I ran two sad, sorry seasons of cross-country during high school. As an asthmatic with a bad ankle, few called me a “good runner.” I once crossed the finish line of a 5K race blue-lipped and wheezing, with my ankle brace flapping against my shoe. I heard one of the male runners comment on my unacceptable exasperation because, “Uh, the race was only 3.2 miles,” before I collapsed onto the ground in one dramatic gesture and beckoned for my inhaler.

No, I never really learned much about running during that time, but I did learn one piece of valuable information: In order for a race to begin, someone must say, “On your mark, get set, go!”

The woman I encountered one Saturday afternoon offered no such courtesy before our race began. I was heading south on Broadway to the New York Sports Club at 94th Street when I noticed someone ahead of me in sneakers, stretchy yoga pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Judging by her attire, the SHAPE magazine tucked under her arm and her tight, face-lifting ponytail, I assumed she was en route to the gym.

Seeing a fellow gym-goer makes me nervous; it’s always so crowded, and men and women often stand in long lines while waiting for someone to hit his or her 30-minute maximum time on a treadmill.

Something about standing in those lines transforms a normal person into a fire-breathing, finger-pointing, angry villager who would probably stick a pitchfork into anyone who tried to follow up their allotted 30 minutes with a 5-minute “cool down.” I did not want to wait, and I saw this chick as the one who could come between me and my workout destiny. And apparently, she felt the same way about me.

We both stopped in a clump of Saturday strollers waiting for a light to change, she standing slightly ahead of me. She must’ve seen me out of the corner of her eye because I saw her give me a nervous once-over through her glasses. When the light changed, I noticed her pace quicken.

Her short, stumpy legs plunked out increasingly frantic steps as we weaved through the sidewalk traffic. I, too, sped up my walking. She took a quick peek over her shoulder, as if monitoring my whereabouts, and dropped her SHAPE.

For a second, she appeared to contemplate whether or not it was worth stopping to pick up her fallen fitness soldier, until the “no one gets left behind” motto quickly kicked in and she stooped to grab it. I passed her on the right and continued to plow ahead.

We came to another light, and instead of waiting, I decided to cross Broadway. By the time her light changed, I was already across the street and well on my way to victory. Eat my dust, sucker, I thought. But I got too cocky and slowed up my pace as I came to the last light before the gym—a move I would soon live to regret.

I was only one street block away when I noticed my competitor speed-walking a diagonal path across Broadway. She broke into a jog and arrived at the corner I was approaching just as the street traffic got the green light. The drivers in the line of cars released their brakes, but this didn’t stop the gym rat. She darted across the street and left me standing, glaring.

I watched her enter the gym as I waited for the walk signal. By the time I got to the machines inside, she was walking to the last available treadmill, and I stood in my one-person line. The tubby troll had defeated me.

Some might say that the loss made me bitter. I say the loss made me wise, for I learned another valuable lesson that day: The silent competitor is often the deadliest. And as a bonus, I also learned that you cannot spontaneously develop the telepathic powers necessary to shove someone’s loose shoelaces into the whirring belt of a treadmill—even if you concentrate really, really hard.