I know you've heard rumors, but don't worry, they're not true.

We've heard all the rumors. He's sick. He's old. He's in terrible shape. Hell, he's dead. Don't worry, they're not true.

I know. Because I saw Fidel Castro today at the gym.

"Fidel!" I said, hopping onto the elliptical trainer next to him, "I thought you were sick. And dying. And in Cuba."

"No, no," he said, with a thick accent and a funny, dictatorial gleam in his eye, "those are all just hoaxes, concocted to fool you silly Americans."

"So you're fine?" I asked him, starting to break a sweat.

"Would I be here in my little t-shirt and green and black shorts, walking 3.4 miles and hour and wiping my face periodically if I weren't?"

"No, I guess not."

I paused, and took him in. He was, after all, shorter than I was expecting, and bore a strange resemblance to Saddam Hussein.

"But Fidel," I began, "if you're fine, how come you're only going 3.4 miles an hour?"

"Just because I'm not dead, gringa, doesn't mean I'm not eight million years old."

Touché, Fidel, touché.