56, 57, 58, 59, 00, 01

Slowly, the pulsating red numbers tick off the seconds.

One-tenth, two-tenths, three-tenths, four tenths.

Even more slowly, the numbers on the odometer creep upward.

Ten minutes into a workout, and I have traveled (in theory) 1.7 miles and burned (in reality) 65 calories, 75 fewer than were in the granola bar I ate on my way here.

This is a new year, and I am taking on a new challenge: Several days a week, I ride a stationary bike on my lunch hour at a gym near my work. My goal is to shed the pounds I gained during the holidays, and then some.

But being 58 years old and going regularly to a gym for the first time in my life is challenging — and not just because of the exercise involved.

First there is the equipment, formidable-looking machines that pull and twist your body every which way. That is if you know how to use them. In the gym I frequent, there are skiers and stair steppers, treadmills and incline trainers, ellipticals and strengthening machines, all of which have to be programmed to your specific exercise routine.

Even the stationary bicycle I ride requires programming. To get the best workout, you're supposed to key in your weight, the distance, the amount of resistance on the pedals, the grade, and whether you want that grade to vary. Three weeks at the gym, I'm still pushing the "automatic" button.

And then there are the people, virile men and women toning their already-toned bodies, most of them young enough to be my child — or grandchild. Today I watch as two young men, their biceps bulging, sit in front of a computer monitor. They are scrolling through Web sites that offer information on the kinds of foods that increase testosterone levels. I see pictures of steak and oysters and leafy green vegetables. Mmm - would that kind of diet work on a 58-year-old man?

On the bicycle next to me is a young woman reading a magazine, jazzy music seeping from a pair of headphones that dangle around her neck. (In-ear headphones with tiny MP3 players strapped to the forearm seem to be requisite workout accessories, but the only thing dangling around my neck is a chain to hold my reading glasses. How else am I supposed to read the numbers on my screen?)

Glancing at the numbers pulsating on the screen of the woman next to me, I see she has doubled my distance and burned three times as many calories, all without breaking a sweat. But what impresses me most is how she can read and listen to music at the same time; I lost that ability a long time ago.

Pedal - pedal - pedal - The minutes continue to climb, the calorie counter crawls slowly higher. After 30 minutes, the program automatically stops, and I walk unsteadily across the room. Gym etiquette requires that you wipe down your machine when you're finished using it. Grabbing a towel, I clean the bicycle. There, for all to see, is my accomplishment: 5.5 miles and almost 200 calories.

I think my effort entitles me to half of another granola bar.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.