without waking the children in order to read the paper in peace is a major challenge that offers a great sense of achievement whenever I can make it to the Metro section before being besieged with relentless, repeated requests from my three-year old daughter to make her breakfast.

Another challenge is of course the selection of the fastest checkout line in the supermarket, a feat that requires a vast array of skills and experience combining the assessment of shopper behavior (cash vs. check, self bagging vs. the delegation of bagging, possession of a store discount card vs. the often fictionalized "my spouse has the store discount card"), the knowledge of products (quickly identifying those items most likely to require a price check), the assessment of the mental acuity and physical dexterity of the cashier and the raw physical stamina and speed required to beat another shopper who covets the same position in line.

I also enjoy the red light green light challenge, in which the car in front of you moves so slowly you are tempted to leap out of your car and run past the offending vehicle just so you can shake your fist at the driver. The challenge comes when the car, moving at a snail's pace, approaches a traffic light. As the light turns amber, the driver suddenly becomes possessed by the spirit of Mario Andretti and soars through the intersection as if shot from a cannon. It is here, like many of those celebrated in "Outside Magazine" where you have the opportunity to test both your physical and psychological endurance. Physical -- by riding the rear bumper of the car in front of you and sailing through the light right behind them as if one long vehicle, psychologically -- by letting the source of your frustration go and waiting patiently for the next green light.

Yes, these are the humble challenges in my life now. No more rock climbing, white water rafting, introducing square dancing to headhunters in New Guinea. And yet, the hope remains that one day there might be a magazine about guys like me. They could call it "Inside".