Danny stared at the clock. Seconds dripped from its face, kept time, counted steps, counted reps. Self-conscious middle-aged men ran without enthusiasm. Bodies, comfortable in baggy shorts, loped along. Unfocused minds wandered. Danny yawned, pressed an electronic pad. The machine whirred and speeded up. Hamstrings nagged, pain shot through a kneecap. He pressed again. No sense hurting himself.

Double doors swung open. Indefatigable glutei maximi, Lycra blue, backed in. A callisthenic goddess, golden ponytail bouncing, breezed towards a treadmill. Mesmerized eyes followed. "My God!" Testosterone rose in the air. Minds focused. Shoulders squared, inspired muscles strained. Danny kicked the speed up again. Flabby faces reddened.

Toned legs stepped aboard a rubber road. What a six-pack. Danny's arms pumped, his legs flew, and he wished his six-pack wasn’t hidden in a cooler. She turned to him, smiled. He faltered, missed his step and scrambled ungainly. Don’t look down. Don’t sweat. Maybe sweat is good. Pain dropkicked his hamstrings. He grimaced, coughed for cover, and reduced speed. Who was he kidding?

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