There are three men and one woman on treadmills, a woman and two men on ellipticals, one man on a stationary bike, a woman on a rowing machine and two women and two men on something called a “nu-step,” which, I am later told, is sort of a seated elliptical.

From my treadmill in the left side of the cardiac rehab class, I observe them all carefully, or as carefully as I can without falling off the treadmill during my jog. Who looks in better shape than I am? Who seems to be recovering more quickly from their heart attack?

At the hospital, when I was told I’d been referred for cardiac rehab, I jumped at the chance. Well, as much as I could jump following an attack that had almost killed me. I didn’t know that most people with heart failure who are referred to cardiac rehab don’t actually do it, even though Medicare expanded coverage for it almost a decade ago. In fact, according to a recent paper, only about 1 in 25 heart patients participate in a rehab program.

They’re missing a lot. The rehab is a medically supervised program that includes exercise training and healthy lifestyle education, meaning you’re told, in great detail, to cut down on the pizza and the chips. Research has shown that the program improves quality of life and lowers the risk of heart failure, hospitalization or—even worse—death from any cause.

I didn’t need the research to convince me. I wanted the opportunity to work my way back to health, under supervision, and to try to become the person I had been before the heart attack.

I also wanted to see how I was doing in the recovery game, how I was faring compared to others in the same situation. I’ve always been competitive.

Three times a week, for an hour each time, we gather in a screened-off section of a massive gym complex owned by my hospital. We weigh ourselves, then our blood pressure and pulse are taken by the exercise physiologists. Then we each attach three electrodes—one by the chest, two by the abdomen—before we plug them into monitors and head out to our machines.

I am clearly the target demographic. With just a few exceptions, most of us are men—more likely to have heart trouble—and most are oldish, gray-haired. Some of my classmates walk haltingly down the hall. A few are a bit bent over. A couple look gaunt.

Some approach their exercise machines gingerly. I approach mine competitively.

What speed are they going? I want to go faster. How much incline are they using? I want mine to be steeper.

I want to work out so hard not only to impress my classmates and the attendant physiologists and improve my target heart rate, whatever that is. I want most of all to show myself that I’m not really part of this cohort of the damaged.

I’m here by mistake, you know? Even though I’m not.  

The course includes 36 sessions (what Medicare will pay for, minus, naturally, the co-pay). I’m about two-thirds of the way through. By the end, I hope I’ll be the kind of person who doesn’t look like he needed cardiac rehab.