Ben and I went to the gym. We have gone ten times this month, settling into a modest routine on the stationary bikes. I faced my hidden fear of turning up at the entrance and having the receptionist gasp. 

 

"You don't belong here! You are unathletic. You have always been unathletic! This place is only for people with the right sneakers, and yoga pants, and who know the difference between abs and pecs!"

 

But she didn't say that. In fact she smiled. 

 

It was a relief to notice that I was neither the oldest nor the frumpiest person in the room, though I did not resort to checking i.d.s. and challenging strangers to an arm wrestle. Sure there were teenagers with brawny legs, and pricey water bottles. But many of us were inhabiting less than ideal bodies that we just want to make it to the next decade without a walker. 

 

One young girl's t-shirt expressed my reaction to an hour of pedaling. 

 

"Yeah it was hard, but you're not dead."

 

There were options on the screens in front of us, including news and music, but so far Ben and I just watch the numbers. I find satisfaction in nudging the RPMs a bit higher, and predicting how many miles I will complete if I do. Ben is probably factoring them. 

 

It is handy that even in a space with twenty people pumping, or walking, or running we are spared the awkwardness of being face to face. We can each glimpse the trees through the windows, or listen to our own playlists. 

 

The irony is that with all those legs working, no one actually moves forward. The collective miles are all imaginary. 

 

Or are they? 

 

Many of us might feel like we are on a treadmill in everyday life. Make the same peanut butter sandwich. Pay another bill. Attend another meeting. Fold the same shirts. But is it possible that we are moving forward in another dimension... one that is not as easily measured?