Some people fear a painful death after a prolonged battle with cancer. Others, when they envision the worst possible demise, picture a horrifying car crash. Me? There is nothing I fear more than the idea of dying at the gym. I can picture it too well: One minute, I’m on the elliptical, maybe a little sweaty and winded, but definitely alive. And the next, I’m slumped over the still-rotating pedals, Rihanna blaring in the background as a semi-circle of physically fit gay men look pityingly upon my prone body until it slides off the machine, motionless…



