on a Saturday. But the Colby Fitplex was not like most places. It was a gym, although in my experience, there was never that much actual working out going on. This morning, for instance, as I got on the treadmill, the group I’d dubbed the Coffee Klatch was already at the tables by the front door. Senior citizens who gathered bright and early every day at the Fitplex, ostensibly to exercise, but mostly to shoot the breeze, their routine never varied. It went like this: fill coffee cup, drink slowly while seated and discussing town gossip and news, drag yourself over to ride the bike for five minutes or do one set on a machine on the lowest-weight setting; repeat. There were some people exercising. Like the diminutive woman in her early sixties who always showed up clad in a leotard, tights, and a headband of varying neon colors. She’d stretch extensively, then do a routine with five-pound dumbbells, facing the mirror, with the seriousness and exertion level of an Olympic power lifter.
