He works out in orthopedic loafers and socks pulled up mid-calf. Guessing the old man’s age is a matter of wardrobe and shuffling feet. He’s on the treadmill at one mile per hour, taking kitten-soft slow steps. And his pleated walking shorts are belted at the navel: the realm of the octogenarian. Tucked in lemon polo. Finished with an olive green golf cap concealing wispy white bits of hair.

But when it starts to pour down rain and his much more nimble wife is ready to go, he leaves her in the gym lobby. He takes painstaking steps through the puddles and torrent to the sedan in the first handicapped spot, retrieves an umbrella and (endless seconds pass, one-mississippi, two-mississippi…) wanders back to guide his gal to the car, warm and dry. “Stay there, stay there!” his reedy voice insists when she prepares to just make the dash. They’ve been doing this gentleman thing for 50, 60 years now I guess. He’s not about to let old feet defeat chivalry.