Don’t laugh (please), but I’m going to become buff. Seriously. I mean it. I’m going to be -- tah dah! -- an Ancient Athlete.

Have you noticed? Ancient Athletes are everywhere lately. First, the epic battle between Rocco Mediate and Tiger Woods at last month’s U.S. Open. Rocco (age 45) versus Tiger (age 32 and undisputably a golfing legend, but playing on a pesky leg fracture and bum knee).

The last two rounds in that tournament riveted me. Rocco was resplendent -- grinning, joking about how much fun he was having, making the limping Tiger actually sweat a bit. Once I saw Rocco’s receding hairline and peace sign belt buckle, I was rooting for him.

OK, yes, Rocco lost. But it was an amazing feat nonetheless. He nearly brought the world’s greatest golfer to his knee(s).

Greg Norman is 53. For awhile last week, it looked like the Shark might finish first at the British Open, the oldest player ever to win a major. But he fizzled out at the end -- as he’s been doing most of his career. No matter; he has a brand-new wife, Chris Evert (another 53-year-old), to console him.

Then there’s Dara Torres, the 41-year-old who made the U.S. Olympic swim team by beating a bunch of young things in the 100-meter freestyle. Wow! She already has competed in four Olympics, dating back a quarter-century. She retired -- twice. Hearing commentators talk about her incredible comeback, I felt pride. Score one for us golden oldies. So what if she had to squint to see the time clock at the end of her race?

Earlier this week, I visited my nephew in Boulder, Colo. He’s 27, a triathlete since he was a teenager. Ran the Hawaii Ironman a few years ago. He’s impressively buff. The kind of buff where you wear baggy clothes because you’re so used to having a perfect body, you don’t need to show it off.

Boulder is a town of elite athletes. Muscular bodies sprint along the sidewalks. Rock climbing is big. Every day, there’s a rush hour -- in the bike lane.

My nephew moved there to work at a world-renowned sports medicine clinic. Some of their patients are Olympians. We took him out to dinner. The conversation turned, as you might expect, to athletics.

“Do you think I could get back in shape?” I asked. “At my age?”

“Sure,” he said.

Easy for him to say. Mr. Two Percent Body Fat was sitting there, digging into a plate of pasta the size of Hartwell Lake.

“I bet you can eat pretty much whatever you want,” I said.

“Yup. Pretty much.”

We told him about our drive through Rocky Mountain National Park. An incredibly beautiful road -- winding, narrow, way above the tree line at 12,000 feet. Fifty miles of breathtaking Alpine scenery and thin air.

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s nice. I rode my bike up to the top.”

Yessir, I’m going to be like that. Thin. Strong. Confident.

Right after I pop a glucosamine pill. We Ancient Athletes have to pamper those knees.