Treadmill Dread

I'm liberal to a degree. I live in a Blue state. I vote democratic. I listen to Air America. OK, I try to listen to Air America. I support equal access of all kinds to most everything.

So, when I walked into my building's exercise room tonight and saw the new guy, in a wheelchair, I thought "Good for him!" I tensed up as he slowly maneuvered his chair next to the treadmill. I'm walking on the next machine at four miles an hour, trying not to stare, but really curious. What's going on here? If he needs a wheelchair, doesn't that mean he can't walk?

In the next few, long minutes, the guy pulls himself up from his chair, and balances himself, just barely, on the treadmill belt using his hands on the bars. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him struggling to press the buttons to start the machine. I'm in a real pickle. Part of me says, "Help the guy get the treadmill going, you moron." And another part of me says, "You want to be responsible for this guy shooting off the end of the belt and up against the counter?"

I decide to help. I step off my machine and onto his with him. We choose the "manual" mode, I enter 170 pounds for him as his weight not knowing if this is a complement or an insult, and I've got my finger on Start when he says "Maybe I shouldn't do this."

OK, I step back onto my own machine; he eases himself back into his chair. Then, the next thing I know he's swinging himself on the the bench for the arm and chest weights. I look away, giving him his privacy. When I glance back, he's pumping more weight than I can lift, doing fifteen reps.

I cut back to three miles an hour.