I will start here with a warning.

One of my very first editors, a grizzled old guy who chain smoked cigars in a big city newsroom, ripped up one of my first submissions, then typed on copy paper ― cut into sheets from rolls of fresh newsprint ― because it was written in the first person.

“Nobody cares about you, kid,” he said. I am leaving out his colorful language.

Even though that image still haunts me, I’m going to venture anyway down the road of first person narrative. This might be a chance for you, dear reader, to escape, move on to other parts of the paper, some Ukraine news, maybe, or opinions on the Editorial Page.

I’ll add one other caveat.

Nothing I write here should cast any aspersions toward the Ocean Community YMCA in Stonington. I have the greatest respect for the employees, managers, and generous contributors who have made the place such a fine, welcoming community asset.

My machines of choice at the Y are the manual spin bikes. There are two of them on the main exercise floor alongside the more automated bikes, ellipticals and treadmills.

The Y has a lot of equipment, and there are no time limits. Many people regularly spend lots of time on all those machines. Bravo.

I usually spend 30 minutes or so on the bike. I have rarely ever waited to use one.

I do some sprints, as recommended now by health gurus, high energy interval training. Don’t tell my doctor, but I don’t probably do as many of those as he’d like.

During my laziest spinning, I pedal and read from my phone, news stories, emails. I think of this as my low-energy interval training. But better than couch sitting, right?

Never did I imagine, though, that someone would be watching and critically assessing my energy levels. But lo and behold, on a recent visit, someone was doing just that. And then she confronted me.

The woman on the spin bike next to me interrupted my workout, about 10 minutes in, getting off her bike and coming over to mine, gesturing for me to take off my headphones.

Smiling, she explained that she was a very serous biker. Her suit of spandex and the portable fan she had clipped to the handlebars seemed to attest to that.

She then proceeded to lecture me, with a smile, saying I was not pedaling fast enough, wasting valuable time on the spin bike, which people sometimes wait to use. She said she had noticed this in the past about me.

Honestly, she said, still smiling, I was barely at walking speed, and then she cited my speed readings, which I guess she had been looking at. When she complained I was violating the no cell phone use rule, I asked the staff to explain to her that the rule pertains to actual phone calls and, after all, every other person there listens to music from their phones.

The whole incident threw me off kilter the rest of the day.

I couldn’t help but worry that something in our culture has gone awry when people feel emboldened enough to confront someone they don’t think is as entitled as they are. My fellow rider clearly didn’t think my low-energy, old gray self was as worthy of using the bike as she was.

I’m getting old. My sense of civility is beginning to look creaky and quaint. It worries me how some people now seem to wear their bias proudly and speak their prejudices out loud.

The consequences of that seem much more alarming for those among us who are marginalized, underprivileged and struggling.

Sorry to bother you here with so much in the first person. I’m still amazed to think someone scolded me for not pedaling fast enough on a gym bike.

My old editor was probably right when he said nobody cares about you, kid.

And I’m not a kid any more.

This is the opinion of David Collins.

d.collins@theday.com