Geezers on Wheels

My husband recently retired.  On the first day of his retirement, we celebrated with a fancy dinner out.  But on the second day, he wanted something a little more active.

            “Why don’t we go for a bike ride?” I suggest.

            “Great idea!”

            “Where do you want to go?” I ask, picturing a nice ride to the nearby park.

“Let’s go up to the mountains.”

            “Are you crazy? We haven’t done that kind of hardcore riding in years.  I don’t think I can anymore.”

            “Come on,” he said.  “It’ll be fun.  Just like the good old days.”

            “Yeah.  The good old days when we were younger and much more fit. The good old days that happened a long time ago,” I respond. 

            I think back to those days.  We rode our bikes every chance we got.  Long distances and steep mountains were our idea of a good time.  But we haven’t ridden that much lately, and for sure, there have been no steep mountains in our recent past.

“Don’t worry.  If it’s too hard for us, we’ll just turn around,” he reassures me.

In a moment of weakness, I give in. 

We dust off the cobwebs on our bikes.  Pull out bike gloves that are old and stiff, look through drawers for out-of-style bike shorts that barely fit, and wipe a thick layer of dust off our bike helmets.  Feeling young (okay, maybe not young, but at least not ancient), we load our bikes on the car and head for a favorite mountain trail.  “This will be fun,” I say, smiling over at my husband.

“We’re here,” he says, pulling into a parking lot at the bottom of the trail.

My heart sinks.  I look up at it. I don’t remember the trail looking quite this…perpendicular.  The feeling of youthfulness fades.  Carefree is replaced by careful.

My husband hops eagerly on his bike.

“Yeah,” I mumble to myself.  “No use wasting time warming up when I can begin suffering right away.”  Aloud, I say, “I don’t think I can do this.  I’m not in shape like I used to be.”

“Don’t worry. Just tell me if you want to turn around,” he says, and off he goes.

Reluctantly, I follow, pedaling up a dirt road that has an incline that feels steeper than Mt. McKinley.  The sun beats down on my back.  Within five minutes, my legs are burning.  “I want to turn around,” I think.

In ten minutes, my lungs feel like I took a swig of Drano.  “I definitely need to turn around,” I mumble to myself,  seriously questioning my sanity. 

Five more minutes.  I gasp for air, the sweat pouring down my face.  “I can’t last much longer,” I tell myself.

Just as I was about to admit defeat, a pair of twenty-something bikers, in their streamlined helmets and shiny clothing, whiz by, effortlessly cruising up the mountain.  As they pass, I hear one of them laugh and say, “Why doesn’t she just get off and walk?  It would be faster.”

            The other one laughs in reply, and then they are gone—leaving me coughing in a cloud of their dust and dirt.

            Now I’m mad.  I straighten out my bike helmet, gulp down some of the water, and gear down my bike to its lowest level (darn, it’s already there), and vow to make it to the top, or at least (probably) die trying.

            “What do those two young racers know?” I think to myself.  They think they are so tough.  Well, I have news for them. They don’t even know what the word tough means yet. They are too young. They haven’t lived long enough. Could they work a forty-hour week teaching middle schoolers and then spend the weekends cheerfully (mostly) attending to aging parents?  Doubtful.

Could they deal with sore muscles and failing eyesight without complaining?  Or… only complaining quietly so no one can hear?  No way!

Could they age gracefully (without plastic surgery) in a culture that values youthful beauty? Ha! 

Those young riders have no idea what it is like to be a geezer… on wheels or not.  I have earned my geezer status through hard work and years of practice. Okay, and a little self-pity.

            “I can do this,” I tell myself.  “I’m not a quitter.”  What is this?  A mere mountain.  I’ve faced harder obstacles than this…I’ve been married for 40 years.”

            I keep at it.  I slowly creep up the mountain.  Sweating, huffing, and yes, hurting.  Whenever I think I can’t make it one more inch, I envision those smug twenty-year-olds,

            An hour later, and three breaths shy of a heart attack, I reach the top and collapse beside my husband.

            “We did it!” he said.

            “You were right.  It was just like the good old days, only way, way, way harder!”