Well me, obviously. I was out testing new tyres on old trails with Tim “the Bling” H when feelings of intense confidence were replaced by feelings of significant pain.
Worth stating early on, that the tyres are entirely blameless here. Slow and Fat they may be* but my unplanned dismount was entirely the result of rider incompetence, wide bars and narrow trails. Specifically a sapling with on a whiplash kick. Pinged it with the bar, and it pinged me right back converting forward motion into kinetic energy and seated rider into unflinching tree.
“Stay there and catch your breath” Tim advised. Sage advice since neither knee was keen to bear the weight of it’s groaning body. Still reconstructive surgery is a wonderful thing, because the rooty smack down impacted right on the stitch line of the doc’s finest work and it took it like a man. The rest of me was a bit more wobbly and lip trembly, but all was well once a damage report confirmed nothing but soreness to follow – so leaving holiday plans intact.
Dignity, however, that’s long gone.
43 then. If I may be allowed a “fuck me, how old?” that’d be welcome. At 25 I never expected to make 40. At 40 I wasn’t bustingly sure about it either. I notice that most of the government appear to be my age or younger, and they are allegedly running the entire country. How can this be? I know absolutely nothing and feel they may be the same only with better speechwriters. And since ageism is now running the rule over selection policy, it seems neither Beckham or I will be picked on the wing for England.
So more than half my life over, a skeleton scarred by injuries mapping all the stupid stuff I’ve tried and often failed. A litany of aches, pains and general malaise that makes some kind of crane almost mandatory for getting out of bed in the morning. All of which has absolutely no bearing on how I shall continue to behave- essentially about 25 with a bit of a hangover. Age is merely a way of keeping score as your friends start dying before you. I reckon I’ve a few more years before hearts stop and that starts.
And those are years which are full of plans, stuff that has to be done now, things to define a little about what you did with those precious years. No regrets, no wondering how it might have been, no thinking big ideas but doing fuck all about it. I’ve changed my mind about age being a way of keeping score, it’s way more than that – it’s about the best motivational kick up the arse you’ll ever get.
Bring it on 🙂
* Maybe it’s like pets. Riders start to resemble their tyres?