Impossible Dreams
I'm often overtaken by many a racing snake.
Slippy black lycra clad feckers with slim shoulders and rock hard legs going like bejesus at a million RPM's. I try, I so try to speed up but all that my legs do is say 'nah not a fecking chance mate' and I quickly return to my 60rpm plod fest.
Today on the news is the story of James Cracknell who at the age of 46 is again climbing into some coxed eight snakeskin water craft to negotiate with a boat load of other kids half his age the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race this coming weekend. Oarsome the newspapers say [groan!].
Here I am a fat man with another 10 years on him dreaming about the days when as a twenty something Amateur American Football player I used to push exceptionally heavy weights around like feathers in the gym, beat the crap out of the rock hard punchbag, strap weights to my American Football helmet to strengthen my neck; and play my favourite game with exceptionally palpable memories of dicking people and sitting them on their arses - all legal and above board like. And riding home on the coach stretched flat out in the middle isle with a broken back and with arms covered with huge purple and red bruises. I absolutely loved it!
Today I think I think the same as I did when in my 20's. So apparently did my dad when he was in his 70's. Trouble is like the computer in the Little Britain sketches my body nowadays says NO! Shall we catch that racing snake? NO! Shall we climb that big hill? NO! Shall we ride my bike for a thousand miles? NO! NO! NO! Shall we have fish and chips for tea tonight? Oh... alright then...
Note to self. I. Am. 56. I am no longer 26. I cannot do things in anything like the same way as I did when I was a young man. The more regular visits to the doc's tell me so. My joints tell me so. Whether negotiating with a rather sore back or having a terse discussion with Ma Boy [my right knee] and Our Lass [my left knee] after a long hard ride. 'You want to get up off the toilet do you daddy?' say the twins... 'Feck off and do it yersen.' Ooooh, my knees, my back my arse! Help!
I need a new toilet, you know, one of them modified pneumatic / hydraulic ones to assist one to lift one's rather large arse off the bog. I don't ever remember having that experience as a 20 something after a rather hard body breaking game or a long thigh burning ride out on my Dawes Audax Giro bike.
I am 56. Every time I go for a ride I tell myself so. I no longer fret when a slippy young Black Mamba slithers past me. If my muscles and joints are burning I now slow down. Life is no longer all about pushing through pain barriers cos at this age that only results in problems at the toilet later in the day.
There is something more reflective in my mind now that I am retired. Of no longer being head down and arse up as I was for many of my younger years, both in home and work life. I now stop to take photos of exceptionally beautiful countryside, to park my Koga 5 bar gate bike next to the real thing and lean on it to reflect on the hill just climbed. Or of the momentary flash back to being a 26 year old whilst scooting along at 17mph with the gentle hand of a light tailwind in the middle of my back and saying to myself, well done old boy!
There is something special about this age. The wisdom of many years yet still with the ability to do some of the physical things that take me back to my youth. Perhaps not as fast and without the same pep and heart rate but nonetheless I still do it. Having time to think, to appreciate the moment and to reflect on a glorious afternoon's ride. What? No, I'm talking about bike rides you prat.
With the late afternoon sun on my back I sink my elbows into the top of the five bar gate and look up. I watch a cloud dance along an invisible dew line and see in its gentle nebulosity of brilliant white and light grey water vapours, a big fist with its middle finger extended towards me. Yeah, thanks for that.
The day will come, like it did for my father and has now for my Uncle Con, where all that is left are the old memories; and of looking forward only to the remaining things in this life; things that are no longer the same shape nor flavour of our youths.
The days will also eventually come, God willing, when I will be a cantankerous old goat and a bloody fine nuisance to young nurses...
But not yet, not yet...
I think I'll go for a ride on my bike.
Slippy black lycra clad feckers with slim shoulders and rock hard legs going like bejesus at a million RPM's. I try, I so try to speed up but all that my legs do is say 'nah not a fecking chance mate' and I quickly return to my 60rpm plod fest.
Today on the news is the story of James Cracknell who at the age of 46 is again climbing into some coxed eight snakeskin water craft to negotiate with a boat load of other kids half his age the Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race this coming weekend. Oarsome the newspapers say [groan!].
Here I am a fat man with another 10 years on him dreaming about the days when as a twenty something Amateur American Football player I used to push exceptionally heavy weights around like feathers in the gym, beat the crap out of the rock hard punchbag, strap weights to my American Football helmet to strengthen my neck; and play my favourite game with exceptionally palpable memories of dicking people and sitting them on their arses - all legal and above board like. And riding home on the coach stretched flat out in the middle isle with a broken back and with arms covered with huge purple and red bruises. I absolutely loved it!
Today I think I think the same as I did when in my 20's. So apparently did my dad when he was in his 70's. Trouble is like the computer in the Little Britain sketches my body nowadays says NO! Shall we catch that racing snake? NO! Shall we climb that big hill? NO! Shall we ride my bike for a thousand miles? NO! NO! NO! Shall we have fish and chips for tea tonight? Oh... alright then...
Note to self. I. Am. 56. I am no longer 26. I cannot do things in anything like the same way as I did when I was a young man. The more regular visits to the doc's tell me so. My joints tell me so. Whether negotiating with a rather sore back or having a terse discussion with Ma Boy [my right knee] and Our Lass [my left knee] after a long hard ride. 'You want to get up off the toilet do you daddy?' say the twins... 'Feck off and do it yersen.' Ooooh, my knees, my back my arse! Help!
I need a new toilet, you know, one of them modified pneumatic / hydraulic ones to assist one to lift one's rather large arse off the bog. I don't ever remember having that experience as a 20 something after a rather hard body breaking game or a long thigh burning ride out on my Dawes Audax Giro bike.
I am 56. Every time I go for a ride I tell myself so. I no longer fret when a slippy young Black Mamba slithers past me. If my muscles and joints are burning I now slow down. Life is no longer all about pushing through pain barriers cos at this age that only results in problems at the toilet later in the day.
There is something more reflective in my mind now that I am retired. Of no longer being head down and arse up as I was for many of my younger years, both in home and work life. I now stop to take photos of exceptionally beautiful countryside, to park my Koga 5 bar gate bike next to the real thing and lean on it to reflect on the hill just climbed. Or of the momentary flash back to being a 26 year old whilst scooting along at 17mph with the gentle hand of a light tailwind in the middle of my back and saying to myself, well done old boy!
There is something special about this age. The wisdom of many years yet still with the ability to do some of the physical things that take me back to my youth. Perhaps not as fast and without the same pep and heart rate but nonetheless I still do it. Having time to think, to appreciate the moment and to reflect on a glorious afternoon's ride. What? No, I'm talking about bike rides you prat.
With the late afternoon sun on my back I sink my elbows into the top of the five bar gate and look up. I watch a cloud dance along an invisible dew line and see in its gentle nebulosity of brilliant white and light grey water vapours, a big fist with its middle finger extended towards me. Yeah, thanks for that.
The day will come, like it did for my father and has now for my Uncle Con, where all that is left are the old memories; and of looking forward only to the remaining things in this life; things that are no longer the same shape nor flavour of our youths.
The days will also eventually come, God willing, when I will be a cantankerous old goat and a bloody fine nuisance to young nurses...
But not yet, not yet...
I think I'll go for a ride on my bike.
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