“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”---Bob Moorehead
An alcohol haze has descended on the land, a temporary weather phenomenon which allows us to briefly forget our troubles, c’mon get happy, and to chase all our cares away. This short and welcome respite is brought to us courtesy of New Year’s Eve, the annual starter’s pistol for the Reform and Regeneration 10K, a race which begins with a field of millions and ends with a trickle of true believers staggering to the finish line. Reform and Regeneration is not for sissies, participants are not allowed frequent days off, customers are not permitted to use the drive-thru lane, and their numbers reduce by the day, by the hour, leaving but a pittance of survivors and a sad field of spent dandelions deprived of their golden glow, now reduced to fragile puffballs ready to be dispatched by the first gentle zephyr.
The gyms and fitness centers thrive these weeks of early Winter, this silly season of hope and determination, where sturdy troops are well aware that sugar is the sniper in the tower and fat is a hidden land mine. The cheesecake factories and donut emporiums are empty these days, but they have seen this sort of thing before and they bide their time quietly, like lions in the underbrush, knowing that sooner or later their prey will return to the oasis. The spirit may be willing but the flesh is still weak. By March, we have turned full-cycle, the noble efforts have been abandoned, the sabotage of the body resumes. The defeated pilgrim weakly smiles and says, “Oh, well….”
The excuses are predictable. We are old now, there is little time left, we might as well enjoy the creatures which nibble at the framework of our structures until they come tumbling down around us. It’s no big secret that this entire enterprise is eventually a losing fight, why not go quietly into that long night munching a Moon Pie rather than waging a daily battle with an exhausting treadmill, grinding away at bench presses and leg curls and pull-up bars? It’s a valid question, another option in an endless list of personal choices. After all, everybody knows at least one 90-year-old chain smoker, not to mention an avid jogger who bought the farm. And then, there is Dylan Thomas’ advice:
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
There are those of us who will do no less.
Would You Rather Swing On a Star?
“….carry moonbeams home in a jar….and be better off than you are….or would you rather be a mule?
The majority of respondents would tell you they’d rather swing on a star, but as Jack London once told us, Talk Is Cheap. The New Year’s Resolutions of January are the paper airplanes of March. Our distinguished citizenry might walk a mile for a Camel but when parking at the mall they’d rather use the handicapped spots. Before long, weeping relatives will gather at the lawyer’s office of the dearly departed to see who was awarded the top prize, the decedent’s Disabled Parking permit. But we’re not here to raise the near-dead. Saint Jude, after all, is the patron saint of lost causes, and we have other fish to fry. Today’s sermon will be about Inertia.
Like the fog, Inertia creeps in on little cat feet. It sits on our shoulder and whispers in our ear. “You are old. You are fragile. Don’t do too much. Don’t drive at night. Stay close to home. If you MUST travel, take a cruise where all the comforts are provided.” The trainers at our gyms read from the same gospel. They look at us dubiously when we actually jog on a treadmill. “At your age,” they tell us, “you don’t need to push yourself. You just want to maintain what you’ve got.” What this really means is please, folks, don’t kill yourselves on our watch. It’s an ugly mess when an oldster goes floating off the treadmill and faceplants into the geraniums. The fitness center attorneys have briefed the crew. Before long, the customers are repeating the mantras of their trainers. Better to advise them, “Look, sonny—I didn’t come here to test the sauna.” In business, the wise guys tell you an enterprise is either growing or dying. Bob Dylan sang, “He not busy being born is busy dying.” Tell your trainers Dylan told you that. Don’t be surprised if they ask you who he is.
Our Heroes
Marc Antony once said, “We are here to bury Bungee Jumping, not to praise it,” and we tend to agree. But the sport has its moments, one of the most splendid being on April 10, 2010 when Mohr Keet, a piffling 96 years of age, took a 708-foot dive off South Africa’s Western Cape, breaking a Guinness World Record as oldest bungee jumper ever. Please---all you wimps out there---don’t tell me you need a motorized shopping cart to get through the Publix.
Siobhan’s business empire, Pathogenes, Inc., is required to have a licensed pharmacist on call, so last year we inducted Sharon Sawallis, 83, into the fold. Sharon was happy with the job, but she told us she might need a couple of weeks off for vacation later in the summer. I asked where she might be going, envisioning an adventure to visit the great grandkids in North Carolina. Wrong. “I’m taking an icebreaker to the North Pole,” she said, nonchalantly. Oh. Of course. Doesn’t everybody? It’s only logical that Mrs. Sawallis should travel afar since she’s been in every state in this country and traveled much of the world, including railroad excursions to Russia and China. Since we’ll be skipping the long plane trips, I asked for her favorite place in the United States. She spit it out in an instant. “Canyonlands National Park,” she said. I think we’ll be going there this summer.
Tough as it is, the North Pole can’t compete in the harshness department with the brutal conditions of the South Pole, a frozen desert with temperatures reaching a mind- (and body-) numbing minus 72 degrees Farenheit. For some reason, this did not faze Simon Murray, 63, who trekked the 1200km journey from the Hercules Inlet on the Zumberge Coast of Antartica to the South Pole. In case you’re wondering, it took him two months to get there. Simon is now the oldest man to reach the South Pole unsupported. When he arrived, he immediately went dancing at Miss Kitty’s Ice Saloon. Okay, we made up that last part.
Just another walk in the park for Tamae Watanabe
Around The World In 1080 Days
Minoru Saito didn’t have a lot to do, so one day he decided to circumnavigate the globe. It being soccer season, nobody particularly wanted to make the trip, so Minoro hitched up his yacht, Shuten-dohji II (we think that’s “in your face” in Japanese) and sailed alone. Saito had such a good time, he repeated the voyage seven more times. This is so easy, I can do it backwards, thought he. So he did. Minoru finished his 8th trip, this time “the wrong way around” on September 17, 2011. The extravaganza took 1080 days and Saito was a frisky 77 years old when the adventure was completed. Just don’t ask him if he wants to go to the beach.
Not all of us have the wherewithal to sail around the world or trek to the South Pole, but most of us can sing a little song. Smoky Dawson, an Australian country music performer, has sung a lot of them and he isn’t quitting yet. At the lofty age of 92, Dawson released a collection of original songs in an album entitled “Homestead of My Dreams,” making Smoky the oldest person ever to release a new album. Eat your heart out, Marty Jourard.
Ever think of running a marathon? You’d rather drink acrylic paint, right? Not Gladys “The Gladyator” Burrill, a jaunty 92 and Guinness’ record-holder for Oldest Female Marathon finisher. Burrill, a part-time Hawaii resident, has completed five of seven Honolulu Marathons. “Just get out there and walk or run,” Gladys advises. “I like to walk part of the time because you can stop and smell the roses, but it’s a rarity that I stop for long.” The Gladyator had been a multi-engine aircraft pilot, mountain climber, desert hiker and horseback rider before she ran her first marathon in 2004 at age 86. “Think positive” is Gladys’ motto. Try it some time.
At age 28, Tamae Watanabe began mountain climbing. In 1977, she climbed Mount McKinley, followed by Mont Blanc, Mount Kilimanjaro and Aconcagua, before retiring to return home. After kicking around Japan for a awhile, she went back to the hills and in May of 2002 became the oldest woman to climb Mount Everest. Ten years later, just for the hell of it, she did it again at age 73. Asked what she planned to do next, Tamae took off her parka, sat on a stool and said, “I think I’ll have a beer.”
Ted Talks
For several years, early in the week of the Kentucky Derby, Ted Blow, a distant relative, would call me from Connecticut to get my take on the race. He started this when he was about 88 years old and continued for several years, during which we always had the winner. This delighted Ted no end as he became the Nutmeg State racing guru to his dwindling contingent of amazed cronies. “That Ted, he knows his horse-racing!” they would exult to one another, counting the winnings from their two-dollar bets. Unlike many prophets, Ted Blow was a hero in his own town.
Ted still lived alone in his own house, a friendly dwelling he had occupied for decades, watched over by a housekeeper who cooked his meals. His son, Paul, lived nearby. He got out as much as he was able and delighted in doing the small chores he could still manage. Ted never lost his enthusiasm for life, his joie de vivre, his excitement at the arrival of a new day. Who knew, after all, what that day would bring?
From that first call, Ted would end our conversations with his Secret Plan. Almost in confidence, he would lean into the phone and tell me, “I’m 88 this year and I’m going for The Big One.” The Big One, of course, was the Century Mark, 100 years of traversing the planet, seeing the sights, testing your talents, raising your children, enjoying your friends. Ted did most of this in the company of his legendary wife, Barbara, an optimistic, outgoing woman who could move mountains when they got in the way of her ambitions or thrash a pack of wild dogs if any such fools threatened her family. They were married for an unlikely 64 years. The loss of such a wife is the end of many a man but Ted bucked up, filled with grand memories of the Glory Days, and marched bravely on.
I looked forward to his annual calls and especially his closing optimism. For seven straight years, he told me he was “Going for the Big One,” and who could doubt that he’d make it, he was the mighty Ted Blow, raised by wolves, feared by enemies and favored by The Fates. Ominously, the eighth year there was no call. I nervously waited as Derby Day approached, then passed, and I knew. The word came from his family a few days later and it was a crushing report. How was it possible that Ted Blow, a mere 94, could die? He was a giant among men, indestructible, and he was going for The Big One. I remembered playing in his forested back yard, chasing fireflies as a child. I remembered him donating to Siobhan his heavy coat in the eight frosty degrees of my grandmother’s funeral. I remembered his good humor, his intelligence, the way he cared about people. And so, it’s altogether logical I now stoop over and pick up his baton, embrace his quest, and, if necessary, go down fighting. I’m a compadre of Ted Blow and I’m going for The Big One.
That’s all, folks….
