People who were always hardbodies love that competitive style of

Host: The gym was nearly empty, bathed in the pale light of early morning. Rows of machines stood like silent soldiers, metallic, unforgiving, each one promising transformation but demanding sacrifice. The faint hum of treadmills echoed against the mirrored walls, where reflections of sweat, effort, and insecurity danced side by side.

Jack sat on a bench, wiping his hands on a towel, his grey eyes fixed on the digital timer above the door — red numbers counting seconds like a merciless heartbeat. Jeeny stood near the window, tying her hair back, her black ponytail catching the faint blush of dawn.

The air smelled of rubber, disinfectant, and human willpower.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that clock for five minutes. You trying to outstare it?”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Just timing how long it takes me to forget I’m miserable.”

Host: She laughed, low and warm, the sound cutting through the mechanical rhythm of the gym.

Jeeny: “Naomi Alderman said something once — that competition in exercise isn’t fun for most people. It’s only fun if you think you can win. You’d probably agree with that, huh?”

Jack: “Completely. I hate losing. Always have. Why run a race if you already know someone’s faster?”

Jeeny: “Because maybe it’s not about the race, Jack.”

Jack: “That’s something people say when they’re losing.”

Host: His voice was sharp, but there was a tremor beneath it — something that sounded like exhaustion. The weights clanked in the background, steady as a clock marking failure by repetition.

Jeeny: “You think life’s all about winning, don’t you? About being better than the next person.”

Jack: “You think it’s about pretending that losing feels noble? Come on, Jeeny. We live in a world built on scoreboards. People measure everything — steps walked, calories burned, followers gained. Winning’s the only proof that you exist.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the biggest illusion of all. The truth is, most people will never win — not in the way the world defines it. But they still show up. They still move. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: The sunlight began to slip through the high windows, turning the dust in the air into soft gold. Jack reached for his water bottle, took a long drink, and then stared at his own reflection in the mirror — the lines around his eyes, the tired set of his jaw.

Jack: “You ever think maybe that’s just another consolation prize? We tell people ‘effort matters’ because it’s easier than admitting some of us are just built differently — faster, stronger, luckier.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Naomi Alderman was right — that mentality kills joy. Not everyone was born to compete. Some of us move because it makes us feel alive, not because it makes us better.”

Jack: “Then what’s the point? Without a goal, it’s just… flailing.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s being. It’s breathing. It’s saying, ‘I exist,’ even if no one’s keeping score.”

Host: Her voice softened, but the fire behind it remained. She walked toward him, her footsteps light on the polished floor. The two stood facing each other in front of the mirror — his form rigid, hers relaxed, almost serene.

Jeeny: “You ever see someone dance when they think no one’s watching? That’s what life’s supposed to feel like, Jack. Not a competition — a conversation between you and your own body.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But the world doesn’t pay for poetry. It rewards performance.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the poets outlive the athletes. Funny how that works.”

Host: He laughed, a bitter, low sound. The echo bounced off the walls and returned to them — distorted, hollow.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That meaning can exist without victory?”

Jeeny: “I don’t just believe it. I’ve lived it. When I was younger, I used to run marathons. Never won a single one. Not even close. But you know what I remember? The strangers cheering for the slowest runners. The ones who finished hours late but still crossed the line with tears in their eyes. That’s not failure, Jack. That’s grace.”

Host: Jack’s expression shifted, the fight in his eyes dimming into something heavier. He sat down again, running his fingers through his hair.

Jack: “I used to play football in college. I was good — not great, but good. Until I tore my ACL. That was it. No more scholarships, no more team. Suddenly, the thing that made me somebody was gone. You talk about grace, but when you lose your edge — when you realize you’ll never win again — it’s like losing your name.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. To find who you are without the scoreboard.”

Host: The room quieted, save for the slow drip of water from a nearby cooler. Jeeny crouched beside him, her eyes level with his.

Jeeny: “You’re not your stats, Jack. You never were. You’re the man who keeps showing up. Even when it hurts. Even when no one’s watching. That’s strength. That’s experience. That’s peace.”

Jack: “Peace doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “No. But it buys your soul back.”

Host: Her words hung, tender but unflinching. The morning light spread wider now, touching the walls, the floor, the iron, the sweat. It made everything softer — even the hard edges of their conversation.

Jack: “You think Naomi Alderman had it right — that for most people, competition isn’t fun?”

Jeeny: “Not unless the competition is with yourself — not to win, but to keep trying. To move even when there’s no finish line.”

Jack: “That’s… terrifying.”

Jeeny: “So is freedom.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment — her calm certainty, her quiet strength — and then finally nodded, as if conceding not a loss, but a truth.

Jack: “You know, I used to think my worth came from beating others. But maybe it comes from outlasting who I was yesterday.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. You don’t have to win, Jack. You just have to keep becoming.”

Host: Outside, the city was waking — the sound of car horns, of people rushing to lives that would never be measured by medals. Inside, the gym felt lighter, more human. Jack stood, rolled his shoulders, and walked back to the treadmill.

He didn’t turn the speed up. He didn’t check the timer. He just ran — slow, steady, real.

Jeeny watched, her face soft in the morning glow.

Host: The sunlight finally reached the mirror, blinding the red digits of the clock. Time, for once, seemed irrelevant.

And in that moment, amid the rhythm of footsteps and breath, the truth of Naomi Alderman’s words took form — that life isn’t about winning the race. It’s about finding joy in the running, even when you know you’ll never cross first.

Host: The scene faded, leaving behind only the sound of motion — quiet, human, infinite.