I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore.---- Paddy Chayevsky

Far be it from me to disparage medical science, but by extending the life span of 20th-century man, it has inadvertently created a problem: People are outliving their body parts. I, for example, have outlived the cartilage in my knees and, as a result, have been gimping around for the last two years. That is also why I have recently been spending a lot less time running and a lot more time cross-training at my fitness center.

The first thing I learned about my fitness center is that the time it takes to get there and back is TOTALLY wasted. Since I'm not one to read or eat while driving, I have nothing to do but sit there and dwell on the idea that transporting myself to a special place has become an integral part of keeping fit. I usually arrive for my 6 a.m. workout incensed from dealing with all the crazy, caffeinated drivers and doubly annoyed by having to be in my car in the first place.

Once inside, my first move is to queue up for a prized recumbent bike, which I (and a lot of other cross-training runners) think is a superior piece of equipment. (Indeed, the title I had in mind for this article was "The Power of Recumbency." That is, until I started writing and realized I need to blow off some steam.) However, it's a superior piece of equipment only if one ACTUALLY GETS TO RIDE IT. With as many as six people ahead of me in line for a bike, a full bladder from drinking coffee, the minutes slipping away, and my workout not yet underway, I never can decide what to do: Give up my place in line? Hit the men's room? Wait for another piece of equipment that has a shorter line? (Geez, where are the portable catheters when you need them, anyway? Wasn't that one of the amenities I heard about during the fitness counselor's sales pitch?)

Occasionally, when I am lucky enough to get a recumbent bike after a short wait, the fitness-center gods, with their perverse sense of humor, see fit to antagonize me in some other way. Which leads me to my final comment regarding the recumbent bikes: Anyone who eats two cloves of garlic for dinner and then works out in the recumbent-bike section the following morning should be hauled off his bike and dismembered. (I wonder; is it proper fitness-center etiquette for me to spritz Binaca at the offending party?)

My other preferred piece of equipment is the stairclimber (you know: buns of steel, and all that). I would like the stairclimber even more if it were a little less grungy. I don't want to sound picky, but the fungus growing on the handrails gives me the willies. I tried to speak to the manager about it, but the moment I walked into his office I could tell (1) my appeal was doomed and (2) his reputation as a "health club Nazi" is well deserved. The sign on his office wall, which I'm sure reflects his modus operandi as a boss, reads: "The Floggings Will Continue Until Morale Improves." I gave him a quick "Heil" and then split.

Another thing that bugs me: My fitness-center buddies are always on my case because I try to look sharp when I work out. Indeed, the second title I had in mind for this article was "Observations of a Gym Dandy." That is, until I looked up the definition of the word "dandy" in the dictionary. It said: "A man excessively concerned about his clothes and appearance." I decided the description didn't fit me----someone foppish, maybe, but not me. (Yes, I carry a comb with me and check my hair in the ubiquitous mirrors while humming a Carly Simon tune. Yes, my workout togs are color coordinated. And yes, I shower and coif BEFORE my workout. So what?) Besides, the current title better captures my mood.

While I'm on the subject of clothes, I must say the attire at my fitness center does seem to be getting a little risque these days. While no one has yet attempted to wear an outfit resembling Olympic champion Marie-Jose Perec's cheeky number (i.e., the one with the "light my fire" briefs, a.k.a. the theme thong of the Atlanta Games), that is not to say there isn't an abundance of exposed flesh during peak workout periods. I guess the dress-for-success apparel worn by both sexes is to be expected since fitness centers have replaced singles bars as the meet markets of the '90s.

Be that as it may, my fitness center is far from being the roiling sexual cauldron that you might think. Most patrons are VERY serious about their workouts----and about fitness in general. (Take, for instance, my friend Tess "Target Zone" Turner: Her idea of a three-course meal is a PowerBar, a Gatorade, and a multivitamin.) There is, however, one guy at the fitness center who's always hitting on the women. (Ever the Carl Sagan fan, he says he's looking for a close encounter of the best kind.) Mind you, I'm not saying he's oversexed, but I've been told he was tossed out of Safeway last week after they caught him fondling the melons.

Speaking of Safeway, I make a special trip there each morning to pick up The Post so I can read it during my recumbent-bike workout. Which compels me to mention another ongoing irritation: Everyone at my fitness center wants to READ a newspaper, but no one wants to BUY a newspaper. Is it too much to ask that I get to read my own newspaper before everyone drips sweat on it? Besides, the only sweat, other than my own, that I want on my newspaper is Cindy Crawford's. (Well, it COULD happen. Then again, probably not. Silly me----for a moment there, I got carried away and forgot that men over fifty are virtually invisible to young women.)

My newspaper also comes in handy as a territorial marker. (It's a much more socially acceptable marker than, say, Jack Nicholson's liquid one in his hit movie Wolf.) Owing to the keen competition for strength machines, aerobic equipment, spots in classes, and plain old living space in the locker rooms, marking one's territory----with a towel, a water bottle, a tote bag, whatever----is a necessary skill in fitness centers. A territorial marker (ideally, an item that is both personal and expendable, since it may get stolen) says to the world, "This is my space. Don't even think about trespassing here." One guy is so good at commandeering equipment and carving out space for himself with markers that we started calling him "Lewis Clark" when the size of his territory began to rival the Louisiana Purchase.

I'm not sure whether the rampant territorial behavior I see at the fitness center is a learned behavior (from having to vie for scarce resources) or is instinctive, as I suspect it is in males for whom clanging iron triggers a surge in testosterone. In either case, it makes it very tricky to get through my workout without someone drawing a line in the metaphorical sand and challenging me to the Mother of All Battles. (Easy, big fella. Unflare those nostrils.)

I also have a bone to pick with Marie de Sade, my personal trainer and sister of you-know-who, who pushes me WAY too hard on the Cybex machines. She's always telling me to "feel the burn, Bern." The only reason I go along with the torture is to raise my hunk quotient. Marie said if I follow her advice and also take the protein supplement she sells for $100 a month, I'll eventually look like Arnold. Of course, that was two years and $2400 ago, and by the looks of my body, I'm beginning to think she meant Stang, not Schwarzenegger.

Anyway, I've had it up to here with my fitness center: the infuriating car rides, the mind-numbing (and bladder-stretching) queue for the recumbents, the Garlic Muncher from Hell, the storm troopers, the voyeurs and exhibitionists, the territorialists, the false promises of hunkdom, and the body builders with their 'roid rages. So I'm going the Greta Garbo ("I vant to be alone") route. I just forked over a tidy sum to have a construction company turn my basement into a cross- trainer's dream: an in-home fitness center with all the latest gizmos. And you're all disinvited. Except, of course, for you, Cindy.

Bernie Greene says that he changed his mind and went back to his old fitness center. It seems that playing the role of resident curmudgeon at home wasn't any fun for him.