"EYE OF THE TIGER"

01.20.2026

It’s 4:15 a.m., and I’m—once again—fashionably late to the fitness center.

There’s no one at the front desk with a clipboard checking names, but among the early-morning regulars, I’m usually the last to arrive. By this time, everyone is tucked into their chosen corner of the gym, focused on their routines.

You might wonder what brings us together here at this ungodly hour. Honestly, our goal isn’t to set records or win medals. We simply want to keep moving, stay healthy, and—if the Universe allows—come back tomorrow. That’s enough to make us a tribe.

We don’t know one another’s names. Still, the sense of camaraderie is unmistakable—quiet, respectful, yet friendly, especially at this time of the day (or night).

So let me introduce you to my tribe.

First up is Pink Top Lady. The name is self-explanatory: every single day, without fail, she’s there in her signature pink top, gliding on the treadmill like she’s training for a secret half-marathon. No matter if I stagger in at 4 or 6 a.m., she’s already pounding the belt. Rumor has it she pauses around 6:30 to head home and make breakfast for her family, then returns to continue her walking odyssey. One of these days, I’m going to buy her a tiara, because she is absolutely a warrior queen.

Then there are the Brontë Sisters—a term I use loosely. They could be sisters, cousins, friends, or mother and daughter. Every morning, they’re perched on the bike ellipticals, quietly reading from their tablets or phones, pedaling at a slow, leisurely pace. In another era, I imagine them sharing a tandem bicycle, gossiping about the latest novel.

One of the Brontë Sisters keeps asking me if I work at the library. Why she thinks that, I don't know. But it’s too early in the morning to correct her—and it doesn’t really matter.

Speaking of correcting, there’s another woman who walks the track. She calls me Julia. I’ve told her several times that my name is Katharine, but every day she reverts right back. So for the hour I’m there, Julia it is.

Enter Mr. Runway. He walks the track with an intensity that borders on performance art, but what really sets him apart is his wardrobe. If his shirt and shorts are blue, so are his socks, shoes, and headband. Switch to red? Everything matches. He wears headphones but always nods in greeting. I get the feeling he’s silently judging me every time I show up in my baggy sweatpants and oversized faded green sweatshirt that reads Tell your dog I said hi. I am, without question, the gym’s most fashion-challenged member.

Next is The Woman of Mystery. She arrives every morning hauling a duffel bag nearly as big as she is, along with a suitcase and several smaller carry-ons. I’m convinced she’s living a glamorous double life. After her workout, she must be off on a secret mission—maybe as an undercover agent for Marie Kondo.

And then there’s Joe*. Joe is the only person whose name I actually know. At eighty-something, he’s our unofficial leader—warm, friendly, genuine and kind, always ready with a story about his hobbies, his family, or his perpetually blocked sinuses.

Last spring, Joe disappeared for a few months, and we all worried. It turned out he’d been ill. When he returned, it felt like order had been restored. Now, every one of us is grateful for the chance to hear him talk about whatever happens to be on his mind.

If you're late and wander in around 5:30 a.m., you’ll encounter Team Pickleball—a raucous, enthusiastic foursome whose energy could rival the Browns’ Dawg Pound. As I make my way around the track, one pickleballer always waves his paddle to say hello. It warms my heart.

You’ll want to finish your routine before boot camp starts. That group’s training regimen looks more like a Navy SEAL workout than a fitness class. Their “sergeant” is all intensity—until the session ends, at which point you won’t meet a more gracious or gentle man anywhere.

Around 7:00 a.m., strategy comes into play. That’s when an army of women starts to arrive to secure their places for the Silver Sneakers class that begins at 9:00. Chairs are claimed. Water bottles stand guard. Equipment marks territory. It’s an impressive display of planning and determination.

The class itself is full of stretching and step work, set to a soundtrack of hits from the ’60s and ’70s and led by an instructor who redefines what it means to be cool. I tried a couple of classes and loved her energy, but I’d rather dance to the music of The Temptations than exercise to it. These days, I stick to the track and treadmill. Besides, I’m not sure I’m in good enough shape to defend my spot if I accidentally wander into someone else’s space.

My reason for arriving before dawn is simple: get in, get out, and get going. I try to finish my workout before Team Pickleball, the Marines-in-training, and the Silver Sneakers strategists take over.

Still, I like my tribe best—their smiles, their nods and waves. Their genuine belief that my name is Julia and I stack books for a living is a testament that sometimes, the people who know us least are the ones who treat us best.

There’s also a reward waiting for me when I leave: a steaming cup of chai at Starbucks.

It’s the perfect punctuation mark to a morning spent among friends-who-aren’t-quite-friends and a family-who-isn’t-quite-family, in the nicest fitness-center tribe I know.

*Joe's real name is not being used to protect his privacy.

Sunrise over the fitness center parking lot.