One of my favorite R&R guys, Al Kooper, wrote an autobiography titled
Backstage Passes
and Backstabbing Bastards. For most of my life, I thought he'd planned to
call the book "If I Knew I Was Gonna Live This Long, I'd Have Taken Better Care
of Myself." Turned out, I was wrong. Mr. Kooper personally made that clear
to me. He firmly claims he never said that. It turns out that an even bigger
hero of mine, Will Rogers, made that statement. Even better.
Earlier this year, I had an article published in a music magazine and a friend
used that as an excuse to reconnect. He was a little surprised that I was still
doing stuff in music because the last time we talked I told him I was "retired."
To me, being retired means I don't do stuff I don't like to do and I don't work
80-hour weeks. He has always been smart enough to avoid doing work he doesn't like
and he still likes putting in long days. I did too, when I was
50. At sixty-something . . . not so much.
For some people, sixty feels a lot like fifty or even forty. I keep hearing
"sixty is the new forty." For most of us,
sixty is definitely sixty . . . and old. Exercise and
diet help, but some of the most careful, conditioned people I have known have
come apart and, even, died in what really was middle-age. Some of the
least-cared-for folks I've ever known seemed to get a second wind at sixty and
took off for a decade or two of high activity. Luck, as always, seems to have a hand in
how we age. I've had more than my share of luck. Since I never expected to live
past 30, living twice that long is freakin' amazing.
For those of us who have the "jock tendency," our past life catches up
about this time. Every bone I've broken, every tendon I've ripped, and
every muscle
I've carelessly abused has its say when I get out of bed in the morning. My
back--that poorly designed collection of soft tissue, hard tissue, harder
tissue, and fluid--is so screwed up that I suspect I'm growing Stegosaurus
plates just above
my hips. I'm not flexible enough to inspect any part of my back, so if the
plates are there I'm just going to ignore them until I discover I can't lie flat
on my back. Some nights, getting into a comfortable sleeping position seems to
take all night. My doc calls all this "the payback for years
of use and abuse." Screw him.
So, while we discussed my ancient history, my recently-reconnected friend asked "Would you do it all over
again, knowing you'd wear out this soon?" I don't know if I'd call myself
"worn out," but I'm definitely worn down.
I was never a good jock, just an energetic one. I played football, basketball,
baseball, racquetball, tennis, wrestled, bicycled, and did some martial arts. I
rode a whole bunch of off-road motorcycles, from flat track to motocross to
observed trials (chronologically). Pretty much every one of those activities cost
me an injury or ten. I loved flailing away at all of those sports, especially basketball and cross-country motorcycle racing. I've always been
short, slow, unable to jump over a brand new dime, and beginning in my mid-40's I spent
a good portion of my time hopelessly trying to avoid being fat. But I've also
been fairly strong with good endurance, I have a high threshold of pain, and a
pretty good grasp of strategy. So, I suck; but not badly enough that I don't get
to play.
That's all that matters. Getting to play.
So,
would I do all the crazy crap I did, knowing that I'd be paying this aching price today?
Yeah, I would still do
most everything again. Don't get me wrong, if I could avoid repeating the
really stupid stuff, I'd do it. But if the only way to avoid
injury is not to play, I'd play. If the only way to avoid being a creaky old man
was to be a careful young man, damn the torpedoes and let's jump into the fire
mixing metaphors all the way.
I had some fun out there. I can remember the feel of the wind and dirt in my
face from a thousand reasonably well-executed corners and jumps. I remember passes and
getting passed and those moments still give me pleasure. I can close my eyes and
feel the bike vibrating beneath me and all the motorcycles around me shaking the gate
(or the stretched tire tube),
waiting for it to drop (or snap) and the start of a race. I hope I will always wish I'd have
played more, not less. I wish I'd have invested more money in a competitive
bike and practiced more, been faster, taken more chances, started earlier. More memories would be
better now than the minor advantage of a little less pain.
In fact, I am still planning a few adventures that could easily add to my pain
locker's contents. If I can figure out how to get around the disadvantage of
only speaking English, I want to ride the Pan American Highway. Compensating for the English-only disadvantage, I'd like to explore North Africa's Roman ruins.
New Zealand, Australia, and Europe are on the list, too. I want to
go back to Alaska and, this time, make it to Deadhorse. I still have a few Rocky Mountain ghost
towns left to visit. If you have advice or suggestions on hitting any of those
targets, I'm all eyes and ears. As every geezer knows, the only resource that is
absolutely limited is time. Do it now, or risk never doing it. Life is shorter
and sweeter than you think.
