I’m sixty-seven. My knees scream every morning when I pull on those damn expensive sneakers my daughter bought me, but I still lace them tight. I’ve been the "strong one" since we landed at JFK in ’74 with nothing but two cardboard suitcases and my father’s bad temper. I don’t know how to be anything else. If I stop moving, I die. That’s the rule I live by. I run past the Miller place at 6:15 sharp. Every day. He’s always there, sitting behind the big bay window in that motorized chair. He’s younger than me—maybe fifty—but his legs are useless sticks. I don't know why. I don't ask. When I hit his driveway, I don't slow down to be polite. I pick up the pace. I make sure my feet hit the pavement hard. SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. I want him to hear the heartbeat of a man who still owns the sidewalk. It’s an ugly thing to feel. I know that. Back in the village, my mother would have crossed herself and told me I was inviting the evil eye by flaunting my luck. You don’t show off your bread to a starving man. But here? In this life? I worked forty years in a warehouse so I wouldn't end up broken and discarded. Seeing him makes me feel like I won a race I didn't even know I was running. It’s not pity. It’s a dark, sharp kind of pride. It’s predatory. This morning we made eye contact through the glass. He didn't wave and I didn't nod. I just sucked in a huge, deep lungful of that freezing October air and pushed harder. I wanted him to see the steam coming off my skin. I wanted him to feel the vibration of my weight hitting the earth. I felt like a god and a prick all at once. The "wrongness" of it was the best part. It made the blood move faster in my veins. I’m home now, icing my joints and drinking coffee. My wife thinks I’m a hero because I stay active at my age. She has no idea. She thinks I’m running for my heart health or to see the sunrise. I’m running because I’m a mean old man who likes being the one with the working legs. I like the gap between us. I need that gap. I’ll be out there again tomorrow at 6:15. I’m not going to change my route. I’m not going to look away. If that makes me a bastard, fine. I’m a bastard who can still run five miles before the sun is up. He can watch me from the window or he can close the curtains. I don’t care either way. I'm done pretending to be humble for people who can't keep up.