I like to think of myself as a pretty good man with some bad qualities; that would apply to many honest people.

I don’t know any saints, and I don’t remember knowing any genuinely evil people, although I see from the news that there are some.

My smaller self came out today at the gym, where I go three or four times a week to walk on the treadmill to recover from my foot surgery and keep my heart strong and my hamstring muscles limber.

I resisted this for decades, but it’s time. I surrender to it. I even like it.

I am generally the oldest person in the gym; it is mainly populated by young, lean, and fit men and women who ride on bikes, run on treadmills, or lift weights.

I listen to books and music while I “run.”

The kids all look great and have muscles where I no longer have places.

None of them has ever looked me in the eye, acknowledged my existence, said hello, called to me, or showed any evidence of seeing me. This is, I think, the fate of the American elderly, to walk quietly and unobserved through the hordes of the young and the busy.

I don’t have good memories of gyms. People usually laughed at me or tried to beat me senseless.

The young seem to intuitively practice Darwinian social distancing from the elderly as if they fear getting old is contagious and has nothing to do with them.

I notice none of them wear masks if they don’t have to.

I like being alone in the gym and left alone in the gym.

My visits are private, unobserved, and uninterrupted, with small talk and adult chatter about medications and surgeries.

I love being anonymous, and the first thing I do is put on my earpods and play some music that drowns out the news and heavy metal din darting around the gym.

The young men preen like chimpanzees in the African videos, flexing their muscles, staring at themselves in the window, grunting and lifting when young women come by.

An older woman – one of the gym workers told me she was in her 90s – started coming into the gym a couple of weeks ago.

We hadn’t met or been at the gym at the same time. Today, she looked over to the treadmills and walked over slowly.

She looked around, her glance fell on me, and she came over and climbed onto the treadmill next to me. I nodded in polite greeting, wondering if this was the beginning of an older adult’s nest at the gym, but she didn’t look at me either, speak to me or acknowledge my presence.

She looked frail enough for a stiff breeze to blow away.

I was sure she was small, birdlike, with no skin on her bones, she didn’t make it to five feet tall, and she walked carefully and very slowly.

She was wearing new white sneakers and tights and a pink sweatshirt.

I think she guessed I was pretty safe as I plodded along my treadmill for 30 to 40 minutes. I got lost in the new Billie Elish album Happier Than Ever, which I like a lot, and appropriately enough, the song I was listening to was Getting Older. I started to sing it out loud but caught myself.

“I’m getting older,” was the first verse, “I think I’m aging well.”

The woman climbed on her treadmill; she stared straight ahead and out the window, ignoring me, the TV, and the young people dashing on the treadmill at what seemed like the speed of sound to me.

She looked grim to me, angry and serious about her workout. She did not wish to be disturbed. Her vibe was leave me alone. That was okay with me; I’m not looking for friends at the gym.

I got lost in my music, and it was a while before I heard the foot thumping coming from my new treadmill neighbor. I glanced over and was shocked. She was running much more quickly on the treadmill than I was; her thumping was twice as loud as mine.

I was stunned; my testosterone stirred. I glanced over to her machine and saw she was running at four miles per hour while I was running at half that speed, planning to up to 2.5 in careful stages, maybe 3 for a couple of minutes at the end.

My doctors (my foot kept me from walking or running for much of last year, so I’m slowly getting back into moving quickly, 30 minutes at a time, every other day) keep warning me to go slow, don’t push it, don’t try to raise the bar all the time.

Everyone tells me to go slow, pace myself, take my time. I’m not fighting that advice.

I felt a rush of adrenalin when I looked at this woman. There was no way she would be running on the treadmill faster than me.

Acting reflexively and without much thought and contemplation, I suddenly pushed the speed button up to 3.5 and almost flew right off the treadmill. The male ego is one of the frailest things in all of humanity.

I was mortified, ashamed of myself, on several levels.

It was not my best moment.

My very serious neighbor was much older than I am and could run on a treadmill twice as fast.

I admit this got to me. I kept raising my speed and then lowering and huffing and puffing at 3.3, proud of myself, but already feeling the protest my legs and back were preparing for me.

I kept glancing over to see her speed, which stayed at 4. If she noticed me, she never let on.

Indeed, I was sure I could run faster than her, and why did she have to torment me by coming up right alongside me?

What was I thinking? What nasty part of me wanted to compete with this woman just because she was faster than me? Good for her. She was a role model, not a competitor.

I admit to having a brief fantasy about her hitting the emergency stop button and asking me to help her slow down and get off the treadmill.

This was an old story for me; everybody in every gym I was ever in was better than I was. But an old woman nearing 100? It was too much.

It was small thinking, beneath the man I wish to be, coming from the small part of me. I wanted to be bigger. I wanted to be the man who congratulated this woman on her energy and drive and wanted to nicely and sincerely encourage her.

Deep down inside of me, what I wanted was for her to go away.

When my 30 minutes were up, I slowly and carefully exited the treadmill. I said “goodbye,” perhaps feeling wrong about my competitiveness, but she was either heard of hearing or just not interested in me.

I was buoyed by the realization that at least she didn’t seem very nice. That would have made things worse.

I walked out of the gym, swiped my digital membership card to get out, and said goodbye to the receptionist. This woman was still running along on the treadmill; she didn’t even seem to be breathing fast.

I felt small and petty. I should be proud of her and tell her so. Instead, I hoped she pulled a leg muscle and took a few weeks off, and I slinked away.

I was ashamed of myself for my ungenerous thoughts, but I still had them,  and as I got into the parking lot and neared my car, I turned Billie Elish on; I still had the earpods in my ear.

The album had played through was back to Getting Older. This was the verse I heard when I got into the car:

“Last week, I realized I crave pity when I retell a story.

I make everything sound worse.

Can’t shake the feeling that I’m just bad at healing.”