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Of all the empty treadmills in the gym that afternoon, she had to climb onto the one beside me.

I was enjoying the solitude of my run after an onerous day. I've never understood running groups. I prefer loping along at my own pace, lost in my thoughts, free from the obligation of making conversation. I talk all day at work. I want to be alone when I run.

I'm a dedicated runner. Not marathon dedicated, but dedicated to staying off Prozac. Running is the best antidepressant I know. It always brings me back from the brink.

I have yet to encounter a demon or bad incident that couldn't be outrun. At the end of the day I strap on my running shoes and take off until I find my happy place. When friends ask how I'm preparing for retirement, I tell them the money I have saved from avoiding therapy by running will keep me living comfortably for years to come.

I detest running inside, but it's a necessary evil in the winter. I feel ridiculous on a treadmill. I can't seem to shake the image of being a hamster on a wheel. The perfect run is one that takes place beside a body of water, ideally an ocean, lake, canal, even a creek in the woods.

On this day there were 10 other unoccupied treadmills for her to choose from. It was similar to empty theatre syndrome - you're in a near-empty theatre and invariably the tall guy wearing a hat will come and sit in front of you.

Invading my space wasn't the girl's only offence. The combination of her youth, arrogance and that she looked about 100 pounds wet put me in a bad mood. I felt like a Clydesdale beside this young filly. I would have hoofed her if I could have. Dammit! Now I would have to run longer to shake this foul disposition.

Then she committed the definitive gym misdemeanour. She looked at my screen. She looked at my stats! How dare she? Brazen little pony.

I wanted to evaporate her with my laser glare. Did I just notice a smirk? Was she challenging me? Bring it on lady. This is war. I may not be the fastest thoroughbred in the gym but I've got the lungs of a 15-year-old and I will outrun you!

This whole exchange took place without a word passing between us. Her nostrils flared. She was engaged. She broke out of the gate at a gallop. I cantered beside her.

In spite of being twice her age, I kept pace with her. I had already been running for 20 minutes and was determined to keep up. I increased my speed to match hers. She immediately increased the speed on her treadmill. This continued two more times.

We continued to run pretending to be oblivious of the other. I focused on my breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slowly. Controlled. A drop of sweat trickled into my eye. Wiping it away would be a sign of weakness. The salt was blinding, but I kept up my pace.

I finally admitted to myself that I couldn't comfortably run any faster. It was time for strategic planning. I made as if I was about to turn up my speed but hesitated at the last second. I watched from the corner of my eye as she pounced on her screen and ramped up her speed. Gotcha! Sucker! One born every minute! Faked you out!

It was classic. She may have been younger but I would always be smarter. Her cheekiness had got the best of her. Score one for the old mare. I was the Seabiscuit of my generation. I was determined to win this one for fortysomethings everywhere.

I glanced over at her and saw the first signs of weakening. She was sweating as profusely as I was. The expression "rode hard and put away wet" came to mind. This race was beginning to show on both of us. I had to hold out. I noticed her falter. Any time now she would have to quit.

I was well beyond my limit but I'm stubborn as a mule. I was not ready to be put out to pasture. My hip joints were singing and it wasn't pretty. I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep this up - having the Big One on a treadmill at the gym? A victim of my own hubris? How cliché.

It was a photo finish. She reached forward and shut her treadmill down.

I put my machine into cool-down mode split seconds later. She bent over at the waist and gulped for air. I continued to trot like the Triple Crown victor at the winner's circle. The euphoria was worth the pain.

She got off her treadmill, glared at me and pranced off. Nothing worse than a sore loser.

I took an extraordinary amount of time to towel off. I lingered on the treadmill, stretching in an attempt to fend off the morning-after paralysis I was in for.

When I was sure she was gone and no one was looking, I hobbled off and slowly limped to the locker room. They shoot lame horses, don't they?

Alexandra Novis lives in St. Catharines, Ont.